Beautifully Chaotic!

Amelia has a boyfriend. Which is, you know, fine. Normal, even, for a seventeen year old.

Except when that seventeen year old is the daughter of one Emily Prentiss.

Emily doesn't like the idea. Hadn't, even when Amelia was 13 and had a “relationship” in middle school. Of course, you hadn't been there for that, but Amelia used it as an argument in many discussions with her mother, especially when annoyed about Emily's overprotection.

Alright, you remember what being a teenage girl was like. Your parents were constantly out to get you, even if they weren't, even if they really were worried about drugs, predators or something worse. You know that Amy will see it soon, she'll understand Emily's view on it when she's older, when she's not infatuated. You're sure of it.

That doesn't mean she understands it now.

In the living room, you've been witness to a few arguments. From the day Amelia sat Emily down and said she had a boyfriend, until today, when she sat her mom down, again, to ask if said boyfriend can sleep over.

“Absolutely not,” Emily says, once again.

“Why?!” Amelia exclaims, her face indignant, just like Emily's. “What difference does it make if he sleeps over or not?”

Her mother sighs. You stay very, very quiet.

“The difference is I don't want him to.”

“Oh, great argument, mom.” Amelia scoffs, “very convincing.”

Emily stands up, moving away from the couch to pace away her stress. “I'm your mother, I don't need to convince you of anything.”

Amy presses her lips together for a second. Then, in an honestly shocking action, calls your name. You look up at her, confused.

“Tell her she's being unreasonable.”

Widening your eyes, you notice Emily is also looking at you and waiting for an answer. Her eyebrow raised in a challenge.

“Oh,” you chuckle forcedly, “I'm not getting in the middle of that.”

“Why not?!” Amelia asks, waving her arms around indignantly. “You're getting married,” she gestures at the ring on your left hand, still recent and shocking to you when you look down at it. “You're like, practically, my mom too, right? You should have a say in this.”

Lips parted in surprise, you look over at Emily, whose shoulders have dropped ever so slightly. She nods, “tell us what you think.”

Clearing your throat, you look between them for a moment. God, it's annoying how much they can't see that they're exactly the same.

“Um, I don't see much of a difference if he's coming over, anyway,” you say, finally, and Amelia looks at you triumphantly. She points, making a face at her mother that says see?

In a second, you lift up a hand to stop her. “But, you said you'd just be sleeping, right? So, no harm in keeping the door open through the night.”

Amy scoffs, “that's ridiculous.”

Well, you don't really believe that. You're trying to be diplomatic, whatever, sue you. Of course, it doesn't make a difference if the door is open or not. If Amelia wants to have sex, she'll find a way to do it, at home or somewhere else. You'd much rather it be at home, safely, and you just want some time to discuss it, properly, with Emily before she has a stress induced stroke.

You look at Amy, begging her to understand that you need time to help Emily get used to the idea. She seems to get the hint.

“He can come over for dinner, and then he can stay over. Door open, that's it.”

You both look at Emily, bracing for her reaction. She keeps her arms crossed, lips pursed, but relents. “Fine. No closing the door and for one night. I need to meet him.”

Amelia looks at you gratefully, then thanks her mom, quickly darting away to her room with the excuse of telling Nick the good news. You take a deep breath, turning to Emily, who's still fuming, by the looks of it.

You walk towards her slowly, then softly uncross her arms for her, wrapping them around yourself. Resting your hands on her shoulders, you lock eyes, waiting. Emily sighs, again, like she has the weight of the world on her back.

“Compromises,” you say, trying to get her to understand.

“I guess,” she shrugs. Her lips are still in the cutest pout, though you'd never tell her that.

“Wouldn't you rather they sleep here instead of somewhere you don't know?”

“I'd rather they not sleep together at all,” she says indignantly.

You bite your lip to contain a smile, knowing it'll just add to her distress. “She'll be fine, she's a smart girl. Besides, if she wants to do something more, she'll find the time, even if it is in the middle of the day,” you say carefully. “You remember what being a teenager was like.”

Emily nods, “that's what worries me.”

In the end, dinner comes and goes easily. Nick sleeps over, they keep the door open, and Emily doesn't end up having a stroke. She even likes him, as much as she can. He seems like a good kid, and after dinner they even studied together in the den, so you're guessing this is as good as it'll get when considering 17 year olds.

Emily was touched that Amelia asked for your opinion. She'd smiled about it and kissed your cheek, and you told her she was allowed to say I told you so if she wanted to. She did tell you Amy would come around, and she had, a while ago as well. Now, though, after you got engaged, it seemed she was even more welcoming of your place in her life.

After a half day of work, your boss ends up letting you go home to finish everything remotely. It's a slow day, so there’s no need for you to be at the office, and you'll take any opportunity you can to work from home. As you drive, you call Emily to let her know about your change in plans and ask what she wants for dinner, figuring you'll whip something up in case she gets home late.

At the house, which you, sometimes, still can't believe you can call yours, you finally sigh after getting in, tired from the drive back. It's eerily quiet, which is to be expected. In the middle of the day, on a Friday, Emily at work and Amelia at school, you hope the silence doesn't lull you to sleep over your laptop and you actually manage to get some work done. Deciding you'll grab a coffee to keep you company, you leave your stuff in Emily's office, since you're both still working on redecorating the spare room as an office for you, and start towards the kitchen. You greet Leo in the hallway, scratching between his ears and letting him go when he quickly skips away.

On the way there, though, you hear a noise from the second floor. Immediately startled, you try to rationalize that it must be the wind, or one of the windows moving with the force of it. A beat later, though, you hear it again.

Reaching the second floor, you realize the sounds are coming from Amelia's room. The door is closed, so you guess she must've forgotten the window open, as usual, and there's a branch or something hitting the glass. Hoping there isn't actually an intruder, and praying to whoever is listening that if there is one, they haven't been able to get into Emily's gun safe, or you're about to be in big trouble.

Telling yourself you're being paranoid, you slowly open the door to Amelia's room, bracing yourself for someone to come swinging or pointing a gun at your face.

What greets you isn't that, but something much worse.

Sure, that's really dramatic, though the thought of explaining this to Emily brings immediate nausea, and your eyes widen in shock as you take in the scene.

Amelia yelps, hiding herself under the comforter, as you finally get control of your body back, slamming the door and walking quickly down the stairs. Defeated, you already know you won't be getting any work done today.

Because Amelia is home when she should've been at school. And Emily hadn't said anything, which indicated she was skipping class, a whole other can of worms that you don't want to unpack right now. And Amelia is home with her boyfriend, door closed, when they both should've been at school.

If you’re trying to grasp at silver linings, at least they were both clothed.

Although they were, most definitely, making out on Amy's bed. With the door closed. Skipping school. While Emily was at work, completely oblivious.

And, shit, you're going to have to tell Emily about this.

No matter what Amelia sees you as, no matter that you're finally growing into a proper role in her life. Emily has to know. And, fuck, you were the one who encouraged her to be fine with this relationship, you said Amelia was smart, you said she knew what she was doing,

And now Amelia is skipping school to make out or do God knows what with her boyfriend.

Oh, Emily's never gonna let you make a decision about this ever again.

It takes a few minutes for Amy to come find you, but she does, eventually.

You're sat at the dining table, staring at your laptop screen, pretending to work and not managing to convince even yourself. You see her in the reflection before she makes herself known.

Amelia clears her throat. As you turn, you notice her flushed cheeks, the way she's wringing her fingers together like her mother does when she's uncomfortable. You wait.

“I'm guessing there's no hope in asking you to keep this quiet?” She asks, yet she's already dejected, a self deprecating little smile on her lips.

You stay silent, raising your eyebrows.

“We weren't even doing anything,” she tries. “We were studying and got distracted.”

“Okay…” You nod, willing to hear her out. “And why aren't you at school?”

Amy shifts from one foot to the other, looking down at the floor. “We had a free period, then only an English class after, but there's this test next week and I was worried, so Nick was helping me study-”

At the perfect moment, of course, Nick comes down the stairs, his backpack in hand and looking redder than a tomato. It's an admittedly amusing sight, though you keep your laughter in. Leo skips down the stairs right behind him, probably infatuated with his new friend.

“Hi, Nicholas,” you say, enjoying the way he folds in on himself — it's funny, okay? You're still human, after all. “I think you should go home.”

He nods, quickly kisses Amy's cheek and makes his way out. She doesn't even look up at him, but you're guessing they're okay from her little wave.

“Amy,” you stand up, closing your laptop and walking around the island, moving to grab a glass of water just to have something to do with your hands. “I'm hoping you're going to be responsible enough to tell Emily about this yourself.”

Amelia opens her mouth to protest, but you silence her with a look.

“I'm not going to berate you for having a boyfriend, or wanting to spend time with him. I know your mom gets a little protective sometimes-” You ignore her scoff, taking a sip of your water before setting the glass down. “But she's still your mom, and she has rules for a reason. You skipped school, sneaked in here and did exactly what Emily was afraid you'd do.”

She sits heavily on the couch, keeping her eyes down, biting her lip in an effort to keep her emotions in check. It's cute to see how much she and Emily have in common, even in a situation like this.

“When you tell her about it, you should ask her why she’s so against you having a boyfriend. I'm sure she'll explain it to you.”

Crossing her arms, Amy looks up, “she's trying to ruin my social life.”

You smile despite yourself at her stubbornness, “ask her and you'll understand.”

She stays quiet, most definitely thinking about how her parents are the worst. Well, we've all been there.

“I thought you'd be the cool mom,” she rolls her eyes, leaving the den swiftly, and still slamming her door for good measure.

After a beat, she yells out Sorry! I didn't mean to slam it.

At least there's that.

Emily arrives silently, like always. She takes off her boots by the door, leaves her coat hanging, drops her bag on the couch.

She finds you in the kitchen, after following the smell of dinner, which is waiting for her on the stove. She grins.

God, you’re about to ruin her day.

Emily greets you in that low, raspy voice after an entire day of using it. Her tone would normally have your knees buckling. This time, your shoulders tense. She notices, of course, yet doesn't say anything.

She kisses your cheek, the side of your mouth, taking note of the two glasses of wine on the island. Wraps her arms around you from behind, then murmurs, “you okay?”

You hum in response, pushing the glass towards her softly. Tilting your head, you wordlessly ask for a kiss, to which she complies happily. Sighing into her mouth, you pull back slightly. “I have to tell you something.”

Emily nods, waiting. Before you can say anything, though, you both hear Amelia's footsteps behind you. Turning, Emily smiles at her, heart warming at the sight of her daughter, wearing pajamas with her dark hair in a braid.

“Hey, Hon.” She calls, hand still resting on your shoulder, like she's making sure you won't leave. There's nowhere else you'd want to go.

“Hi, mom,” she says, looking at you and nodding. You nod back, proud she's seemed to take your advice.

“Maybe we should move to the couch,” you suggest, causing Emily to frown immediately and look at the two of you, one at a time, cataloguing expressions and narrowing her eyes, trying to catch whatever it is by reading the faces of the two most important women in her life.

She doesn't say anything, again, and you know that's just her own style of profiling. Quietly assessing before she can get to a conclusion. Still, she lets herself be guided to the living room, sits down without prompting and accepts the glass you bring her. Amelia stands near the couch, shifting on her feet, as usual.

Emily frowns, and, finally, Amy starts talking.

If you weren't so tense, you'd laugh at the rollercoaster of emotions on Emily's face. Confusion, anger, then a shock so genuine you could kiss her, declare how much you love her and how adorable she looks when she's just, absolutely, lost. You don't do any of that, naturally, falling back into your role of spectator and waiting to see if you might need to be the extinguisher for Emily's fire.

For a moment, everything stills. Emily doesn't say a word.

For all her fame at the FBI, for how intimidating she looks, you know she's nothing like that in her personal life. At work, she needs to put up that front to earn people's respect, which is upsetting, but not unreal. At home, she's a loving, caring, understanding mother, even when Amelia tests her patience, even when the cat breaks one of her favorite picture frames.

At home, she prioritizes conversations instead of hard glares, she squeezes your hip when you look upset but won't tell her why, she plays with Amelia's hair when she needs comfort but won't ask for it.

The Emily you know is warm and sweet, truly comparable to marshmallow on the inside when it comes to you or Amelia. The Emily you know looks nothing like the woman next to you right now, who you're pretty sure just gained another gray hair in a span of thirty seconds.

“You did what?” She asks in an almost whisper, her jaw locked, eyes boring into Amelia's own, a mirror to hers.

Amy presses her lips together, then drops herself on the wooden coffee table, immediately placing her hands on her mother's thighs. “I'm sorry, okay? I am. And I won't do it again.”

“Of course you won't,” Emily says, way too calmly for you to trust it. “You're not going to see Nick again.”

Amelia jumps up, “mom! That's so ridiculous.”

Emily sits up, moving to the edge of the couch. Your hand on her thigh keeps her from standing up. “No… What's ridiculous is you making terrible decisions after starting to date this boy.”

“You said she'd understand!” She almost yells, looking at you. A fire behind her eyes that you've only seen before in Emily's.

Lifting a hand to placate her, and keep Emily from saying whatever it is you can see from the corner of your eye that she's about to. “I said you had to ask her, and that she'd explain it to you,” you say it slowly, not wanting to oxygenate the flame even further.

“Explain what?!” Emily finally asks, arms crossed.

Amy takes a deep breath, sitting on the loveseat this time, a little further away from you both. “Why you hate that I have a boyfriend.”

Your fiancée scoffs, “haven’t you given me enough reason? You skipped school, Amy! You defied a rule I specifically set.”

She shakes her head, “you never liked it, even before that.”

“I told you, I don't have to explain anything to you, Amelia. I'm your mother.” Emily grabs her wine glass, taking a long sip. “Fuck, now you've made me sound like my mother.”

You touch her arm, earning her attention. You find it sweet how her eyes immediately soften. “I think she might understand it better if you tell her about when you were a teenager.” Watching as realization dawns in her eyes, you quickly squeeze her hand. “Only if you want to.”

Emily thinks about it for a moment. Amelia taps her foot impatiently. You figure she's glad the attention is not on her for a brief moment.

Seeming to make a decision, Emily turns to her daughter, leaving her glass on the coffee table, but her other hand still in yours. Then, she tells her.

Emily tells her about Rome, and John, and Matthew. She tells her about the priest, the clinic, like it's a story she only heard of. Her voice never wavers, her resolve never falters, though her hand squeezes yours when she says the word ‘abortion’.

“I've always done everything I can to ensure this didn't happen to you,” she explains. “Not because I don't trust you, or because I wouldn't help you do whatever you wanted in that situation because, believe me, Amelia, I would.” Emily reaches a hand in front of her, waiting for Amy to hold it. She does, of course, not even taking time to think about it. “I would move heaven and earth to make it your decision, and I always wanted to be a mother to whom you could come to if anything like that ever happened, unlike the one I had.”

Amy shakes her head incredulously, “you are.”

Emily smiles at her, “something like that changes you, Amy. I know I did what was right for me at the time, and I don't regret it, but it's something that weighs on you. I didn't want you to have to make that decision.” She wipes away a single tear that had escaped, “which is why I always worry when you mention a boy, and why I gave you the talk when you had your first period, even if your grandmother judged it way too early.” She sighs, “I know you're a smart girl. But this decision you made was very stupid.”

Amelia bites her lip, embarrassed. She looks down at her hand that's still clasped with her mother's.

“I want you to date, to have fun. But I don't want you making stupid decisions, Amy, you’re my daughter and you know better than that.”

She nods, her eyes moving to you for a second, then back to Emily. “I'm sorry. And I'm sorry, too,” she looks back at you, “that I said you weren't the cool mom. You definitely are.”

You let out a surprised laugh. Amy smiles back and even Emily, with her tense shoulders, shakes her head with a small grin.

“I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that so you don't get an extra week without your phone.”

Amelia opens her mouth to protest, but is silenced with a single brow raise. She deflates, leaning against the cushions, defeated. Looking up shyly, “can I still see Nick? Mom, I swear we never did anything more, I would've told you, I promise.”

Emily looks at you with an indignant look, “that's what she's worried about?”

You shrug, “she's in loove,” you sing-song, delighting in Amy's blush.

“Fine, you can see him.” Before Amelia jumps up, Emily continues, “only at school, or here, with supervision. It'll be a while before he can go up to your room again.”

Amy nods, smiling softly. “Thanks, moms.” She hugs you both quickly, leaving her phone on the coffee table and swiftly leaving the room, her footsteps fast on the stairs.

“She called you her mom,” Emily beams, kissing your chin.

“Huh,” you jokingly consider, “I thought having a teenager would be harder.”

Emily stares at you, attempting a glare, “I almost had a stroke!”

“You should've seen my face when I caught them,” you shake your head, sipping on what's left of your wine. “Or Nick's.”

She, finally, guffaws, finding humor in the situation. “Fuck, honey, I'm gonna need a lot more wine to get through the night.”

You nod, grabbing her empty glass and starting towards the kitchen. “Whatever my lady wishes,” you call back with a chuckle.

The weather being sunny is a surprise in itself.

It's only been a few weeks since Emily met Oliver, though looking from the outside, it seems like he's known her since birth.

Every weekend, without fail, he asks when you'll see Emily again. With her crazy work schedule, sometimes she comes over while he's at daycare, and they miss each other by a few hours. You know she loves it when he's there, her eyes light up and her face breaks into a grin whenever you mention he'll be home by the time she visits.

Oliver likes spending time at the park, usually kicking a ball with skills he learns in his under-3 little league team. On this unusual Saturday that Emily isn't buried under paperwork and meetings, or away on a case, she joins you for an afternoon walk there. Ollie holds both of your hands all the way, swinging them above him and skipping happily over the pavement.

As you and Emily sit nearby on a bench, Ollie makes friends with a few kids. One is taller, seems older, and the other two are siblings, you're pretty sure, or at least from the same family. You can see the moms spread out all over the grass, some with picnic blankets and others taking the time to stretch out under the sun. Oliver's new friends are two boys and a little girl — she's the little sister of one of them, still smaller than all the others, but excited to kick the ball with them.

Sitting together, you have an arm on the back of the bench, resting your head on your hand. Emily's eyes are laser focused on Oliver, like she's afraid he might disappear.

“You don't have to stare so hard, you know?”

“Hm?” She hums, but her eyes don't stray.

“He won't run away, he never goes far.” You explain. Considering the kids’ ages, you're pretty sure you’re the parent closest to them, you could reach Oliver in three large steps.

“It's not him I worry about,” Emily says, in that tone that denounces she's seen more than she'll divulge. You don't mind.

“I'll try not to take it to heart that my girlfriend won't even look at me,” you sigh mockingly, as if deeply put out by her actions.

She glances at you briefly, taking the opportunity as Oliver is laughing and she can make sure he's nearby due to the sound of his voice. “You know anything can happen in a second.”

You smile softly at her, “yes, I do.” Nodding, she turns back to look at him. “But I also know that sometimes I just have to trust the universe, I can't keep my eyes on him at all times, even though I try.”

“Well, I can pick up the slack,” she murmurs with a smirk.

Laughing, you shake your head. “Please, don't let me get in your way.”

After a beat, her smile fades. “I care about him so much,” she starts. “I can't bear the thought of something happening because I took my eyes off of him.”

“Welcome to the world of parenting, honey.”

Emily looks at you, “I'm not trying to-”

You interrupt her, “I know. But I know you care about him like a parent would.” Smiling, you touch her shoulder, “he loves you, he tells me so every day.”

She purses her lips to contain a smile. “Mhm, he's a very lovable kid.”

You leave a kiss on her cheek, then you both turn back to watch Oliver running around with his new friends.

When the little girl flails her arms for the ball, he softly kicks it in her direction, making sure it doesn't go too fast. She, excitedly, crouches down to try and kick it back, then promptly falls on her butt on the grass. After a beat, they all start laughing.

“He’s good with her,” Emily says.

“He's always loved making friends.” And that’s true. Oliver has always been the social butterfly to rival your own mostly introverted nature. “When he was very small and I brought him with me to the grocery store, he'd just keep greeting people from his spot in the cart. God, it used to make me so embarrassed.”

Emily laughs, “why?”

“Sometimes I was in my least presentable clothes, hair up, just wanting to get in and out, and the kid kept starting conversations for me. He could barely talk!” You smile at the way she laughs loudly, “but I'd never want him to change, so I sucked it up and talked to people. I've never made as many friends as I do at the grocery store... I don't know if it's because he's an only child.”

“That's just him, I guess. I was an only child and I never wanted to talk to adults,” she explains. “Why? Do you think he gets lonely? It doesn't seem like it.”

You shrug, “I don't know. I think I just always wanted at least two kids, but things didn't work out that way.”

Emily turns to look at you, “you still have time.”

You both watch as the little girl runs towards Oliver and hugs him, then runs away laughing to her brother, who attempts to lift her up and fails, the both of them falling on the grass, thankfully unharmed.

“Yeah, he used to ask for a baby brother or sister a little bit ago, I think one of his friends at daycare said something about it.”

“And how did that go?”

“I told him a baby would take time and, eventually, he forgot about it and started asking for a cat.”

Emily chuckles, “one of mine, then.”

You hum agreeingly, “although, I think he'd have a pet snake if he could.”

“Oh,” she playfully shudders. “You'd have to tell him it's me or the snake.”

Laughing, you squeeze her hand, “don't worry, he'd definitely pick you.”

Emily grins, then whatever she's about to say gets interrupted by Oliver running back to you.

“Mama!” He calls, used to asking you whenever he wants something, but placing his hands on Emily's thighs. “Ice cream?”

Ollie points to an older guy with an ice cream cart, a familiar view at this park, where two of his friends are already getting cones with their mothers. He turns back, smile wide and expectant.

“Emily will go with you,” you say, handing her your wallet from where both of your bags were carelessly thrown on the bench you've claimed.

She turns to you, but doesn't say anything. As they go, you watch them with a warmth in your chest.

Emily lowers her face so she can hear Oliver better. Ollie swings the hands clasped together above him. He laughs at something the ice cream vendor says and she smiles widely.

It's a lovely sight.

It brings butterflies to your stomach at the thought of what your future could look like.

The little girl from before almost trips on a rock as her mom is paying for her ice cream. Emily swiftly holds her hand to keep her from falling, earning a grin for her troubles. She beams back, letting the girl balance herself before letting go of her.

Emily gets a thanks from the girl's mom, then tells her not to worry. Oliver, face already smeared with chocolate ice cream, pulls on her sleeve, earning back her attention.

She says something, and he giggles.

After Oliver's been cleaned up and is burning some sugar energy by running around on the grass, you and Emily are back to watching him.

“You're so good with him,” you say near her shoulder, leaving a kiss there.

Emily shrugs, “I told you, he's the sweetest.”

You hum. Of course, you can't help but agree.

“Any kids you may have are gonna be that cute,” she points at him, smiling.

Huffing out a laugh, “everyone says the second kid is always the crazy one.”

“Well,” she holds one of your hands, looking at you, “you should give it a try, anyway.”

You shake your head, “I used to have other plans. I never wanted to do it alone.”

Emily stays silent for a beat, then turns back to Oliver, “you won't be.”

Yeah, the butterflies come back.

The courthouse bathroom smelled like antiseptic and cheap floral air freshener, the kind that never quite masked the underlying staleness. You adjusted the knot of your tie in the smudged mirror, pressing your lips together to smooth out the faded lipstick. A drop of water from the tap had splashed onto your sleeve—dark silk, unforgiving—and you dabbed at it with a scratchy paper towel, cursing under your breath. First day of the Reid trial, and you were already fighting a losing battle against your own nerves.

Outside, the hallway buzzed with lawyers, reporters, and the occasional FBI agent weaving through the crowd. You spotted her immediately,Emily Prentiss, all sharp angles and coiled energy, leaning against a pillar with a case file tucked under one arm. She was scanning the room with that practiced, detached look, the one that made witnesses squirm and suspects overthink. But when her gaze landed on you, it flickered, just for a heartbeat. A tiny, dangerous crack in the facade.

"Counselor," she said as you approached, voice low and even. Professional. Too professional. The way she said it made your stomach twist.

"Agent Prentiss," you replied, matching her tone, though your fingers twitched at your side. You wanted to reach out, to brush the invisible lint off her blazer, to let your knuckles graze hers in the pretrial huddle just to feel the spark of contact. Instead, you clenched your hand into a fist. "You ready for this?"

Emily’s mouth quirked. "Born ready." The corner of her lip twitched like she was fighting a smirk, and you knew exactly what she was thinking,last night, her knee between yours, her teeth at your collar, muttering the same words against your skin.

The courtroom doors swung open with a weighty groan, and the bailiff's voice cut through the murmuring crowd. "All rise." You didn't miss the way Emily's shoulder brushed yours as you both stood,too close for colleagues, not close enough for what you really were. The judge's bench loomed like a guillotine, and you forced your gaze away from Emily's profile, focusing instead on the empty witness stand. Reid was already seated at the defense table, his fingers drumming a nervous staccato against the wood. Cat Adams, smug in her prison jumpsuit, smirked from the prosecution's side like she'd already won.

Opening statements were a blur. You spoke crisply, methodically dismantling the prosecution's argument point by point, but your pulse roared in your ears every time Emily shifted in her seat behind you. You could feel her eyes on the back of your neck, tracking the way your fingers tightened around your pen when the DA implied Reid had a history of instability. A muscle in your jaw twitched. Emily cleared her throat—just once, deliberately—and you exhaled, loosening your grip.

During recess, JJ cornered you near the vending machines, her smile knowing. "You and Emily seem... in sync," she said, popping the tab on a Diet Coke. The can hissed like an accusation.

You shrugged, buying time by feeding dollar bills into the machine. "We’ve worked together before." The lie tasted stale.

JJ hummed, taking a sip. "Uh-huh. And the way she looks at you when you’re arguing? That’s just professional respect?"

The vending machine spat out a bottle of water with a thud. You caught it mid-air, gripping the plastic tighter than necessary. "Emily’s thorough," you said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to defensive. "She pays attention to details. That’s her job."

JJ’s smirk deepened. "Right. And the way you two leaned into each other during the recess huddle? That’s just… strategizing?"

A laugh escaped you,nervous, too sharp. You twisted the cap off your water, buying time. The courtroom doors swung open again, and Garcia’s head popped out, her curls bouncing. "Five-minute warning, lovebirds—" She froze, eyes widening behind her glasses. "I mean. Colleagues. Professional associates. Completely platonic coworkers."

Emily appeared behind her, stepping smoothly into the hallway. Her expression was unreadable, but the way her fingers flexed at her sides gave her away. "We should head back in," she said, voice even.

Garcia mouthed ‘oh my god’ at JJ behind Emily’s back.

The afternoon session bled into evening, the fluorescent lights overhead humming like a jury of bees. You’d just torn apart the prosecution’s star witness,some forensic accountant who’d flinched when you leaned into his personal space,when Rossi caught your elbow in the hallway. His grip was firm, his voice a conspiratorial murmur. "You know, I’ve seen Emily bluff her way through interrogations with serial killers," he said, thumb brushing the fabric of your sleeve, "but I’ve never seen her blush until today."

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. "Must’ve been the coffee," you lied, nodding toward the courthouse vending machine. "It’s brutal."

Rossi chuckled, low and knowing. "Kid, I’ve been married three times. I know what it looks like when someone’s trying not to stare at their wife’s ass in a courtroom."

Across the hall, Emily was hunched over a case file with Morgan, her brow furrowed in a way that usually meant she was two steps ahead of everyone else. But when Morgan nudged her and nodded toward you, her pen stilled mid-sentence. The look she gave you—half warning, half hunger—sent a shiver down your spine.

The bailiff’s voice cut through the tension. "Court’s reconvening."

The gavel cracked like a gunshot, jolting you back to the present. The judge was speaking,something about inadmissible evidence,but your attention snagged on Emily’s fingers drumming against her thigh. Three taps, then a pause. Three taps again. Your secret rhythm, the one she’d used that morning when she slid your coffee across the kitchen counter, her wedding ring glinting in the sunlight. Three taps: I love you.

Morgan’s elbow nudged Emily’s ribs, and her hand stilled. She didn’t glance at you, but her shoulders tensed, the line of her jaw tightening like she was biting back a smile,or a curse. You focused on the legal pad in front of you, scribbling nonsense to steady yourself. The pen left angry indents in the paper.

"You’re killing them," Reid whispered suddenly from the defense table, his voice low with something like awe.

You blinked. "What?"

"The way you’re dismantling their case. It’s…" He hesitated, eyes darting to where Cat Adams was scowling at her desk. "It’s almost beautiful."

The judge called for a fifteen-minute recess after the prosecution’s forensic accountant stumbled through his testimony, his credibility in tatters. You gathered your files with deliberate slowness, avoiding the weight of Emily’s gaze burning a hole through the back of your suit jacket. The air in the courtroom was thick with tension,legal, personal, the kind that made your pulse thrum just beneath your skin.

You barely made it to the hallway before Morgan materialized at your elbow, his grin all teeth. "Counselor," he drawled, leaning against the wall with practiced casualness. "You ever consider a career in the BAU? We could use someone who eviscerates people that gracefully."

"Stick to recruiting actual FBI agents, Morgan," you muttered, but the corner of your mouth twitched.

Behind him, Garcia appeared like a hurricane in heels, clutching a tablet to her chest. "Oh, please, please tell me you’re as good at cross-examination in your personal life," she stage-whispered. "Because if so, Emily never stood a chance."

You choked on nothing. "I have no idea what you’re—"

"Garcia," Emily's voice cut through the hallway like a blade, smooth but edged with warning. She appeared behind Garcia, her posture impeccable, but her fingers flexed at her sides in that telltale way you knew meant she was two seconds from dragging you both out of here. Garcia squeaked and spun around, nearly dropping her tablet. "Why don’t you go check on Reid? He looked like he needed a caffeine boost."

Garcia saluted, her eyes dancing with mischief. "On it, boss. But just so you know, the betting pool’s already at—"

Emily’s glare could’ve melted steel. Garcia vanished before she could finish the sentence, Morgan following with a laugh and a knowing glance over his shoulder. The moment they were out of earshot, Emily exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders like she was shaking off the weight of the day.

"You’re not subtle," she muttered, stepping closer, her voice low enough that only you could hear.

You raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to reach for her. "Me? You’re the one who blushed when Rossi called you out."

The courthouse steps were slick with rain by the time the judge finally adjourned for the day, the neon glow of downtown D.C. reflecting in the puddles like scattered puzzle pieces. You lingered by the defense table, shuffling papers with deliberate slowness, watching from the corner of your eye as Emily exchanged hushed words with Morgan near the bailiff’s station. His laughter carried across the emptying courtroom, rich and knowing, and when he clapped her on the shoulder, Emily’s mouth twitched not quite a smile, but close enough to make your pulse skip.

"You coming?" Reid asked, shrugging into his coat with a tentative glance at Cat Adams being led out in cuffs. Her smirk had long since soured.

You hesitated, fingers drumming against your briefcase. "I should—"

"Save it," JJ interrupted, appearing at your elbow with Garcia in tow. "We’re all going to O’Malley’s. Even Hotch used to crack a smile there after a tough case." She paused, her gaze flicking to Emily, then back to you. "And before you argue, Emily already said yes."

Emily, now standing at the prosecution’s abandoned table, straightened abruptly as if she’d heard her name. Her eyebrows lifted in silent question, and you bit back a smile. So much for discretion.

The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place where the whiskey glasses left sticky rings on the wood and the jukebox played nothing newer than 1998. You slid into the booth beside Reid, who was already nursing a beer with the focus of a man trying to forget he'd spent the day being accused of murder. Emily sat across from you, her elbows propped on the table, fingers laced together like she was praying for patience. Morgan dropped into the seat next to her with a grin, nudging her shoulder. "Relax, Prentiss. We won."

"Not yet," Emily muttered, but her eyes flicked to yours, warm and private despite the crowded booth.

Garcia clapped her hands together, leaning forward. "Okay, but before we toast to Reid's impending acquittal—" Reid winced at the word acquittal— "we need to address the elephant in the room. Or should I say, the ring on someone's left hand?"

The table went silent. Emily froze, her thumb which had been absently tracing the edge of her wedding band still mid-motion. You exhaled slowly, pressing your knee against hers under the table. Three taps. ‘I love you.’

Rossi took a deliberate sip of his scotch. "I’ll put fifty on Vegas," he said, like he was discussing the weather. "Eloped after that case in ’13, am I right?"

Emily's fingers twitched, her wedding ring catching the dim bar light as she slowly lowered her hands to the table. The silence stretched like a live wire,Morgan grinning into his beer, Garcia practically vibrating with anticipation, JJ's knowing smirk widening,until Emily exhaled sharply through her nose. "Fine," she said, voice dry as parchment. "Vegas. 2014. Two AM after the Mendoza cartel sting."

Garcia shrieked so loudly the bartender dropped a glass.

You hid your smile behind your whiskey as Morgan choked on his drink. "Wait,you proposed?" he wheezed, pounding his chest.

Emily's smirk was all teeth. "She cried during the Elvis impersonator's vows."

The bar erupted in chaos,Morgan nearly upended the table lunging to clap Emily on the back, Garcia was halfway out of her seat squealing something about wedding photos, and Rossi just nodded sagely like he’d known all along (which, given the smug tilt of his eyebrows, he probably had). Reid blinked owlishly between you and Emily, his beer forgotten. "Huh," he said finally, pushing his glasses up his nose. "That explains why you quoted Marriage Story during the Rodriguez deposition."

Emily's cheeks flushed the faintest pink, but she held her ground, fingers tightening around her whiskey glass. "It was relevant to the—"

"Oh my god," Garcia interrupted, slamming her hands on the table. "You have a house together, don’t you? With like, shared towels and a coffee maker that says ‘hers’ and ‘hers’—"

You snorted into your drink. "It says ‘yours’ and ‘also yours’ because Emily broke the first one trying to reprogram it in Spanish."

Emily kicked you under the table—not hard, just enough to make you smirk—but Garcia was already gasping like she’d been personally handed a conspiracy theory. "You live together?!"

“We're married,” Emily said in exasperation.

The table erupted into overlapping questions,Garcia demanding to know why she hadn’t been invited to the wedding, Morgan ribbing Emily about her taste in rings, Rossi already flagging down the bartender for celebratory shots but Emily’s gaze never left yours. Her foot pressed against yours under the table, a silent anchor in the storm of their excitement. "Told you we should’ve gone with separate cars," she muttered, just loud enough for you to hear over Garcia’s dramatics.

You grinned, swirling your whiskey. "And miss this? I live for the theatrics."

Which is exactly why it’s frustrating that your focus begins slipping long before Hotch even starts talking.

The door opens behind you with a soft metallic click that barely registers at first, just another late arrival trying to squeeze into a room already overflowing with bodies, but then a familiar presence settles directly at your back and your entire body reacts before your brain has the chance to catch up.

Emily.

You don’t need to turn around to know it’s her. Somehow, you always know. Maybe it’s the subtle confidence in the way she carries herself or the quiet steadiness of her presence, but the awareness of her arrives instantly, sharp enough that your shoulders tense on instinct while your grip tightens fractionally around the papers in your hands.

And of all the places she could have stood, she chooses here.

Not near Rossi, where there’s still enough room to lean comfortably against the wall, and not beside Hotch near the front where several agents are already shifting to make space for late arrivals. No, Emily slips into the narrow gap directly behind you instead, close enough that the warmth radiating from her seems to settle against your spine through the thin fabric of your shirt, close enough that every slight movement she makes immediately pulls at your attention whether you want it to or not.

You shift your weight subtly, attempting to convince yourself that the sudden tension curling low in your stomach has more to do with the overcrowded room than with Emily Prentiss standing inches away from you, but the moment you move, she adjusts too, and somehow the distance between you never widens quite enough to make breathing feel easy again.

It’s ridiculous, really.

The room is packed. People are brushing shoulders constantly. Rationally, this shouldn’t mean anything at all. Emily has always been tactile, naturally flirtatious in that effortless way that makes it impossible to tell where casual charm ends and something more dangerous begins, and yet the longer she remains standing there behind you, the more impossible it becomes to convince yourself that this is entirely accidental.

Or maybe that’s the real problem. Maybe part of you desperately wants it not to be accidental, and that thought alone is enough to send warmth creeping uncomfortably up the back of your neck.

Hotch finally begins the briefing, his calm, measured voice cutting cleanly through the noise of the room as conversations slowly fade into silence around him, and you latch onto it immediately, grateful for something structured enough to anchor yourself to before your thoughts drift any further out of reach. Victimology. Escalation patterns. Behavioral consistency. Things that make sense. Things that don’t smile at you with dark, knowing eyes and leave you overanalyzing every interaction for the next six hours afterward.

You focus on the facts instead, tracing familiar details through your mind while Hotch lays out the profile, and for a moment it almost works. Almost.

Then Emily shifts behind you, barely enough movement for anyone else to notice, and the faint brush of her shoulder against yours sends your concentration unraveling all over again.

This time, though, the contact doesn’t disappear immediately.

Emily’s hand settles briefly against the small of your back as another agent squeezes past the two of you, her fingers warm even through the fabric of your shirt while she guides herself around you with an ease that feels entirely too natural.

The contact is fleeting, probably unavoidable in a room this crowded, but your body reacts immediately anyway, heat rushing through your chest so fast it feels embarrassing while your fingers tighten around your notes hard enough to crease the paper. You stare stubbornly ahead, jaw tightening slightly as you force yourself not to react outwardly, because the last thing you need is for Emily to realize how painfully aware you are of her.

Except when her hand slips away again, she doesn’t move back.

If anything, she leans in slightly closer, and suddenly you can feel the warmth of her beside your shoulder, close enough that the next words she speaks barely travel further than your ear.

“You okay there?” she murmurs quietly, amusement threading softly beneath the question.

Your stomach drops so fast it almost hurts. Although, if you’re being honest with yourself, she probably already knows.

Emily notices things. Tiny things. The shifts in expression other people miss entirely, the moments where your voice changes by half a tone, the subtle tension in your shoulders whenever she steps too close or lets her hand linger just a second longer than necessary. And the terrifying part is not just that she notices, it’s that sometimes it genuinely feels like she enjoys it.

“…and based on the escalation pattern—” Hotch pauses briefly, glancing toward you. “Go ahead.”

Your pulse stumbles immediately. Right. Your part.

You inhale slowly, already reaching for the opening sentence you had mentally rehearsed earlier, the carefully structured explanation sitting so familiarly in your mind that under normal circumstances you could probably recite it without thinking, but the second you open your mouth, the words catch somewhere between your brain and your tongue.

“The unsub is likely…”

The hesitation barely lasts a second, and still it feels catastrophic.

Heat floods your face instantly as awareness crashes over you in one humiliating wave, because there’s an empty space where the rest of your sentence should be and all you can think about is the fact that Emily is standing directly behind you close enough to hear every tiny fracture in your composure.

And worse, you can practically feel her smiling.

“…operating within a controlled environment,” you finish eventually, even though it isn’t the phrasing you intended at all.

You force yourself to continue before the silence stretches any further. “Someone who relies heavily on routine and predictability. The victim selection suggests…”

A soft exhale brushes against the back of your shoulder. Your thoughts disappear completely for half a second.

God.

It’s probably unconscious, probably meaningless, and yet your entire body reacts to it anyway, your heartbeat turning uneven while warmth spreads viciously through your chest at the realization that you can actually feel her breathing this close to you.

Then, impossibly, Emily shifts again, just enough that her arm brushes against yours this time, slow enough that it almost feels intentional.

Like she’s testing how much more of this you can take before you completely fall apart in front of her.

Don’t react. Just finish talking.

“—suggests familiarity with the locations,” you manage finally, recovering just enough to push through the remainder of the profile on pure instinct alone, although by the time Hotch nods and smoothly continues the briefing, you barely remember half of what you just said.

All you really remember is Emily standing behind you, silent and steady and entirely too close, somehow managing to distract you more thoroughly without touching you at all than anyone else ever could with both hands on your body.

And maybe that’s what unsettles you most about all of this. The fact that if she were openly flirting, if she were obvious about it, then at least you would know where you stand. But Emily exists almost entirely in half-smiles and lingering glances and quiet comments layered with meanings you can never fully untangle, leaving you trapped in this unbearable space between certainty and wishful thinking.

By the time the briefing finally ends and agents begin filtering back into the hallway, relief settles through you so quickly it almost makes your knees feel weak. You move with the crowd immediately, desperate for distance and fresh air and enough space to think clearly again before Emily notices just how badly she affected you.

Which, realistically, is already too late.

“You hesitated.” Emily’s voice appears beside you almost instantly once the two of you step into the hallway, warm amusement curling beneath the words, and when you glance toward her despite yourself, she’s already watching you with that same unreadable expression that always feels like she knows far more than she’s saying aloud.

“You threw me off,” you mutter, quieter than intended.

Emily hums softly, clearly entertained.

Then her fingers catch briefly around your wrist before you can move any further ahead with the crowd, the touch light but firm enough to stop you for half a second. Your pulse stumbles immediately.

“Really?” she asks, tilting her head slightly while her thumb brushes once against the inside of your wrist, dangerously close to your pulse. “I didn’t think I distracted you that easily.”

The contact disappears almost as quickly as it came, but warmth still lingers against your skin afterward, sharp enough that your thoughts immediately begin unraveling all over again.

“There was space up front,” you say after a moment, because focusing on literally anything else suddenly feels safer than acknowledging the fact that Emily Prentiss just touched you like that in the middle of the bullpen hallway. “You didn’t have to stand behind me.”

“No,” Emily agrees easily. Instead of stepping away, though, she shifts slightly closer again, close enough that the faint scent of her perfume slips warm and distracting into your space all over again. “But you looked cute trying not to react.”

Your stomach drops so fast it almost hurts. Heat floods your face, which only makes the amused curve of Emily’s mouth deepen slightly, like she’s just been handed confirmation of something she already suspected.

“You were watching me,” you accuse as the two of you continue walking through the bullpen doors together.

Emily glances toward you slowly then, openly studying your face instead of even pretending not to, and the second her eyes catch the lingering flush still warming your cheeks, something pleased flickers across her expression.

Like finding exactly what she’d been looking for.

“Was I?” she asks lightly.

Her shoulder brushes yours a second later, subtle enough to pass as accidental to anyone else, but Emily doesn’t move away afterward.

You nearly laugh at that, mostly because the alternative would involve admitting how painfully aware you were of her the entire time. “You know you were.”

For a second, neither of you says anything. Emily simply studies you with a kind of quiet attentiveness that makes it impossible to look away, and suddenly you feel unbearably exposed beneath her gaze, as though she can see every frantic thought currently tangling itself apart inside your head.

“Interesting,” she murmurs eventually.

You narrow your eyes immediately. “That’s not about the briefing.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

The response settles low in your chest and stays there, heavy and warm and dangerous all at once. Your breathing catches slightly before you can stop it, and the worst part is knowing Emily notices that too. Of course she does.

“You did that on purpose,” you say quietly, because pretending otherwise suddenly feels impossible.

“Did what?” she asks, far too innocent to be believable. The corner of her mouth twitches upward, like she can barely keep herself from laughing at you.

You stop walking then, turning fully toward her because if she keeps looking at you like this while pretending not to understand what she’s doing, you genuinely might lose your mind a little.

“You know exactly what.”

For a moment, Emily just watches you, her expression softening almost imperceptibly around the edges as though she’s carefully considering how honest she wants to be with you. Then finally, after a beat long enough to make your pulse throb painfully in your throat, she smiles.

“Last time we talked, you looked very confident when you said I don’t distract you.” Her gaze drifts slowly down your face then, lingering for half a second too long before lifting back to your eyes again. “I had to test the theory.”

Heat crashes through you so fast it feels unbearable. “That was not—”

“An accurate statement?” Emily finishes smoothly, obvious amusement flickering through her voice now.

You glare at her, which only makes her smile widen slightly, softer this time, almost fond beneath the teasing.

“I was curious,” she says with a small shrug, as though that somehow explains why she spent an entire briefing dismantling your ability to think coherently.

Maybe it does.

You look at her carefully. “So none of that was random.”

“No,” Emily answers immediately.

Then, before you can prepare yourself for it, her fingers brush lightly against your sleeve again, smoothing over the fabric in one absent little motion that feels far too intimate for how casual she makes it look.

“No,” she repeats more quietly, her eyes holding yours steadily now. “Neither was your reaction.”

The quiet certainty in her voice tightens something painfully in your chest because suddenly this feels less like harmless flirting and more like Emily deliberately reaching for every reaction you try so hard to hide from her. And the truly dangerous part is realizing she seems almost fascinated each time she finds one.

Emily holds your gaze for another long second before finally stepping back slightly, giving you enough space to breathe again even though your heartbeat still feels hopelessly uneven.

“I just picked a spot,” she says lightly, as though both of you can still pretend that’s all this was.

You stare at her, waiting for the joke, the backtracking, something to make this feel less terrifyingly sincere than it suddenly does.

Instead, Emily lets the silence stretch between you for just a second too long, long enough that it begins to settle beneath your skin like an answer in itself while her expression shifts almost imperceptibly into something smaller, more controlled, a smile that feels strangely private, as though she’s holding onto a thought she has no intention of sharing with you yet.

Then she winks.

Not exaggerated or playful enough to let you dismiss it as harmless teasing, but subtle, deliberate, devastatingly confident in a way that makes warmth rush violently through your chest all over again.

And before you can even think of something coherent to say back, she’s already turning away, effortlessly slipping back into step with Hotch and the others as though she hasn’t just spent the last several minutes deliberately ruining your ability to function properly.

You remain standing there for a moment longer than necessary, pulse still uneven beneath your ribs, staring after her with the deeply uncomfortable realization that absolutely none of that interaction had been accidental.

Worse still, some part of you suspects Emily knew from the beginning exactly how you were going to react to her standing that close.

And somehow, despite recognizing every warning sign in real time, you still let her pull you apart piece by piece exactly the way she wanted to.

Later, back in the bullpen, the familiar rhythm of work should have grounded you by now. Usually it does. The constant ringing of phones, the low chatter drifting between desks, Garcia’s music playing faintly from her office while keyboards clatter steadily throughout the room, it’s all so normal, so routine, that most days the familiarity settles around you like muscle memory.

Tonight, though, none of it helps. Because every attempt at focusing eventually circles back to Emily. To the warmth of her standing behind you. To the quiet amusement in her voice when she pointed out your hesitation. To the way she looked at you afterward, calm and knowing and entirely too aware of what she was doing to you.

And maybe that’s the worst part of all.

Not that Emily flustered you, she’s always been capable of that but the terrifying suspicion that she enjoyed it. That she noticed every fractured breath and every stumble in your composure and chose to push anyway, just to see how far she could get before you completely unraveled beneath her attention.

Your thoughts are spiraling badly enough by the time you reach Garcia’s office that you don’t even realize you’ve stopped in the doorway until her attention snaps immediately toward you.

She’s surrounded, as always, by organized chaos, bright screens glowing in every direction, colorful pens scattered across her desk beside an alarming amount of candy wrappers but the second she catches sight of your expression, her eyes narrow with instant curiosity.

“Okay,” she says slowly, leaning back in her chair just enough to study you properly, “that face means something happened.”

You hesitate. Which, unfortunately, is answer enough.

Garcia’s eyebrows lift immediately. “Oh my God,” she breathes, already delighted. “It was Emily, wasn’t it?”

You glance instinctively over your shoulder before stepping fully into the office, lowering your voice despite the fact that Emily is nowhere nearby. The habit alone feels incriminating.

“I don’t know if I’m overthinking this,” you begin carefully, although the uncertainty in your voice already undermines the statement, “but during the briefing she stood right behind me. Like… really close. And she didn’t have to. There was space literally everywhere else.”

Garcia’s entire face lights up with the kind of excitement that instantly tells you this conversation is about to become deeply unhelpful.

“Oh, honey,” she says immediately, sounding almost offended on your behalf that you’re even questioning it, “she absolutely did that on purpose.”

Relief and frustration crash together in your chest so quickly you almost laugh. “That’s what I thought,” you admit, “but afterward she pointed out that I hesitated during the profile, and the way she said it…”

You trail off briefly, trying and failing to put the feeling into words.

“It wasn’t just that she noticed,” you continue more quietly. “It felt like she knew why I hesitated.”

Garcia’s expression softens, the teasing melting into something more understanding as she watches you carefully for a moment. “And now you don’t know how to read that,” she says gently.

“I don’t know how she means it,” you correct quickly, because somehow that distinction feels important. Maybe painfully important.

Garcia hums thoughtfully, although the expression on her face suggests she has already reached her conclusion several steps ago. “Sweetie,” she says after approximately half a second of consideration, “there is really only one way to mean that.”

You frown immediately. “That’s not helpful.”

“It is,” she insists softly, tilting her head at you. “You just don’t like the answer very much.”

The frustrating part is that she’s probably right.

You look away, exhaling slowly through your nose while your thoughts tangle themselves apart all over again, because acknowledging what this might mean also means acknowledging how badly you want it to mean something at all, and that realization feels far more dangerous than you’re prepared to unpack right now.

“I just…” You hesitate again before finally admitting, quieter this time, “I don’t understand what she wants from that.”

Garcia’s smile turns unexpectedly fond at the edges. “Maybe she doesn’t want anything,” she says gently. “Maybe she just likes seeing you react.”

The words settle heavily in your chest because the awful thing is that you can suddenly picture it perfectly. Emily noticing every tiny shift in your expression, every stumble in your voice, every flustered attempt to regain control of yourself, and finding all of it endlessly entertaining.

Not cruelly. Not carelessly. Almost affectionately, somehow.

And that possibility feels close to the truth in a way that makes your stomach twist. Because if Garcia is right, then Emily already knows exactly what she does to you.

And instead of pulling away from it, she keeps stepping closer.

Except it’s not simple. Nothing about it feels intuitive. The safety mechanism resists your touch like it has opinions about you personally. You’ve handled more than enough weapons in your time at the FBI, this one just isn’t familiar yet.

Behind you, a voice cuts through the quiet. “I’m starting to think they should include a warning label for you specifically.”

You close your eyes for half a second, of course she’s here. She’s getting issued a new weapon too, just like the rest of the team. You just didn’t realize your appointment would overlap with hers.

Emily leans against the doorframe like she belongs there more than anyone else in the room, arms crossed, watching you with that same expression she gets when she’s already three steps ahead of whatever situation you’re currently struggling with.

You clear your throat. “I’m fine.”

“Mhm.” Her eyes flick down to your hands. “That’s why the weapon looks like it’s winning.”

“It’s not winning,” you defend yourself, lips pursed.

“It looks pretty victorious from here.”

You ignore her and try again, shifting your grip, pressing the mechanism the way you think it was explained to you. Nothing happens. Of course the universe chooses this exact moment to work against you, why couldn’t it just function normally right now?

Emily pushes off the doorframe and strolls closer, slow enough that you notice it. You always notice it when she moves like that, like she’s not in a hurry because she already knows how this ends.

“You’re overthinking it,” she says.

“I’m not overthinking it.”

“You’re absolutely overthinking it,” her voice dips, teasing, like she’s already decided the outcome.

“I’m following instructions,” you explain, gesturing slightly toward the weapon. “Ben, the technician, said—”

“That’s your first mistake.” Emily lifts one brow, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth, like she’s already mentally correcting whatever the technician told you.

You shoot her a look, but it lacks any real heat. She stops right beside you now, closer than necessary. She is not touching you but stands close enough that you’re suddenly aware of how much space she could choose to take if she wanted to.

“Show me what he told you,” she says softly, and at her tone your knees almost give way.

“I followed his instructions step by step,” you say, a little more defensive than intended, her closeness throwing you off more than you’d like to admit.

“Then prove it,” she challenges, exhaling slowly so that the faint brush of air reaches you.

You hesitate, then try again. The mechanism clicks but not the right way. Your stomach drops a little in annoyance.

A quiet laugh slips from her throat. “Oh no,” she says, her voice warm with amusement rather than mockery. “I guess Ben left out a step.”

“I can handle it,” you say, more firmly than necessary. “It’s just sticking.”

“Are you sure?” she says lightly. “I mean, you did try.”

You groan under your breath. “You’re not helping, Emily.”

“I am helping,” she corrects. “You’re just resisting my method.”

“And what method is that?”

Instead of answering, she steps closer behind you. Her presence settles in your space like it belongs there and a faint shiver runs through you. You could blame the cold in the armory, but you know better, your body betrays you far too easily whenever Emily is near. Her hand doesn’t take yours immediately. She waits, like she wants you to notice the option first, like the decision is still technically yours.

Then quieter she adds: “Relax your grip.”

You do, reluctantly.

“There,” she murmurs. “Now stop trying to force it. Let it move with you.”

Her fingers brush over yours, guiding, not taking over, just correcting. The mechanism clicks cleanly this time, and you almost let out a sound of frustration. Of course it works now. You swallow, suddenly very aware of her hand still hovering near yours.

Her fingers linger a second longer than necessary, brushing lightly over your knuckles before she finally pulls back.

“See?” she says, voice light again. “It’s not that hard.”

You glance at her. “You enjoyed watching me struggle with it.”

“I wasn’t watching you struggle,” she says simply, eyes flicking over you. “That’s not what I was paying attention to.”

“What—” you start, then stop, like the rest of the sentence gets caught somewhere between frustration and awareness.

Emily’s gaze softens just slightly.

“What I was actually watching…” she continues slowly, like she’s considering how honest she wants to be, “was you.” Her gaze holds yours a second longer than necessary. “And how easily you react without meaning to.”

Your throat tightens slightly, and you don’t answer fast enough to hide it.

“Right there,” she murmurs, almost like she’s confirming her own point, her smile softening just a fraction, “when you go quiet on me.”

Her smile tilts again, softer this time, but no less dangerous in its ease. “And yes,” she says, stepping back just enough to make the space feel colder, “I enjoyed that part.”

“Try not to miss me too much when you figure out the rest. You’ll get used to it.”

And just like that, she leaves you standing there, with a working weapon, a warm spot of presence still lingering in the air, and the irritating realization that you’re already hoping she comes back.

A few seconds later, the driver’s door opens and Emily slides behind the wheel, buckles up, and turns slightly to look at you.

“You did good work tonight,” she says in that professional tone that immediately puts distance back between you, the kind you’re only just starting to readjust to.

“Thanks,” you manage, letting out a slow breath. “Even if the unsub didn’t strike?”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” your Unit Chief replies, moistening her lips again, “I’m pretty sure he’s our guy.”

Tonight didn’t end the way you had hoped. No sirens, no flashing lights, no victims. And you can’t deny Emily’s right. No victims is a good outcome. It always is. But it didn’t bring you any closer to catching him either, that was the whole point of going undercover. You can’t help but feel responsible. Your fingers tighten slightly in your lap as you wonder if you weren’t convincing enough, too distracted by everything going on with your boss, your unrequited crush. Maybe you got lost in it, and the unsub saw right through you, knew you weren’t a real couple.

“Hey,” Emily pulls you out of your thoughts, her hand briefly touching your shoulder, barely more than a brush, and yet it shoots through you like a spark. “We got his attention. We planned for him to watch first and strike later. That’s what the witnesses told us, it fits the profile.”

“I…” you start, staring straight ahead because you know you can’t meet her gaze right now. “I know it was a possibility, but what if—”

You stop again, because Emily leans over, her fingers gently lifting your chin. For a split second you catch a crack in her composure, a flicker in her brows, like she surprised herself. But she doesn’t pull away.

“You shouldn’t doubt yourself so much,” she says softly, and for a moment there’s something in her voice that doesn’t quite match the distance she usually keeps. Then she clears her throat, tone settling back into something controlled and detached. “You did your job. We both did. Rossi already gave me a heads-up, we got the unsub’s attention.”

She doesn’t elaborate further, just returns her focus to the road, hands tightening slightly on the wheel, just a fraction more than necessary.

“We’re heading back.”

The drive should feel routine. You’ve done it hundreds of times together. But tonight, it doesn’t. At least not for you.

You lean toward the window, watching streetlights blur past in dancing streaks, though you don’t really see them. Your thoughts are chaos, still trapped in the bar, still stuck on Emily.

The way her hand had held yours, the way her body pressed against you with no space left between, the pressure of it, the heat of her breath near your ear, her voice running through you. And most vivid of all is the feeling of her lips on your cheek, soft against your skin, the lingering warmth they left behind.

You press your legs together a little tighter, shifting nervously in your seat. Your body reacts faster than your mind can catch up. You try to shake it off, but it sticks, settling deeper the more you ignore it.

“Do I make you nervous, honey?” The words replay in your head, clearer than anything else. And the way she looked at you when she said it: was that really just acting?

Emily sits beside you in silence. One hand rests on the wheel, the other taps lightly against it in a steady rhythm, subtle but constant enough that you can’t ignore it. It almost feels like she’s pretending to be calm, the tapping giving her away. You’ve never noticed it before, maybe you’ve never had a reason to.

Your eyes drift upward before you can stop yourself. You should know better than to think a look would tell you anything new. This is Emily Prentiss, after all, the one person you’ve never been able to fully read.

As expected, her expression gives nothing away. Eyes forward, lips relaxed but slightly pressed. And yet, a vein in her neck twitches, barely visible, still enough to make you pause.

You turn back to the window, ignoring the uneasy pull in your stomach.

After a restless, far too short night, you sit at the conference table with your second coffee of the morning. The harsh fluorescent lights burn into your eyes, and your feet still ache, it’s not exactly how you wanted to start the day. Not that you slept anyway. You tossed and turned. Eyes open or closed, Emily was always there. And how could you forget the way her hands rested on your waist…

“He didn’t take the bait,” Rossi cuts through your thoughts, clicking the remote as footage from the bar flickers onto the screen.

You squint, forcing yourself to focus. There you are, dimly in the background, Emily pressed close to you, her hand guiding your posture. You’re painfully aware again of how close she had been, where her other hand lingered as you leaned over the table. The memory of her fingertips brushing your thigh makes your skin heat instantly.

“But he was watching,” Rossi continues, switching angles. “He moved closer. Listened.”

You inhale sharply and choke slightly as it goes down the wrong way. JJ pats your back, concerned, but it’s Emily’s gaze that makes it worse. There’s something knowing in it, like she knows exactly what’s got you flustered. You force yourself to breathe again, even as your chest aches from the tension.

“Penelope monitored the phone activity,” Rossi explains, and the screen shifts again. “After about an hour near you, he went toward the restroom. There were a lot of searches, he tried—”

Penelope clears her throat loudly, and Rossi immediately lifts his hands, letting her take over.

“Thanks, Dave,” she says, already tapping her tablet. “As you can see, search volume tripled in that timeframe. Unfortunately, it was through a secured connection, so I can’t tell you what he was searching for… which, personally, is mildly offensive.”

A few soft chuckles ripple through the room, but you stay focused on the data, piecing it together with what you saw, what you felt.

“He studies his victims,” Rossi murmurs. “Observes, evaluates, waits.”

You lift your head slightly.

“What matters most to him,” he continues, a little more clearly now, “is how they interact with each other.”

Luke leans forward, forearms resting on the table. “The couples who survived, or rather, the ones who left in time, all described something similar.”

Something tightens in your chest before he even goes on. You can already tell where this is heading, and you’re not sure you like it.

“The dynamic between them was usually… uneven,” he explains, searching briefly for the right word. “Not necessarily toxic, but noticeable. One leads, the other follows.”

“And he reacts to that dynamic,” Rossi adds calmly. “Strongly. That’s what draws him in.”

You chew on your lower lip, nerves creeping in as JJ shoots you an encouraging look. Does she notice how you’re starting to pull back into yourself?

Penelope swipes across the screen, a few bullet points appearing. “Two of the victims reportedly had very dominant partners. Control in everyday life, decisions made for them, things like that.”

No one spells it out any further, but you hear it anyway. You feel it in the way the room shifts, in the glances that start landing on you, and on Emily. JJ nods at you slowly now, and you know what that means. I’ve got you. You’re not alone. How many times has she been there when doubt started creeping in?

Your gaze drifts to Emily without meaning to, just for a second, but you don’t miss how tightly her lips press together.

“That fits the profile,” Luke murmurs. “If he grew up in a household where control—”

“…was abused,” Emily finishes quietly.

Her voice is steady, clinical, but there’s something underneath it, barely audible, that still settles somewhere under your skin.

“A dominant parent,” she continues, “the other compliant, quiet, more yielding. Possibly even dependent on the dominant one.”

“And now our unsub is projecting that,” Rossi says. “He looks for couples that mirror that pattern, and punishes them for it.”

“Physical closeness matters,” Luke adds. “Witnesses kept emphasizing how forward those couples were. A lot of contact. Kissing. That…” he gestures vaguely with his hand, “…almost performative kind of thing.”

“As if they wanted to be seen,” Penelope says.

“Or like one of them was deliberately putting the other on display,” Emily adds. “Showing them off.”

“He reacts to that exact combination,” she continues. “Power imbalance and visible intimacy.”

You flinch slightly, and Luke tilts his head toward you. “You okay?” he mouths.

You nod, even though you’re not. What’s being asked of you, of you and Emily, is a lot. More than you expected, more than you thought this assignment would turn into.

There’s a brief moment where everything clicks into place. Emily seems to pause, just for a second, like she’s figuring out how to phrase what comes next in the most matter-of-fact way possible. She straightens her back slightly, taps her finger against the table.

“Then we give him just that.”

You look up too fast and meet her gaze right away. She’s already looking at you.

“You need to come across more submissive,” she explains, her tone shifting back into something clear, professional. “More compliant. Let him believe you can be guided and shaped. Let decisions be made for you. Let me speak for you.”

Your pen stills above the paper, her words echoing in your head, digging deep. Submissive. Compliant.

Luke leans back in his chair, watching you closely, like he can see the conflict playing out inside you. He crosses his arms loosely and offers you a small, reassuring smile. “You’re good at this,” he says, like this isn’t anything out of the ordinary. “You read people faster than most of us.”

The soft tapping of Penelope’s fingers fills the room, followed by a quiet little cough. “And I’ll have eyes on you the whole time,” she murmurs without looking up. “Like, always. You’re not alone in there, okay?”

You let out a breath, only now realizing you’ve been holding it. There’s a tingling at the back of your neck, and without even looking, you know Emily’s watching you. Emily, with that intense, piercing gaze. The same one that just told you you’ll have to act even more like a couple tonight, and that you’ll need to take on a submissive role.

“You can do this,” she says, her eyes lingering on you a moment longer than necessary before she continues. “You don’t have to worry about making it perfect for us. It just has to work for him.” There’s a faint twitch in her jaw before she adds, “You did well yesterday. You will today, too. Tonight, you just need to…”

She trails off, studying you. For a split second, something flickers in her eyes, gone just as quickly as it appears. She doesn’t speak right away, like she’s weighing her next words carefully.

“We need to,” she corrects herself, quieter now, “be a little more physical.”

Heat floods your face at that, but you force yourself to push it down and nod. You feel Rossi’s hand land briefly on your shoulder. “You’ve got this.”

“We’re going back in tonight,” Emily says, closing the file. Everyone stands, but you linger for just a moment longer, letting it all settle.

More submissive. More compliant. You can do this.

Hours later, you find yourself standing in Penelope’s office, which looks more like a boutique today. A clothing rack sits in the back corner, filled with different outfits. You move toward it slowly, letting your fingers glide over the fabrics and colors, trying to distract yourself, to push away the tension sitting heavy in your chest.

“So,” you start, reaching for a dress that immediately caught your eye, “this time I’d actually like some say in what I wear.”

Your tone stays light, testing the waters, because you can tell Garcia is holding something back. Not in what she says, but in the way her fingers linger just a second too long on her tablet before she sets it aside, the way her smile comes a little too quickly, like it’s covering something that came first.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says softly, and there’s something faintly amused in her voice when you turn around, already knowing you won’t like what’s coming, “I believe you… I really do.”

You narrow your eyes slightly, hoping you’re wrong or maybe that you can still change her mind. “But?”

Her smile practically beams now. “Our boss already decided what you’ll be wearing tonight.”

Cold spreads through your body, everything in you tightening. “…she did what?” you manage, keeping your voice steady even as your hands start to shake.

Garcia is already moving, heading toward a separate rack you hadn’t even noticed before. When she pulls something from it and holds it up with obvious excitement, your breath catches for a moment.

Of course Emily made the choice for you. She wouldn’t leave something like this to chance. She’s too controlled, too much of your boss to let you decide for yourself.

“Emily was very specific,” Garcia explains gently, clearly noticing your unease. She runs a hand over the fabric as she steps closer. “Honestly? Very specific. I took notes, she was that detailed.”

You don’t doubt that for a second. Not even a little. You give yourself a moment to steady your thoughts before looking down at the dress in her hands, your fingers curling slightly as you take it in.

It’s not just a dress. It’s fitted. Dark. A deep shade that catches just enough light to draw attention without giving too much away. The neckline dips lower than you’d like, at first glance it doesn’t seem too revealing, but the longer you look, the more impossible it is to ignore.

Your fingers twitch again, but this time you can’t stop yourself from reaching out, brushing the fabric carefully. It’s soft under your fingertips, lightly textured, with a bit of stretch. You can already tell it’ll cling to your body, only shifting when you move. It’s shorter than it should be. Even shorter than the last one, too short, really, to wear in front of your boss.

And yet she picked it.

You swallow audibly, and Garcia misreads your reaction completely, already guiding you toward the makeshift changing area. A flimsy construction of rods and fabric, barely stable but functional.

“I knew you’d like it. Go try it on, sugarplum.”

“There’s no way I’m wearing that!” you protest, though it doesn’t sound nearly as convincing as you want it to.

Garcia tilts her head, sensing your hesitation. “Really?”

You hesitate. And that’s your mistake. Because the second you do, her smile widens.

“Thought so.”

You let out a slow breath and, despite yourself, take the dress. Your fingers brush over the fabric again, feeling its weight, imagining how it would feel against your skin.

“You’re going to look stunning,” Garcia adds, softer now, almost fond.

That’s not what you’re worried about. You don’t say it out loud. Instead, you sigh and slip behind the curtain.

When you finally put the dress on, it feels like a second skin. It clings exactly where it should, tracing the lines of your body. Not just flattering, intentional. Like every detail was chosen with purpose. Maybe… maybe it was.

The neckline draws your attention immediately, lower than anything you would’ve picked yourself. The fabric shifts slightly with every breath.

The slit is worse or better, you’re not sure. It moves when you do, brushing along your thigh, making you painfully aware of every step, every shift in weight, every inch of exposed skin.

You swallow and instinctively adjust it, even though you know it won’t change anything.

“Don’t,” Garcia says instantly from behind you, catching the movement in the mirror. “It’s perfect.”

You let your hands fall. And when you’re honest with yourself about how it feels, you realize one thing. It doesn’t feel perfect. It feels dangerous. Like it’s not protecting you, but exposing you. Like it’s not just showing your body, but the risk you’re about to take tonight.

About an hour later, you knock softly on the door to Emily’s office. She’s bent over a file, wearing a red blouse, necklaces resting against her throat, her hair pulled into a bun that makes you unconsciously wet your lips.

“Come in,” she calls, a beat too late. Your gaze still caught on her, on the way the fabric of her blouse pulls when she moves, the quiet confidence with which she fills the room.

“Hey, knock it off!” Garcia’s voice cuts through your thoughts, and somehow she’s already sitting in Emily’s office. You only lost sight of her for five minutes, just long enough to steady yourself.

“What?” you ask, deliberately innocent, even as you feel Emily’s attention shift from the file to you.

She doesn’t look up right away. There’s a pause, a barely noticeable hitch in the movement of her hand before she lifts her gaze, and then it stays on you.

“We just did your lipstick, don’t ruin it,” Garcia says, but your focus is entirely on Emily, her lips slightly parted, her eyes wider than usual, bright.

For a moment, she doesn’t say anything. Her gaze moves over you slowly, not rushed, not obvious. More like she’s assessing something only she understands.

You’re about to say something back, something witty, but Emily inhales sharply, and you stop.

“You’ve got something, Garcia,” she says, cutting in.

Her voice is calm, controlled but a shade lower than before, slightly roughened. Barely noticeable unless you’re really listening.

She doesn’t comment on how you look, not directly. But you hear it anyway, in her tone, in the way her eyes move over you, appreciative, lingering.

Once. And then again. Slower this time.

Her gaze lingers just a fraction too long on your thigh, where the fabric gives, where the slit reveals more than it should. Heat rises under her attention, and you’re almost relieved when Garcia stands up, tapping on her tablet.

“Yes, Chief,” she replies brightly, then reins herself in at Emily’s look. “We should head to the briefing. Dave’s waiting.”

Emily exhales quietly, biting back whatever she was about to say, and stands. She steps toward you, just one step, just enough to test your reaction. Or maybe her own.

She’s wearing heels again, too high, making her tower over you even more than yesterday, and pants that fall loose but still cling in all the right places. You tear your gaze away and follow them to the round table, head lowered.

As she passes you, her arm brushes yours, intentional or not, you can’t tell. But it leaves a faint tingling under your skin that doesn’t go away.

The heavy bass hits you as you step through the worn wooden door later that night. The air is thick, stale, pressing against your skin, seeping into your lungs, making everything feel tighter, heavier. You tense for a heartbeat, then push it down.

You leave the uncertainty behind and slip back into the role.

Your hand finds Emily’s, and her fingers close around yours instantly, like she’s been waiting for it. Her fingertips are rougher than yesterday, her nails shorter. Her hand is warm, soft, familiar. Too familiar.

You bite your lower lip, glance around, and lean into the role, the one who follows, the one who lets herself be guided.

“Where to first, babe?” you ask.

Emily’s eyes snap to you, a flicker of surprise so brief you almost miss it.

“Let’s get a drink,” she says, stepping ahead, pulling you gently along. Her grip tightens just a little more than necessary.

You follow her through the crowd, pushing past sweat-slick bodies, the sharp sting of cologne burning in your nose. When you feel too many eyes on you, you move closer to her, wrapping your hand around her arm as she leads the way.

You don’t have to say anything, she notices immediately. Her arm tenses for a moment, then she understands. Her hand moves to your waist, pulling you closer, subtly positioning herself between you and the stares, shielding you.

“That dress is doing its job, huh,” she murmurs into your hair, almost teasing, but her gaze lifts briefly, scanning the men around you.

“You picked it,” is all you say.

When you reach the bar, Emily presses you back against the mahogany counter. Trapped between it and her body, heat floods through you, and the leg she slides between yours doesn’t help at all.

“I did,” she murmurs, softer now, closer. She brushes a strand of hair from your shoulder and presses a feather-light kiss to your bare skin, letting her lips linger just a second too long. “And our unsub already has his eyes on you. So we did everything right.”

You swallow that down, the reminder, the reality of the act, the case. None of this means anything to her. Not really. Only to you.

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek, grabbing the menu just to distract yourself from her closeness, from the pressure of her leg as you lean back slightly.

“Whiskey?” you ask and she nods. “Why do I even ask?”

“No idea,” Emily says, her hand sliding around your waist now, her thumb tracing slowly over your hipbone. “But who knows… maybe I would’ve surprised you tonight.”

“After three years?” You laugh softly, turning to face her. “You’re a creature of habit, babe. You’d never pick anything else. Even in bed—”

You don’t know where the boldness comes from, but Emily’s expression shifts instantly, darker, heavier, and your finger trails along her jaw. You’re about to keep going, push her a little further, but she’s faster. She pulls you into her arms in one sharp movement. A startled sound slips from you, and when her hands settle firmly on your hips—lower— your voice drops slightly, beyond your control.

“What was that?” she murmurs into your ear, her tongue tracing slowly down your neck, slow enough that you feel every inch.

“I—I…” you stammer, thoughts slipping away completely, overwhelmed by the warmth, the dominance in her voice. Under her hands, you melt—there’s no stopping it.

“I can’t surprise you anymore, huh?” she continues, calmly, as her fingers slip beneath the edge of your dress, teasing the soft skin of your thigh. Goosebumps spread instantly over your entire body. “Doesn’t look that way to me, honey.”

You take a shaky breath, then another, your heartbeat loud in your ears, desire running through your veins. You try to remind yourself this is part of the act. But something in you knows, not all of it is. Not like this.

The way she looks at you, the way her hands move over you, more certain than yesterday, more confident.

“Seems like I can still leave you speechless,” she murmurs, giving your thigh a light squeeze, pressing a kiss to your cheek before signaling the bartender. “Even after three years.”

When the bartender takes her order and you still haven’t said a word, she lifts your chin, forcing you to meet her eyes.

“Nothing to say in your defense?” she asks, a sharper edge to her voice now. “Or is this what you wanted?”

You lower your gaze, running through everything you talked about earlier, leaning into the role, into being submissive. Even though, right now, you’re not pretending.

Right now, you’d let her do anything. If she told you to drop to your knees, you would, even here in this filthy, loud bar. And that thought doesn’t scare you as much as it should.

“Being naughty… and getting punished for it?” she continues, her finger lingering at the corner of your mouth, pulling your lower lip down slightly.

Your stomach drops at her words, and she doesn’t miss the way your breathing falters. You want to respond but you don’t trust your voice. And then…

“Sorry.” The voice comes from the side—too close, too sudden—and someone bumps into you hard.

You stumble, but Emily’s body is there instantly, steadying you, not letting you fall. Her grip tightens more than it needs to. When you open your eyes, you’re staring straight into the green eyes of your unsub. For a moment, everything inside you tightens.

Laugh lines frame his face, his brown hair messy but somehow still styled. He seems charming, open, like he genuinely means it. But there’s something unsettling in his eyes. Something lurking deep beneath the surface. A hunger. You see the way he looks at you, how his gaze flicks to Emily for just a second, too brief to be real interest, but long enough to read the dynamic between you.

Something flashes across his face for a split second, and it’s enough to tell you you’ve got the right man. It’s not just resentment. There’s a hint of disgust.

“It’s fine, nothing happened,” Emily says with a soft laugh, pulling you closer again, so close your back presses against her chest. Her fingers press into your hip, her index finger just a little more than the others, once, twice. Careful.

 “Good thing she caught me,” you murmur softly, smiling up at Emily before looking back at the man who shoved you.

“I’m Rob,” he says, even though no one asked. “And you are?”

He barely acknowledges Emily, like he hasn’t even noticed her. It’s his method, subtle and intrusive at the same time. He provokes the older partner, pushes, tries to get a reaction. It’s how he’s approached all of them. Witnesses always said it started like this: a provocation, escalating until the couples left the bar upset.

“Y/N,” you answer quietly, your gaze drifting back to Emily.

“Nice to meet you.”

He holds out his hand. You take it hesitantly, holding it just a little too long. You play your role well, you can see him calculating, weighing his chances, figuring out how to turn you against each other. Behind you, you feel Emily tense slightly.

“Likewise,” you say, giving him a bright smile as you slip out of Emily’s hold, earning a satisfied grin from Rob. Emily, on the other hand, is not pleased, her hand immediately finds yours, pulling you back.

“We were just—” she starts, but Rob steps between you, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“What are you drinking?” he asks sweetly, his finger brushing dangerously close to your chest and you fight the urge to slap him.

“Hmm… whatever you’re having?” you murmur, and he turns toward the bar.

You only catch a glimpse of Emily, but the anger in her eyes looks real, deeper than acting, sharper than necessary, like something inside her snapped that she doesn’t fully have under control. The air around you shifts as she clears her throat and steps up beside you.

“She doesn’t drink beer,” she cuts in, just as Rob orders two.

“And that’s your call, or…?” he asks smugly, clearly enjoying the simmering anger in her expression, the possessive grip on your arm.

“She’s with me,” Emily says, pulling you back against her, not just protective, but deliberate, like she wants everyone in the room to see it. She glances at you, then nods toward the glasses the bartender set down earlier. “Be a good girl and hand me my drink.”

Rob stills for a fraction of a second, barely noticeable but his fingers twitch slightly, like something just hit exactly where it needed to. Then he recovers, taking a small step back.

“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” he says, lifting his hands in a mock-apologetic gesture, but his face tells a different story. The tension in his jaw is too steady, the smile too quick, too smooth. Practiced and not real.

A lie.

When the bartender sets the beers down and Rob tries to hand one to you, Emily shakes her head.

“She doesn’t drink beer,” she repeats, doing precisely what your profile says he hates. Answering for you before you can even speak, taking the choice away like it was never yours. Like it probably wasn’t in his childhood either. The mother, subdued, compliant, submissive. The father a nightmare, controlling, power-hungry, possessive.

Emily’s hand settles on your hip again, her fingers turning almost pale, her grip just a little too tight, not just the role, not just strategy, but something quieter. Something reclaiming.

Rob’s gaze flickers there, then back to Emily, then to you. His eyes lock onto yours, almost uncomfortably intense, and when he smiles, he looks like the devil himself.

“And what do you want?” he asks you directly, ignoring Emily again.

“I…” you start, playing hesitant, naive. Twisting a strand of your hair between your fingers, you glance at Emily.

“No beer,” she repeats, nodding at you.

“No beer,” you echo softly. “But thanks.”

“Alright, alright,” he says, raising his hands again, rubbing his fingers together briefly before wetting his lips. “I’ll leave you two alone, then. Don’t want to interrupt your little moment.”

“That would be best,” your boss snaps, pushing just enough, and a cold unease settles in your stomach under his gaze. Something that has nothing to do with the case and everything to do with him.

“You women are all the same,” he says, and this time there’s no mockery in it, just something bitter, something deeper.

“What is that supposed to—” Emily starts, but he’s already turning, heading toward the exit.

“Figure it out,” he calls over his shoulder, and you hear the crackle in your earpiece.

You see him glance back at you once more, smiling as he adds, “You don’t have to let her speak for you.”

Then he’s gone.

Across the bar, you see Luke slide cash onto the counter and head toward the restroom. That’s your signal.

“You okay?” Emily’s lips are close to your ear again, too close, too intense after that encounter.

“Yeah,” you whisper, but your hand finds hers instinctively. She laces her fingers through yours gently.

And you realize, you need her right now. Not as part of the act, but as something solid to hold onto before this whole situation starts getting under your skin. Her closeness. Her grounding presence. Her warmth. Not the role, not the act. Just Emily.

She seems to understand. For a brief second, something in her expression softens, barely noticeable, just a flicker, before she pulls herself back together. Her thumb brushes gently over the back of your hand, grounding you.

“Alright,” she murmurs, giving your hand a light squeeze as she pulls you toward the exit.

The show is far from over, it’s only just begun. And this time, you’re playing a lot closer to the edge than you’d like.

“You can’t lose this,” you hear her say, and Emily nods dutifully.

“I know, Penelope,” she says dryly. “You’ve told me ten times. I know the procedure.”

“That may be true,” Penelope shoots back sweetly, tugging at Emily’s slightly crooked shirt, “but it’s been a while since your last undercover op, Em—Chief.”

You suppress a grin at their exchange, amused by their back-and-forth. It’s your first mission where you actually get to participate. Your first time not just tagging along with a team that already runs like a well-oiled machine, but actually being part of it. Of course you know how long and how well most of them know each other, but moments like this really make it obvious.

“That’s how it always goes,” Alvez murmurs, handing you a file. “One last run-through?”

“Sure.” You take it, even though you already know it by heart, and flip it open. “Thanks.”

“You’ve got this. Don’t overthink it,” he encourages, clapping your shoulder a little too hard.

You don’t react, just give him a grateful smile. Hours earlier, Luke had already tried to calm you down, prepping you for this, doing everything he could to ease your nerves. Still, you’re on edge, the uncertainty creeping in despite knowing the plan inside out. You’ve gone over every scenario, every possible reaction.

You’ve spent years preparing for this job, but an undercover op isn’t something you can treat like routine. Not yet. You’re still too new to the BAU. And the fact that your first mission is with your boss doesn’t exactly help. At least not for you. Maybe your little crush plays a role too, but you shove that thought aside.

You go over everything again in your head, reminding yourself why you’re here, why this operation matters. The unsub kills couples—same-sex and heterosexual—with noticeable age gaps. Month after month he’s escalating, more brutal, faster, more efficient. So it didn’t take long to decide who would play bait: Emily and you. You fit the profile perfectly, even if Luke couldn’t resist joking that you should go undercover with Rossi instead, a single look from Emily shutting him up immediately.

You saw the faint smile on her lips when she made the call, and you nearly sank under the table from sheer nerves, your thoughts spiraling, one question after another. Why you two? It made sense, sure, but doubt lingered. What if she’d figured you out? Noticed your little crush? But would she really pick you as her partner if she had?

You shake the thought off, refusing to dwell on how detailed your discussions about your fake relationship had been, how alive her ideas had sounded, as if she enjoyed the way you squirmed under her gaze.

And now you’re here: shaky legs, racing heart, thoughts running wild. Because preparing is one thing. Actually doing it is something else entirely.

Luke clears his throat when you don’t respond to your name for the third time. “Here’s your tracker. Better keep it safe before Garcia gives you a lecture too.”

“Right.” You take the small black device and slip it into your purse, about to say something else when Emily turns toward you, and freezes mid-step.

Emily Prentiss has always been hard to read. At least for you. Her reactions toward you are often ambiguous, making it difficult to tell whether certain looks are positive or not. When her dark, burning eyes trail over your body, you instinctively tug at your dress, your fingers trembling slightly as they smooth over the black fabric, pulling it down a little, it’s definitely too short. You’re acutely aware of how you must look to your boss. She’s never seen you like this, and you don’t know what to make of the way she’s looking at you now.

She walks toward you slowly, the corner of her mouth twitching as you adjust the strap that’s slipped off your shoulder. Her gaze burns into your skin, leaving heat, wreckage, a pounding heart and a growing desire pooling low in your body. Thank God you chose to wear underwear, even if Garcia had complained that visible lines would ruin the look.

“Ready?” Emily stops in front of you, her voice low and smoky.

A shiver slips down your spine before you can stop it, your skin breaking into goosebumps along your arms.

Her eyes flick down to them, of course she noticed. And worse, you’re pretty sure she knows why. There’s that subtle hint of a smirk, barely there, but familiar.

You nod, eyes dropping, because holding her gaze for even a second too long feels like a mistake. Not now. Not here. You’ll have to play that role long enough at the bar, and convincingly.

“You okay?” She steps closer, prompting Luke to leave you alone, a brief nod from her going unnoticed by you.

“I’m okay,” you echo, though it doesn’t sound convincing, even to you.

“Hm.” She exhales softly, her breath brushing your face, making you finally look up. “I need to know you’re ready. I have to be able to rely on you, same as you rely on me. We trust each other. Tonight, we’re a couple. I need to know you can do that. I know you can. You just have to believe it.”

The gentleness in her voice, edged with firmness, doesn’t escape you. You wet your lips, trying to respond, but the small dimple on her cheek completely throws you off.

She smiles, lifting her hand to rest it lightly on your bare shoulder. “I believe in you. It’s time you believe in yourself. You’re not here by accident, I hired you. Remember?”

“I know,” you say quietly, hyper-aware of her hand on your bare shoulder. Still, you straighten, grounding yourself in your job, your skills, your role. “I’m ready.”

“Good.” She nods once, letting go and gesturing for you to follow. “Let’s go.”

Two hours later, the stale air in the bar is giving you a headache, Emily’s closeness making your stomach flutter, and the possible presence of the unsub keeping you on edge. Your senses are sharp, you’re ready, and Emily notices, catching it in the way you carry yourself. You catch the satisfied look in her eyes, feel it in the way she relaxes. You’re doing your job, even with everything hitting you all at once. You trained for this. Fought for this. This is where you belong.

You sip your soda when Emily’s thumb brushes over the back of your hand, pulling you closer, your body settling fully against her side as your hand finds her thigh like it belongs there. You exchange a look that lingers a second too long to be just for show. Her perfume surrounds you, warmer up close, nothing like the clean distance of the office.

“At ten o’clock,” she murmurs into your ear, and you laugh softly.

The music pounds through the room, but it doesn’t drown out your racing heart. The unsub is here, or at least someone who fits the profile. Emily’s hand slides through your hair, pulling you closer. Her lips barely brush your ear, and it’s enough to make your focus slip. Her breath is hot against your skin, sending a slow, involuntary shiver down your spine.

“Dark hair. Blue shirt. Brown cargo pants. Stubble. Glasses. He’s been watching us for a while.”

You’ve noticed him too. You press a soft kiss to her cheekbone, your finger tracing along her chin, and hear her exhale.

“I saw him,” you reply, playing with the bracelet on her wrist. “He’s heading to the pool tables.”

You let yourself linger on the gold chain, the delicate links catching your attention as a way to steady yourself, the pendant glinting in the light as you absentmindedly pinch it between your fingers, feeling the raised surface of the stone.

“Game of pool?” Emily leans back to look at you, brushing a strand of hair from your face before pulling you up with her.

“Sure,” you say, following her, your hand firmly in hers.

You pick a table that gives you a good view while keeping some distance.

“I’ll grab what we need,” she murmurs, giving your waist a gentle squeeze, your fingers tightening around your glass before you even realize it.

You can feel his eyes on you without turning around: piercing, invasive, unsettling. You glance toward Emily, who’s still leaning over the bar talking to the bartender, while you take a small step back until the edge of the table presses against you. Crossing your legs, you take a sip, and when she finally returns, you smile brightly.

“Ready to lose?” she teases, laughing freely, carefree, a few loose curls bouncing as she tilts her head, brushing them back absently as she looks at you.

“Never,” you shoot back, taking the cue she offers.

You’ve never played before, but you don’t let it show, you can’t, not when you’re supposed to be convincing and Emily would notice immediately if something feels off.

Emily takes the break, the cue ball cracking through the rack as one of the balls drops almost immediately. Another follows in quick succession, and you watch her move around the table with effortless precision, nerves tightening in your chest as she makes it look almost unfairly easy.

It isn’t until she finally misses, just barely, that the rhythm breaks, and she straightens, stepping back from the table with a brief glance in your direction, something almost challenging in her eyes. The table is yours now.

She watches as you step into position, and you pick a ball without really thinking it through because thinking through it would only make it worse. You lean in, cue hovering over the felt, and that’s when it hits you: you have no idea what you’re doing.

You glance at her, catching the smirk on her lips before your gaze drops as you lean in, the moment stretching just a fraction too long. For a second, her eyes dip to your neckline, and you catch it, that brief flicker of satisfaction, and your thoughts snag on it. Is it just part of the act?

You aim and miss, the cue ball rolling away with a quiet finality that only makes your nerves spike more.

“Out of practice?” she teases.

“A little,” you laugh, forcing it lighter than you feel. “Next one’s going in.”

“We’ll see.” She sinks another ball, then misses, straightening slowly as she glances up at you with a hint of challenge that lingers a beat too long. “Your turn.”

She steps in beside you, her warmth grounding you despite the noise around you, her hand brushing your lower back as she leans in slightly, pulling you back into focus without effort. “He seems interested.”

“Mmm,” you hum, leaning into her touch without thinking. “I know… I can feel his eyes on us.”

“Just a bit longer,” she murmurs, pressing a brief kiss to your temple, so quick it almost feels imagined. “The more we interact, the sooner he makes a move. Okay?”

“Okay.” You swallow, excitement and nerves twisting together as her fingers tap three times against your wrist, and just like that, the role clicks back into place, cutting clean through your thoughts.

You slip out of her arms and step up to the table, leaning forward slowly, fully aware of the angle, of the view you’re giving her, heat rising steadily up your neck as the room seems to narrow down to just the table and her presence behind you.

You don’t even have to look to know she’s watching, you feel it before she even touches you.

“You need to adjust your stance.” Her foot slides between yours, gently nudging them apart, her hips pressing in close like she’s not even trying to keep distance, erasing it instead of respecting it. And when she leans in, her hand covering yours on the cue, a shaky breath slips out, and you know she heard it, even if neither of you acknowledges it. For a second, you forget where you are, the noise, the bar, the case all fading into something distant and irrelevant.

Your hand trembles despite your effort to hide it. It’s too close, way too close, and you can’t focus on anything but her.

“Honey… am I making you nervous?” she murmurs, pressing closer.

The pause in her voice does something to you, your stomach twisting, your pulse spiking as you shake your head a little too quickly, breath catching slightly before you manage to steady it, not trusting your voice, not trusting anything right now.

“Higher,” she guides you.

Her fingers slide up your arm, slow and controlled, lifting your elbow into place, and you can feel the moment stretch as she lingers just a fraction too long.

“Here,” Emily guides you. “Let me help.”

“Emily…” you breathe, and it comes out thinner than you intended, caught somewhere between protest and something else entirely.

“Better,” she says quietly, but still doesn’t move away.

You inhale too deep, her perfume already everywhere, closer now, clinging to you in a way that makes it harder to stay in the moment, like it’s pulling your attention away from everything else.

It takes effort to pull yourself back into focus. The cue steadies in your hand, but for a second, it’s not the game you’re thinking about. You aim, and the ball drops cleanly into the pocket. For a split second, everything stills.

“Good girl,” she murmurs, low enough that it’s just for you.

Her hand tightens briefly at your hip before she pulls you back against her, just enough to press a quick kiss to your cheek, gone too fast, but not fast enough.

Your body reacts before your thoughts can catch up. Heat hits you all at once, impossible to hide, and you step forward out of her hold more abruptly than intended, your legs pressing together without thinking.

“You’re a good teacher, Em,” you manage, voice steadier than you feel, glancing back at her through your lashes as you catch the way her gaze lingers, just for a second, but long enough. “Now you’re going to lose.”

You lean in again, taking your next shot, and don’t hesitate. The ball sinks, and in that exact moment, you catch movement from the corner of your eye.

Your unsub has moved closer. You have his attention, no doubt about it. You’re playing your roles well, maybe a little too well.

When you glance at Emily, if you didn’t know better, you’d swear her eyes have gone darker, her touch lingering, her lips hinting at something more. You force yourself to remember why you’re here, flipping your hair back and focusing on the present.

Because one thing’s certain: The show must go on.

Her worlds were well and truly starting to shrink and shrivel around her. Like plastic wrap, accelerated with heat, destined to suffocate her from either side.

Occam’s razor had been staring her in the face, threatening to cut her up for months, and she didn’t even notice. Ivy looked like a child because she was a child.

Maybe she was losing her touch.

She’d gotten the voicemails hours before. All three of them. But having already caught glimpses of the dreaded headlines, just the thought of putting her phone to her ear brought back that horrid, dry lump in her throat that rendered her incapable of speech.

And now it was simply far too late in the night.

It might’ve been common knowledge that their choice of career came with the sacrifice of sleep. Only if Alex was lucky would she be preparing for bed right about now. No, she was most likely still hunched over some files, simply swapping her office desk for a kitchen counter or coffee table in the comfort of her own apartment. But it was just professional courtesy at this point to pretend otherwise, to leave each other alone. Otherwise Casey would’ve been caught out much sooner by now.

But she knew, in the back of her mind, that if she called right now, Alex would answer.

The idea teased her almost on the hour this shift, to just swallow her pride and blurt it all out. Alex, I need your help. She could run back to the lounge, grab her phone from her locker and make the call right now. She could do that right now, she could will her feet into moving and do it right now. This could all be over in a matter of hours if she just moved right now.

But her legs remained stuck no matter how much her mind screamed, her platform heels seemingly suctioned to the carpet by the bar, and only somewhat due to long spilled liquor.

That was when she spotted him over at the couches. One of her regulars, his neck craning back over it while his eyes grazed slowly up her frame, his stare dark even from such a distance, even in the shadow of the stage in front of him. He was beckoning her over without so much as a hint, finally willing her out of her thoughts and across the floor to meet him.

“Well goddamn, baby…”

He nodded approvingly at her outfit, back in the pink plaid bra and frilled microskirt, a sly half-smirk creeping up his cheek.

She was sure he was a real stand-up citizen outside those doors. But watching him go so gooey-eyed over her – over her performance, her costume – he made for a truly pathetic sight that she was growing tired of seeing. Her soul wasn’t in it anymore, even if it was only partly there to begin with.

Had this been just a few months ago, the thought of making rent that month would’ve lowered her into his lap before she had much time to think about anything else. Now, it was the idea of any complaints getting back to Bobby.

So she fluttered her glued-on lashes, bit her lip, and sank her knees onto either side of him on the couch while the slow, sultry rock thrummed low overhead through the distant speakers.

“Hey, handsome.” She purred. The rough seam of cheap denim scratched at the inside of her thigh. She tried to adjust herself but just couldn’t get comfortable. So she flashed him a bright smile and pretended it didn’t burn.

The hand of his that wasn’t clutching the beer bottle came to rest on her hip. “I missed you last night, baby, you had me worried.”

The image of Ivy’s single, lifeless eye pinched open flashed in front of her at the reminder. But she blinked it back.

“Sorry, I got called away…” Her fingers traced up the buttons on his shirt while she spoke, landing on the collar and fixing at the twisted fabric. “But I’m all yours now, if you want?”

She leaned in tantalizingly close, in a way that made most of these idiots think they were about to get lucky. Their lips in touching distance before she pulled to the side as she always did, a few strands of her wig grazing against his stubble while a whisper instead tickled into his ear.

“Let me make it up to you…”

And that was all it took to get him back into the seclusion of the champagne room, back in that red velvet chair and trying his best not to drool at so much of her skin being so close, glistening with the pearl shimmer.

The slower music always let her take her time in there, teasing him, getting his money’s worth with every article of her clothing that fell to the floor.

But she could still hear herself the night before, trying to shake the life back into that girl.

‘Ivy…? Ivy, wake up…’

Even whilst she tried to distract by throwing herself into every move, black thong and matching pasties now preserving the last of her dignity in there, she could still see it. That single, lifeless eye pinched open.

‘Come on, sweetie, not here… Wake up, wake up—!’

She glanced down from where she knelt on her haunches to cold, deep chestnut still staring back. And when his hand travelled over her curves again, wide and rough and too warm, she winced this time.

“Hey, hey…” His bushy but groomed eyebrows contained flecks of silver just like his hair, but she only noticed as they furrowed under the warm light. “You’re not yourself tonight Lucy, baby, what’s wrong?”

She could’ve said any other number of possibilities, any combination of responses. No, I’m fine, I promise, or don’t you worry about me, handsome, tonight’s all about you.

But the second her mind slipped from the façade, so caught out by soft concern, by the fact he even noticed, she instead came out with,

“I can’t talk about it.”

She internally cursed herself as soon as the words escaped her lips. Never give clients open-ended statements. It was a rule she learned early on, they often saw it as an invitation to get personal, to prize her most intimate secrets from her. They honestly thought that paying her to grind in their laps until they got hard or being allowed to grope her bare tits meant they had anything close to a connection in that room.

It wasn’t like this guy could do anything about it. She already knew what she needed to do, her common sense had been badgering her all night to just get it over with already. She knew who she needed, and it certainly wasn’t him.

Thankfully the music started to fade, the next track change signaling their time was up. She exhaled, slipping back from out his lap and scanning the floor for her clothes.

“You can talk to me, baby.” He called after her to the corner of the room where she’d bent down to pick up her skirt. “Someone giving you trouble?”

They really did all act like it was the movies. Save the stripper from herself, then maybe she’ll fall madly in love with him and leave her life of debauchery behind. She saved the eyeroll for when she was turned into the corner, fastening her bra and adjusting the skirt over her hips to a length that would never truly be comfortable.

“No, it’s fine.” Her heels clicked loudly over the floor while she paced back to him, cupping a hand softly over his jaw with another sickly-sweet smirk, her thumb stroked over the rough stubble. “Don’t you worry about me, handsome.”

She turned to the door, not waiting for him, but he still caught up by the time they got down the hallway and emerged onto the club floor. The music invaded her ears again, slowly grating into a dull throb through her temple as he got in a step head to interrupt her stride.

“It’s your turn on stage soon, right?” He spoke a little louder to be heard over Def Leppard. “Want me to stick around?”

She got her balance back with a hand gripping just above his elbow. A surprisingly toned bicep greeted her under the shirtsleeve, and she squeezed it lightly. “… I’ll look for you in the front row.”

The air in the lounge had an icier bite than usual. Maybe because it was still empty, the only signs of life being the other girls’ things strewn over dressers and chairs, gym bags and purses dotted around the carpet. Casey glanced over to the nearest mirror, fixed to the wall at a height where only her bare torso reflected back, spotting the little glass bottle with the pink label pushed into the corner of the dresser. It might’ve been forgotten, but no one dared move it, even if it was never to be used again.

Casey’s own things were in their usual spot at the other end of the room. She could make the call right now while no one was listening she could just do it right now.

But the nagging ache at her hairline was starting to spread. She just needed a minute. She could take the wig off, take a Tylenol, then make the call when it kicked in. This could all be over so soon if she just started right now.

She lifted off the wig and laid it down on her own dresser. Long gone were the days she was genuinely concerned about keeping it looking neat. As long as it kept Casey hidden, Lucy didn’t care. She could feel the tension begin to lift while pulling out the hair tie, letting her own locks tumble from the tight bun and the pressure lift from her scalp.

She felt a presence over her shoulder before he even announced it, lingering like a storm cloud by the door to the lounge. She was really hoping Bobby would be too busy with everything going on to pay her any mind. But unfortunately, as she soon remembered, she was still playing a small part in that everything.

“You’ve been dodging our calls.” The bouncing echo of his voice from the door reached her with an uncomfortable scratch in the air.

It was true, Alex wasn’t the only one at the other end of the line she’d managed to avoid that day. And with good enough reason.

They all knew she’d be back on shift that night, only an idiot would skip out on them when they all knew where she lived. She wouldn’t dare find out the consequences.

But also, her call history. Her foresight might’ve been somewhat lacking when she started at the club in the first place, but it certainly made itself known as of late. If – when – this all came out, it would only look worse for Casey if she answered. Incoming only would give her an advantage, she could claim harassment. It was harassment, yet the move still only slightly increased her chances of being believed.

“So where the hell did you get to last night, huh?”

Luckily she’d had time to rehearse an answer.

“… I ran.” She asserted, keeping completely still while he stalked his way over, like frozen, prized, prey, only daring to look at him through their own reflections in the mirror. “I heard the police were coming, and I ran.”

Bobby didn’t need the details. Of how the guy throwing up into the philodendron by the front door created enough of a distraction for her to grab her phone from the entryway table and slip right out, unnoticed.

He also didn’t need to know just how well Casey knew these privileged types and how they operated. That they would take the first opportunity to obscure the facts if given enough time. That she barely made it to the stairwell before she turned off her own Caller ID and dialed 911. He didn’t need to know how convincing she was at playing the role of the concerned downstairs neighbor, the one that could hear screaming coming from the penthouse and could they please just send someone to check?

Bobby didn’t need to know, since it would probably shorten the already lit fuse, judging by the expression on his face descending into flared nostrils and thinner lips.

“Better than having me stick around and blow up your whole operation, no?” She asked.

She could hear the huff that morphed into a growl while he got closer still, smell the acrid mixture of whisky and breath mints by her side. “You’re on thin fucking ice.”

She let the quasi-threat linger on, refusing to rise to it, refusing to look.

“We’ve been running a tight ship for years.” He continued, taking a step back when Casey’s face refused to show fear. “Your first party, we lose one of our girls, and now the NYPD are up our asses. How do I know you didn’t kill her, huh?” His voice got louder. “That your way of trying to put an end to all this? One last shot at glory to save your shitshow of a career?!”

Her lips pursed at the mention, only while her body refused to flinch in front of him.

“We can always make it look that way.” He murmured back in her ear, begging for her to take the bait. “So you better be keeping your fucking mouth shut.”

That was when she realized she knew something else that he didn’t. The supposed shitshow finally gave her some leverage. It wasn’t like she wanted to win back his favor, but at that moment, standing there looking like he wanted to kill her, it was what she needed to do.

Her gaze dropped to where her hands leaned on the dresser, a steadying breath coursing through her. “It was accidental.”

She watched his head tilt in her peripheral, asking the question without saying a word.

“The postmortem.” She nodded, reassuring herself it was finally safe to look up again, to finally turn and face him. “The Medical Examiner already ruled her death was accidental. She choked.”

There was the tiniest glint behind soulless turquoise as she spoke, and his hand came up to rub over his chin. Was it guilt? Regret? Whatever it was, it was gone by the time he realized it was visible.

“The heat’s off, for now, but they’re looking into the guestlist. They want to know how a sixteen-year-old ended up there in the first place, and frankly so do I.” Casey finally let the touch of venom seep through, the rage that simmered away beneath her skin. For Ivy, for herself, and her other life. “Did you know?! That she was a child—?!”

His hands moved to his hips now. Huffing, again, in place of a damn answer.

“—You did, didn’t you?!”

“I still have those pictures, you know.” His eyes narrowed, fully recovered now from his own mask slipping. “Wouldn’t it be a real shame if the DA found them?”

His go-to defense to keep her in line. And as much as the idea of them getting out there terrified her, the words themselves were starting to lose their sting. Someone – a child – was dead. It simply did not compare.

“I should’ve bitten it off while I had the chance.” She sneered. “That would’ve made one hell of a picture.”

He let a smirk cross his face that Casey had to hold back from slapping straight off again. His chest twitched as if to let out a singular chuckle. It wasn’t supposed to be funny. None of this was fucking funny.

He bent down to check his reflection in the mirror beside, fixing the part in his hair. “Sasha’s taking your stage slot.” He said, too concerned with his appearance to bother looking in her direction again.

The pivot caught Casey off guard. “Why?”

He kept her waiting, letting her stew in frustration some more while he finished what he was doing.

Then he finally stood straight again. “You’re going to deliver a message for us. There’s a car waiting outside.”

“What, now?!” Casey knew she was in no state to be leaving the club. Not looking like this. Barely dressed and hair tangled all while her makeup continued to sweat from her face.

But Bobby obviously didn’t care about that. He didn’t seem to care about anything. “Yes. Now.”

She counted herself lucky to have time to grab her coat, and that it came down to just above her knees tonight, the cold snap of the last week prompting her to grab her thick, grey trench coat.

And sure enough, in the back alley behind the fire exit sat a large, black SUV, engine running, just like the one that escorted her to that goddamn party the night before.

But she didn’t know the destination this time. Sending her to a party alone, so soon, felt like too much of a risk – even for these idiots. And she already deduced that she was too useful to these people for them to put her directly in harm’s way. But it still lingered in the back of her mind, that they didn’t have to kill her in order to ruin her life. The last three years had more than proven that by this point.

And so a tremor still shot through her knee as she opened the door to step into the back, her heart still raced so fast it made her nauseous and she still felt that lead weight in her shoulders.

The blank envelope sat on the other backseat. No name, no address, no stamp. To be hand-delivered by Casey personally wherever the silent driver beyond the divider pulled over.

She felt for her phone in her pocket. She could just call someone right now. Let them listen, let them learn. It could all be over right now. She felt the smooth screen under her fingers, ice cold from being abandoned for hours. She could just pick it up, scroll through her contacts, and make the call right now. This could all be over if she just called Alex right now.

It would’ve been so easy. Alex, I need your help.

But her hand remained stuck, no matter how much her mind screamed.

[view on ao3]

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You walk quietly through the bullpen, the overhead lights mostly off, the remaining few casting long shadows across the vacant desks. It’s late, well past midnight, and the rest of the team headed home hours ago. Across the open room, Emily’s office is still illuminated with a soft glow. You know she’s still here, your girlfriend, your boss and your Mommy behind closed doors when the rest of the world fades away. You both carry the weight of the job, but when you’re in a scene, the only thing that matters is her and the rules your body obeys without conscious thought.

You knock once, softly, and push the door open. Emily looks up from her desk, professional gaze softening the second her eyes land on you. She’s still in her black blouse and slacks, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled from running her fingers through it. She’s already wearing her harness and silicone cock beneath her clothes, you can tell by the way she shifts in her chair and her slacks cling to the subtle bulge you’ve grown to crave.

“Close the door, my love,” her voice is low and velvety, “Lock it.” Your pulse kicks up as you obey the command, the click of the lock echoing like a starting gun. Emily pushes her chair back just enough and pats her lap. “Come here. Sit on Mommy’s cock and keep it warm while I make this call.” Heat floods your face, your core clenching at the casual command. You cross the room, heart hammering and unbuckle your slacks, freeing yourself of both those and your panties, straddling her thighs with your body facing towards the direction of her dark, oak desk.

Emily’s hands settle on your hips, guiding you down until the thick, ebony silicone presses against your already dripping entrance. She lets you sink, slow and deliberate, until the blunt head has nowhere else to go and you’re seated fully on her lap, the strap buried deep inside you. 

A tiny whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it and Emily’s fingers dig slightly into your hips in warning. “Shh. Not a sound, pretty girl. You know the rules. Not while I’m on the phone.” Her lips brush against your ear, “Be a good girl for Mommy and I’ll take care of you when we get home. Break Mommy’s rules… and you won’t come for at least a week.” You nod frantically, clutching the skin of your bottom lip between your teeth in an attempt to control yourself.

She reaches for the phone and hits the speaker so you can both hear, and dials. Her free hand strokes soothing circles on your thigh, a stark contrast to the thick fullness stretching you open. 

The line picks up on the second ring and Erin Strauss’ voice fills the office, crisp even at this hour. “My apologies for the intrusion this late. I need your take on the profile for the Atlanta case before I brief the director tomorrow.” Emily’s voice is perfectly steady, professional, “Of course. I’ve got the case file right here.” She starts talking, calm, authoritative, every inch the unit chief and Supervisory Special Agent, while her other hand slides across the skin of your thigh, towards your folds. She parts them with a featherlight touch and presses two fingers against your throbbing clit, rubbing slow, maddening circles. 

Your arousal is already coating the inside of your thighs and dripping down onto the harness, your inner walls clenching around the strap with every lazy stroke of her fingertips. Your legs tremble. You grip the edge of the desk so hard your knuckles whiten. Emily’s voice doesn’t waver. “…the cluster of dumpsites suggests he’s operating within a two mile radius of the rail yards. I can narrow it further if we cross-reference…”, She pinches your clit lightly. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry and you quickly clamp your hands over it desperately trying to hold the sound in, eyes squeezing shut from the effort. 

The stretch, the pressure, the way she fills you so completely while sounding completely nonchalant on the phone, it’s torture. Perfect, delicious torture. You rock your hips the slightest bit, desperate for friction. Emily’s hand clamps down instantly, pinning you still. Her eyes flick to yours, dark and gleaming with warning and pride at the same time, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. You force yourself to stay motionless, breathing through your nose in shallow, controlled pulls. Sweat beading at your temples. Your inner walls flutter and squeeze around the thick silicone, and Emily feels every single twitch. She rewards you by angling her hips carefully and grinding up into you in the smallest, most controlled movements while Strauss keeps talking.

You’re shaking now, tears of effort pricking the corners of your eyes. Every nerve is screaming. You want to moan, to beg, to ride her until you shatter. But you don’t. You stay silent, a perfect, obedient little submissive for Mommy. Emily’s voice stays velvet smooth on the phone, “I’ll send the updated profile in the morning. Anything else I can do for you?”. Strauss wraps it up and the call ends with the click of a button.

The second the line goes dead, Emily drops the phone and buries her face in your neck, biting down hard enough to make you gasp. “Fuck, pretty girl,” she growls, voice wrecked now, “You were so good. So fucking quiet for Mommy. Look at you, trembling, dripping all over my cock, and not a single sound.” She grips your hips with both hands and starts fucking up into you with deep, punishing thrusts that make the chair creak. You finally let go, a sob of relief breaking free as you cry out, “Fuck!…Oh god! Mommy…’m gonna…”, your whimpering, half words trail off. “That’s it,” she praises, voice husky and warm against your ear, “Let me hear you now. You earned it. Such a perfect girl keeping Mommy’s cock warm the whole time. I’m so proud of you.”

The praise sends you spiraling over the edge. Your head falls back against her shoulder, mouth open, moans spilling out unchecked as she drives into you harder. One hand snakes up to pinch your nipple under your shirt, the other rubs tight, perfect circles over your swollen clit. “Come for me, pretty girl. Come all over Mommy’s strap right here in my office like the needy little slut you are for me.” The orgasm crashes through you so hard your vision whites out. You clench around her, thighs shaking violently, a broken litany of curse words falling from your lips as you soak her lap and the harness.

Emily keeps fucking you through it, lessening the momentum of her thrusts until you’re a boneless, whimpering mess in her arms. She kisses your shoulder through the fabric of your shirt, soft and reverent now that the scene is winding down.

“You did so well,” she murmurs, stroking your hair. “My sweet, obedient girl. When we get home I’m going to lay you out on our bed and worship every inch of you. Sound good, my love?”. You nod, still breathing heavily, still full of her, “Yes, Mommy.”

She gives you a moment to catch your breath, before she stands awkwardly, your two bodies still attached by the silicone strapped to her hips. Her arm is supportive around your abdomen, your legs not quite reliable yet as she pulls out slowly, emptiness replacing the fullness from seconds ago and you can’t help the tiny whimpering sound you make at the feeling. “Soon, my love”, Emily promises, slowly turning you to perch your body on the edge of the wooden desk so she can help you redress your lower half. Cleaning up is pointless when there’s more mess to come. Your legs eventually hold, not perfectly but enough to bear weight. Emily flicks off the light, grabs her bag and the two of you walk out to the parking lot together.

The drive home is a hazy blur of streetlights and Emily’s hand resting possessively on your thigh as she drives. You’re still soaked, thighs sticky, the ache between your legs a constant reminder of how perfectly you’d kept her strap warm while she sounded so unflinchingly professional on that call. Every time you shift in the passenger seat, the memory sends a fresh pulse of heat through you.

Emily doesn’t speak much, but the occasional glance she gives you is heated and full of promise. When she finally parks in the garage of your shared apartment block, she kills the engine and turns to you, voice low, “Inside. Bedroom. Clothes off. On the bed, on your back, legs spread. You have two minutes.” You practically scramble out of the car, slightly uncoordinated by the urgency. 

By the time she steps through the front door, you’re already fully naked, heart racing, back against the mattress in the center of the bed, legs spread as wide as your body will comfortably allow, exactly as instructed. The cool air kisses your overheated skin. Your nipples are tight, pebbled, your pussy still slick and throbbing from the office yet somehow aching for more. 

You hear her lock the door, the soft click of her heels on the hardwood, then the deliberate sound of her unbuckling her belt in the hallway and you can picture her fingers working as the buckle sits off centre. She appears in the doorway like sin incarnate, blouse unbuttoned just enough to show the red lace of her bra, slacks gone, the thick black strap on still jutting proudly from her hips. Her dark hair is loose, framing her face. Her sharp eyes rake over you slowly, drinking in every inch of your exposed body. 

“Look at you,” she murmurs, stepping closer. “My beautiful girl, waiting so patiently. You were such a good girl tonight, my love. Keeping Mommy’s cock warm without a single sound… I’m so proud of you.” The praise hits you straight in the chest, making your breath hitch. Emily climbs onto the bed, crawling over you until she’s braced above your body, caging you in. She leans down and kisses you, slow, deep, claiming. Her tongue slides against yours, tasting the desperation you’ve been holding back for hours.

When she pulls back, her voice is velvet and steel at the same time. “Tonight I’m going to reward you properly. But first… I want to hear you beg for it.” She settles between your spread thighs, the thick head of the strap nudging teasingly against your entrance, but she doesn’t push in. Instead, she rocks her hips in shallow, infuriating little movements, coating the onyx silicone in your arousal while her mouth finds your neck. She bites down, then soothes the mark swiftly with her tongue.

“Tell Mommy what you need, pretty girl”. Your voice comes out shaky, already wrecked, “Please… Mommy. I need you inside me. I’ve been so empty since the office. Please fuck me. I’ll be good.” Emily hums in approval, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple until you arch into her touch.

“Mmm, such pretty words. You’re already dripping for me again. My sweet little sub, so needy after keeping Mommy warm.” She presses the tip inside you, just the head, then she stops, holding perfectly still. “But good girls who follow the rules get fucked properly. Ask me nicer”. 

“Mommy, please,” you whimper, hips jolting uselessly. “Please fill me up. I need your cock to fill me. I was so quiet for you… I didn’t make a sound. Please… I was good”. Emily’s eyes darken with satisfaction, her pupils blown with lust, “That’s my girl,” She thrusts in with one smooth, powerful stroke, burying the entire length inside you until her hips are flush against yours. The stretch is perfect, thick, unrelenting, hitting every sensitive spot as she bottoms out. 

You cry out, back bowing off the bed, fingers scrambling for grip on her shoulders. “Fuck, Mommy!” She sets a slow, devastating rhythm, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in deep, grinding against your swollen clit with every thrust. Her mouth finds your ear again, voice husky and warm with praise, “Look at you taking me so well. Such a perfect little slut for Mommy. So wet, so tight… you were made for this, weren’t you? Made to warm my cock in the office and then get fucked senseless at home.” Every word winds you tighter. The praise, the fullness, the way she owns every inch of you, it’s overwhelming in the best way. 

Tears of pleasure slip down your temples as she fucks you harder, one hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other rubs firm circles over your swollen clit. “You’re doing so good, pretty girl. Letting Mommy fuck you like this. Come for me whenever you need to. I want to feel you fall apart on my cock again.”

The permission is all it takes. Your second orgasm rips through you even harder than the first, walls clenching rhythmically around the thick strap, thighs shaking violently as you sob her name, “Mommy…oh fuck, I’m coming!” Emily doesn’t stop. She fucks you through it, murmuring soft praises against your skin, “Good girl, that’s it, give it all  to me, you’re so beautiful when you come for me like this”, the words keep coming until you’re a trembling, oversensitive mess beneath her. Only then does she slow, easing the strap out gently and setting the harness aside for cleaning later. 

The dim light of your bedroom is kind to her, but you can still see the wear and tear, damage from being gone for a week. The skin under her eyes is tinted dark, her hair messier than usual. She wears exhaustion like a coat on her shoulders. Half sunken into the armchair, she has her blazer crumpled beside her and the sleeves of her blouse shoved up her elbows.

It swells three sizes too big, that heart of yours. So much it's almost painful. You straighten, itching to undo the long trail of buttons cutting down her chest, to wipe away the dried specks of makeup from her face, loosen the watch around her wrist, pull her belt from its buckle—but Emily's not willing to let you go. Her hand trails down your thigh, hot, lightly calloused. She makes a sort of noise in her throat and her grip tightens, everywhere, hands cupping your hip and the top of your thigh as she secures her hold and tugs, coaxing you into her lap.

You go with little resistance.

She welcomes you like she's been starving. It's quiet, but you hear it, even through the too-loud rush in your ears.

Her movements are not harsh—neither are her hands. Still, there's a sticky urgency to them. Here: your knee around her waist; your hip to her hip; your hand, lightly braced against her thigh, hi, god, thank you for doing it when I couldn't, I love—

You fold into her like the space has been carved for you. Emily wraps her arms around you and lets out a long, steady breath. You deflate in turn.

Desperation, you think. Desperation for this. You don't have to wonder if it shows as clearly on you as it does on her.

You didn't really know how to deal with this, at first. It was unfathomable—still is, sometimes—how you could be the object of such affection. No, that's not the word. Devotion. Reverence. Her hands hot, her smile soft, all, overwhelmingly, for you. And what had you done to receive it?

You still haven't found the answer.

Emily's breath skips along your bare shoulder. With each one, you feel her loosen, sink back down into the armchair. You savor the slow trail of her fingers as they trace over your skin, the bit high on your thigh. As you shift, reach an arm up around her neck, mold your cheek to hers, the question filters in—don't you want to get changed, hop in the shower, maybe? Or I could run you a bath. We still have a bit of those scented salts—but you should probably eat first. You didn't, did you? Of course not. Why do you always have to do this? Goddamn, I love you—

"I told you not to wait up," she murmurs into your hair. Her voice is warm gravel, serrated at the edges, but there's no disapproval.

"I didn't."

"It's nearly twelve."

"I was up." You say, and you were. You had to fight off sleep for a bit, but you were up. "How was it?"

"Long," she says quietly. She always answers like this: vaguely, concisely, all washed up and clean.

This time the word drags. You frown a little. "Tired?"

Her nose skims from your cheek, to the underside of your jaw. She inhales, deep, lets it out slow. "Hmm."

You move to get up. "C'mon, then, you should—"

"No." Emily holds you in place. "Just stay here, will you, sweetness?"

Her eyes beg, molten in the low light. What little existed of your composure dwindles down to nothing. You sigh and curl up deeper into her arms. She makes another sound, short, close-lipped, pleased.

"Thank you."

"I don't want you falling asleep here." You mumble into her shoulder.

"I won't." She reassures.

You close your eyes into her warmth. Her perfume still clings to her, faint, but still there. It filters into your lungs.

Silence descends over you. You would think she has fallen asleep if not for the slow sweep of her fingers over your side. Back, forth, back, forth. Her arm is heavy around your back, the band of her watch digging into your skin.

You feel ridiculously safe, tucked up into her chest, held close beneath her arms. She's all softness and all warmth and all—all yours, and you're all hers, and god, you think this could kill you.

How? You, her, this? How did you end up here? Utterly loved, wholly, unmistakably adored—and before her, you'd barely even been kissed. Her lips find your temple now, the softest press. It could make you cry. She's dead on her feet, exhausted, worn thin, and she still doesn't want to let you go.

You love her. The words are there on your lips, close to tipping over, but they stick.

You swallow, her heartbeat against your arm. You know she loves you. Sure, you're no expert in relationships, but Emily doesn't hide it. She asked you to move in; she stayed glued to your side as you fought off a fever and she sits with you, in the silence, when you don't have anything to say and she says things like I want to take care of you and angel girl, let me do it, which really only translate to love.

You know it.

Shifting, you take her face in your hands and kiss her. She tastes like burnt coffee. Her lips, faintly chapped, tip up into a smile. It's still there when you sit back, her eyes soft with a warm glow, two dimples pressed into her cheeks.

Overcome, you lean in to kiss one. Emily retaliates.

Your face, in her hands. Lips here and there, like feathers. They find your mouth again as her hand dips back down, smoothing over your side.

Her fingers bunch in your thin top.

"These are cute." She murmurs, one kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Are they new?"

"Not really. You like them?"

She hums, nods. "Soft."

Her fingers slip under, pressing flat against your ribs.

"So soft."

You kiss the hard edge of her jaw and make a note to buy more of them. Many, many more.

emily didn’t have to beg much for you to wear it out tonight, as you are always eager to please her, her obedient girl. but this is proving to be much more difficult, with the way your wetness threatens to mark through your panties and short skirt, with emily’s tight low cut dress that leaves little to the imagination, her lacy bra peaking out as she shifts in her seat.

she has the vibrator at the lowest setting, the hum barely there between your legs but you’re so desperate for her. the waiter takes your orders and leaves the two of you alone in the booth. it’s a classy restaurant, emily wouldn’t have it any less. subtle, elegant but not flashy. somewhere she can have you all for herself under the mellow lights and away from everyone. and she’s so casual about it, everything. so controlled. so her. the wine, the gifts, the dates, the sex. god, especially the sex. how she hangs you dangling by a threat but still holds you close, in a tight leash.

emily is so casual about it all, so classy, just like everything else she does. she treats it the same way she buys you gifts, with abundance and raw, controlled subtlety. her voice stays deep, gravely and gruff all through the way, even when she lets you mark up her body after a long day. “yes honey, just like that… mommy is all yours.” or on other days where she exercises her power over you, knuckles in deep on the leather couch in her office. the blinds draped down, you straddling her thigh as she pushes two or three fingers into your heat, frivolously. when you start whining she gives you that look, quit being a brat or see what happens. when your moans begin to rise in the privacy of her office she stuffs your own panties between your lips, right against your throat. “yes ma’am, i’m listening now. no, no that was nothing… you were talking about next months revenue predictions…” as her palm bruises your clit and she feels the fluttering of your walls, sucking her fingers further in.

and tonight is no exception, no, not at all. she knows exactly what to do to drive you insane further, increasing the setting momentarily when you’re borderline dragging her into one of the singular bathrooms. your steps falter on the way with a squirm. she had finally given in when you grew so needy, annoying her out of her mind when the dinner didn’t reach your table quick enough for you to eat it, go home and have her fuck the brains out of your head.

emily slams you into the wall once both of you are in the private stall, her finger skimming up your thighs, nails digging and lifting up your skirt that she bought for you couple weeks back. you looking at the display window for more than 30 seconds was enough for her to scan the card against the pos.

“so impatient, doll…” her teeth grazes the side of your neck, “so, so impatient.” emily’s hands grab your waist, pushing your body roughly against the wall once again when you try to arch your back. “you’ve given me a fucking migraine… but i know just what to do with you.” you can only moan in response, her lacy voice scratching at your ear.

she pulls your panties down with a tug, almost ripping them with the force. you watch the muscle twitch at her forearm, exposed by the dress she’s wearing. you bite down on your tongue to stifle a whimper. “please… please em-”

emily suddenly extracts the dildo out of your body, leaving you hollow and gasping so loud, head knocking back, walls fluttering with the absence of the silicone material. emily pushes two of her own fingers in you, entering easily. “god so wet for me. such a dirty slut, dripping down your thighs.” her fingers scissor inside your walls, exploring the depths. and then a sudden smack. you gasp out her name, “mommy- fuck.” your forehead cuts through her shoulder blades.

“who owns this pussy?” another smack, this time a few of her fingers slip in, you lose count. “you mommy- god please.” you lift your head, eyes closed as your lips rest against her cheek. her palm keeps contacting your clit on each slap, you moan into her mouth. emily just chuckles, a croaked noise, cruel, desperately turning you on.

“gooood.” she huffs out. another spank, her fingers too slippery to find a spot. the obscene wet sound echoes. “but don’t think i’ll let you come now baby.” you groan loudly as emily extracts her hands after one last smack and spreads your legs further, not so gently.

“only good and patient girls get to come.” she shoves the dildo back into you, a sound escaping from your lips that’s close to a scream. then emily slips your panties back up into place, not even bothering with the sticky mess that is between your thighs. “and you haven’t been so patient now, have you doll?” her breath ghosts your ear shell as she straightens your skirt.

“now clean.” she holds up her glistening fingers in front of your mouth, you suck them in your mouth eagerly. giving her your best sultry eyes in hopes that she will cave in, you swirl your tongue around her digits and hollow out your cheeks. “naughty…” as emily watches you with a smirk. “but not now darling. i will think about letting you if you behave, after dinner, by the table.”

you pop her fingers out, giving her a huff. she instantly tugs your cheeks in a deadly hold, between her thumb and the rest of her fingers. “stop being a whiny brat. if this happens again i will not make another detour to the bathroom. and you will not come for a week… understood?” you nod silently, thighs already squeezed together from how hot she looks. brows furrowed almost too deeply, her eyes gleaming with that edge of darkness, crease on her forehead visible and you just need her to have you right here, bent against the sink as she makes you face the mirror, telling you how you’ve been so bad and so needy. but at least doing something.

she releases your face instead. “now give me a kiss.” you obey, smearing your own lipstick in the way as you kiss her. she chuckles, that gravely voice burning your skin. “that’s my good girl.” emily wipes the lipstick from the side of your mouth with a wet thumb, “now let’s go eat.”

you try to protest but emily already has the remote working inside. you follow her lead with wobbly knees instead.