Beautifully Chaotic!

“Unfortunately, yeah,” you reply, pulling your thin jacket a little tighter around yourself. Even after years at college, you still regularly underestimate the weather here. There are no warm tropical summer nights waiting for you, which means you are far too lightly dressed for this hour.

“Are you cold?” Emily asks, and you don’t miss the way her shoulder brushes against yours as you walk. Even though the contact is barely noticeable, you feel the slight warmth radiating from her. More than that, you catch the scent of her perfume again, the one that has somehow followed you all the way into your dreams by now.

“A little,” you admit with a small shrug. “The bus will probably be warm anyway.”

Emily frowns, tilting her head slightly. As her eyes move over your face, you feel the heat rising into your cheeks. Her gaze is so intense that your body seems to have no other response to offer.

“I’ll drive you,” she says, looking back toward Claire. “I’d rather not have you two taking the bus home at night.”

You let out a quiet scoff. “We’ve been doing that for years.”

“That may be true,” her voice softens slightly, “but I’m here now, and I want to take you both home.”

Absentmindedly, you run your fingers over the fabric of your jacket, casting Claire a regretful glance. She is wearing her thick college jacket, the same one she had advised you to bring before you left.

“Here take this,” you hear Emily say, pulling you out of your thoughts. “We’re almost at the car. I dont' need it.”

You look at her and watch as she slips off her jacket, holding it out toward you. “It’s okay, you don’t have to do that,” you murmur, your heart suddenly beating a little faster.

“I insist.” One of Emily’s eyebrows lifts, and you have to suppress the sound that nearly escapes you, one that would have revealed your thoughts far too easily. Why does everything about this woman look so damn good?

“Emily,” you whisper, your voice slightly rougher than before.

This time, she is the one who presses her lips together and stops walking. “Y/N,” she replies in the same tone, and now you stop as well.

Claire’s voice carries back to you through the wind, telling Judy something about her homework, completely unaware that the two of you have fallen behind.

Emily studies your face, then takes a step toward you. Her gaze drops to the jacket in her hand before returning to you.

“Turn around.” Her words carry something final, a command your body cannot ignore and does not want to ignore. Before you can do anything about it, you turn around.

You expect her jacket to be placed over your shoulders, but nothing prepares you for her fingers brushing your hair aside. Emily’s fingertips graze the bare skin of your neck, sending a shiver through your entire body.

Her fingers linger. When you look up, Emily is already watching you. Something shifts in her expression, so subtle you almost miss it. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t smile or tease you for your reaction. Instead, her fingers brush lightly over your neck once more until your hair rests neatly over your shoulder. A soft breath leaves her as she withdraws her hand, stirring a few loose strands in the process.

You haven’t dared to breathe this entire time. You are frozen, unsure if you can even trust your own voice anymore. So you stay quiet and wait.

The gravel beneath Emily’s shoes shifts as she closes the remaining distance between you, and suddenly the space that existed between you feels much smaller.

She is close enough now that you notice things you should not be noticing. The warmth coming from her, the quiet scent of her perfume, the way the light from the street lamps catches in her hair. It feels strangely familiar.

For a moment, you are taken back to that first night on the porch. You had barely known Emily then. She had been Claire’s godmother, someone you had heard stories about for years without ever meeting her. She was part of Claire’s life, part of her family, but she had not been part of yours. You had not expected that night to become something you would remember.

Claire had brought you home with her, and somewhere between dinner, conversations, and the quiet moments that followed, the house had slowly settled into silence. Everyone else had gone to sleep, but neither you nor Emily had been able to.

So you had found yourselves outside on the porch, sitting beneath the dark sky, searching for stars that were hidden behind clouds. It had been such a simple moment. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that should have stayed with you. And yet, it had.

You remember the way talking to her had felt effortless. How she had listened, not just waited for her turn to speak. How she had looked at you with a kind of attention you were not used to receiving from someone you had only just met.

There had been something between you even then. Something quiet. Something you could not explain because it had happened too quickly and made too little sense. You had known her for less than a day. She was Claire’s godmother. She was someone you were supposed to simply like because she was important to someone you loved.

But standing there on the porch, with the cold night air around you and Claire only a few rooms away, Emily had somehow felt less like a stranger.

Now, few weeks later, standing beside her again, the feeling is no longer just a possibility you are trying to ignore. Back then, you had only noticed the way your attention kept drifting toward her. The way her voice made you want to keep listening. The way silence beside her felt comfortable instead of empty. Now you know what those moments meant.

You know the warmth of her arms around you. You know how easily she can calm the chaos inside your head with nothing more than a touch. You know the difference between simply being near Emily and being noticed by her. This is not the uncertainty of that first night anymore, this is something real. And if you are being honest, that makes standing this close to her feel even more overwhelming.

The memory fades slowly, replaced by the quiet reality around you. The distant sounds of the city, the cold air against your skin, Claire’s voice somewhere ahead. All of it reminds you that this is not the porch, not that first night when you were still trying to understand why Emily felt different. This is now.

Emily is standing in front of you, close enough that you can feel her warmth, close enough that you forget everything else for a moment. The heavy fabric settles over your shoulders, and you sigh softly as warmth wraps around you. Emily holds one side open, but you don’t move.

“Slip your arms in,” she murmurs.

You turn your head slightly in her direction.

“It’ll warm you up faster.”

Her eyebrow lifts again. Damn this woman.

You guide your right arm into the sleeve first, then your left into the other. Emily touches your shoulder, signaling for you to turn around, and starts working on the zipper.

“I can do that myself,” you reply unnecessarily, earning nothing but a disapproving look from her.

“I know,” Emily admits. “But the zipper gets stuck sometimes.” The zipper slides smoothly upward.

“Hmm,” you breathe, your lips slightly parted, overwhelmed by Emily’s closeness.

Emily steps away from you and takes in the sight of you wearing her jacket. Something about it seems to change something inside her. You see it in her eyes, which appear darker than they did only seconds ago. In the tendon of her neck suddenly becoming visible. In her shoulders, tense and held too tightly. In her fingers, which disappear into the pockets of her pants.

She nods once, then murmurs: “Come on.”

“Thank you,” you whisper into the darkness, not sure if Emily still hears you, because she is already two steps ahead.

You struggle to keep up and wonder why she suddenly seems so eager to get away from you. By now, Emily has caught up with Claire. Claire looks back at Emily briefly, then turns her attention forward again. But you can see the thoughts running through her head. She looks back at Emily once more, frowns, and then looks at you.

You cannot read her expression from where you are, but your best friend definitely has an opinion about Emily’s actions.

Two minutes later, you finally reach the parking lot, where Emily leads you toward a black SUV. While Emily unlocks the car and slides into the driver’s seat, Claire pauses briefly at the passenger door.

“Cold?” she asks, and you don’t miss the strange tone she uses when she looks at you.

“You were right again,” you answer, avoiding her gaze.

“Hmm.” Claire looks you up and down. “How nice of Emily.”

You cannot tell if there is anything behind Claire’s words or if you are simply searching for meaning where there is none. Your thoughts are still too loud, your senses too consumed by Emily’s perfume that now surrounds you constantly.

Claire doesn’t look away right away after saying it. Her eyes rest on Emily’s jacket for a moment, then move toward Emily sitting in the driver’s seat before finding yours again.

There is no accusation in her expression. She looks more like someone trying to understand something she can feel but cannot quite explain yet.

“I said I could handle it, but…”

You don’t get to finish, because Claire has already opened her door and is halfway inside the car. “You should have worn the thick jacket like I told you,” she adds before closing the door.

Your hand trembles as you open the door, one question echoing endlessly through your mind: What is happening right now?

The drive is quiet, a little tense, but you close your eyes and let yourself be consumed by the warmth instead of trying to pick apart your thoughts.

After a while, Emily breaks the silence. “Who have you been texting the whole time?”

You blink and look toward the bright light illuminating Claire’s face.

“Josh,” Claire replies simply, and Emily exhales.

“Are you mad?” she asks directly, and you sit up a little straighter.

“No.”

“Your body language tells me something different.”

Emily’s voice is calm, even though you notice how her hands tighten slightly around the steering wheel.

“Stop analyzing me.” Claire is frustrated, and it becomes more obvious now.

“I’m not analyzing you, Claire. I’ve known you since the day you were born. You’re not exactly difficult to read, you know?”

This time, she looks at you through the rearview mirror. You only nod, afraid of saying the wrong thing.

“You two are weird,” she repeats her comment from a few hours ago, and your stomach drops. “Five minutes ago you were teasing Emily about always deciding what people need… and now you’re wearing her jacket.”

She gestures toward Emily’s missing jacket. “Can you two just get along, please?”

Emily lets a moment pass, her gaze remaining fixed on the road as if she is considering what Claire actually means.

“Get along?” she asks eventually, her voice calm. “Have we ever given you the impression that we don’t understand each other?”

Claire lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Kind of.”

Emily throws a brief glance into the rearview mirror. Her eyes linger on you for a moment before she looks back at the road.

“You two tease each other constantly,” Claire continues. “And then suddenly you’re just…” She makes a small, helpless gesture with her hand. “…like this.”

No one answers her, which causes Claire to shift restlessly in her seat, moving from side to side. “I don’t know.” She shakes her head in resignation. “Since the mall, everything just feels… different somehow.”

Her voice loses some of its strength. “I just want everything to feel normal again.”

“Claire.” Emily waits until Claire looks at her. “What happened was extraordinary.”

A brief pause. “It would be unusual if everything suddenly felt normal again afterward.”

Claire turns toward the window, arms crossed, her face reflected faintly in the glass. You watch her for a moment, noticing the watery look in her eyes, the tension around her mouth.

“But you’re both here.” Emily continues, without any pathos, almost matter-of-factly. “You’re safe. You’re together. You’re alive. Everything else takes time.”

Silence settles inside the car, and all you hear is the noise of your surroundings, the rumbling of a garbage truck passing by.

Claire exhales audibly. “I know…” She briefly rubs her forehead. “I just don’t want everyone to start acting weird around each other now too. We already get enough weird looks from everyone else.”

“Earlier at the restaurant…” She trails off, her gaze moving briefly between you and Emily. “…there was something.”

You don’t know what Claire saw. You don’t even know what you would call it yourself. But the fact that she noticed something makes your stomach tighten.

You lift your gaze, and your eyes meet Emily’s again in the rearview mirror. Your gazes hold, and you realize that both of you know Claire isn’t completely wrong. There was something. And if you had to guess, you would say Emily had been jealous.

Claire pulls the sleeves of her jacket a little further over her hands and turns her attention outside. The lights from the street glide across the window, briefly reflecting on her face before disappearing again, while she stays quiet for a long moment.

“I don’t know,” she murmurs eventually. “Maybe I’m just imagining all of this.”

“Maybe you’re just exhausted.” Her voice remains calm, almost clinical, without any attempt to convince Claire of anything. It isn’t an argument, just a possibility she offers her.

Claire nods. “Maybe.”

After that, the conversation fades on its own. No one seems to know how to continue without ending up right back at the point everyone just managed to leave behind.

You watch the streets passing by, the shop windows and traffic lights moving across the windshield in a steady rhythm. The warmth inside the car slowly begins to chase the cold from your fingers, but Emily’s jacket still rests heavily and comfortably on your shoulders.

Eventually, you clear your throat quietly. “So…”

Claire lifts her head and looks at you.

“…are you actually meeting Josh now?”

For a moment, she looks like she has to figure out what you are referring to before her gaze drops to the phone in her lap. “Oh.” A small smile appears on her face. “Yes… if that's okay for you.”

“Sure. Absoluletly. So it is a date after all?”

She throws you a deliberately offended look. “It’s not a date.”

You cannot stop yourself from grinning. “Of course not.”

“You’re impossible.” It is the first time tonight that her voice sounds like it usually does again, light and carefree, and that alone makes some of the tension that has lingered between you since the restaurant finally begin to disappear.

Emily doesn’t comment on it. In the rearview mirror, her gaze meets yours for the briefest moment. It is barely more than a passing second, but you see the smallest hint of a smile fade from her expression before she turns her attention back to the road.

With a calm movement, she guides the car through the nearly empty streets, leaving the city center behind and heading back toward campus. The steady hum of the engine fills the car while Claire is already looking at her phone again, typing out a message.

You rest your head against the cool window and close your eyes for a moment.

Almost unconsciously, you pull Emily’s jacket a little tighter around yourself. It is still warm, her perfume lingering in the fabric, familiar enough that your heart beats a little faster every time, even though you stopped searching for a reasonable explanation for it a long time ago.

Outside, the last lights of the city slowly disappear behind you as Emily silently drives the car across campus.

Claire slows when you reach the entrance. Your reflections meet in the glass, and for a second she doesn’t move.

“You okay?” she asks, noticing your hesitation.

You look at yourself for a moment longer than necessary. You look… like yourself. Or at least like someone who could pass as that, if no one had seen you crouched behind overturned furniture while the sounds inside a mall turned your entire world upside down.

“I think so.” Your voice is steadier than you expected it to be.

“That’s a start,” she nods, and pushes the door open.

Warm air greets you first, followed by the smell of freshly baked bread, herbs, and something sweet you can’t quite place. Chocolate? Vanilla cake? You honestly have no idea.

A low murmur of conversation washes over you, waiters weaving between tables, soft music barely audible beneath the voices. Your eyes take in the scene around you, but if you’re honest, none of it really holds your attention.

Your gaze finds Emily almost immediately. She is already on her feet. Claire slips away from your side and hurries toward her godmother, who greets her with a reassuring smile.

Emily moves without hesitation. She closes the distance between them, and the moment she reaches Claire, she pulls her into a firm embrace. Both arms wrap around her with the kind of certainty that suggests there was never any other possible greeting. One hand comes to rest against Claire’s back, stroking once, slow and grounding, the familiar motion easing a body that has been carrying too much tension for far too long.

“Breathe,” Emily murmurs against her hair. “You’re okay.”

You watch Claire let out a shaky breath, catching the way she discreetly wipes at the corner of one eye before allowing herself to sink into Emily’s embrace. Emily, for her part, makes no attempt to let go before Claire is ready. She simply holds her, keeping her close, as though giving her permission to stay there for as long as she needs.

A few seconds later, Emily’s eyes lift to yours. A gentle smile settles on her lips, and you find yourself returning it before you even realize you’re smiling at all.

When Claire finally eases out of the embrace and makes her way toward the table behind Emily, you follow a moment later. You come to a stop a few steps away, suddenly unsure what feels appropriate. Because really…

“Hey.” Emily’s voice cuts cleanly through the rush of your thoughts. “You’re here.” A faint smile lingers at the corners of her mouth. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“I am,” you manage in a soft voice.

She holds your gaze a moment longer than the sentence needs and then she steps closer.

Her hand finds your arm first, steady but gentle, like she’s confirming you’re real and still here. Her fingers move once, slow, grounding, not pushing anything away, just keeping you in place where she can reach you.

You don’t realize you’re leaning forward until you already are. Emily doesn’t stop you.

Her arms come around you with the same certainty she used with Claire, only this time there is no distance left between hesitation and movement. She holds you firmly, not in a way that traps you, but in a way that gives you the kind of safety that almost makes something inside you collapse.

Instinctively, your fingers curl into the silky fabric beneath your hands, desperate to focus on something other than your own body, which feels like it is spiraling completely out of control.

Your breath breaks against her shoulder before you can stop it, uneven and too sharp, and for a moment it feels as though your body is betraying you in a way you cannot quite bring back under control. But nothing about her pulls away from it.

Her hand remains against your back, gently pressing you closer, and you don’t miss the subtle change in her breathing.

Your fingers are still caught in her sleeve, but you don’t let go. Not even when you realize how tightly you are holding on.

Only then does Emily seem to notice the way you are clinging to her. Her hand stills for a moment, only to resume its movement a second later, slower now, tracing calm circles over your back.

Claire steps between the moment before it can stretch any further. “Sit,” she instructs, patting the space beside her.

Emily’s breath shifts slightly, and only then does she ease out of the space between you.

Her hand slides from your back slowly, as though she is buying herself another moment of contact, another second before letting go completely. The pressure of her touch fades, but you can still feel the warmth of her hand hovering there for a brief moment before it finally disappears.

For a second longer, she remains close enough that you can feel her breath against your skin, the sense of safety that seems to radiate from her without effort. You don’t know if you have ever felt this safe with another person before.

Emily takes a step back. Only then does the world begin to rearrange itself into chairs, the edges of the table, menus placed in front of you like the simplest possible version of structure.

The restaurant is warmer than the space outside, but it takes your body longer to accept that warmth again. Your shoulders remain slightly too tense, your breathing still carrying traces of what it had been only minutes ago.

“How are you sleeping?” she asks, leaning back against the booth.

Claire lets out a small sound of protest between her laugh. “You really enjoy starting with that, don’t you?”

“That’s just who I am,” Emily replies with a small smile. “You know me.”

“I’m not sleeping,” Claire admits then, more honestly than she probably intended, and you find yourself nodding in agreement.

Emily hums softly at her honesty. “I figured.”

Her gaze shifts to you. At first, she doesn’t say anything. She simply looks at you, giving you the space to find your answer. You don’t feel pressured to say anything, yet something in the way she looks at you makes you want to.

When you remain silent for a moment too long, one of Emily’s eyebrows lifts slightly.

“And you?” she prompts gently.

You swallow, suddenly aware that she has noticed your silence. “It’s… okay,” you admit after a moment. “Not great. But okay.”

Emily studies you briefly, but she doesn’t push. She simply nods, accepting the answer for what it is.

The waiter arrives before the conversation can settle into anything deeper, placing menus on the table and briefly explaining the specials before leaving you to decide.

Claire is the first to lean back into something normal. She takes the menu as if she is proving something to herself, flipping it open with exaggerated focus.

“I’m starving,” she admits sheepishly.

The corner of Emily’s mouth lifts, small and brief. “I already ordered appetizers.”

“Of course you did,” Claire mutters. “This is why you’re useful in a crisis.”

A beat passes before Claire adds more quietly, almost as an afterthought: “…and everything else.”

“You say that like it’s a compliment,” Emily counters, glancing at her over the edge of the menu.

“It is,” Claire replies. “Mostly.”

Emily’s eyebrow lifts. “Mostly?”

Claire shrugs, a small smile appearing on her face. “You have a habit of deciding you know what everyone needs before they even realize they need it. Like you somehow knew I would be starving the second I sat down.”

“And am I usually wrong?” Emily asks. “I’ve known you for too long not to know that you probably haven’t eaten anything proper since this morning. Am I wrong?”

Claire opens her mouth, then closes it again.

Before she can answer, her stomach betrays her with a quiet but very obvious growl.

Emily simply looks at her.

Claire looks away, pretending she didn’t hear it.

“That’s not the point.”

A quiet laugh escapes Emily, and something about the exchange makes you smile before you even realize it.

It is a different side of Emily than the one you have seen so far. Still composed. Still calm. But softer somehow. The kind of person who notices the things people forget to say out loud.

You have heard pieces of this before. Stories Claire told without ever making them sound important. Moments where Emily somehow knew what she needed before Claire had even admitted it to herself.

It seems almost impossible, and yet somehow completely believable.

“So she does this a lot?” you ask Claire before you can stop yourself.

Your voice cuts through the conversation more suddenly than you intended. After being so quiet for most of the evening, both of them look toward you, slightly surprised that you decided to join in.

“I mean…” you gesture vaguely between them. “Not the food thing. I mean knowing what someone needs before they even realize it themselves.”

You glance toward Emily. “Is that some kind of FBI superpower?”

Claire’s smile grows.

“I’m not saying she’s part of some secret organization that predicts people’s needs before they even happen,” she says, pausing for dramatic effect.

Emily gives her a look.

“But?”

Claire leans back slightly, clearly enjoying herself. “But I’m also not saying she isn’t.”

You laugh quietly.

“I remember one time she ordered me fish soup because I had once mentioned that I liked sushi.” Claire shakes her head, still smiling at the memory. “It was horrible.”

You try to hold back your laugh, but the image of Emily confidently ordering something so specific based on a completely unrelated comment is too much. A second later, you give up and let the quiet laugh escape.

“So…” you start, glancing toward Emily. “Should I be worried?”

Emily looks at you, slightly confused. “About what?”

“About letting you make decisions for me.” You gesture toward the menu in front of you, as if it is evidence against her.

Emily leans back slightly. Her eyebrows lift, and for a moment she looks genuinely offended by the accusation. “I think that’s a little dramatic."

“I made one bad decision,” she adds, looking between you and Claire. “One. And somehow years later, it’s still being used against me.”

“Is it?” you ask. “Because according to Claire, you once decided she needed fish soup because she liked sushi. And apparently there was also the time you packed her bag before a trip because you decided she would forget half of what she needed.”

“That is not what happened.”

Claire looks pleased that you have taken her side. “That is exactly what happened.”

Emily looks at her. “You told me you forgot your charger three times in one week.”

“And?”

“And I made sure you had one,” she replies, as if this alone proves her point.

“You packed my entire bag.”

“Because you would have forgotten something.” Her fingers drum lightly against the wooden table, the small movement betraying that she already knows this argument is not going in her favor.

Claire opens her mouth to argue, but then closes it again. “Whatever,” she murmurs after a second.

You can’t help but smile, hiding part of your expression behind the menu for a moment. There is something almost strange about seeing Emily like this. Still composed. Still calm. But somehow caught in a familiar rhythm with Claire, one that clearly comes from years of knowing each other.

“I was right,” Emily says, a small, almost victorious smile appearing on her face. “That’s why I can also recommend the Philly cocktail. The internet said—”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you interrupt, lowering the menu in front of you. “After everything I’ve heard now, I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

Claire’s raised eyebrows and the amused expression on her face are enough to answer before she even says anything. Emily notices and presses her lips together, clearly trying not to smile.

“You’re exaggerating,” Emily huffs, but the amusement in her voice gives her away.

“Really?” you ask, tilting your head slightly. “Because all of this doesn’t sound very reassuring.”

For a second, Emily simply studies you. Then the smallest hint of amusement appears in her expression. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Interesting.” You hear the subtle change in her voice, the way it drops slightly, carrying a teasing edge. Her eyes stay on you, studying your reaction as if she is trying to figure out whether you realize exactly what you just admitted.

The way she says it makes you realize that you have somehow stepped into a conversation that usually belongs only to Claire and Emily. A rhythm built from years of knowing each other, from countless small moments you were never part of. And yet, somehow, Emily doesn’t seem bothered that you have found your way into it.

Emily finally looks back down at her menu, shaking her head slightly as if accepting defeat. “Well, then I’ll stay out of it,” she replies with a quiet laugh. “Do you two already know what you want to drink if not the Philly cocktail?”

A chaotic discussion about the drinks breaks out at the table, the menu is far too elaborate to simply settle for something ordinary like a soda, and somehow Emily manages to distract both of you completely, drawing you into a harmless conversation.

One filled with careful questions, but never lingering too long on any single answer, never making either of you feel as though you have to explain yourselves more than you are ready to. She just lets them exist in the space and then moves on.

You find yourself listening more than speaking. Not because you have nothing to say, but because there is something about Emily’s presence that makes you want to stay quiet and simply take it in.

The way she rests one elbow lightly against the table when she listens. The way her attention doesn’t scatter, even when Claire fills the space with stories that drift from absurd to almost painfully normal. The small shift in her expression whenever something doesn’t quite align with what she already knew.

There is something steady about her presence that makes the rest of the room feel slightly less sharp at the edges.

“You’ve been awfully quiet.” Claire’s voice pulls you back before you realise you’ve drifted.

You blink once, slow. “Oh. Really?”

Emily looks up as well, her attention turning without effort.

Claire laughs, leaning back in her chair. “You’ve answered every question with about three words.”

“I don’t have that much to say.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.” There is no tension in her words. Only familiarity trying to find its way back.

Emily leans in, as if she is choosing the moment carefully before speaking. “After everything that’s happened,” she offers in a calm voice, “I think silence is allowed.”

Your eyes meet for a moment too long, and your heart skips into a faster rhythm. You look down again, back to the table, to the menu, to anything that is not her. Emily doesn’t comment on it. She simply keeps listening to Claire as if nothing has shifted at all.

“Yeah, if we’re being honest…” you hear your best friend say, but your thoughts have already drifted somewhere else.

Since the incident at the mall, your thoughts have been difficult to control. The fear still returns in unexpected moments. And somehow, so does Emily.

A few days ago, you had still believed you had successfully pushed her out of your thoughts. Now she is more present than ever before. It doesn’t help that you keep watching her constantly, memorizing every small movement, every subtle change in her expression.

Claire picks up the thread before the moment can deepen any further, shifting the conversation toward university.

“You know what happened in Professor Miller’s lecture last week?” she starts, a small smile appearing on her face. “He walked in, put his coffee down next to his notes, and within five minutes managed to spill it everywhere.”

Emily raises an eyebrow. “Again?”

Claire points at her with a small laugh. “That’s the worst part. It was the third time in three weeks.”

“You’re telling me he has done this three times and still hasn’t learned?” Emily asks, a hint of amusement creeping into her voice.

“Yes,” Claire replies. “And the funniest part? He just stared at the pages like they had personally betrayed him.”

Emily actually laughs at the absurdity. Not a polite reaction or a restrained acknowledgment. A real laugh that breaks through her usual composure just enough to change her entire face. It catches you off guard. It feels so open. So effortless. So completely her.

You’re still smiling because of it when a voice cuts into the table from the side.

“…Claire?”

Claire turns so quickly that her chair almost scrapes against the floor. “Oh my God.”

Her eyes widen. “Isabelle?”

The name pulls your attention toward the person standing beside the table.

Isabelle stands a few steps away from the table, a tray balanced lightly in one hand. She wears the restaurant’s uniform, her hair pulled back neatly. For a moment, she simply looks at Claire, recognition softening into surprise, before her gaze moves past her.

And lands on you.

Something in her expression brightens when she sees you. “Oh. Y/N,” she laughs in disbelief. “Okay, I was not expecting to meet you here.”

Claire leans forward in her chair, visibly delighted. “You work here?” She asks, looking between Isabelle and the tray. “You actually work here?”

Isabelle smiles as she steps closer and carefully places the tray on the table, arranging the appetizers in front of you before looking back at Claire.

“Apparently I do,” she replies with a small, amused breath. “And I also bring you your appetizers. I told you I picked up shifts, but I didn’t think I’d run into you like this.”

Her attention flickers briefly back to you again, softer this time.

“And you’re both okay?” she asks. “After everything in the news, I wasn’t sure what actually happened in the end.”

Claire nods quickly. “We’re fine. Exhausted, but fine.”

Isabelle exhales as if that answer physically relieves something in her.

“Good,” she says simply. Then she hesitates, shifting the tray in her hand as if suddenly aware she is still technically working. “I should let you eat,” she adds, glancing between the three of you. “I can come back later when you’re done.”

Claire waves a hand dismissively. “No, stay. Seriously. As long as you can."

Isabelle lets out a small laugh and doesn’t leave. Instead, her gaze returns to you again, settling there in a way that feels steady rather than intrusive, like she’s simply making sure you’re really standing in front of her.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she admits, this time looking directly at you.

“Yeah,” you manage after a second. “I am.”

“I was thinking about you afterwards. It was kind of… a lot, that day.”

Claire gives a small, tired huff of agreement. “That’s one way to put it.”

Isabelle lets out a short laugh. “Right. Understatement of the year.”

For a moment, the table feels almost normal. As if none of it ever happened. As if the mall, the gunshots, the fear had been left somewhere outside these walls. But Emily’s silence hasn’t escaped you. It’s almost as though she isn’t part of the conversation at all. Slowly, you look up and it doesn’t surprise you to find her already watching you. You felt it.

Her fingers are still wrapped loosely around her glass, her posture relaxed, almost effortless. Only her eyes give anything away. They stay on you for another few seconds before drifting to Isabelle, then to Claire, and finally back to you. Her expression never changes.

Claire doesn’t notice. Neither does Isabelle.

“I just wanted to make sure I didn’t miss anything important,” Isabelle continues, turning slightly back toward you. “After the mall. I left before things escalated, but I read about it later and… yeah.” Her mouth pulls into a faint, almost self-conscious smile. “It’s kind of hard to imagine what it was really like from just reading articles.”

Claire nods in quiet understanding. “It doesn’t really translate into words.”

“No,” Isabelle agrees softly. “It doesn’t.”

She shifts the tray in her hands, the faint clink of cutlery and glass briefly filling the pause between you. “I should probably get back to work. But I’m on break again later… so maybe I’ll see you then.”

Claire lifts a hand with a grin. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Isabelle nods once. Before she turns away, her eyes find yours one last time. “Enjoy your meal.”

Then she slips back into the rhythm of the restaurant, disappearing between the tables as though she’d never interrupted yours at all.

A quiet tension settles over the table, although Claire doesn’t seem to notice it the way you do. Your eyes drift back to Emily almost instinctively. She watches Isabelle until she disappears between the other guests. Something shifts in her expression, so slight that you almost convince yourself you imagined it.

Claire, oblivious, tilts her head with an easy smile. “I’m still not over the coincidence of her working here. What are the chances?”

You smile faintly, but before you can answer, your attention shifts toward the appetizers Emily ordered earlier. The plate of tomato and mozzarella sits between the three of you, untouched until now. Almost at the same moment, you and Emily reach for the fork. Your fingers stop before they touch.

“You first,” Emily offers and the words come naturally, without hesitation.

You glance at her. “Are you sure?”

One of her eyebrows lifts. “I’m offering you a fork, not surrendering my entire plate.” The seriousness in her voice lasts only long enough for you to realize she is teasing you.

“Good. I was worried there were rules I didn’t know about.”

“There are always rules.”

“And somehow I’m supposed to know them?”

“You’re learning.” Her gaze settles on you for the briefest moment before moving to Claire. “How do you know her?”

The question is directed at the table, but somehow it feels as though she’s asking you.

The answer leaves your mouth almost automatically.

“I know her through Claire.”

“From university,” Claire explains at exactly the same time.

The two answers overlap.

Claire laughs, shaking her head. “Well… technically both are true.” She gestures between you as if she has done this explanation before. “Isabelle and I have the same literature seminar. They only actually met at the mall.”

Emily nods once. “Okay."

The conversation could end there, instead, the silence lingers. Not awkwardly, just long enough that you find yourself looking back at her. Emily takes a moment to process that, her gaze lowering briefly toward the table. It is the kind of pause you have learned means she is noticing more than she is saying. Then her attention returns to you. “So the mall was the first time you met.”

Again, it isn’t really a question.

You nod. “Yes.”

Emily lets another quiet moment pass. “When she came over…” she notes, almost thoughtfully, “…it didn’t feel like the two of you had only known each other since the mall. There was a familiarity there. A level of comfort that usually takes longer to develop.”

Your stomach tightens at her words.

Before you can think of an answer, Claire is already smiling. “Oh, Isabelle’s just like that.”

Emily’s eyes drift to Claire. “Like what?”

“She gets attached to people.” Claire shrugs. “Especially if she likes them.”

Emily doesn’t react.

Claire continues anyway, completely unaware. “I mean…” A grin spreads across her face. “I was actually trying to set them up.”

Only then does Emily look at her properly. “You were?”

Claire nods, laughing. “Yes, at the mall.”

Emily blinks once and repeats her words. “At the mall.”

“Before everything happened,” Claire explains quickly. “We bumped into Isabelle, they started talking and…” She smiles toward you. “I just thought they’d be cute together.”

For the first time since Isabelle walked away, something flickers across Emily’s face. Whatever it is, she hides it almost instantly, just a moment too late for you not to notice.

“You tried to set them up.” It isn’t really a question. More like she is repeating the information to herself, fitting it into a picture that is only beginning to make sense.

“Yeah.”

Emily shakes her head slightly, the smallest hint of amusement touching her expression. “Of course you did.”

Claire laughs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just saying…” Emily leans back slightly, folding her arms. “This isn’t exactly new behavior.”

“Oh my God,” Claire groans, already knowing where this is going.

“You remember when you tried to convince your brother that he and Maya would be perfect together?”

“That was different.”

“You made a spreadsheet.”

Claire’s face falls. “You promised you would never mention that again.”

A quiet laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

Emily studies her briefly, amusement flickering in her eyes. “No compatibility chart this time?”

Claire looks offended. “That was one time.”

“You made categories.”

“They were helpful categories.”

A quiet laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

Emily’s expression softens slightly before she looks back at Claire. “So,” she continues, “no spreadsheet, no color-coded plan. Just a feeling?”

Claire rolls her eyes, but she is smiling. “Yes.”

The humor fades slowly from Emily’s expression, replaced by genuine curiosity. “And why Isabelle?”

“She’s kind,” Claire explains with a shrug. “And she’s patient. She’s good at making people feel comfortable. I just thought… I don’t know. I thought Isabelle and Y/N might understand each other.”

Emily’s expression doesn’t change, but something in her attention shifts. She looks at you only briefly at first, as if she is considering whether to ask at all. “You seemed surprised when she approached you.”

The observation catches you off guard. “I was,” you admit. “I didn’t expect to see her again so soon. Especially not after everything that happened.”

Emily studies your face for another moment. “She seemed very comfortable with you.”

“Exactly,” Claire hums, relieved that someone else apparently noticed it too. “That’s what I was trying to tell her.”

Something about the way Emily says it makes you look up again. There isn't anything wrong with the observation, but there is something about being watched so closely by her that makes you feel like you should have an answer ready.

You lower your gaze toward the menu, suddenly very aware of the conversation you are having. “Maybe,” you murmur. “I don’t know.”

“And now?” she asks eventually.

The question is quiet enough that Claire doesn’t seem to notice anything unusual about it. You do.

“I don’t know,” you admit after a moment. “I mean… she was kind. She was easy to talk to.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the menu. “I just don’t know if it meant anything.”

Emily remains silent for a second before giving the smallest nod. “I see.”

Claire glances between the two of you, visibly trying to follow a conversation that somehow became much more serious than she expected. “You two are weird sometimes, you know that?”

Your eyes move toward her, unsure whether she is joking or not. Emily, however, doesn’t seem bothered by the observation. She simply turns another page of the menu, the faint rustle of paper the only sound coming from her side of the table.

Claire shifts awkwardly in her seat. “She really was sweet,” she tries after a moment, almost defensively now. “Honestly. She was just being friendly.”

Emily looks up again. “I’m sure she was.”

Nothing in her tone suggests disagreement. Nothing in it suggests agreement either. Yet for reasons you can’t quite explain, those four words leave something inside you feeling tighter than before.

At the sound of your giggle, he pulled his gaze further up, cock straining in his pants as he took in your bare chest, nipples pert and hard in the cool air of the room until he finally landed on your face, lips pulled into a teasing smirk, eyes dark and eager.

“What?” You asked, feigning innocence. 

“I know I should care about the reason you’re naked in my bed, but I will enjoy it for the moment.”

You laughed again, a hand softly trailing over your bare skin, “not naked.” You toyed with the waistband of your panties, “had to leave something to the imagination.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a tease?” He asked, already undoing the buttons of his shirt and you nodded, a wicked grin spreading over your cheeks.

“Took a nap.” You offered with a shrug, “and I was dreaming of my legs wrapped around your waist.” 

Rafael watched as your hand sunk between your legs, palming at the wet fabric he wanted to tear off your body. A soft moan left your lips and his cock pulsed, he couldn’t help but groan when your fingers pushed your panties to the side, trailing through your pussy lips, smearing your juices around.

“God, it felt so good.” Your head dropped back into the pillows, lips parted ever so slightly as you continued to toy with yourself, “the way your cock pounded into me,” you easily slipped two fingers into your cunt, “so. Fucking. Deep.” Each word accented with a hard flick of your wrist and Rafael could hear the wetness sopping throughout the room.

“Sweetheart…” his voice took on a heaviness, a hint of darkness that caught your attention.

“What?” You cracked an eye open, smirk on your lips as you watched him approach the bed, your fingers still moving languidly, “am I playing with something of yours?”

Shirt now stripped, chest bare, Rafael’s hands swiftly undid his belt as he kneeled onto the bed, stalking towards you. His eyes were dark, holding your gaze until they shot down to between your legs, watching you for only a second before his fingers circled your wrist, halting your movements.

“You know better.” He tsk’d, pulling your fingers from your pussy and lifting your hand up to his mouth, sucking your fingers between his lips with a loud groan. 

His eyes fell shut as your fingers sunk all the way into his mouth, your juices taking over his senses, every thought lost to how much he loved the way you tasted. He felt your fingers tap against his tongue and he opened his eyes to find you watching him, a grin on your lips and a blush on your cheeks. Slowly you began to push your fingers deeper into his mouth, your body tingling at the way his tongue wrapped around them, leaving no inch untasted, until you began to pull them out. You flipped your hand around, palm up and let out a moan at the way Rafael instantly sucked them back into his mouth, not letting his eyes drop from yours until he sucked them hard, groaning as he throbbed in his pants.

His hand squeezed your wrist, reluctantly pulling the digits from his mouth.

“God, you are fucking delectable, you know that?”

“So you keep telling me.”

“Lie back, let me get a real taste.”

A soft giggle left your lips and your head dropped back into the pillows, grin on your cheeks as you watched Rafael yank your panties down your legs and toss them over his shoulder. With his hands around your ankles, he spread you wide open, eyes raking up your supple skin until they landed at the apex of your thighs. Already wet and glistening in the low light of the room, the perfect pussy he loved oh so fucking much. His hands brushed up your legs, keeping you spread as he laid onto his stomach, hands pressed against your thighs. 

“Fuck.” He muttered, eyes fluttering shut as he inhaled your scent, unable to resist grinding his hips into the mattress. His soft moan pushed hot air towards your cunt and you whimpered, your thighs trembling beneath his hands. 

“Raf…” A hand came down, threading into his hair and he chuckled, opening his eyes.

He pressed a kiss into your inner thigh, “how long have you been waiting for me?”

“Too long.” You grumbled, your hand clawing at his scalp.

Smirk on his lips he mouthed at your leg again, “you must be a needy little thing by now then, hmm?”

Rather than reply, your hips rocked up off the bed, attempting to shift him where you wanted him most. Instead of doing what you wanted, Rafael chuckled, his teeth sinking into the supple skin of your inner thigh. A hiss left your lips, your eyes scrunched,

“Raf!”

“What?” He glanced up at you, a wicked look in his eyes, “I can’t mark what’s mine?” His tongue slowly licked over the teeth indents, soothing the burn, “a little something for only my eyes.”

Your body twitched under his touch when his lips latched onto the spot, sucking it into his mouth, scraping his teeth across your skin, tongue swirling patterns around it. He could feel the heat coming from your pussy, unable to resist his free hand slowly inched up until it was nearly cupping you, thumb right at the bottom of your slit.

“Please.” It was all but a whisper, wafting through the evening air until it met his ears.

Then his thumb moved, slowly dragging through your pussy with a featherlight touch. He brought it all the way up, then immediately circled it back down, avoiding your clit and in that moment you didn’t even care. Rafael’s teeth sunk into your leg again as his thumb pressed harder, moving back down your cunt as he set a rhythm with his touch. A few passes later and your hips were rocking in time with his hand, trying their best to angle downwards enough for him to touch where you were aching him to.

Satisfied with the mark, Rafael left a kiss above it, resting his cheek against your thigh as he continued to play with your pussy. Thumb pressed harder this time, grinding against your wetness until he finally, brushed it over your clit and you gasped. He blew a cool stream of air over the sensitive bud, watching the way you trembled, the way your breath quickened, the goosebumps that crept their way onto your skin. He rubbed your clit torturously slow, varying the pressure, watching your pussy pulse around nothing until you were slick with arousal and it started dripping out of you.

Just as you were about to beg, groan, protest, whine, anything, his mouth was suddenly on you and your head was thrown back into the pillows.

“Fuck!” Both your hands shot to his hair, clutching at his head as he groaned between your legs. 

His tongue dragged through your cunt slowly, savouring the taste, not letting a singular drop go to waste. Rafael adored eating you out, he could and would happily do it every day if he could. Didn’t matter if you were stressed, if he was stressed, both were resolved by your pussy on his tongue and an orgasm. Good day? Let’s celebrate by having you sit on his face. Bad day? Let’s try to make us both forget by crushing his skull between your thighs. There was no place he’d rather dive into than this, and he was certain to make sure you knew that. Every. Single. Time. 

The way his tongue danced through you, swirling your wetness, smearing it up over your throbbing clit, hips jumping up whenever he came close to it. He ducked down, tongue tipping into your pussy, face grinding into you, juices smearing across his lips as his nose bumped against you.

“Oh god, baby.” You moaned, body beginning to writhe against the bed. 

Every one of his ministrations was making sparks fly under your skin, little twitches, nerves firing off as pleasure built deeper and deeper inside you. Your skin was already prickling, aching for more. You pulled a hand away from his head, reaching downward and it only took a second for him to know what you needed, his own grasping yours, interlacing your fingers as he continued to mouth at your cunt.

“More.” You squeezed at his hand, “please.”

With a moan that reverberated against your pussy, vibrations sending sparks through your body, Rafael slid his mouth up, lips wrapping around your pulsing clit. A gasp left your lips, squeezing at his hand harder while his free one cupped your heat, fingertips nudging at your entrance. You couldn’t help but moan, lifting your hips to the touch and your mouth fell open as he thrust two fingers inside you. 

“Fuck, Raf…” you groaned, pussy pulsing around him already. 

He replied with a muffled growl against your skin, fingers dipping deeper into your cunt, swirling and scissoring, pumping in and out with ease. You could feel your pussy soaking him, wetness seeping out around his fingers, more dripping to the sheets with each pass of his hand, drops swirling their way down his wrist. Rafael curled his fingers, and when you mewled, he knew he’d found the spot, his lips smirking around your clit. 

“Yes!” You cried out, “right there.” 

He crooked his fingers again, pressing against the sensitive spot and your entire body tensed, thighs shivering around him. His tongue slipped down, lapping up the extra wetness his fingers were pulling from you, eager to catch every single drop so he could savour the taste of you on his tongue for the rest of the night. His cock throbbed, aching for friction and as he ground against the bed through his pants, he could feel the wet spot of pre-cum spreading on the fabric. 

The noises you were making were more than enough to drive him on, feeling the way your pussy clenched around his fingers, the way you trembled each time he brushed past your g-spot, your chest practically heaving. He watched the way your body was shivering for only a moment before he ducked back down, his lips latching around your clit.

“Fuck!” Your body tensed as fire burst through you, nerve endings jolting as his tongue danced around your throbbing clit. “Oh, God! M’close.”

Rafael quickened his fingers, pressing harder, sucking you deeper into his mouth, teeth scraping over your clit ever so gently. You took over every single one of his senses, your taste on his tongue, your scent encompassing him, the noises you made, music to his ears. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t hold back, humping against the bed in the same rhythm his fingers plunged in and out of your wetness. Without even having to think about it, your hips began to rock upwards to him, eager for more, matching the rhythm. A fine-tuned dance as the need for pleasure took over the both of you. 

“Raf!” Your fingers squeezed tight at his and he curled his fingers again, longer, harder, dragging them as he sucked hard on your clit and a second later you let out a cry, body convulsing as juices dripped out of your cunt. 

Rafael lifted his mouth of you only long enough to watch you come, his hips still grinding against the bed as your body shook. His eyes darkened, an almost whimper leaving his lips as his eyes trained in on the juices dribbling over your puffy pussy. 

“Good girl.” He cooed, hands stroking at your thighs before he leaned in, tongue lapping, lips sucking up as much of your release as he could. “’M not gonna last.” He groaned, cock pulsing, still in his pants.

With a breathless giggle, you were quick to yank him upwards, pulling him into a deep kiss. Your tongue plunged into his mouth, tasting yourself as you sat up, hand quickly sinking into his pants. Rafael hissed at the contact, his hips jutting forward at the touch.

“Lemme take care of you.” You murmured, lips brushing against his skin as you tugged him toward the edge of the bed, sliding off the edge to settle on your knees. 

Rafael’s mind barely had time to catch up to what you were doing before his cock was in your mouth, buried all the way to the hilt.

“Oh, fuck!”

Pre-cum leaked from the tip, and you were more than grateful to lick it up, sucking it deep into your mouth as you bobbed on his cock. His hands settled into your hair, hips jolting each time you sunk further down, his thoughts and words lost to him, only able to pant as your tongue swirled around him and you hollowed your cheeks. 

A loud grunt left his lips, cock twitching between your lips as his cum shot into your mouth. His hand softened in your hair, gently stroking it as you sucked him dry. You let out a low groan at the taste of him, letting it savour on your tongue for a moment before swallowing, finally popping off his cock and leaning back on your heels.

“Shit.” He muttered, a small laugh coming from him when he looked up and you proudly parted your lips, showcasing your clean tongue. “Good girl.”

His hand ghosted down your cheek, thumb rubbing over your chin as he pulled you to him, kissing you softly. You climbed back into his lap as he kicked off his pants, shifting until you were both laid up against the headboard. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head and you returned the motion on his chest. 

“Sorry.” He murmured against your hair.

“Raf,” you chuckled, lifting your chin to catch his gaze, “you basically got off just on eating my pussy. There’s no reason to apologize. That’s fucking hot.”

He laughed, leaning in to steal another kiss, “can’t say it was the dinner I was expected to come home to.”

You swatted at his chest, pinching his skin, “that was just an appetizer. We can order in.” Your hand trailed up his chest, tickling up his neck and into the hair at the back of his head as your lips ghosted over his. “Eat on the balcony.” You pressed a kiss to his lips, tongue just daring to trace over them, “then I’ll ride your cock until my pussy’s stuffed full of your cum.”

____________

"The same size," you agree. "But they're lumpy." A small frown graces your face. "You need to roll them more."

You'd do the whole thing if you could, Emily knows. But since you can't, she'll be trying her damndest. Even though she could argue that the cookies will be going into the oven anyway, spreading flat and even, with perfectly non-lumpy edges.

She could, but she won't.

"Okay." She gives in, setting down the scoop. Anything for your frown to ease.

And it does, and so she doesn't mind the trouble, but before she can reach for the sheet in front of you, you shift it further away.

"You're forgiven for these."

The kitchen cranks a few degrees warmer. It's hazy outside, not fully sunny, not fully cloudy, and the shifting light dances across your face. You have a sprinkle of sugar caught on your bottom lip, flour staining your sleeve where she'd spilled some of it on the counter. Your tone is light and your eyes are sunlit and it takes everything in her not to kiss you, sugar crystals melting on her tongue, your smile plush and soft against her mouth.

Emily tears her gaze away and instead bobs a minuscule bow. "You're so generous, honey."

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth quirks.

It makes her heart all kinds of warm. She loves that you're getting more comfortable with her, flashes of your old self peeking through—in jokes, in mannerisms, in the split-second reactions that don't require thought. She missed more of you than she thought possible in just a week. Not just your easiness, your unfiltered nature, the naked truth of you—but also the tender drag of your touch on her skin, the sound of her name from your mouth.

God, she missed that. At first you'd said it stiltedly, your lips awkward around the syllables, Em-i-ly, stiff with formality, your tongue still shy, hesitant around it—then, eventually, warmer. Emily, soft as butter, all give. Em, almost unthinking, instinctive.

You're getting better, she knows you are. If not with remembering then with settling in, with healing. You're remembering bits and pieces here and there—old habits, frequent haunts. You remember Penelope and Dave and your closer coworkers. You tell her about them, replay the stuff that you remember so she can verify it, and she does, telling you good, see, you've got it, her heart lifting with each one.

It doesn't matter that you don't come to her with memories of herself. Emily doesn't mind, truly, whether you remember her or not. She ignores that voice in the back of her head, in her heart, that begs: remember me. Remember me and I won't ask for anything else.

She ignores it. Because you're making cookies and she's rolling out the dough and you're dipping it in cinnamon sugar, and she can see, despite your disapproval at her methods, that you're happy. So it doesn't matter that she's largely missing from your memory. You're here, you haven't left, you're still with her.

That's enough.

"How's this?" She asks, showing you the ball of dough she'd been rolling. It's smoother than a pebble, and it gains your approval.

"Perfect." You say, pleased. Then your smile collapses, a little, a crease dipping between your brows. "Sorry," you murmur. "I don't mean to be so anal about it."

"Hey, c'mon—they're Christmas cookies, aren't they? They have to be perfect." Emily says gravely. Your smile blooms back, pressed sheepish. She looks down at the cookie you're rolling in sugar and nudges your hip. "See, that won't do, chef. You missed a spot."

You laugh, dutifully roll the dough through the sugar again, and Emily ducks her head to hide her own smile.

-

The house smells sweetly of cinnamon. It's warm, familiar, curling around her like a hug.

Emily doesn't admit it, but she hovers. You watch her with poorly hidden amusement as you clean up the messes on the counters—she doesn't try to help, because you've already issued one warning, and, really, she doesn't want to risk a fight.

Her fingertips are still pruned from washing the dishes. She wipes them on her sweatpants and ducks again to watch the oven. Its heat wafts out to greet her, glowing red on her face as she peers in through the glass and watches the cookies melt from balls to puddles. Normal cookie progression—so far.

She nearly never bakes, only ever takes over the cooking. This is your domain, the sugar and butter and all the fuss, a thousand different ways for it to all go wrong—and they're Christmas cookies, for gods sake, and if she's fucked them up too—

"Emily," she can hear the laugh in your voice, can hear it without even having to turn, "you know you can't force them into baking any faster."

She looks up at you sheepishly, color rising in her cheeks. "I know that." She says, straightening. "I'm just—uh. Making sure they do their thing."

"They'll do their thing," you promise. "I set a timer."

You're overly fond, eyes soft as you reach over to tuck her bangs behind her ear. It's a half absent move, and she leans into the touch.

You've gotten bolder, these past two days. More prone to touching her, falling into the familiar rhythm of teasing. It all bursts explosively in her chest, and she's not sure if it's the hormones amplifying everything, or if it's the whole ordeal making her a thousand times more emotional, or if it's just, plain and simple, you. She's never been immune to your affections, but Emily thinks she hasn't been this terribly weak for you since you first met.

She's attuned to your every move. For every action you take, a reaction sets off in her.

She feels it, almost physically, when your eyes drift down to her mouth. It's a quick glance, your gaze shy, but Emily's pulse skips nonetheless. Her own eyes drop and find your lips—the familiar outline, the same shape and color, a little chapped from the cold. The crust of sugar is gone, swept away by an absent drag of your tongue.

Your hand drifts down to her elbow, and you weave your arm into hers.

"There's this movie I found," you say, tugging her out of the kitchen. "Some cheesy Hallmark thing. New release. Wanna give it a shot?"

Emily can only hum absently.

-

(The cookies turn out perfect. The relief is bubbly and sweet, and the cookies warm her from the inside out, vanilla and cinnamon and the taste of your hand, still carrying the heat of the oven as they slide down her throat. She presses kisses over your knuckles, mumbles, you're a magic worker, and watches as you visibly fluster, denying—Jesus, stop it, Emily, you practically made the whole thing. She steadfastly ignores you, brushing her mouth over the warm stretch of your wrist. Your skin still smells like the sugar, the sweetness of the dough, the earthy cinnamon.)

-

An exhale behind her alerts her to your disapproval.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," you say from your perch on the closed toilet seat, watching her in the mirror.

"Have a little faith." Emily says easily. It's true, she hadn't cut her own bangs since she was in her twenties, but it's Christmas tomorrow and a fresh look is in order. Before everything, she'd planned on booking an appointment for sometime this week, but, well—the thought fled her mind.

Emily untucks her bangs from behind her ears. You're still looking unconvinced, nipping at your lip—always a worrier.

"Besides, I've done this before," she adds, tying her hair up in a ponytail.

"When was that?"

"…College."

You laugh, and it sounds just like it would've, two, three weeks ago. Her heart clenches. It's so strange, all of it—how her body reacts like you're someone new, sometimes, the person she'd bound her life to but still unaware that she would. It takes her back to nights on your living room floor, early mornings through the city that neither of you would admit were poorly concealed dates. Not until far, far later.

Inhaling, Emily gathers her grown-out side bangs and grabs the comb from the counter, running it through her hair. Your face is visible in the mirror, peeking out from behind her as you witness her process.

"Cleaning them up is easier than cutting them from scratch," she says distractedly, more for your benefit than hers—though the reminder is helpful. "They just need shortening."

You hum behind her. "I've only tried doing it once. It was disastrous."

Emily's mouth twitches. She hadn't known that. "Didn't take you for the type to try," she teases, peering close into the mirror and picking up her scissors.

"I was—unfortunately—a lot more adventurous in my youth," you say wistfully. "Couldn't look into the mirror for a week."

Emily laughs. She remembers her own first attempt, all kinds of catastrophic. She was eight, and nearly all the French girls in her class had wisps of fringe on their foreheads. When first her mother, then her au pair, refused to take her to the hairdressers, Emily had grabbed the nearest pair of scissors, a handful of hair, and watched the jet-black strands float down into the sink.

Elizabeth wouldn't look at her for weeks.

Emily straightens her shoulders now, pushing the image of her mother's sour face out of her head. She begins trimming, absently. Without her permission, her mind drifts back to the phone call she'd gotten yesterday—at exactly the wrong time, a blot on her otherwise finally uneventful day, as if her mother had had it planned to the second.

When exactly were you planning on telling me that Y/N had gotten into an accident? Really, Emily, am I supposed to find out everything from one of your friends just because you won't pick up the phone?

Emily's laugh had burst out of her in disbelief, bitter and sucked dry of humor.

She doesn't fault Penelope. She's more astonished at her picking up the phone in the first place, but what clouds it most of all is the shame. At herself, at Elizabeth, at the gaping rift between them that can't seem to stitch itself over. She hadn't needed the reminder, but Emily was plunged into it anyway—without you, she doesn't really have anyone to call her own.

Longer curls of hair float down into the sink, stark black against white. She thought she'd given up on it, mending this wretched thread connecting them—after so many years, after countless fruitless attempts that left her bitter that this is all she'll ever get from the woman that birthed her. But Emily still—naively—wishes she could glue the frayed bits together, make the string just strong enough for it to take some weight, for it to handle something as impossible as confiding in her mother. Admitting that she's pregnant, or that her wife has lost her memories, or that she's drowning trying to wade through it all. Just for her mother to be a mother, and for her to be her child; to have a place, momentarily, where she could lean.

But the shards of her hair fall into the sink, and Emily knows she wouldn't be able to bear having her mother look at her, see into the gaping hurt that tore her open. It'll be easier, it always has been easier, for her to turn away.

She swallows hard against the thought and focuses instead on the scissors in her hand. She had been trimming, carefully, bit by bit, and now her bangs dip just past her eyebrows. She adjusts a few strands then pauses, pursing her lips.

Maybe she could shorten them a bit more. It's a good length, she hasn't totally ruined anything, but if they're this long they take even less to grow out. She fluffs them out, runs her fingers through them. Maybe another centimeter or two.

Her stillness alerts you; your face, she just notices, has blipped out of the mirror.

"Something wrong?" You ask. Before she can answer, she hears your limbs unfolding as you stand. "Let me see."

Emily sets the scissors down and turns. "I haven't sabotaged my dashing good looks, if that's what you're wondering—"

Her heart plummets when she meets your eyes, glossy with unshed tears.

"Hey," she breathes. She's plunged back into being eight years old again, her veins slowly freezing over when her mother's gaze turned cold. "Hey, what is it, what's wrong?"

You swallow, shaking your head. "Nothing," you say thickly. The word comes out choked, and her hands twitch at her sides, restless, about to reach for you when you lean in, so close she can see the dampness making its way through your lashes.

Emily goes still. Your hand rises up, briefly hesitating, before you reach over the rest of the way and gently nudge her bangs over one brow. Your knuckles graze her temple. The touch is soft, exploratory.

She hardly breathes.

You sift your fingers through them, parting the hairs around her forehead. Fixing them. Adjusting them to fit the picture in your head—the memory.

The memory.

Emily sucks in a breath. Recognition blooms wide and beautiful in your eyes, unmistakable, draped like gossamer over your pupils. She feels it all at once, buried free and now bursting, the tremble running along her bones, squeezing the breath in her throat.

She doesn't know how she finds her voice again.

"I don't look that terrible, do I?" She manages to croak out.

You laugh tearily, pulling your hand back to wipe at your eye. She gracelessly helps you out, drying the shimmer of wetness from your skin, feeling it dampen her thumbs. Baby, she whispers under her breath, her lungs clenching tight. Baby, baby. Tears still flood your eyes; your attempt to blink them away is futile. They slip out, hot on her skin. She kisses their wet paths.

You clear your throat, your dewy lashes ghosting over her thumbs. "You know," you mutter, sniffling, "I'm kind of sick of all the crying."

Emily's smile is wobbly in its own right. You and me both.

"I know what you mean."

Careful, she dabs beneath your eye with her knuckle. Your gaze flicks back up to her. It's no less sharp, no less piercing, despite your tears. She feels your eyes hot on her face, sweeping. Emily warms beneath them, a flush rising where they trail.

"I remember you," you eventually say, quietly. "Not just your voice—you."

Her breath catches. Her hands go still, cupped around your face. "Yeah?" She manages, hoarse and low.

"Yeah." You step even closer, your bent arm gently pressing into her. She can still see the damp spots on your skin where your tears haven't dried yet. Where she's missed.

You mold your own hand to her cheek. Light as a feather, you sweep your finger along her cheekbone, dusting off stray shards of shorn hair. Then, you kiss her.

You kiss her.

She can't help the sound that punches out of her, half gasp, half sob, muffled against your mouth before she can stop it. Sorry, she wants to say, god, fuck, I'm sorry. But you're undeterred, rubbing a soothing path across her skin, and it's just the same, you're just the same—your lips and the way you go into it, your hand around her cheek—and Emily…shit, Emily kisses you back through the loud rush of her heart.

She's been deprived of your kisses before, of your affection—for a week, sure, sometimes longer. But it was never anything close to this. Nothing could ever cut as deep as this had.

She's almost embarrassingly breathless, chasing you despite herself, itching to keep the distance closed between you. She wants to stitch it shut, wants the knots buried and every inch of you against every inch of her, too close for naught but the air to slip through. Her mouth burns, aching for yours again, but you draw back, press your forehead against hers, swipe at the tears that dip out of her eyes.

"Em…" You mumble.

"Sorry." She shoves at them roughly, blinks, hard—and finds your own eyes teary again.

The state of you both.

A weak laugh huffs out of her. It cuts off, her breath hitching when you cradle her face in your hand, tug her in again, for a soft press of your lips.

A choked sound wrangles out of her throat, and twin streams of tears burn their way down her face. They mingle with yours, dip down to soak her lips; the kiss is wet with salt, and she wraps both arms around you, breathes out your name, kisses the damp edge of your jaw. Then your chin, then the soaked corner of your mouth; a kiss anywhere she can, any part of you she can reach, and back, again, to your lips.

She's too frantic with it, she knows. But her blood rushes, hands trembling as she digs them into your flesh.

I remember you.

I remember you.

-

Christmas Day is a mostly uneventful affair. You wake up slowly, reluctant to leave the heavy warmth of the bed. Emily is, too. She finds a cocoon in your arms, nestling into the warm space on your chest, between your shoulder and your neck. It's quiet there, soft and gently rising, falling, with your breathing.

Between the tranquil thumps of your heartbeat, she finds herself imagining how different it'll be next year. All this silence, shredded, warped. A five-month-old, give or take, playing with torn wrapping paper, enjoying it more than her freshly bought gifts—in Emily's head, it's a girl. It's always a girl. She'd have your eyes, your laugh; the same curl of your hair and the exact way you tilt your head, brows cocking, when you're confused.

Your girl. Your girl and hers, entirely hers, and entirely yours, too.

She's hazy with the daydream, as if wrapped in a cloud. You ask her what's on her mind and she can't say it, so she says you and it's true enough, your posture shrinking inward as you fluster. She kisses the heat from your cheeks and hopes your baby inherits that, too.

The day is soft and pale, a blur of white outside, the cold rising and ebbing in waves. You're mostly entangled, huddling more for the company than for the warmth. Your legs twine together, and you stretch your side along Emily's, your good arm curled around her, the chilled tips of your fingers sneaking under her sweater to trace over her skin.

There's just enough room between you for shy kisses on your end. You space them out, dot them on her jaw and the middle of her cheek and her chin and wherever else you can reach, before you edge closer to the corner of her mouth, then the middle of it, as if you're trying to pace yourself.

Emily almost finds herself in tears.

Sergio curls close, lethargic in the absence of carelessly tossed wrapping paper and empty boxes—simple joys of his feline life. Emily gives him a few special treats to make up for it. Snow blankets the streets, frosting the windows; a neighbor, Martha, drops off a plate of gingerbread cookies ("Merry Christmas, dears", and, strangely, Emily feels warmer for it). The fire crackles, melting down the sharpness of the cold. Your tree is brightly lit and empty of presents.

"I got you something," Emily confesses, thumbing along your cheek, "of course I did, it's upstairs. I'll get it if you want me to. I didn't know if—"

"Can I open it later?" You murmur. Emily nods, of course, yeah, hon, definitely—"I—thank you. I know I'll love it, I will, I'd just…I'd rather wait, a bit."

Emily's smile is small. "It's not going anywhere."

You nod, biting your lip. "Which is a bit hypocritical, I think, but—" You disentangle yourself from her and cross the living room in a couple hurried steps. Emily frowns, but you return quickly, inhaling a big breath, holding something in your hand.

A box. A gift-wrapped, bow-topped box.

A present.

"Merry Christmas." You smile softly, nervously.

Emily blinks. She sits up on the couch, her eyes pricking with heat. "Wh…? When did you—" She swallows the lump in her throat, reaching for your wrist to gently tug you back down, next to her. "When did you get this?"

"At the market," you admit. "I'd been trying to find something while we were looking around. I almost gave up, honestly—didn't know how I could get it without you noticing—but then you got that call." Your smile presses thin, a little sheepish. Then it fades, your face sobering. "I know I must have gotten you something, before, but I don't remember it and it didn't feel right to—I don't know, give you something I didn't know the value of. Not that I could find it, anyway." A laugh bursts out of you, more breath than anything, "I mean, I'm not sure if you'll like this, either, but it's—"

She pulls you into as fierce of a hug as she dares with your arm still in its sling. You're close enough that she can feel your breath as it gets trapped in your lungs, your free arm curling around her neck, fingers dipping into her hair. Heat throbs in Emily's skull, a thin film of tears blurring everything out.

She's too scared to speak, for a while. The lump is too big in her throat, even though she knows you feel everything else—the ragged edge to her breathing, the tears smearing on your skin, the fabric of your hoodie. Emily buries her face in your shoulder.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"There's nothing to thank me for." You murmur, rubbing wide circles between her shoulder blades. You let her stay there for a moment, undone by the entirety of you, wholly wilted against your chest. When she tries to force some stiffness into her shoulders, you lean back, thumb at the wetness under her eye and press a kiss there. "I'm sorry it couldn't be more."

"Hey, no." She shakes her head, her voice hoarse. Your smile softens. You brush another kiss on her cheekbone then press the box into her hands.

It's small, barely larger than her palm. Emily carefully unravels the wrapping, blinking the heat from her eyes.

What lays beneath is familiar: a jewelry box. She opens the lid to find a necklace glinting inside, gold and dainty, flames of a sun surrounding a pale gemstone.

"It's your birthstone," you explain, quietly.

Her nail catches on the delicate chain. She lifts it out of the box and thumbs the opal center of the sun, the stone still cool beneath her skin. It's something she would've picked for herself, a similar style to the necklaces she wears regularly, all strung up on your vanity.

Emily once again marvels at you.

-

She had never enjoyed the holidays. It was all too superficial, right from the start—the picture-perfect decorations, her mother's impeccably painted smile, the flawless dinners Elizabeth hosted. The show they put on, a loving family of three, a pretty ornament ringing hollow.

There was always a sense of fragility to it. Like if Emily fumbled, misstepped, said the wrong thing, all of it would come crashing down.

Celebrating on her own wasn't much better—the space around her always felt too empty, the shadows mocking. A pathetic tree in the corner of her living room with barely any ornaments was no Christmas. She didn't have anyone to exchange gifts with, no one closer than a colleague, anyway. Even in the silence of her various apartments, she'd feel like she was playing a part, yet again, her mother's too-firm grip on her shoulder, Emily's own voice whispering in her head—how futile it was, how desolate. Why even bother celebrating for a religion she abandoned decades ago?

But, she later realizes, a small party of two makes all the difference.

-

Before long, you've wound up back in bed.

If Emily weren't forcing her way through a bottle of ginger ale, she'd have found this a little bit amusing. You're both sprawled amidst the sheets, her with a blanket around her and you with Sergio on your chest, nursing your separate aches. Your eyes are closed, but she knows you're not asleep; you open them every once in a while, blink against the dim light and the rom-com playing halfheartedly on the TV, then close them back, a brief attempt at respite from your headache.

It's fully dark out, the spirit of Christmas carried into the bedroom by way of muffled music and colorful lights from the neighbors. The two of you are too limp to greet it.

"Look at the state of us." She mumbles wryly.

You make a sound in the back of your throat. "Some Christmas."

Emily still wouldn't have it with anyone else.

You open your eyes again and give Sergio a few slow pets. He melts into you, and your gaze flicks up, to hers. There's a smile there, half-hidden beneath the faint blur of pain.

"Can you tell me something?" You ask softly.

"Anything."

You rub Sergio's velvet nose. "What was it like, when we first met?"

Emily presses her cheek to the ginger ale bottle. She still remembers it like it was yesterday.

You were in the apartment across from hers. You'd both glimpsed each other in your comings and goings, acknowledged each other with faint smiles on the way out to work in the morning, in the elevator, but you hadn't really talked. Not until Sergio darted out of her apartment and into the open door of yours as you were bringing in groceries.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes profusely, her cheeks hot, "he's just a few months old—doesn't look like it, but he's a baby, really. I think he gets antsy when I'm not around." He'd been meowing at her ankles as she gathered her keys, and before she could catch him, he'd slipped out the door and across the hall.

"It's okay," you smile. The culprit is cradled in your arms like a baby, his purring audible even from where Emily stands at the threshold. He blinks slowly at you, yellow-green eyes slitting closed as you scratch between his ears.

Traitor.

"I'm Emily, by the way." She holds out her hand.

You shake it and introduce yourself. "Y/N. And who's this handsome guy?" You look down at him, your voice going tender.

Emily's mouth twitches. "Sergio." She confesses.

His ears perk up at the sound of his name and you laugh, bemused. "Well, hi, Sergio." You give him one last pet and hold him out for Emily to take. She slips him into her arms in the same baby-like hold.

He meows pitifully into her chest.

You shift against the doorframe, your smile hesitant. "I—uh, I don't mean to pry, but I noticed you're not around often. If you don't mind, I could watch him for you."

"Oh—" Emily's mind blanks. The sun hits you in this angle, turning you gilded. "Oh, no, I couldn't trouble you—"

"I don't mind." You interrupt. "Really, it gets kind of lonely here. We could keep each other company."

He does seem to like you.

Emily hesitates. "Are you sure?"

"Of course."

"It was…I don't know, it was unexpected." Emily says, smiling into the rim of her ginger ale. "We'd been seeing each other around, you know? Coming in and out. But we hadn't talked for…I'd say maybe two, three months."

"Shocker." You mumble into Sergio's fur.

Emily laughs quietly. She drains the last of her ginger ale, feels it settle in her roiling stomach, and rolls onto her side to face you. Her fingers sink into Sergio's fur, lightly sifting alongside yours.

"Someone made a timely escape." She murmurs fondly. Sergio turns his head and butts it against her hand, chirping. Emily drops a kiss on his forehead.

"I was…I was taking the groceries inside." You recount under your breath.

Emily perks up. "Yeah. Yeah, that's right." She knows she probably shouldn't, but can't help herself. "What else can you remember? Tell me."

She presses so close that Sergio protests and clambers off of your chest. You loop your arm around her neck, pull her down, close, your noses an inch apart.

"He jumped up on the coffee table. Knocked my phone off." Your mouth quirks. "I offered to watch him, and you gave me your number. You were going out somewhere, but," you pause, thinking. "You invited me over. The day after. I…" your brows scrunch. "I made—cinnamon rolls, I think? No, that's not it. I made something. Was it…those snickerdoodles, maybe?" You frown.

"Don't force it," Emily soothes, rubbing your arm. "You'll make your headache worse."

Your eyes shutter closed, a thick hum pouring from your throat. "Yeah, it's really killing me here. Think I need a kiss," you mumble. "To make it go away, y'know?"

Emily bites down on a smile. "Just one?"

You open your eyes and pretend to think.

Her heart thumps hard in her chest. She leans in and gives you your kiss, careful not to crush you or your arm. It's short, and you tilt your head up for another one, and another, and Emily's head goes perfectly quiet.

I love you. I love you.

"I love you," she mumbles.

You say it back.

The rest of the afternoon slips into the steady rhythm of the BAU, reports stacking into neat categories that turn people into timelines and events into structured summaries. You answer when spoken to, sign what needs signing, keep your attention anchored to whatever is directly in front of you. It feels easier than letting your thoughts wander where they naturally want to go.

By six o’clock, the bullpen has thinned out almost completely. Reid is still there, half buried behind a leaning tower of books and notes, murmuring to himself about statistical inconsistencies as if the answer might suddenly reveal itself if he says it quietly enough. Garcia had already swept through earlier, leaving behind a trail of color and a cheerful goodbye that echoed briefly through the open space before she disappeared into the elevator. Rossi followed not long after, keys already in hand, offering you a casual nod as he passed your desk.

When the last of the movement fades, you shut down your computer and sit back for a moment as the screen goes dark. You gather your files more slowly than necessary, aligning edges and corners with unnecessary precision before sliding them into the drawer, stalling without admitting it even to yourself.

“Heading home?” JJ’s voice comes from a few steps away, and when you look up, she’s already dressed in her coat, bag resting against her hip as she watches you with that familiar half-curious expression she tends to use when she’s not entirely done observing people yet.

You straighten slightly in your chair before answering her, glancing toward the elevator and then back at her as you pick up your jacket. “Yeah,” you say after a beat, slipping one arm through the sleeve as though it’s just another motion in a long list of things you’re doing. “You heading out too?”

A small smile pulls at her mouth as she adjusts her bag strap. “If I don’t leave now,” she explains, tilting her head slightly as if she’s still half-in conversation with someone else, “I’m going to have to justify to Henry why pancakes are apparently negotiable.”

The corner of your mouth lifts before you can stop it, a small reaction that doesn’t quite make it to anything more, and JJ notices immediately. “There it is,” she remarks softly, as if she’s been waiting for it.

You pause mid-motion, pulling your jacket on a bit slower than needed as you glance at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That smile,” she replies, fastening her coat with slow precision while still watching you, “I haven’t seen much of that this week.”

Your smile fades before it fully reaches your face, slipping away as easily as it came. “I’ve just been tired,” you answer, though it sounds more like something you offer than something you mean to explain.

“I get that,” she says quietly, glancing to the side before she steps toward the elevator.

You follow her gaze without meaning to, and that is when you notice it too. Emily’s office through the glass, the muted movement inside it, her standing at her desk mid-call, already halfway into something else even while still physically present here.

Something in your focus lingers a fraction too long.

“You’ve been doing that a lot,” JJ notes after a moment, quieter now, more observation than comment.

You glance at her. “Doing what?”

“Looking,” she answers simply, letting the word sit before she adds anything else. “At her. At that office. Like you’re always expecting something to change.”

That makes your attention snap back to her more quickly than intended.

“I’m not—” you start, then stop.

JJ doesn’t push. “I’ve just never seen all of those things happen at once,” she admits. “The anger, the command… the way she handled you out there.”

She watches your face for a second longer, then continues more carefully. “When she pulled you out of the field, she was your Unit Chief. That part made sense to everyone.”

A faint pause follows, just long enough for the hum of the bullpen to fill it. “But when she caught you before you hit the ground,” JJ adds, her expression shifting slightly, “that wasn’t your Unit Chief anymore.”

The elevator chimes softly behind you, doors sliding open as if inviting you to leave the conversation before it deepens. Neither of you moves.

You glance at JJ, already anticipating where she is taking this, and feel your body tighten before she even finishes the thought. “I don’t know what you mean,” the words smoother than they feel.

JJ tilts her head slightly, not challenging you, but not letting the answer settle either. “You do,” she states simply, as if she has no interest in arguing the point because she is already certain of it.

Her words echo in your mind, lingering in a way you don’t push away, and your gaze drifts toward Emily’s office almost on its own.

She is inside her office, one hand braced against the edge of her desk, the other holding a phone between shoulder and ear. She is listening, nodding once, already reaching for a file without sitting down. Everything about her looks operational, controlled, efficient.

But it is not her movements you notice, it is the weight in them. The way her shoulders sit just slightly lower than usual. The way she doesn’t fully pause between tasks, as if stopping would make something catch up to her that she has been outrunning since that day.

A faint tension tightens in your jaw before you even realize you’re holding it.

“She’s worried,” JJ says after a moment, her voice softer now. A faint crease forms between her brows as she studies your face. “And so are you, just in different ways.”

Your eyes drop first, almost reflexively. “I gave her a reason to be.”

“You saved a child’s life,” JJ remarks gently, “but you also ignored a direct order.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“It’s about her not being able to separate those two things when it’s you,” she states, one brow lifting slightly. “She can separate them with everyone else,” she continues. “She always has. That’s the job. That’s what she’s good at.”

A beat settles between you.

“But with you…” She stops herself there, as if deciding not to finish the sentence in the obvious way.

You look away again before she can. “I didn’t do anything different,” you insist.

JJ lets out a slow breath. “I know,” she admits. “You reacted the way you always do.”

You give the smallest nod. That much has never been in question.

“I’m not saying she made the wrong call. You were out there, you made the save. No one is arguing that.”

You brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear and angle yourself toward the elevator. The conversation has become uncomfortably personal, and every instinct tells you to end it before JJ continues.

JJ catches the movement, her eyes returning to you with quiet understanding. She folds her arms loosely across her chest. “I’ve worked with her long enough to know the difference between a decision and a reaction.”

“It was a reaction to a situation,” you offer, your voice a little unsure.

JJ shakes her head, certain. “It was a reaction to you.”

The words don’t feel dramatic when she says them. That’s what makes them stick.

A few desks behind her, someone laughs too loudly at something that has nothing to do with this conversation. The sound fades quickly again, swallowed by the bullpen’s usual rhythm, but it doesn’t reset the space between you.

“I’m not telling you what it means,” JJ adds after a moment. “I think you already know what it felt like.”

You don’t answer right away. The silence stretches just enough that the elevator gives up waiting and the doors begin to close.

At the last second, JJ reaches out and presses the button again, reopening them with a soft mechanical chime. “You don’t have to name it, but you should probably stop pretending it was only about the case.”

Her eyes stay on you, steady but not pressing. “And I think she already stopped pretending. That’s the problem.”

With that, JJ leaves you standing there. She steps into the elevator alone, while you remain where you are, the weight of the conversation settling too heavily in your chest for your feet to follow.

The drive home takes longer than it should. Every set of traffic lights seems determined to catch you, forcing you to sit in silence while the first drops of rain begin to gather on the windshield. By the time you leave the city behind, the drizzle has turned into a steady downpour, the wipers moving back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm that does nothing to quiet the thoughts circling your mind. JJ’s voice slips back in without invitation, followed by Morgan’s, and then Emily’s, each memory folding into the next until you can no longer tell where one conversation ends and another begins. You tighten your grip on the steering wheel when the light finally turns green, pressing a little harder on the accelerator than necessary, as though moving forward might be enough to leave the rest behind.

It isn’t.

By the time you reach your apartment building, the rain has soaked through your hair in the short walk from the parking lot. The key slips against the lock on the first attempt, your damp fingers refusing to find the right angle until you let out a quiet breath and try again. This time the mechanism gives with a familiar click. You step inside, nudge the door shut behind you with your heel, and let your keys fall into the ceramic bowl by the entrance.

The sharp clink echoes through the apartment.

For a moment, you simply stand there, your hand still resting on the doorknob while the sound fades into the silence around you. The rooms are exactly as you left them that morning, yet they feel strangely unfamiliar now, as though the conversation with JJ has followed you home and settled into every corner before you had the chance to arrive.

You shrug out of your jacket and drape it over the nearest chair before slipping off your shoes. One lands neatly beside the door. The other skids a little farther across the hardwood floor, and you watch it for a second without bothering to pick it up. Instead, you head for the bathroom, turning the shower on as hot as you can stand it. Steam quickly fills the small room, fogging the mirror until your own reflection disappears behind a veil of white, but even beneath the rush of water your thoughts refuse to quiet.

When she caught you before you hit the ground… that wasn’t your Unit Chief anymore.

You brace one hand against the cool tiles, your head lowering beneath the steady stream of water. It drums against the back of your neck, runs over your shoulders, and disappears down the drain, but the thoughts stay exactly where they are.

Dinner is little more than routine. You heat whatever happens to be in the fridge, eat half of it standing at the kitchen counter, then carry the plate to the sink without remembering what it tasted like. Hoping for a distraction, you pick up the novel lying open on the coffee table, sink into the couch, and manage only a few pages before you realize you’ve read the same paragraph three times without taking in a single word.

With a quiet sigh, you close the book and let your head fall back against the cushions.

Your gaze drifts toward the bedroom.

Emily’s jacket is still folded across the chair where you left it after washing it. You were supposed to bring it back days ago. Instead, it has remained exactly where it is, untouched except for the brief moments when your eyes linger on it a little longer than they should.

Almost without thinking, you cross the room. Your fingers brush lightly over the sleeve, tracing the fabric beneath your fingertips. You had washed it twice before hanging it to dry, convinced the scent would disappear with the second cycle. It hadn’t.

Even now, you can still remember the faint trace of sandalwood that had clung stubbornly to the fabric, and with it comes the memory you have been trying all week not to replay: Emily standing far too close, pulling the zipper of the jacket all the way to your chin because your hands had been shaking too hard to do it yourself, her palms rubbing warmth back into your arms with patient determination while she searched your face as though reassuring herself that you were still standing.

You let your hand fall away from the jacket and take a slow step back, forcing a little distance between yourself and the memory.

“Get a grip,” you mutter into the empty apartment.

The words sound hollow the moment they leave your mouth.

Around you, people begin to move the same way. Not together, but uncertainly, as though everyone is responding to a different version of the same moment. There is still no chaos. No panic. Everyone clings to the hope that they misheard the sound, that in a minute they will simply continue shopping, laugh about overreacting, and convince themselves it was nothing more than a misunderstanding.

As a woman to your left collides with a clothing rack, the sound is louder than you would like, you look toward Claire as she flinches. She is holding her phone in her hand, her thumb hovering over a chat. You look at her in confusion, your gaze dropping to her hand gripping the phone tightly, as if it could anchor her to something stable.

Claire looks at you with glassy eyes, opens her mouth, closes it again, and then holds the phone out to you. It is her chat with Emily.

“I texted her earlier,” she whispers, “Emily. I told her we were in the mall… well, I didn’t think anything would happen, I just… a few days ago she said something about avoiding crowded places, I think, or maybe it was more like advice, I don’t know, I didn’t—”

Her voice breaks before she can finish, panic beginning to take shape in every word as it spreads through her. You are still trying to process her words, to complete the puzzle.

“I just asked her if a mall counts,” she murmurs finally, her voice lower now, as if even the sentence itself feels too heavy to say out loud.

At her words, your focus sharpens. “Did she reply?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, but even as the question leaves your lips, you already know the answer.

Claire doesn’t respond. She simply stares at her phone, the message still unread.

The realization settles heavily between you. Emily Prentiss. Supervisory Special Agent. BAU profiler. The woman who had warned Claire.

Until now, those words had never really belonged to the woman you knew. Emily had simply been Claire’s godmother, warm, composed, someone who smiled across a dinner table and made even awkward conversations feel easy. The stories about her work had always sounded like they belonged to someone else.

Not anymore.

For the first time, you see her as the person those stories were about. A woman trained for moments like this. Someone who hunts the people everyone else runs from. Someone who knows exactly what to do while the rest of the world is still trying to understand what’s happening.

Several floors above you, Emily is already moving.

There is no hesitation in the way she advances through the corridor. Every order has already been given, every role already understood. Her team doesn’t wait to be told what comes next because they have done this too many times before. There is no room for explanation now. Only observation, decisions, and movement.

“Units, I need containment on all exits,” Emily says into her comms, her voice steady, stripped of any excess that could slow clarity. “We have a confirmed match to the behavioral profile. This is our suspect.”

There is no need to repeat what they already know. The profile has been built long before they arrive, reconstructed from previous incidents until the recurring patterns have become something far more reliable than speculation. Everyone on the team knows what they are looking for, knows the role they have to play the moment the first shots are reported.

“Luke, west corridor. JJ, coordinate the evacuation with mall security. Containment protocol is active. No engagement without clear visual confirmation.”

Emily doesn’t wait for an acknowledgement. She knows they have heard her.

As she continues along the upper level, her eyes move almost constantly, never lingering on a single point for more than a heartbeat. The glass storefronts reflect movement from every direction, multiplying silhouettes until civilians and officers blur into one another. The open architecture of the mall leaves very little room to disappear. It offers almost no protection to the people trying to escape, but neither does it offer much to someone trying to remain unseen.

That is the only advantage she allows herself to hold onto.

Her gaze drifts across the upper level before dropping to the floor below, unconsciously comparing what she sees to the profile that has accompanied her here. She isn’t looking for a face. She is looking for behaviour. For the next decision he is likely to make if he remains consistent with everything they already know about him. Patterns rarely disappear under pressure. More often, they become clearer.

Her attention settles briefly on the lower corridor before shifting again, recalculating, searching for the smallest inconsistency in the flow of people. And still, despite the discipline with which she forces herself to stay inside the present, one thought refuses to disappear entirely.

Claire.

Emily lets the thought go before it can become one. Not because she chooses to, but because there is no room for it. Her mind does what years in the BAU have trained it to do: separate what matters from what can wait. Anything without immediate operational value is pushed aside before it has the chance to distract her.

Yet no matter how hard she tries, Claire remains somewhere at the edge of her awareness. She thinks back to the message she sent Claire, hoping she listened to her.

And with her comes another memory, one she never intended to revisit. A kitchen filled with conversation, Claire talking far more than necessary, as she always does, and you sitting beside her, listening instead of competing for attention. Emily had caught herself looking at you more than once, noticing the way you watched people before speaking, as though you preferred understanding a room to filling it.

The memory lasts no longer than a heartbeat before it dissolves beneath the movement below. Something changes.

Emily notices it before anyone around her reacts. The flow of people begins to fracture in small, almost invisible ways. A man changes direction without finishing the step he intended to take. A couple stops walking for no apparent reason. Others glance over their shoulders, searching for something they cannot yet identify.

The crowd has started correcting itself and then a shot rings out. The sound tears through the open architecture of the mall, ricocheting off glass and polished stone until it reaches every level at once. For the briefest moment, the building seems to hold itself perfectly still. Then everything moves.

People scatter, each body moving on instinct. Some duck immediately, others remain frozen, trying to understand what they’ve heard before allowing themselves to believe it. Somewhere below, someone screams. Another voice follows. Then another.

Emily is already moving before the echo has fully faded. Her gaze drops to the lower level, searching for the point where the disturbance began. She still cannot see the shooter, but she knows he’s down there.

Down on the lower level, the sound reaches you very differently. It doesn’t become information. It becomes impact.

Claire’s hand clamps around your wrist so suddenly that it hurts, her fingers digging into your skin with enough force to make you wince. The pain feels almost welcome. It gives your mind something solid to hold on to, something real that is smaller than everything else threatening to swallow it whole.

For one impossible second, you wait for someone to laugh. For somebody to explain that it was a display collapsing, a balloon bursting, anything but what you already know it was. No one does. People begin running.

Someone crashes into your shoulder hard enough to send you stumbling sideways before another body forces its way past from the opposite direction. You would probably lose your footing if Claire weren’t still holding on to you.

“Keep moving!”

“Where’s my son?”

“Over here!”

The voices pile over one another until none of them belong to a single person anymore. Somewhere a child is sobbing. Someone is praying. Someone keeps shouting a name into the crowd, louder each time, until the words dissolve into the same raw panic as everything else around you.

“No, no, no!”

“Where is she?”

Every head turns toward a different part of the mall. Some people stare toward the upper levels, others toward the corridors branching off in every direction. Everyone is looking for an exit, or for the source of the shot. There is nothing to see.

Another sound comes again, somewhere deeper inside the mall. It tears through the building with the same merciless clarity as before. Your head snaps toward the corridor outside the store before you can stop yourself, your heart lurching so violently that it almost hurts. You keep your eyes on Claire because it feels easier than looking at everything around you.

Every few steps another shoulder crashes into yours, another stranger brushes past close enough that you catch fragments of perfume, aftershave or sweat before they’re swallowed by the crowd again. The air feels heavier now, thick with fear and the sharp scent of adrenaline, and for one absurd moment you realise you’re struggling to draw a full breath.

You force yourself to keep moving.

Until now, some small, stubborn part of you had refused to believe this could really be happening. It had searched for another explanation, another possibility, anything that would wake you from the nightmare steadily unfolding around you. That part disappears.

Without thinking, your free hand reaches for Claire’s arm and holds on, not because she is about to leave you behind, but because you need to feel something that hasn’t changed. Something solid. Someone real.

For the first time since the day began, the world no longer feels unpredictable. It feels terrifyingly certain.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers, her voice barely audible beneath the chaos.

You nod because you don’t trust yourself to speak. Still, you don’t miss the way the atmosphere in the mall begins to change. More and more heads turn upward instead of over their shoulders, and without thinking, you do the same. Claire has already stopped to look.

Figures move across the upper walkway. Dark tactical vests. Weapons held low, their movements calm and deliberate in a way that feels almost unreal against the chaos below. They aren’t running. They aren’t hesitating either. They spread out with practiced precision, each of them seeming to know exactly where to go before anyone has to say a word.

For a moment, all you can do is stare at the bold white letters on their vests. FBI. The word settles quietly in your mind.

Something inside you loosens, despite knowing the danger is far from over. Help is here. People who know what they’re doing. People who might be able to end this. Hope flickers through you for the briefest moment before reality catches up with it again. If the FBI is here, then this isn’t the kind of nightmare people simply wake up from.

Claire doesn’t hesitate. She catches your wrist again and pulls you toward a restaurant tucked between two clothing stores, its darkened windows shielding the people inside from curious glances but not from whatever is happening beyond the glass. You understand her intention immediately. Fewer sightlines. Fewer places to be seen.

You stumble after her.

The moment the door swings shut behind you, the noise changes. It doesn’t disappear, but the walls swallow enough of it that every sound becomes strangely muted. The smell hits you almost immediately. Coffee. Warm food. Sweat. Tears. Fear.

The restaurant is already crowded. People are huddled beneath tables, pressed against booths or crouched in corners with their phones clutched tightly in trembling hands.

“Please answer…”

“Dad?”

“Come on… come on…”

Some are crying openly as they call names into unanswered lines. Others whisper prayers beneath their breath.

“Please let them be okay.”

“Just let them answer.”

A woman sits completely motionless, staring at nothing, her phone still resting in her lap as though she has forgotten why she picked it up in the first place.

You drop into a crouch before you consciously decide to move, Claire guiding you toward the very back of the restaurant without ever letting go of your hand. She doesn’t stop until the two of you reach a booth tucked into the furthest corner, hidden as well as anything can be hidden in a place built almost entirely from glass. She lowers herself beside you, and for a few seconds neither of you says a word. All you can hear is your own breathing, far too loud inside your chest, your heartbeat refusing to slow no matter how hard you try to control it.

You press your palm against your knee, searching for something solid, something that hasn’t changed. It doesn’t help.

You force yourself to inhale slowly. One light. Two. Three. You count the ceiling lamps because numbers don’t change, because numbers are easier than listening to the panic rising outside. It almost works. Then someone screams. Your head snaps up before you can stop yourself.

Beside you, Claire goes completely still. “There,” she breathes.

You follow her gaze, squinting through the reflections on the glass until, for the briefest moment, you think you catch a figure moving across the lower level. Not clearly enough to make out a face, only a dark silhouette slipping through the crowd with a steadiness that doesn’t belong there.

Then another shot echoes through the mall.

For a moment, there is only the sound, suspended in the air, and the sudden certainty that whatever this is, it isn’t ending yet.

"I don't suppose your Splenda's run out?" She says without preamble, shooting for nonchalance.

You raise your brows and pick up the kettle as it goes off. Her charade is worn and tried: there's a whole box of the stuff squirreled away in her office, sequestered in the third drawer of her desk. This is also a familiar game, but, this time, you don't play your usual part.

You let her question hang as you pour the water into your mug, steam fogging your skin. She leans against the counter and crowds your peripheral vision, a blur of dark hues and the rich, familiar scent of her perfume. You see her arms fold.

She waits, silent, the heat of her gaze burning holes into your face as you set the kettle back down and grab your tea bag, bobbing it in the hot water.

"You know," you muse, still watching your tea deepen, "if you wanted to see me, you could've just said so."

Her heat presses an inch closer. "That wouldn't be too unit-chiefly of me."

You laugh, lifting the tea bag out and tossing it in the trash. As if no one knows of these little visits she takes up, the five to ten minutes of indulgence, a little break where she's no one but yours.

As if you don't enjoy them enough to have the gall to tease.

Emily makes a low, displeased sound in the back of her throat. You bite down on your smile, leisurely reaching for the sugar, spooning it in, and stirring it through your tea. Only after you toss the spoon in the sink do you look back up at her, your amusement poorly hidden, voice low enough to stay trapped just between the two of you.

"What do you want, chief?" You coax, tilting your head. "Tell me."

Emily's eyes go dark, glimmering. She glances about the room—steady and thorough, scanning the open, exposed doorway—a faint flush staining her skin.

Your smile breaks free when she turns her gaze back to you. There's a particular kind of delight you feel when you toy with her like this—especially when she gives in, settles so neatly into the palm of your hand. She knows it, of course.

It still hasn't stopped either of you.

"I wanted to see you," she says lowly.

"That's all?"

Her eyes drop to your mouth. It's a pleasant, tingling heat, blooming under your skin.

"No," she concedes.

In the solace of your home, maybe, you'd have dragged it out. But you're not at home and she's looking too unfairly good and—your last straw—she wets her lip with the tip of her tongue, sends fresh color blooming, and, really, truly, you're not thinking as you hook your fingers into her lanyard, wrap it around your fist, and use it to tug her into you.

She makes a little sound, surprised and gasping against your mouth. The heat of it burns in your blood. You feel her neck tilt to follow the lanyard in your grip and you have to break the kiss sooner than you'd have liked, before the awareness that you're at work completely fizzles out and you get lost in the haze, taking her bottom lip between your teeth, nipping at it to pull another sound from her—

"You have to ask for what you want, Emily." Your voice is only slightly strained, pitched low for her ears.

Her cheeks are awash with a blush. She blinks, but you can still see the slight, dazed look in her eyes.

"You're mean," she murmurs.

"I don't think I am." You thumb at the smooth slip of the lanyard still wound around your fist. "See, you didn't even have to ask."

Emily's hand finds the counter behind you, her arm slinging around your side and encircling you in her warmth. "So this is what I get for wanting a—"

"Hey there, lovebirds." A voice greets cheerily.

Alvez.

Emily whips around, her arm dropping to her side, your fingers letting loose the smooth fabric. You needlessly pick up your mug of tea, pressing its hot edge to your mouth.

Luke's eyes dip to the crinkled edges of Emily's lanyard.

"What?" She demands.

"Oh, nothing." He says in that exaggerated way of his, drawling the words out and making a big show of looking down at his watch. "It's just—well, you've been missing for a while and the team was getting jittery."

"The team." Emily says flatly.

You hide your laugh in a stinging sip of tea.

"You're not often missing, is all," he explains, his tone grave, a bold-faced lie. It clashes entirely with the boyish gleam in his eyes, the little twitch in his mouth.

Emily rolls her own eyes and turns back around. "A person can't even pee anymore." She mutters, grabbing her mug.

"I mean, you don't usually pee on the eighth floor, is all I'm saying."

Emily's eyes shut closed, the skin of her cheeks still dusted pink. "Alvez," she says without turning back around, "if that's all you have to say, I suggest you go back to your desk, quietly, and find something more useful to do. I can list out everything in your backlog if you'd like."

Luke begins to say something, but Emily quickly shuts him down.

"And no detours to Penelope's."

His mouth snaps shut. He dips his head, his sheepish, smiling eyes sliding over to you.

"Yes, Ma'am."

Emily is obsessed with touching you any chance she gets.

It's surprising, really, the way she starts clinging to you when she finally feels like she's allowed to. When you're at hers, she keeps a hand on your hip while you cook dinner, she likes laying on the couch with you on top of her as you watch some random reality show. Emily keeps her face pressed into your neck, breathing you in, whenever she can.

And it's good. God, it's great. You want it all the time, you love how much she enjoys it, how close she keeps you. There's only one problem.

You want her. Constantly. And it seems like every time you try to move on to something more, she retreats. She kisses your cheek, your forehead, ending the makeout session as soon as it starts.

You don't push, you haven't been going out that long, anyway, and maybe she's still uncomfortable. Maybe you thought she’d be fine with it earlier because you were friends before, yet that might be the reason she's still uncertain, you're not sure. Although trying not to take it to heart is hard, especially when it seems like she doesn't want you as much as you want her, and you don't know if that's because she doesn't see you as her equal.

Being younger than her never really mattered to you. Ever since you started at the BAU you thought she was beautiful, attractive, sure, but she treated you like a colleague worthy of respect, even as her subordinate. Emily never made you feel like you were less than her or your teammates, which is why you never really thought about her age or yours as anything of a problem.

Perhaps you were wrong and she sees yours as a problem.

But there are moments in which you can't believe these conclusions. There are moments, when you're having dinner or just talking on a rare free night, that she looks at you and you can swear she wants you, too. At this point, anything could be true. You enjoy spending time with her, you care about her, and this one thing won't put you off a relationship that you believe can be really good, for the both of you. But this liminal stage ends up confusing you anyway.

Sometimes, your frustration gets the best of you.

You're on her couch, after dinner on a night when you're mercifully still in town. Emily never kisses like she doesn't mean it. She grips your hair and holds your jaw with her other hand, she tilts your chin slightly lower so she can get her tongue into your mouth. Emily sucks on your bottom lip like she's starved for it, then dives back in, leisurely feeling as you open up for her.

Scratching the back of your neck, she lets out a surprised sound when you pull her closer by the cheeks. When you get a leg thrown over her lap, though, she lays a hand on it softly, touching your thigh as if she's afraid you might break. Emily slows the kiss, kisses your chin, then your cheek, and still, with her lips swollen and cheeks red from effort, she smiles like nothing's happened.

“We should watch a movie,” she says, reaching over for the remote. You grip her arm, not letting her get away that easily.

“You're kidding me, right?”

Emily frowns, seemingly genuinely confused — if you weren't so frustrated you might've even found it cute. “I don't know what you mean.”

You chuckle humorlessly, resigned. This is fine. It's just something you'll have to get over. “Never mind,” you say, bringing your leg back from where it still rested over her, almost managing to stand up before she touches your hand.

“What's happening?” She asks, so lost that you actually feel bad. Seriously, what is she doing to you? “Did I do something?”

“No,” you sigh, “it's me. Pick a movie, I'll be right back.”

Emily's still frowning, but you get up, turning away from those sorry eyes. You can't help but feel bad that you put that look on her face when she hasn't done anything to earn it.

In the bathroom, you throw some water on your face. Chuckling ironically at yourself because the feel of the lace lingerie you have on is starting to annoy you. Lately, you've been choosing aesthetics over practicality with your underwear, just in case. Apparently, it was futile.

Reaching under your shirt, you remove your bra, tired of the uncomfortableness it brings. In a t-shirt of Emily's, you can barely tell you're not wearing it, anyway. Since you came straight from work, all you have is your laptop bag, not even pajamas in it, so she's lended you some. You figured you'd keep the lingerie on, again, just in case. Deciding it doesn't really matter, now, you get out of the bathroom and throw it in your bag, cursing the fact that you can't do the same with the bottom piece currently digging into your hips.

Back in the living room, Emily is sitting in silence. She's got a silk set on, some button-up shirt and pants that feel as soft as they look. You like seeing her this casual, comfortable at home, with you. Knowing you should focus on that, you smile at her when you sit back on the couch, your arms touching so she knows you're not upset.

“I couldn't choose,” she says in a low voice, sounding oh-so-dejected, pointing at the television.

Okay, does she have to make it this hard?

“I’m sorry, Em, I was just… upset about something else.” You try, touching her shoulder, letting her silver hair slip through your fingers. “I didn't mean to take it out on you.”

Emily shakes her head, a soft, yet genuine, smile on her face. “Don't worry about it.”

Biting your lip, you nod, still unsure but deciding to take her word for it. “There's a new thriller I thought you might like,” you change the subject, taking the remote from her hand and delighting in the fact that she snuggles up against you, her head on your shoulder, one of her arms around yours.

This is fine. This can be enough.

In bed, Emily has a terrible habit of scrolling through her work e-mails before you turn the lights off.

It usually ends in her getting annoyed at something or someone. She sighs, mutters about how she needs to stop looking at her phone before bed, then does it again then next night.

Tonight's no different. The only different thing is you're sitting next to her, leaning back against the headboard and reading a book, one you've read a thousand times. More passing your eyes over the words than actually absorbing them.

Emily huffs, takes off her glasses, places her phone on the nightstand, screen turned down. She turns on her side, still half propped up by pillows, and scoots closer. Her arm finds your waist, her head leaves the pillow to rest on your shoulder.

“Read it out loud?” She asks, her voice muffled against your skin.

You don't add anything, only start reading to her from the top of the page. You know she's not asking to know the story, she just wants to hear your voice.

“As the king made no answer, the little prince hesitated a moment. Then, with a sigh, he took his leave. // ‘I make you my Ambassador,’ the king called out, hastily. // He had a magnificent air of authority…”

The cold tip of Emily's nose touches your skin where your shirt’s moved a little. She presses it closer, breathes you in. Leaves a featherlight kiss on your shoulder.

You close the book harshly in the middle of a sentence.

“You must be tired,” you say, placing Le Petit Prince on the nightstand. “We should get some sleep.”

Emily frowns, “you're acting weird.”

You look away to turn off the lamp. She catches your hand.

“Talk to me.” She asks, her voice so syrupy as it usually is this time of night. “Please?”

Taking a deep breath, you buy some time. Not nearly enough.

“Did I do something?” She asks again, crestfallen now. Your chest physically hurts.

“No, you didn't do anything.” Taking her hand, you lace your fingers together. “I mean it, Emily. This is my issue, I'll get over it soon.”

Frowning, “I’d like to help.”

You shake your head, kiss her cheek. “I think,” you whisper, “no, I know, you're the best thing that's happened to me in a long time.”

Emily only looks at you, eyes big and searching. Her profiler skills working at full speed and, still, she can't figure you out.

“I don't want to ruin it,” you finish. Squeeze her hand for good measure, to let her know you're there.

“I'm so confused,” Emily says, sitting up properly. “Why won't you tell me what's wrong?!”

“Why won't you have sex with me?!”

Alright, blurting it out was not how you wanted to do this.

You close your eyes, cheeks flaming. “Forget I just said that.”

When you look up, Emily looks… stunned. Her lips are softly parted and her eyes are wider than usual. Too bad you really want to kiss her.

“Let's go to sleep.” Imploring now, you try to pull your hand away. She doesn't let you.

“I'm sorry-” She starts, but you interrupt her.

“No! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say it like that, I was-”

Emily shuts you up with a kiss. Pressing your lips together, she holds your face in place as she kisses you. She doesn't deepen it, but she lingers, then softens.

“Stop talking,” she murmurs against your lips. “Please.”

You nod, pressing your lips together.

“I'm sorry. I didn't realize this was weighing on you.” Her voice is collected, like she sounds in the conference room. You want to shake her, tell her to yell or show that this is affecting her, too. “I never wanted to make you feel unwanted.”

“I don't-” You interrupt yourself before she can because, really, what can you say to that?

“I do want to have sex with you,” she says, calmly, but there's a light rubor to her cheeks, like it's hard for her to say it.

“Then- Why? Do you think it's too early? We've known each other for over a year.”

Emily nods, moving the hands that were resting on your shoulders to grip your own hands. “I don't think it's too early, I…” She shakes her head. “I don't know how to explain it.”

“Emily,” you say, finding that you really want to get that disheartened look off her face more than you want an explanation. Trying to convey in your tone what you feel about her. “You don't have to explain anything. We’ll do it when you're ready. If you're never ready, we'll never do it.”

“Simple as that?” She asks, slightly incredulously.

You shrug, “simple as that. I just wanted to know why, but that doesn't matter.”

Emily smiles, a small thing that you might've missed if you weren't paying attention. “You're so young,” she starts, confusing you again. It must show on your face because she quickly continues. “I'm not. And I don't look like I did at thirty anymore, or even forty. And maybe you should be with someone like that.”

Scoffing, you can't believe what she's saying. “You think I want to be with anyone else? I've been crawling up the walls because you won't touch me!”

Emily shakes her head negatively, “I believe you. When you say you want me, I can trust it. But I don't think you should.”

You cross your arms, dislodging her hands from yours. “That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but nothing really comes out.

“I don't care that you don't look like a wax figure. Do you care that my stomach isn't perfectly toned? Or that I have acne scars on my back? Cellulite?!”

“Of course not, but-”

“Emily!” You interrupt her. “I love you. God, why is that so hard for you to understand?”

She blinks. Silence engulfs the room.

“I was gonna wait, because we've only been together a month or whatever… But we've been friends for so long, and fuck it, it's out there now.” Holding her face between your hands, you bring it close to yours. “I love you. And I want you like I've never wanted anyone in my life.”

“I love you,” she whispers back. But you don't have time to react before Emily kisses you, holding you in place by the shoulders, forcefully pressing your lips together like a woman starved.

Moving a hand over her side, she grips it before you can leave it there, holding it in her lap and pulling back from the kiss. Emily touches her forehead to yours, breathing hard with her eyes closed.

“Sorry, I-” She gasps out. “I didn't think it'd be this hard.”

You nod, placing a comforting kiss to the side of her mouth. Pushing her softly against the pillows, you lean over her a little, but not enough to completely cover her body. Trying your best not to be overwhelming, you look all over her face, taking note of her breath coming in hard pants and her hands clenched in the fabric of your shirt.

“Emily.”

She opens her eyes, not realizing she'd even closed them in the first place. They're wide, searching your expression.

“Take a deep breath,” you suggest, touching your cheek to hers when she does so. “Again.” Matching her breaths, you keep her under you for a moment, hoping she can finally relax. “I'm going to tell you exactly what I'm going to do, and if you need me to stop, tell me, alright?”

Lifting your head, you lock eyes. Emily nods, pressing her lips together and managing to keep her breathing normally paced.

“I'm going to kiss you, now.”

And you do exactly that.

At least this is familiar territory. Emily quickly melts into you, her mouth welcoming your tongue in a practised move. You don't touch her anywhere else, only keep one of her hands in yours, the other resting by her head on the mattress. She lets out a small sound of approval, her neck lifting to get closer, head tilting for the best fit.

When she comes up for air, you lower your face into her neck. “Here,” you whisper. “Okay?”

Emily hums a consent. You kiss below her ear, slow and wet, enjoying the taste of her skin in the way she hadn't let you before. You've been dreaming about this for weeks, months, and the reality of it is better than you expected.

Placing kisses down her neck, you reach the base of it, right where it meets the skin of her shoulder. A particularly hard kiss there leaves a slightly red flush in the shape of your mouth. Emily gasps above you, her free hand moving to grip your shoulder. You let her hold onto you, let her feel the assurance of your body over hers.

You take your time exploring her skin. The exposed area of her chest glistens and flushes where you've kept your lips on it, enjoying the taste and the way she shudders, her back unclenching, lowering back onto her soft sheets.

“Can I take your shirt off?”

Not even having dared to undo a button, you wait for her approval. Emily looks up at you, an ethereal vision with her cheeks red and her lip swollen where she bit it to contain her own whimpers. She doesn't say anything, so you move your hands to your (her) own shirt, slowly lifting it off yourself. For a second, you'd forgotten you'd taken your bra off in the bathroom, but the chill in the room quickly reminds you of it.

Emily looks at you intently, her eyes mapping every bit of exposed skin. She licks her lips, placing her hands on your waist and squeezing softly. You nod at her encouragingly.

Dragging her hands up, she keeps her palms under your chest, not going further. You feel your skin heat up at the attention, but don't move to cover yourself, letting her look as much as she wants to.

Emily looks into your eyes again, "take it off.”

You don't waste any time. Swiftly opening the buttons on her silk shirt, you lower your head to breathe in every amount of skin that is gradually shown. When it's completely open, you kiss her sternum, the valley between her breasts, her stomach, but you don't move to push it off her body. Slowly, you taste every bit that's uncovered, feeling as Emily's hips move on their own accord, lifting up from the bed ever so slightly, a sight that you'll soon learn means she's aroused.

Getting your arms under her back, you pull her up, touching your uncovered chest to hers. “I'm going to take it off, now.”

Everything is said in your lowest tone, as if you're trying not to spook a scared stray. When Emily nods, you finally rid her of her shirt, throwing it somewhere on the floor and not caring to look. There is a much more interesting view right in front of you.

She lies back down, her eyes locked on yours, her hands gripping you at the height of your ribs. You move down with her, trying to stifle a smile but losing the battle, kissing her chest so she can't feel embarrassed.

“You're perfect,” you murmur against her skin, causing her to shiver at the warmth in your voice. Keeping your promise, you continue, “I'm going to taste you, now.”

Taking a nipple into your mouth, you smile around it when she whines. Sucking slightly, the sounds she lets out spur you on. This is so, so much better than you could've imagined. Emily moans when you move to her other breast, the cool air causing even stronger shivers on her wet skin.

After a while, when Emily's breathing is labored for an entirely different reason, you bring your face up to meet hers. You can never get enough of the way she kisses, so you ask for it again. A thumb on her chin, pressing it down to guide her jaw, loving the way she relinquishes her body to yours. Your tongues meet heatedly, and you moan at how she tastes, yet again. She groans in the back of her throat, gripping your hair strands and keeping you exactly where she wants you.

You touch her chest, taking care of it with your hands this time as she kisses you oh-so-sweetly, in that way only she can.

Coming up for air, you smile at the expression on her face, dazed and relaxed, at last. Surprisingly, Emily smiles back, a small tilt of her lips but a smile nonetheless.

“Can I take your pants off?”

She nods, running fingers through your hair to move it away from your face. Twisting it onto a low ponytail to keep it there, she runs her hands down your bare back, then your chest, mapping your body with her fingertips as best as she can reach.

You remove her pajama pants, leaving her underwear on for now. Closing your eyes, you try to center yourself. She's everything and she really has no idea.

“I really didn't plan for this,” Emily murmurs, pulling you back to the moment. She's gesturing at her underwear, you notice, a simple, black cotton pair.

“It's perfect.”

Standing up, you take off your, also borrowed, sleep shorts. Emily lifts her eyebrows at the sight of your lace bottoms.

You smile, “just in case.”

Emily, mercifully, laughs. A loud, free thing that settles your worry.

“You can stop narrating now,” she says, pulling on your hand so you straddle her hips.

“You sure?”

She nods, pulling on the back of your neck to kiss you.

As you kiss, you feel her hips bucking up into yours. Your hands find her body again, relearning every curve that you, for a while, thought you'd never get to see. Finding the edge of her underwear, you only look at her, waiting for a sign of discouragement. Emily only nods.

“Fucking hell,” you whisper unconsciously after finally, finally, getting her naked. “I've been wanting to do this for months.”

Emily lifts an eyebrow, “months?”

You hum in agreement, growing more speechless by the second. Kneeling between her thighs, you stare at her unabashedly, earning an impatient look from Emily, who clears her throat. “Sorry,” you grin up at her, delicately lifting one of her legs onto your shoulder. Emily closes her eyes as her cheeks heat up.

“You're perfect.” It feels like you can't say anything else. You desperately want her to understand that you've never meant anything more than this. “Fuck, Emily, you're stunning.”

She opens her eyes, looking away quickly when she notes the flame in yours, her face turned to the ceiling. You let her have it, not wanting her to be uncomfortable, and start kissing the inside of her thigh where it's resting near your face.

Her skin erupts in goosebumps. You can smell her so strongly from where you lay, your mouth starts salivating almost immediately.

In the end, you don't know if you taste her more for her pleasure or yours. Every minute that passes with your head between Emily's thighs, you feel yourself get more and more aroused. You know you're just about to become addicted to her, you'll want to do this every hour or every day and it's gonna be so hard to not jump her every morning in the office.

The sounds she lets out are a spectacle apart. Her throat raw from moaning, the whimpers and gasps that she produces every time you find just the right spot. Every time that deliciously raspy voice hits your ears it spurs you on, when she calls please! into the ceiling, when she keens as you slip a finger into her.

Two fingers pulling forward, your mouth sucking precisely on her clit — you learn that's the perfect recipe. Emily cries out, telling you not to stop, telling you it's exactly right, and just like that, don't stop, fuck.

There's barely a breathy, broken, “baby, I'm so close” before she comes into your mouth. Her thighs shake and her hips try shooting up as you hold her down, keeping her close and still with your tongue on her, tasting as she comes down. Her back arches in the most stunning arch and you want to do it all over again, keep doing it, all night, all week, if she'll let you.

When she pulls your face away, gripping your hair strands and trying to stop you, you whine at the separation.

Once you're face to face again, you pout jokingly at her. “I was enjoying that.”

Emily smiles, “yes, well, I need a minute.”

She brings you in for a kiss, groaning as she tastes herself on your tongue. You feel the wetness on your chin passing onto her face, your kiss messy in the best way possible. Emily nips on your bottom lip, then beams at you.

“I don't know why I was so worried.”

You shrug, “I don't know, either.” But your eyes soften in understanding. A kiss on her cheek to tell her you've got her.

“Your turn?” She asks, grabbing your hips with her hands already under the waistband of the lace. Emily keeps them there, giving you the same time you gave her. It's sweet, even if you've told her you were crawling up the walls, and that she can probably feel the damp spot on her thigh from where you straddle her.

“I'm not done yet.”

Getting up again, you remove your underwear, then sit down next to her and pat your lap playfully. Emily rolls her eyes, but complies, straddling your own legs this time.

Gently moving her legs where you want them, you get one thigh over hers, the other under, and she swiftly adjusts herself when she gets your intention. She keeps herself lifted, not resting her weight onto you yet, leaning down to touch her forehead to yours, more easily as you're slightly propped up against the headboard.

You hold her hips firmly, guiding her down to bring your centers together. Emily closes her eyes, shivering.

Kissing below her ear, you whisper, “ride me?”

Emily sighs next to your face, hiding hers in your neck. “I'm not twenty anymore.”

“That doesn't mean anything,” you say, taking her earlobe between your teeth and enjoying the way she shudders. “I'll guide you, hm?”

She doesn't say anything, but she nods, and her hips give a slight, barely there, thrust forward. You both moan in unison.

Keeping a tight grip on her hips, you encourage her to move.

It's dramatic, sure, but you feel like you've died and gone to heaven in the span of a few seconds.

Murmuring in her ear about how good she looks, how well she rides you, you delight in her needy whimpers. Emily lets out these enticing little gasps where she hides her face in your neck.

Still guiding her movements with a hand, you take another to touch her back softly, caressing the skin and feeling as beads of sweat start to form from the exertion. You don't stop praising her out loud, the vibration of your voice emboldening the undulation of her hips, and Emily grips the hand that's resting right there, a bruising hold that keeps you anchored.

It takes a little trial and error, but you find the perfect rhythm together. She lifts her head when she's getting close. Her neck strains as she approaches orgasm, you've noticed, her entire body tensing in expectation.

As her breathing gets more labored, her brows furrowing from the effort, you think you've never seen someone this beautiful, and you tell her just so. Her cheeks flame, still so unused to praise, but it still spurs her own, her thighs burning now from the merciless pace she sets. With a particular twist of her hips, she slightly moves off where you need her the most, but she looks so ruined, so gorgeous, almost reaching her peak, that you don't say anything. You have time. Now, you only grip her harder, letting her take what she needs from you.

Telling her how good she rides you, how perfect she looks above you, you watch in ecstasy as her back arches and she comes again, an almost sob of relief leaving her lips.

When she falls forward, spent, you wrap your arms around her and kiss her temple, then wherever you can reach. You whisper that you love her, she answers with a squeeze of your arm, still catching her breath.

“You've ruined me,” she says when she finally finds her voice again.

“I did no such thing.”

Turning her face to look at you, your noses brush together. “You probably fixed me.”

“Don't be silly,” you joke, nipping at her nose. “There was nothing to fix.”

“Huh,” she considers, pressing your lips together sweetly, like she can't get enough. “Somehow, I almost believe that.”

You beam. That was all you really wanted.

At first, you had told yourself it wasn’t the suspension that bothered you. Two weeks behind a desk wasn’t the end of the world. You’d survived paperwork before. It was everything that came before it. The way she’d looked at you standing beside the pond. The way she’d said Agent Y/L/N.

You rub your thumb absentmindedly over the edge of the file. The paper catches against dry skin.

“Morning.” JJ slows beside your desk with a coffee balanced in one hand and a folder tucked beneath her arm. She offers you an easy smile, the kind that usually coaxes one out of you without effort.

“Morning.”

She studies you for half a second longer than necessary before setting the folder down. “These are from Quantico. Emily wants them reviewed before lunch.”

You nod. “I’ll get started.”

“No rush.”

“There usually is.”

JJ smiles a little wider. “Fair.”

She lingers. Normally, this is the part where one of you says something completely unrelated to work. You’d ask about Henry. She’d complain about Will leaving every cabinet door open in the kitchen. Maybe she’d tease you about the book you’ve been carrying around for three weeks without getting past chapter four.

Instead, she shifts her weight. “Well…”

You glance back at the paperwork. “I should probably get these done.”

“…Yeah.” She gives your shoulder a light squeeze before walking away.

You don’t miss the quick glance she throws toward Emily’s office. Emily has been there since before you arrived. The blinds are half-open, and every now and then your eyes wander there before you catch yourself and redirect them back to the report in front of you.

She notices. Of course she notices. Emily always notices. A file lands softly on your desk. “This one can wait.”

You look up. She’s standing beside you with another folder tucked against her side, dressed in a charcoal blazer with the sleeves pushed carelessly to her forearms. A mug of coffee rests in one hand, though it looks untouched.

Your gaze flicks to her face for only a moment before settling on the file she just placed in front of you. “I’ll finish this one first.”

“It’s not urgent.”

“Good.” You smooth the corner of the report beneath your hand. “I’d hate to fall behind on my desk duty.”

A small crease appears between her eyebrows. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

You slide another document into place. “I’m working.”

“I can see that.” The words hang there. Around you, the bullpen carries on as if nothing has shifted. Morgan laughs at something Rossi mutters under his breath. Reid crosses the room with three books balanced precariously against his chest. Someone’s printer jams.

Emily doesn’t move. “You’ve barely looked at me all morning.”

Your fingers pause over the keyboard. “I didn’t know eye contact was part of desk duty.”

For the first time since she walked over, something flickers across her face. Not quite annoyance. Not amusement either. “You’ve still got jokes,” she says.

“I’ve got paperwork.” You tap the stack of files with the back of your pen. “Figured I’d embrace the assignment.”

A corner of her mouth twitches despite herself. “You always had both.”

You nod once, your attention returning to the report. “Guess today’s different.”

The words come out a little sharper than you intend. Emily hears it. The crease between her brows deepens almost imperceptibly before she straightens. “If you need anything—”

“I’ll ask.”

She studies your face another second, then gives one slow nod. “All right.”

She turns back toward her office.

Only once she’s disappeared behind the glass door do you allow yourself to look up. Her coffee is still sitting on the corner of your desk. She forgot it. No. You know better. She never forgets her coffee. You wrap your fingers around the mug before it cools completely and carry it across the bullpen.

She looks up when you knock lightly against the open door. “You left this.”

Emily glances at the mug, then back at you. “I did.”

You set it beside her laptop. “There you go.”

You turn before she can say anything else. Emily watches the empty doorway for several seconds before reaching for the mug. It isn’t until she takes the first sip that she realizes her coffee has gone cold.

By Wednesday, the distance has become routine. Not obvious enough for anyone outside the team. But painfully obvious to everyone inside it.

You still answer Emily’s questions. You still finish every report she hands you. When she asks for a profile comparison, it’s sitting in her inbox twenty minutes later.

Professional. Polite.

Every conversation begins and ends exactly where it has to. Nothing spills beyond the edges anymore. Morgan notices first. He drops into the chair opposite your desk with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball, spinning a pen lazily between his fingers.

Morgan drops into the chair opposite your desk with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball, spinning a pen between his fingers as though he’d been waiting all morning for an excuse to stop working.

“You know,” he begins, leaning back just enough for the chair to protest beneath him, “I’ve been trying to figure out what this reminds me of.”

You continue typing, your eyes fixed on the report in front of you. The cursor blinks patiently at the end of the sentence you’ve been pretending to revise for the past minute. “Mhm.”

“It finally hit me.”

“I’m sure it did.” You don’t look up. If you do, he’ll take one look at your face and know exactly which office you’ve been trying very hard not to look at all morning.

Morgan studies you for another second before snapping his fingers. “You two are acting like divorced parents.”

A laugh slips loose before you can stop it. You catch it almost immediately, lowering your head under the pretense of rereading a witness statement, but it’s already too late.

“There she is,” Morgan says, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

You glance up, knitting your brows together. “What?”

“That almost-smile.” He points at you as if presenting evidence to a jury. “Saw it.”

You smooth the corner of the report beneath your hand, buying yourself a second. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Morgan’s grin only widens. “You smiled.”

“I twitched.” One shoulder rises in a half-hearted shrug. Heat gathers in your cheeks anyway, annoyingly enough. You blame the coffee.

“Exactly.”

Rolling your eyes, you save the report with a decisive click and reach for the next file in the stack, grateful for something to occupy your hands. “I’ve got work.” Better to hide behind paperwork than risk looking through the glass wall of Emily’s office again.

Morgan follows your gaze anyway, even though you never let it get that far.

“So does Emily.”

Your fingers pause on the edge of the file before you can turn the page. Barely a second. Long enough for the paper to bend beneath your thumb, long enough for Morgan to catch it. You smooth it out as though that’s what you meant to do all along.

“I’m aware.” Your voice comes out flatter than intended as you finally turn the page, even though you’ve already read the paragraph twice.

Morgan leans forward, resting his forearms on your desk. His expression loses some of its usual playfulness, curiosity quietly taking its place. “Then why does she keep staring at you?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” you reply.

Morgan doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he watches you with the same patient look he usually reserves for suspects who are only halfway through talking themselves into a confession.

“That’s funny,” he says eventually.

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because you’ve been avoiding one particular spot in this bullpen all morning.” He nods almost absently toward the glass office without taking his eyes off you. “Funny how people only work that hard not to look somewhere when they’re already thinking about what’s there.”

For a moment, the bullpen seems to recede into the background. Phones continue to ring, keyboards clatter, someone laughs near Garcia’s desk, but it all blurs into a steady hum.

You don’t turn around. You don’t need to. You know exactly which office he’s talking about. “I’m not doing this.”

“Doing what?” he asks, the picture of innocence.

“This.” You gesture vaguely between the two of you. “Whatever this conversation is.”

Morgan lets out a quiet chuckle, leaning back in his chair as if he has all the time in the world and nothing better to do than watch you work your way around the subject. “Having a conversation?”

“You profiling me?”

“I don’t need to,” he answers, the grin softening at the edges, losing some of its usual teasing edge. “I’ve known you too long for that.”

You look away first, turning back to the monitor as if the blinking cursor has suddenly become the most interesting thing in the room. It keeps pulsing at the end of a sentence you stopped reading minutes ago. You click into the document anyway, but the words don’t settle anymore; they scatter before they form anything useful.

“I’ve just been keeping things professional,” you say, more out of reflex than intent.

Morgan doesn’t respond immediately. The silence that follows feels less like a pause and more like he’s choosing where to place the next piece carefully, as if the conversation has moved beyond teasing without either of you agreeing to it.

Eventually, he exhales through his nose, a faint shake of his head accompanying the movement. “Professional,” he repeats, as though testing how the word sits in the space between you.

You keep your focus on the screen, though your attention has long since drifted.

“That’s what you’re calling it.”

Your hand hovers briefly over the mouse before settling again, a small, almost unconscious adjustment that gives you something to do.

Morgan leans forward slightly, forearms resting on your desk, his voice quieter now. “Look, I’m not judging you.”

The shift in tone makes your grip tighten just enough to notice, and from the corner of your eye you see his gaze flicker down for a moment before returning to your face.

“She was pretty shaken after the pond,” he adds, more carefully this time, like he’s stepping around something fragile rather than pointing it out.

That lands differently. Not sharply, but with weight. Your fingers still against the mouse. Not dramatic, not obvious, just a fraction of hesitation that Morgan definitely catches.

He doesn’t push it further immediately. Instead, he watches you for a beat longer, then continues in a lower voice. “She didn’t stop talking about it for the first hour back at the BAU. You know that, right?”

“I was there,” you reply, though your eyes don’t leave the screen.

“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “You were.”

The space between the words feels heavier than the words themselves.

“She was worried about you,” he adds, and this time there’s nothing teasing left in it.

The cursor on your screen keeps blinking. You realize you’ve stopped seeing it. Your hand moves again, not to type, just to scroll, as if motion alone can reset something that has already shifted. “I’ve just been keeping things professional,” you say, but it comes out quieter than before, flattened by something you don’t name.

Morgan studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable in that way he gets when he’s decided he’s said enough and anything more would only make it worse or clearer. “Sure,” he replies at last.

Not agreement. Not contradiction. Just Morgan, letting it sit. And before the silence can settle any further, the glass door to Emily’s office swings open.

Emily steps into the bullpen with a file tucked beneath one arm. Her gaze lands on Morgan first, though you catch it lingering in your direction for the briefest moment before she looks away again.

“Can I steal Morgan for a minute?” she asks.

Morgan glances between the two of you, a knowing smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “You can certainly try,” he replies, pushing himself out of the chair with an exaggerated groan. “Can’t promise I’ll come back.”

Emily rolls her eyes. “I’ll take my chances.”

He shoots you one last look as he passes, somewhere between amused and concerned, before disappearing into Emily’s office. For the briefest moment, Emily’s eyes flick to yours. You lower yours to the report before either of you can mistake the glance for something more.

The bullpen feels strangely empty without Morgan’s running commentary. You manage another hour before hunger finally pulls you away from your desk.

The break room is blissfully quiet for once. Someone has abandoned half a box of donuts on the counter, the lid folded back as though they meant to come back for the last few and never did. You inspect the remaining selection with far more concentration than a pastry probably deserves.

One powdered. One plain. One chocolate. The decision is easy.

You slide the chocolate donut onto a paper plate just as the coffee machine lets out its final hiss. The smell of fresh coffee fills the room while you reach for one of the chipped BAU mugs lining the shelf.

“You always pick the chocolate one.” Emily’s voice comes from the doorway.

Your shoulders stiffen before you can stop them. Usually, you hear her long before she reaches you, the measured rhythm of her footsteps, the quiet click of her heels against the hallway floor. Today, she’d managed to catch you completely off guard.

You busy yourself pouring coffee into the mug, watching the dark stream rise toward the rim instead of looking over your shoulder. “There was one left.”

A faint chuckle follows. “You would’ve picked it anyway.”

The corner of your mouth threatens to lift. “Probably,” you admit, reaching for the sugar bowl.

Emily steps inside the kitchen, unhurried. She leaves enough space between the two of you that you could walk past without brushing against her, yet somehow the room feels smaller the moment she enters. The scent of fresh coffee mingles with her familiar trace of sandalwood and gardenia.

Your fingers tighten around the handle of your mug before you deliberately loosen them again.

“You still taking too much sugar?” Emily asks, watching you tear open another packet.

“Depends who’s asking.”

“The person who watched you put four packets in yesterday.”

You glance down at the growing pile of empty wrappers beside your mug. “…Three.”

Emily smiles despite herself. “It was four.”

You tip another packet into the coffee, refusing to give her the satisfaction of looking smug. “I was having a difficult morning.”

Her smile softens almost imperceptibly. “You’ve been having a difficult week.”

The words settle quietly between you. Without thinking, you stop stirring. The spoon rests against the inside of the mug before tapping gently against the ceramic as you set it on the counter. Outside the glass wall, agents cross the bullpen carrying files, someone laughs at Garcia’s desk, a phone rings somewhere near JJ’s office. Life continues with its usual rhythm.

Inside the break room, everything slows. Neither of you reaches for the coffee.

Emily folds her arms across her chest, though the gesture looks more like she’s trying to give her hands somewhere to go than closing herself off. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You lower your eyes to the coffee again. The sugar has dissolved completely, but you stir it once more anyway, watching the surface ripple. “I’ve been working.”

“You don’t have to keep saying that.”

Your grip shifts on the spoon. “It’s true.”

Emily studies you in silence. “It’s not the whole truth.”

The spoon taps softly against the rim before you set it aside altogether. You rest both hands around the warm mug, letting the heat sink into your palms. “What would you like me to say?”

Her answer comes without hesitation. “The truth.”

For the first time all day, you meet her eyes. The room seems to narrow around the space between you. “What if that’s all I’ve been saying?”

Emily doesn’t answer. She simply holds your gaze, steady enough that looking away starts to feel suspiciously like surrender. For one reckless second, you’re tempted to see how long she’d keep standing there if neither of you blinked.

A voice calls her name from somewhere out in the bullpen. Emily closes her eyes briefly, the interruption drawing a quiet sigh from her before she looks back at you.

“We’re not done with this,” she says, her voice low enough that it almost disappears beneath the noise outside.

Then she’s gone. The scent of her perfume lingers for a few seconds after the door swings shut.

You remain where you are, staring into a cup of coffee that’s already beginning to cool. Only when you reach for the mug again does your gaze fall to the chocolate donut waiting untouched beside it. You’d forgotten it was there.

Except the car was already slowing to a stop. Too late.

“3B, tell him Delia sent you.” The driver gruffly broke the silence between them, cutting off the engine. “He shouldn’t give you any trouble, but if he does, just holler.”

She heard the doors unlock and stepped out right in front of the apartment building. She thought it rather bold of him to drop her off right at the lobby, but with no doorman this late at night, she just walked straight through with no one around to bear witness, thankfully.

The halls were certainly nicer than they were at her own place, if not as fancy as the journey to that penthouse. It felt like she’d lived a lifetime since that night, her heart had beaten quickly enough ever since to more than cover it.

Her coat hung uncomfortably loose over her frame no matter how tight she tied the belt, the lack of layers underneath meant her bare skin slid around in the lining like butter and only made her colder.

She took a second on the stairs to catch her breath, resting at the landing with the door that had the metal 3 screwed into it. It creaked on its hinges in a way that she knew would’ve been quieter had she just opened it faster, like in her own building.

3A to her left, 3C to her right, and 3B lay just ahead, beckoning her, with the busted mounted lampshade beside it standing out among the others she passed.

Was he even expecting her? What sort of a person received guests at this hour? If not, how could Bobby be sure he was even awake to get the message?

Unless that was now Casey’s job.

So she knocked, not with the gentle wrap of someone shirking their own presence, who would rather blend into the walls than be stood in front of them; but with the loud, desperately quick pounding of someone who just wanted this to be over with.

Even more so when she immediately knew the face that appeared on the other side.  

She hadn’t seen that face outside of shapeless black robes before, until the party. Until he stared down every inch of her atop his stocky build, until the only thing stopping him from pulling her into a dark room was the corpse on the bedsheets.

“Ms Novak, you—?” Judge Harriman was staring her down again, but his brow furrowed this time, finally recognizing the woman behind the concealer. “What on earth are you doing here, dressed like that?!”

Not that she had time to check before she was hurried out the backdoor of the club; but her makeup was probably smudged and halfway to melting off after her shift, her hair probably kinked to hell from being pinned down under the wig. Her platform heels at the end of bare legs brought her to his eye level, and were probably far from appropriate work attire.

And not that he was much more decent. His shirt and pants would’ve made up parts of a put-together suit earlier in the day, but white sleeves were now rolled to his elbows and several top buttons were undone, revealing a maze of dark and grey hairs across his chest and up his forearms.

She gulped. “… Sorry, Your Honor, I—"

“For heaven’s sake, get in here before somebody sees you—!”

He pulled her forward by the sleeve of her coat with a steel-like grip she didn’t have time to protest. She stumbled through with just enough time to glance back at the door slamming shut behind her, catching a final glimpse of the empty hallway before the heavy door made her jolt.

Her feet got a small glimpse of relief standing on the plush Turkish rug, a cozy living space ahead of her was centered around an electric fireplace and a carved mantel. A small antique breakfast table and chairs sat beyond the couch, the whole room frozen in a time before the foundations that kept it standing.

“Look whatever it is you need, can it wait?” He said sharply, placing himself across the room. “I’m expecting company any minute.”

Not that she would expect him not to be irritated by her presence in his home, under any circumstances. She did have previous, and from what she’d heard, was rather notorious among them for it. But the pitch black out the window, save for the tiny glimmers of the apartments across the street, gave her pause.

“At one in the morning…?” She enquired, taking in more of the space around her.

The coffee table in front of the maroon velvet chaise longue had something amber in a decanter, with two glasses, and only one still empty.

It dawned on her slowly. That there was only one type of guest who would call at this hour. And that, for all intents and purposes, it was she who fit the bill, now.

Because how else would someone like Delia get someone like Judge Harriman to open the door at this time, other than by appointment?

The nausea didn’t take long to resurface. It was as if fate – or something, someone, much more powerful – were forcing them together, rinsing and repeating, begging them to finally cross that line for whatever purpose.

She drew a sharp breath, her gaze falling to the border where the tassels of the rug ended and the dark wooden floor began. “… It’s me, Your Honor. Delia sent me.”

She looked up again just in time to watch his face fall into disbelief, bordering on abject horror.

“My God, Casey, what did you do?”

The slip in formalities might’ve come as a surprise, it might’ve even conveyed something resembling concern from him. But she wouldn’t answer that in there, obviously, instead letting her gaze fall again, taking a long bite of her lip.

He must’ve sighed to himself, or maybe at her, she couldn’t tell. “… I suppose it would be unwise of me to offer to take your coat.”

She bunched it tighter around herself in confirmation, the warmth from the fake fire doing next to nothing to beat out the chill from under the lining.

But she could see him thinking, connecting the dots. “That… that was you, at young Will’s party, I knew you looked familiar.”

“I was wearing a lot of makeup.”

“And I’d drank a lot of brandy.” He concurred. “Ms Novak, I apologize. If I’d known it was you I obviously wouldn’t have—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Because it didn’t, really. Because if it wasn’t going to be him, it would’ve been whoever got her hands on her next. Because if it wasn’t going to be her, it was going to be whatever girl in the little black dress he accosted next. Were it not for Ivy.

“No, no, it does matter,” he emphasized, “what on earth were you doing there? With all those other girls?! Wha—What’re you doing here?!” He gestured at her with both arms, “are you in some sort of trouble with these people?!”

“… One of the, other girls, is dead.” She said, refusing to answer, again. “Did you know that?”

“I did. Is that what brings you here?”

She shook her head, reaching into her pocket. The corner of the envelope poked her thumb before she got a grip on it and held it out, beckoning him back over. “They wanted me to give you this.”

He took it from her but refused to break his stare. Maybe it was frustration, maybe it was nerves on his part. But at least that made two of them. He breezed past her toward a set of drawers near the dining table, rooting around in the top one and pulling out a polished silver letter opener. He continued on in silence, the chair legs scraping on the floor when he sat, tearing it open while something clearly bubbled under the surface.

She couldn’t see it from where she still stood by the door, her fingers pressed against it for balance, his broad frame blocked whatever was on the paper that crinkled under his fingers. Her steps were too pronounced in those damn heels, each one echoing painfully down the hallway ahead of her by the time she reached the table.

Her thundering heart only made her stomach swirl more, gulping back the racing pulse. “… What does it say?” She asked, hesitantly.

“It’s from Ms Wilson.” He started, turning the page back and forth in his hand. “I’ve not to say anything about the party, obviously. Don’t co-operate. Any cases that land on my desk are to be dismissed by any means necessary…” He peeked back in the envelope, “there’s pictures…” he pulled out the glossy photos, the first in the small pile enough for them to fall to the wood and splay out to his horror, “oh dear god…”

Casey finally peered over his shoulder at the glossy prints. Some of them grainy, some of them very much not so, but all of them she clocked as being taken in the confines of that damn party. She recognized the marble countertop in the kitchen, the buckets of beer on ice atop it, all the other rooms pictured, following the familiar check-grey suit through each of them. Talking to some of the other guests, talking to some of the other girls; and back in the kitchen, talking to Lucy.

“Shit.” She let the word spit itself out a little louder than she anticipated, but he certainly didn’t notice nor care, what with the dilemma now confronting both of them.

“… They’re clever,” he finally muttered, “it’s obvious why they’d send you.”

“Mutually assured destruction.” She agreed.

He turned back from where he was sitting, eye level with Casey’s torso, still securely wrapped in her coat, and remembered why he made the call in the first place, his original evening plans.

He finally looked up. “… Do you really think they expect, us, to—?”

“I doubt it, Your Honor.” She made sure to emphasize it, for both their sakes. “Looks like they’re sending us both a message.” She nodded over to the pictures, to the at least four she could see, of a black dress behind ice buckets in the kitchen.

“You are in trouble with them, aren’t you?”

Anything you do say can and will be used against you in a court of law.

She still wouldn’t answer, hoping her rattled breathing could instead fill in the blanks without committing her to her own word.

He started stuffing the photos and paper back into the envelope while he waited on the non-answer, before announcing, “I suspect there isn’t really much I can do to help now anyway, not without putting my own head above the parapet.”

He got up, the chair scooting backwards forcing Casey out the way, leaving only the letter opener on the table in his wake.

“You can go, Ms Novak.” He grunted on his way back to the couch, tossing the envelope down beside the glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose with his newly freed hand as he folded down to sitting on the edge of the couch.

Casey soon followed, slowly stalking the other side of the room until she was back at the door, where the real world and its consequences lay beyond.

She turned back one final time, her hand still on the knob. “… Are you going to report me?”

“I think we both have bigger problems here than the goddamn Ethics Committee.” He practically sneered at the thought. “It’s like you said,” he reached over and held up the envelope one more time, “mutually assured destruction.”

She just nodded an acknowledgement, leaving him in silence. Untouched, at least, but not undisturbed.

She spotted through the lobby that the car was already gone from outside, once again left to make her own way home. She felt her phone still tucked away in her pocket. She already needed to call a cab. Maybe after calling the cab she could just call someone, anyone. This could all be over with if she just called someone right now—

“Hold the door…!”

Someone appeared from the dark street seemingly out of nowhere, bounding up the steps toward the glass, squeezing through the gap between Casey and the open frame, disappearing down the lobby and up the stairs she’d just descended.  

“You’re welcome, I guess.” She mumbled to herself, finally calling a cab while letting the door swing shut behind the stranger.

And her thumb did hover over her call list while she waited out in the cold, again. Olivia, Amanda, Alex. Any of them, just any of them just put your thumb down and call someone.

Or maybe this wasn’t something a phone call could fix anymore. Not with what Judge Harriman had on her, or she on him. No, this was too big for a phone call now. It became too big the moment Ivy’s heart stopped beating, even if Casey could never truly know when that was.

She hesitated for too long, and it just wasn’t the sort of conversation to have in the back of a cab, where anyone with any intention could be listening through the divider. So she didn’t.

She didn’t sleep the rest of that night, either. Not that it was such an anomaly, anymore. For her to climb under the sheets for those precious few hours only to lay there, staring at the whitewash ceiling or one wall or the opposite; pondering every possibility, every path she was taking each day that propelled her closer and closer to disaster. She’d climb out again before the sun was up, and pretend the cold water hitting her eyelids an effective replacement for what was needed behind them.

Then she would turn up to the office like nothing had happened. She was getting good at that. Maybe a little too good. At pretending she lived a normal life outside those walls, that she could still box it away to deal with later. That her daytime persona was just too preoccupied to deal with the chaos of her alter ego, too busy to acknowledge that they were indeed the same person, with the same problems, now heading on a certain collision course.

She already lost count of the cups of coffee from the break room. She sat at her desk with the latest one, blithely going between her laptop and the piles of papers in front of her, pouring over case notes that seemed to grow more and more incomplete by the week no matter how hard she tried to keep up.

She rubbed at her eye with the heel of her hand just as a gentle knock came to the half-open door to her office.

“Do you have a second?” Alex was teetering at the threshold of the room, not waiting for a response to her knock before making clear what she wanted. Up there on her pedestal, hair shining and with a crisp, clean aura about her that still put the stale, dusty air of Casey’s office to shame.

They hadn’t spoken face to face since they parted the morning after the night before. When Alex was in such a hurry to leave after waking up that she wouldn’t even stay for coffee.

And now all that stood between them and that night were a few awkward voicemails. And the weight of the world still on Casey’s shoulders, untouched, a burden still neither shared nor halved.

But she nodded Alex through regardless. The blonde closed the door behind her gently enough, but the half-open venetians rattled against glass and wood regardless. She took her place right across the desk again, making herself comfortable in the opposite chair, crossing one leg over the other as she started.

“We’ve not had much of a chance to talk, and you’re barely answering your phone."

It wasn’t intentional. The first few times, at least. When Alex picked up the case and was calling at such ridiculous hours that a non-answer was both expected and encouraged. But she wouldn’t have been aware of the exhaustion that ran deep through Casey’s bones no matter the hour, or that sometimes seeing Alex’s name light up the screen was enough to unsettle her, remind her that she would simply never match up now.

“… Sorry,” Casey maybe enunciated a little too sharply, like she was sick of hearing it from her own mouth already. “Just been,” she cleared her throat, “super busy.”

“Are you…” Alex cleared her own throat, now chewing over her own words before they’d come out. “Are you uncomfortable with what happened between us?”

Of course she wasn’t. It was the most comfortable Casey had felt in years, actually. To be touched while actually wanting it, for her bare skin to be seen as human and not that of a plaything to be tossed around for pleasure. To feel attractive as herself, as Casey, and not the caricature of herself that grew more grotesque with each passing night.

But just like everything else these days, it felt impossible to address out loud. That things were messier than they could possibly imagine, and Alex would do well to steer clear of Casey’s web, but proximity gave them no choice.

“Look,” Alex straightened up, folding her hands into her lap, her eyes trained on the edge of Casey’s desk. “We’d both been drinking, and we both crossed a line.” She stated almost rhythmically, like she’d rehearsed it on the way there. “If you’re not comfortable working together anymore that’s fine, we can talk about a transfer—”

“No, no, no, that’s not—” The words rushed from Casey’s throat. A transfer this early on would get alarm bells ringing with the higher ups, an almost certain death knell for her quasi-probation, even if pairing her with the Alex Cabot was a well-known baptism of fire. “That won’t be necessary.” She insisted, “it’s fine, we’re fine.”

“You’re sure?” Alex’s brow might have raised a fraction.

“Of course. I’m happy to just forget about it, if you are?”

Why did she say that why on earth would she say that?

Casey didn’t want that night to leave her mind, ever. How easy it all felt, how genuinely she was cared for. The fact that it was Alex to do all that, was yet to be determined as a bonus or a curse. But she had to take the positives where she could get them, being so few and far between these days.

“… Sure.”

Her heart might’ve sunk at Alex agreeing to those terms, but it made sense. They had to stay professional no matter how much Casey needed otherwise, if only for the sake of convenience. For the sake of her career.

Alex checked the silver, glimmering watch on her wrist, partly hidden beneath the sleeve of her blouse. “I’m actually about to go arraign the birthday boy from the penthouse party, you want to come with?”

“Uh, can’t,” Casey thought she made a pretty good job at hiding the rising tide in her chest, the flashes of memory racing across the front of her mind. Of the raunchy crowds, of Judge Harriman, of Ivy. “Got, uh, some catching up to do in here.” She made her hands busy with one of the reams on her desk. “But, thanks.”

“Okay.”

Alex had made herself scarce almost as quickly as she’d appeared, leaving the room lighter than when she’d entered. And maybe Casey was just that fatigued, but she still couldn’t figure out how on earth she was doing that.

[view on ao3]

----------

She runs incredibly warm, bundled in thick pajamas and a sweater over her top, fuzzy ankle socks pressed to your own bare skin where your pant leg had ridden up. All of her heat bleeds into you; you burn in your entirety, all the places where she has you trapped and everywhere else where you're not.

You find, even so, that you don't want to move.

It's all so different to the arctic, lonely spread of the king-sized bed back in your bedroom. Here, your space is not yours. It's hers, claimed in her sleep, and you don't do anything to take it back. You just listen to the rhythm of her breathing. Even asleep, she's—grounding. Solid.

The rooms don't feel the same without her. The air is too empty, the silence, somehow, too heavy, even more than it would be if she was there, just quietly. The way she takes up space…you're constantly attuned to it, her absence taking a big claw out of your chest, a gaping hole left behind.

Ridiculous. You don't remember ever being so attached to a partner—a person—this strongly before. It's not healthy, it can't be.

She shifts in her sleep and your heart lurches, promptly proving your own point. You hold your breath but she stays asleep, her eyes closed, face lax, knee slipping down from your hip and worming into the part between your legs.

Slowly, you let out your exhale.

At least you know your attachment isn't one-sided.

She doesn't let herself show it, too focused on not overstepping, considering and reconsidering her every move to make sure it won't set you off. (It won't. It won't.) This side of her is one you're fairly enjoying. It's nice, to see—feel—her like this, wholly unguarded. She's usually so careful around you. Here she's entirely unaware of her own boundaries, just giving in to instinct.

Pins and needles begin to numb up your hand. They creep up from your fingers, spread to your forearms, up your shoulder. You hold still for another minute before the feeling becomes unbearable.

Slowly, carefully, you try to slip your arm out.

But her sleep is light. You hear the hitch in her breath, a long, deep inhale before she starts to shift, burrowing into you, her forehead rooting into your collarbone with a sound like a whine. The action is so thoughtlessly tender you briefly stop breathing.

Emily doesn't notice. She wakes slowly, like a flower unfurling, all lazy hums and slow shifts of her limbs. A yawn against your shoulder, her cheek rubbing against the meat of your bicep. It's a slow, sweet eternity before her head tips up, her sleep-hazed eyes meeting yours.

She blinks. A smile spreads across her face, small, close-lipped.

"Hi."

Jesus, her voice. It sends a trail of goosebumps down your skin.

"Hi," you breathe. "Sorry I woke you."

Emily shakes her head. "No, no—" She pauses as she takes in your current predicament. Realization creeps up in a faint blush, staining her cheeks. "Sorry I trapped you." She mumbles, shifting back, freeing your arm.

You find your mouth tugging, find your thumb reaching over to brush off a fallen lash from her cheekbone. It's okay, you should say, but you don't. "You're—really clingy." You hum instead, sweeping the lash from your thumb.

The words unfurl something: her head on your collarbone, your legs entangled on a couch—You're clingy, your voice teasing, fingers threaded though her hair. The indignant huff of her breath, buried beneath your laugh.

Warmth flutters through you.

Emily smiles again, her eyes nearly squinting closed, still soft around the corners.

"I've been told. Sleep well?"

You nod. "Warm," you admit.

Maybe a little too warm, but.

Her gaze sharpens as you carefully shift onto your side to face her. There's a little breathing room between you, your head on your pillow and her head on hers, the sheets rumpled, loose with your movement.

"How are you feeling?" She checks in, her eyes sweeping over your face. "Any soreness?"

"No, I'm fine." You've gotten used to the dull pain in your shoulder. It's more manageable than it was, sometimes quieting down for long enough that you forget and pull an abrupt move, sending it flaring again. It's the only thing giving you trouble, apart from your lingering headaches.

You ignore the pins and needles in your arm and adjust the strap of the sling so it doesn't bite into your neck. Emily notices. She shifts an inch closer, tugs up the collar of your sleep shirt and shifts the strap onto the fabric instead of your raw skin. You exhale, warming under the gentle touch of her fingers, the brush of her knuckles against your throat.

"We should get some aloe—"

"I want you to come back." You blurt out, catching her wrist, keeping her hand there on your shoulder.

Emily pauses.

"To the room," you clarify, softer. The words are clumsy in your mouth, heavy with plain want. "You don't have to stay here. I don't want you to."

Her eyes are dark, impossible to read. You drop your gaze.

"I mean—unless you want to, of course—"

"Honey," she huffs, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Come on." She says it so softly, so matter-of-fact, you feel your blood start to boil beneath your skin.

You swallow, leaning into the hand she cups to your cheek. Every inch of you winds a little tighter at the contact. You can feel the slight rush of her pulse under your finger; the faint cloud of her exhales over your jaw.

Soft as down feathers, Emily's thumb draws slow strokes over your cheek. It catches the corner of your mouth as it comes down.

"Are you sure?" She murmurs, earnest, achingly careful.

You nod. Squeeze her wrist. "I'm sure."

It's like watching a sunrise—seeing her face as it softens, melts, totally, with the pleasure. Her lips press together against a smile and there's the faint shadow of a dimple in her cheek; you itch to touch it, smooth your finger over the dent, memorize its spot, press it in—

"I hog the covers." She warns.

"Hog them all you want."

Emily laughs, and it's soft, it's yours, the gauzy cotton of a cloud draping over your skin, wrapping you in it, your ears reverberating with the sound.

"Yeah?" She whispers. "Okay, then."

-

It comes without warning as you're slipping out of bed. Emily suddenly goes still, her hands curling around the edges of the mattress, head ducking down into her chest. Her voice abruptly tapers off into silence.

You frown at her hunched figure. "Emily?"

She makes a faint noise in her throat. You round the bed over to her side, already knowing before you see her swallow hard, inhale sharply through her nose.

"Nauseous?"

"A little," she says, her voice strained. Her grip is so tight, it turns her knuckles bloodless. She squeezes her eyes shut and shoves in a few more deep breaths, her jaw set. "It's fine. It'll blow over."

You don't get a chance to do anything before she jumps and makes a beeline for the bathroom, her hand clamped tight over her mouth.

You wince and follow her in, try your best to hold her hair back with your one hand, offer some semblance of something. But there's little you can do. Her body wages violent war against her; her skin beads with sweat, bruises standing out under her eyes.

It itches in you, drags under your skin. You've never felt more useless.

You're murmuring nonsense when she finally quietens, her skin damp, chilled where you sweep your fingers. You brush the sweaty bangs away from her face and feel her shiver with the motion, shoulders tremulous. Instinctively, you tug her into you, your lips brushing the skin of her temple.

"You're okay, Em." You murmur, rubbing her arm. "You're okay, honey, you did good."

She slumps into your chest, muffling a weary noise in your shirt. Your heart twists. Pulling up your sleeve over the heel of your hand, you dry the sweat on her temple, feeling it wet the fabric.

"I've got you," you say. The floor is hard and cold under you, your back aching from the awkward position, the added strain of her weight, but you force yourself upright and as steady as you can muster.

You'd already left her once. You're not going to do it again.

-

"It's really not that—"

She dies down at the look you give her. It thrills you a little, the way her jaw snaps, but it doesn't last long before she's giving you a look, imploring.

"Sweetheart."

"Emily. I'm not going to die if you don't make me breakfast. I can make it myself—"

"I know you can—"

"—and anyway, I'm not hungry. So just." You make an impatient gesture with your hand. "Stay put."

The sweat has dried from her forehead, her usual color back in her cheeks, but you're still uneasy. You can still feel the way she'd gone limp against you on the bathroom floor—tremors along her shoulders, the harsh staccato of her breath echoing on the tiles. You could see her heart beating fast under the thin skin at the base of her throat.

On some level you think you know you're overreacting—overcorrecting, flooded with guilt because you'd left her, you'd seen her go through it but you still left her, too absorbed in your own grief—but the image of her pale and drained is too clear in your head for you to care.

Emily seems to have forgotten the whole ordeal. She looks at you with her eyes soft. Too used to it by now, probably.

The thought makes you sick.

"Y/N," she says gently. "I'm okay. I'm not going to die just because I got sick a few times, it's fine."

"A few times," you echo. "Remind me again, it's been how many weeks of this?"

How far along is she? The question briefly unsettles you, a big blank throwing your head into silence.

It's like she reads it on your face.

"I'll be going into my second trimester next week," she says, her smile small, just a press of her lips. "It should ease up by then."

You don't know how many weeks that is, exactly, but you do know it's in the double digits. Early teens, maybe.

Just a couple of weeks now, and she'll start to show. Your stomach cramps at the thought. Just a couple of weeks, and she'll start to show, and then a few months will blur by and you'll have a baby between you, and you'll raise a kid with her even though she still doesn't fully trust that you will, she still doesn't let you in, she doesn't believe that you can or want to—fuck, you want to—she doesn't—

Emily sits up in bed and takes your hand. Hers is warm, her fingers skating over your knuckles, squeezing. Your eyes snap back to hers.

"Sweetheart, I'll be fine," she reassures. Slowly, as if she's explaining it to a kid. "I am fine. I'm"—she huffs out a laugh—"I'm hardly the first person to get pregnant."

A stone sinks low in your gut.

Just pretend I'm the old me. Please just pretend I'm the old me and stop pretending with me, stop lying, let me in, let me help, I want to help—

"Not the first," you say, "but you're mine, and it's—it all feels so—" You break off, losing your grasp on the words.

It's all jumbled in your head, everything you want to say, everything you don't know you have the right to ask. You inhale roughly, eyes fluttering closed for just a second—"It's so much, Emily, god. It's so much and it's all on you and I just—" The desperation rises in you, "I don't want you to pretend with me. You keep up these fronts and you think I don't notice. I do." Your voice goes thin, bending. You swallow it down, queasy at the way her face collapses back into its familiar guilt.

Her eyes flit away from yours; you cup her jaw, bringing them back, bringing her back.

Let me in, let me in.

"Hey." You say raggedly, holding her gaze. "You can admit that it's overwhelming," you whisper, "or that you're exhausted or just—just sick of it all. You're allowed to be, and you can tell me. This can't just all be on you, Emily."

You're startled at how fast her eyes go shiny, brimming with tears. Your chest collapses in on itself. It's too much, for anyone.

And she keeps taking it all without a word.

You speak past the lump in your throat. "I'm here for you," you mumble. "I'm not going anywhere, but you're not being honest with me."

Emily blinks, swallowing hard. It's like all her indifference drains out of her; she grows uncertain-looking—her face sobering, posture curling small, like a scolded child. She doesn't move, doesn't say a word, the room so quiet you hear the silence ring.

You lean your forehead against hers. "Please, baby." You murmur, pleading—for what, you don't know.

Emily sucks in a breath. "I'm sorry," she says hoarsely. "I'm—this isn't easy for me."

Your eyes flood with heat. "I know it isn't."

"Not you," she rushes out, grabs the hem of your sweater in a fist. "I don't mean you."

Her voice goes cracked, desperate. It gnaws at you, hearing her like this, seeing the glaze of tears in her eyes, but you want her to just stop burying it all.

I could've waited. I wasn't hurt, I was just uncomfortable. I could've waited.

It becomes harder to swallow. "You're not alone." You stroke along her cheek, just as desperate. "Do you know that?"

Emily's eyes close. "I do. I do know that. Fuck, hon, I—"

"You can trust me."

"I do," she breathes. "I swear I do."

"I don't have one foot out the door." The words crack, and Emily's eyes shoot open, go wide and round—and fuck, you're making it about you again, twisting it all to bring it back to—

"I'm not leaving you."

Her face crumples, a sharp sob gasping out of her. She clamps a hand over her mouth but it's too late, the sound is already echoing, her tears are tipping over fast, trailing down the length of her cheeks.

You can feel your own tears wetting your face. Emily's shoulders are heaving silently as you bring her into you, wrap your arm around her shoulder and bring her close—still far, too far—your neck tipping forward into the top of her head.

"I'm not leaving you," you whisper into her hair. "Get the thought out of your head, okay? It's not happening." You say hoarsely, damp patches growing on the front of your sweater. Emily sniffles and everything trembles—her hands, clutching your sides, her shoulders, your strained, pounding heart. The sound of her sobs cleaves through the rush in your ears.

You palm the nape of her neck, smoothing over the the taut muscles there.

"It's not happening."

-

"You can't just not tell me this shit." You're crying, tears pattering down onto the floor like rain. Emily is blurry, but you can still see the bruise staining her side, the bandages cutting across her ribs. "Jesus, Emily, do you think no one cares? You think I don't?"

"I didn't want you to worry." She says, almost desperately. "See, you're worrying—"

"Of course I am! I fucking love you, I'll always be worried!"

Emily sucks in a breath. You barely even notice what it is you've said, never mind that it's been on your mind for weeks now, taunting you. You can only stare at the bruise, her skin marred, marked, violent.

"I'm sorry." She cups your face, thumbs at the wet slip of tears. "I'm sorry, honey, fuck—don't cry. Please don't."

You can't not. You're not a crier, not really, but it's all you can see—someone with a boot to her ribs, an elbow, a gun, a knife splitting her skin open. Someone wanting her harmed. Dead.

You still see it as she brings you into her chest.

"You can't keep doing this."

"I know. I know, I'm sorry. I love you. I love you."

-

The near-empty jar of Will's granola balances precariously on your thighs as you sit in the living room, your neck craned down at the phone in your lap, eyes burning from the strain and everything else. Sergio purrs at your side, warding off the void. He's a welcome companion as the sky darkens around you and leaves you with a time capsule of memories.

You wade through it all with bated breath.

You keep your phone's brightness turned low, your eyes still sensitive to too-bright light. You've been combing it through for nearly an hour now, reading back text threads, searching through the photos in your camera roll, gathering bits of your life like an ant collecting crumbs. It's a bit surreal, to be able to poke around. The person in your phone is clearly you; you haven't changed enough in three years to become unrecognizable to yourself. It's more of a relief than anything, but you still find yourself factoring in the newer variables, wondering how they came about.

Your habits are the same. You text dryly, keep few pictures of yourself, have a hundred more or less useless notes taking up space in your notes app. Your social media accounts are as sparse as they've ever been. Your call log consists of the same three people—Emily taking up most of it.

There's no rhyme or rhythm to your searching. You jump from app to app—your photos to your messages and back, opening up a new text thread, scrolling through another album. There's things you ignore: texts asking after your health, some from people you recognize, others whose names are fuzzy; Christmas well-wishes, continuations to conversations you don't have the context for, fourteen new messages from Pen🩷, three missed calls from Emily—11:17 P.M., 11:18, 11:19, December 16.

You're briefly queasy again.

Some of it comes back, the fog drawing thin. Your high-school best friend is still in your life—you're still just as close—though no longer as easy to see. Your eyes glaze over when you read the latest message, dated six days ago.

I'm here for you, anytime you want.

There's a few more from that same vein. Texts from Emily's friends, in varying degrees of familiarity—none from her mother, which doesn't surprise you. (Your lack of surprise, however, does). A name you vaguely recognize turns out to be a coworker you go out with on occasion; you dig through your camera roll and connect the face to the name when you find a picture, shadowy from the weak lighting of a bar.

Pictures of you and Emily, you find, are laughably rare. It's mostly her, or Sergio, or both of them together. They're sickeningly domestic—blurred, or in warm lighting, or posed up close. Emily mid-laugh, mid-yawn; deep in concentration with a book in her hands, Sergio sprawled across her legs.

It feels like you're intruding, somehow. You're not able to go through half the photos before you click back into your messages, an incessant gnawing in your stomach.

You have two new texts from her. Her name sits a few rows down (Em, the contact photo one of her with a beach splayed behind her). You tentatively open up the thread, not knowing what to expect.

December 16, 10:47 P.M.

You

Want anything else?

Em

My wife back.

You 

T-minus ten minutes

Em

That's a little more than ten minutes.

Honey, where are you?

Missed voice call

Missed voice call

Missed voice call

December 13, 10:04 A.M.

Em

Are we out of Advil?

You

There's a strip in my bag

What's wrong?

Em

Mother called.

You

Jesus

Em

Good news, though, she'll be out of state this Christmas.

You

Sweeeeet

December 11, 2:36 P.M.

You

Hey

Do you have a minute?

Em

Tell me.

Voice call

December 8, 7:23 P.M.

Em

Boarding.

It's around five hours, don't wait up.

You

Don't tell me what to do

Em

Seriously?

You

My bad for missing you

And for being a good wife

Em

A perfect wife, you mean.

You

Flattery will get you everywhere

Em

I love you.

Please don't wait up.

December 7, 8:14 A.M.

You

How's the nausea, baby

Em

Not so bad. I at least made it through breakfast today.

JJ caught me, though.

You

Better her than Pen

Em

That's what I thought.

December 3, 6:53 P.M.

You 

Okay so

Does anyone in your office happen to like peanut butter cookies?

Em

Babe.

How much did you make?

You

Well

Emily

I'm still waiting for an answer.

December 1, 5:18 P.M.

Em

In the store, you want anything?

You

Takis!!!

Em

Those things will genuinely kill you.

You

Two takis :))

"Hey."

Your head snaps up at the sound of Emily's voice. You turn the phone off. "Hi."

She sits down next to you, close enough for your arms to brush. Sergio trills and eagerly migrates onto her lap. She gives his chin a few lazy scratches, the sound of his purrs taking up space in the silence.

You notice, as your fingers itch to smooth out the reddened sleep lines on her cheek, that she sits on your good side. She always sits on your good side.

You set your phone down and reach over to stroke an idle path down Sergio's back. With the movement, your shoulder gently presses into hers. She turns to steal a glance at you, her wayward bangs brushing your cheek, lightly ticklish on your skin.

Her free arm shifts against yours and you feel her reach into your lap, pick up the abandoned—depleted—jar of granola, the few grains left inside rattling as she turns it over.

"Hungry?"

"Very." You sift your fingers through Sergio's fur, only a slight bit embarrassed. His purring cranks louder, seeping into your bones.

"What do you say to takeout?"

Her voice is so close, brushing your jaw, that you have to fight not to shiver. You take your hand back and keep your shoulder pressed against hers and suddenly feel it, all around—the stillness, in you, in her, in the house.

There's too much grief clouding you.

"Why don't we go for dinner?" You venture. "If you're feeling up to it."

Emily's eyes snap up to yours. "Yeah," she says, eager if a little surprised. "Yeah, sure."

"Sure?" You reiterate.

"Yes," she insists. "Anything particular in mind?"

You shake your head. "Just nothing fancy. Take me…" your arm loosely hooks around her hers, "take me somewhere I like."

Emily smiles, then. It still throws you off—how it softens her face, the shine of unadulterated pleasure making her glow. Beautiful, your stomach twists, tying itself in knots. Beautiful even with her eyes still shot through with red, the skin around them puffy with sleep, with tears, the heartache clinging to her even now.

"Okay."

-

The neon lights of a 24/7 diner glint off of her hair.

"Is this okay?" She asks, a thread of hesitation ringing in her voice.

You can't fathom the warmth flowing through you. You yourself hadn't known what to want or expect, but standing in front of the restaurant, a sense of rightness clicks. And, warmer than the weight of your hand in hers—

She knows you. Even when you don't.

You turn to kiss her cold cheek and feel the doubt slump out of her. "Perfect." You murmur.

Emily blushes a faint pink, pleased.

Inside, the lights are warm, the leather of the booths soft and worn. The whole place smells like sticky maple and deep-fried chicken. It's familiar, sugar and grease, setting off the hunger in you again.

A young, bored-looking waitress seats you.

"You sure this won't upset your nausea?" You ask Emily as she settles opposite you.

"I don't think so, this place is tried and tested. We've been a couple of times," she shrugs, "seems to be okay. What are you feeling?"

"Breakfast," you say resolutely, picking up the menu and skimming the options. "You?"

"Anything with maple."

Your mouth quirks. Much the same, your eyes skip over the egg combos and head straight down to the griddle dishes.

Belgian waffles, strawberry French toast, cinnamon roll pancakes…

"We missed pancake Sunday." You say idly. The image blooms in your head: your sun-drenched kitchen, Emily in just a t-shirt, humming some aimless tune and stirring pancake batter. You cutting up fruit, dotting chocolate chips on the still wet puddles she scoops out onto the pan. It's a ritual of sorts, implicitly sacred. Yours and hers.

Surprise washes over Emily's face. "Oh," she says. "Yeah—right. Slipped my mind."

"That's quite a serious offense, Mrs. Prentiss."

Her eyes go pinched, smiling. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, velvet-soft as she leans across the table. "How do you want me to make it up to you?"

She's teasing, you can distantly tell. But her voice, already low, drops lower, pours over your skin like honey. She looks at you from under her lashes and it sets you on fire, your wife toying with you, flirting.

"Are you guys ready to order?" The waitress comes over, clicking her pen, saving you.

You lean back into your seat and nod a little too quickly, the heat of Emily's eyes still on your face. You can hear the barest hint of a smile in her voice as she places her order—her menu still closed, hands folded neatly on top of it. You—a few degrees above your normal temperature, the words on the menu blurring before your eyes—go for the pancakes.

Outside, flecks of snow start fluttering down. They streak through the dark backdrop of the evening, sweep up against the window, stick and melt on the glass. A bell chimes as the door of the diner pushes open, a belated gust of wind rushing past you.

It cools your cheeks enough that you can pick up the conversation again.

"So." You look back at your wife. "How did we find this place?"

Emily's mouth softens, pulls up into a half smile. "It's not anything special, really. We were going out for dinner, but we didn't make it in time for our reservation. My flight was delayed coming back," she explains. "But we were starving and everywhere else was packed, so..."

As she talks, threads of memory start to connect.

It was a weekend. You'd been annoyed with her, but—I'm not the one flying the jet, babe.

"Our old complex is close by." You mention.

This earns you a proper smile. Dimpled and all. "Yeah. Yeah, it is." Emily says.

There's a new weight to her gaze, a heavy fondness, her eyes bright with it. It warms you up on the inside as she takes your hand from the table and lifts it up to her lips. "You're doing good," she whispers, kissing the ridges of your knuckles.

Air thins in your lungs, a swooping feeling rushing through your gut.

You're doing good.

You carefully twist your hand in her grip and reach over to cup her cheek. You see the breath rush in her, fast, then slower, quieter, like she's trying to pace herself. The table edge digs into your ribs as you brush your thumb over her cheek, not quite where her dimple lays—too high up.

Her eyes are so dark you can see tiny, twin reflections of yourself in them, pulled over her irises.

"How can you stand it?" You ask quietly.

She doesn't need to ask what you're talking about. She knows, squeezes your wrist, ghosts her thumb over your pulse.

"Because I love you, and you're my best friend."

She says it so plainly. It's near laughable—almost childishly simple. Still, your eyes grow hot, a lump expanding in your throat as Emily keeps her hand over yours, lightly skates her thumb over your skin. "I've always been alone," she murmurs. "Ever since I was a kid. I never had many friends, and the ones I could make—" she shrugs, "it was impossible to stay in touch. That kind of stuck, I think." Her voice seeps into your bones, through muscle, through skin. "Even as I grew up, I wasn't exactly popular. It was hard to…connect."

Your chest twinges. Emily rubs absent, soothing circles on your skin, almost like she can feel it.

"The BAU was my first time feeling like I belonged. Sappy, I know, but—I'd never really had friends, much less family." She says softly, passively. A tiny bit amused, like she's laughing at herself.

"And then, you came along." Her lips tug, brushing the heel of your hand—not quite a kiss, but not quite not. It's enough to send your heart in a tailspin, but then her eyes pin you in place, impossibly dark, brimming with such focus you nearly squirm. She exhales heavily, warmth fogging over your skin. "I've kind of been waiting my whole life for you."

The words burrow deep. There's such a palpable tenderness to them that you have to look away, catch your breath.

You. All of this is for you. Somehow, for some reason.

"Charmer," you muster out.

Emily smiles. She clasps your hand between both of hers and gently lays it back on the table. You barely notice the strain that loosens in your arm, your head overfull with her. She lets you stay in it, a little dazed, but before long she's nudging your ankle under the table, trapping your leg between both of hers, your knees knocking into each other.

"So, does that mean you'll let me sleep in your bed tonight?"

You're surprised when you laugh, so loud you have to clasp your hand over your mouth to muffle it.

-

With a sling, every normal activity takes about ten times longer. Changing; eating; showering; even sleeping is tedious. Brushing your teeth and washing your face take an eternity when Emily's not helping you—she insists, but so do you, that you've got it. Because you have. It just takes about two hours to get through what used to take you five minutes.

You flick open the cap on the bottle of aloe gel and squeeze out a cool dollop. Emily had gotten you the squeezable bottle after you'd struggled with the jar—you don't know when she'd gotten it, only that it was there on your nightstand the next time you needed to switch out your bandage. At the reminder, you find yourself biting down on a smile as you spread the gel on the half-healed burn.

Sweet. She's sweet—in a way that makes you fuss and flounder and go hot despite yourself. It's nothing overly loud or frivolous, just deeply earnest. You've never met anyone so thoughtful.

At least, you think.

Every day, it just becomes more surreal—the fact that she's yours, unwavering and entirely devoted. Funny. So beautiful it physically aches in your chest. You feel like you've done nothing to deserve her, like you just woke up and she was there, hovering over your hospital bed, her eyes glazed with tears.

Honey. Talk to me, please.

Honey, breathe. Honey, you're killing me.

Honey, I'm kidding. Honey, let me in, honey I love you, fuck, honey, there you go—

You wipe off the excess gel with a towel, somersaults in your stomach.

It's a strange thing, to be falling in love with your wife. You love her, you know you do, you feel it. It's dormant, living inside your bones.

But this, it's different. It trips along your insides, burning hot and growing hotter, glowing, in your chest, the pit of your stomach. You look up at yourself in the bathroom mirror, eyes bright, the ghost of a smile lingering around your mouth, and you think—yes.

You're falling in love with her.

-

"Oh—god, I'm sorry—"

"Hm?" Emily turns, to you, topless—nearly entirely topless, a shirt clutched in her hand, and that's—

That's a tattoo. Arched over her hip, curling to wrap around her waist.

A tattoo. She has a tattoo.

"I—" You mouth goes achingly dry. You swallow, hard. "Fuck, sorry, I didn't—I didn't know you were changing. Or that you have a tattoo," you blurt out, cringing as the words echo in the silence. Your back is still to the bathroom door, your feet firmly planted on the ground even as your eyes rove, heat ripping through you.

Your first thought is: she's not as soft as she feels. There's lean muscle in her arms, toned and firm even from afar, her shoulders strong, chest rounded and soft. Your eyes are gluttonous, eating across every inch of her pale skin. They skate up the plane of her stomach, to her exposed collarbones, to the curve to her neck, down to the ink splayed on her side—

The corner of Emily's mouth ticks up. You're still glued in place as she steps closer, much to the dismay of your poor, weak knees.

"I have a couple," she says easily. "You like this one?"

You tell yourself not to look—don't look, don't, don't, don't—but you fail yourself.

Your eyes drop to it.

Up close, it's even more catching—a little faded, worn into her skin. The inkwork is elegant—a string of lilies, arching up, curving around to cup her waist. Pale white stretch marks ripple through it. Loose, curling tendrils of stem reach up just to her ribs; the rest of the tattoo dips below her waistline, snaking down her hip, a petal peeking over—

You avert your eyes, too late, the ink already burned into your brain.

"Sorry," you mutter belatedly, blood rushing to your cheeks.

"What for?"

Your eyes snap back to hers. Emily's smile is now a full-blown grin, more than a little pleased.

"You can look, honey, it's okay." Her voice is faintly teasing. "Touch, even. I won't bite."

You swallow, feeling your back press against the door. "I'm sorry." Your voice is embarrassingly ragged. Her gaze is impossible to hold; you flick your eyes away, rubbing skittishly at your brow. "I didn't mean to put you on the spot."

"So polite," she murmurs, unbearably fond. "Sweetheart, you're my wife. I'm not on any spot."

Your brows scrunch. You look back at her to find a similar look on her face. It fades into a smile when your eyes meet, her shrug easy and careless. "You get what I mean. Really, it's okay." Her voice softens. Coaxing. "If you want to."

It feels like uneven ground. You're bared open, every inch of your want out on display and it's—it's new to you but it's not new to her and even though, in all technicality, she's the one stripped to her skin but you feel exposed down to your bones, falling after she's already fell, her feet steady on the ground while you're still tumbling and tripping over yourself.

Unfair.

But you still can't help yourself.

Swallowing your heart, you let your eyes drift lower.

"Twenty-year-old me was onto something, huh?" She murmurs.

Twenty-year-old you would have straight fainted at the sight. Current-age-you isn't faring much better, really.

"It's pretty." You manage.

"You think?"

"Emily," you inhale, swallowing to dispel the dryness in your throat, "I mean this in the nicest way possible—please put on your goddamn shirt."

She laughs, ducking her head. "Okay, okay. Sorry."

"No, you're not." You mutter, relieved and disappointed in equal measure when she shrugs her shirt on. It becomes marginally easier to breathe, a relentless flame flicking out.

Her smile is in her eyes as she pulls out her hair from under the shirt. "Want me to help? You didn't ice your shoulder today, did you?"

"Didn't, no." You finally find the strength to push off of the bathroom door and make your way to the closet.

You pick a considerably lighter pair of pajamas to account for the clinginess. (King bed, yes, but can you really trust her to stay on her side?)

There's no good reason to let her help you, but you hand her the shirt anyway.

It's become a routine of sorts. You sit down on the edge of the bed and take your arm out from your sling, carefully holding it stiff. Emily kneels down in front of you and reaches for the hem of your sweater, bunches it up to help you get your arm out of the sleeve.

It's easy to pull your good arm out, but the other one needs more maneuvering. Emily guides the collar over your head and gently tugs the sleeve down your injured shoulder.

"Bruising's getting better." She murmurs, eyeing the discoloration around the joint. She sets your sweater aside. "Have you been doing the exercises?"

You wince a little.

"Honey."

"Forgot."

She sighs. "Can we do them now, do you feel up for it?"

You're not sure she realizes it, but her voice does the thing. Sweetens, almost, goes softer than it already is. She doesn't push, but she does this. Gently coaxes and poses it all as a question, gives you the illusion of making a choice when, really, she makes it impossible to refuse.

"Fine."

Emily squeezes your knee, pleased. She helps you slip your pajama shirt on then shifts closer to your left, picking up your hand from its perch on your thigh.

"I've been doing the finger ones." You allow.

She hums. "What about this one?" She keeps your arm supported with one hand and takes your wrist in the other, gently bending it down.

You shake your head. She holds the position for a few seconds then switches, pushing your wrist up until your hand hovers in a high-five. Your head quietens as you let her guide you through the motions. It's nothing tedious or painful, but having her do it is strangely relieving.

Her hands are warm, the room quiet but for the shift of her knees on the floor, the springs in the bed as your weight eases and settles. You feel every thud of your heart in your chest.

Emily is quiet as she moves on to the other exercise—this one to help you bend your elbow. She gently guides your arm, searching your face for signs of pain, a faint crease between her brows. You're not really thinking when press your thumb to it, but she huffs out a sound like a laugh, her skin smoothing out, the crease disappearing.

As she brings your arm back down, she lays a soft kiss to the side of your wrist.

You're acutely aware that she has all of your hurt in her hands. Your biggest physical vulnerability, entirely in her control. She could pull an abrupt move, push or pinch or grab where it hurts, but she doesn't. You don't know why the thought even creeps up; she's almost unbearably cautious, sitting, on her knees, for you. Everything she's done has been to ease your pain. You don't even believe that she'd do anything to hurt you, but she just.

She could.

"You seem well practiced." You remark quietly.

Emily hums. "I've dislocated my shoulders enough for a lifetime."

You frown.

"How many times?"

Her lips purse. "Two on my right, I think. Three on my left."

"Jesus."

"Yeah." She smiles humorlessly. "Perks of the job. They heal a lot faster after that first time, though."

Your nose wrinkles. "It's still awful."

She gives a little hum. "It's not something I ever wanted you to know the feeling of." Her brows draw together, lips thinning as she sets your hand down. Quick and nimble, she grabs the sling and eases your arm back into it, careful to adjust the strap so that it sits on your pajama shirt.

"How's that?" She checks in.

"Perfect," you nod. "Thank you."

She straightens, takes your face in her hands and kisses your forehead. "Bed?"

"Bed."

-

You dream of her.

Very little went through your head as you ran to the door, grabbing your keys on the way not even stopping to change your slippers for shoes. You don’t even notice when you fly through a red light, luckily the hospital was only a 10 minute drive from the house and you managed to get there in 8, you abandoned your car in the car park not even bothering to pay attention to where and ran into the hospital. You must have looked in an absolute state as you rushed into the waiting room, immediately you spotted a small huddle of people, a few of them even in FBI jackets. 

On a normal day you would have felt intimidated and anxious about meeting Emily's team like this, the way Emily talks about them you would have thought they were her family. You thought it was odd at first when you moved in with her and you still hadn’t met them but you didn’t push it because you knew that she would open up when she was ready and there was no need to push it at that point. What you didn’t know before today however was that they had no idea who you were, however perhaps thankfully in your current state of panic you couldn’t feel insecure about that particular fact right now as Emily and her wellbeing was the only thing on your mind.

You approach the group and the first thing that comes out of your mouth as you rush over is “where is Emily?!” it comes out rushed and you are not sure if anyone actually understood what came out of your mouth but you get their attention and all their heads turn to look at you. One of the women standing in the middle of the group moves towards you, she is slender with blonde hair “hey Honey, I am Jennifer but you can call me JJ, we are so sorry we didn’t reach out to you but… in the nicest way possible but we didn’t know that Emily had anyone we had to reach out to…”. You appreciate what she is saying but at that moment all you can bring yourself to care about is finding Emily, “I don’t mean to be rude at all and at some point I would love to meet all of you guys some other time but right now I really just want to see Emily…Please”?.

You walk down the corridor in silence at JJs side until you reach one of the rooms and push the door open and your breath hitches as you look through the doorway and see Emily propped up in the bed looking ghostly pale and bruised and you nearly choked on the air. You turned towards JJ, a tear escaping from your eye, “what happened to her?”. You are really trying to stop crying in front of a stranger now but looking at Emily laying there you don’t think you are doing very well. 

JJ explains to you that the team had received a tip about the location of an unsub that they were pursuing for their case and they had gone out to try and apprehend him. It turns out that he had a little girl hostage and Emily had managed to get herself in between the girl and the unsub but before he could be apprehended he had pulled a gun that no one knew he had and fired off a shot that hit Emily just under her bulletproof vest into her stomach. It was both terrifying and made you proud that Emily had put her body in front of a little girl and probably saved that girl's life but now she was here in this bed with machines and wires all around you and it made you sick.

Thankfully after explaining what happened JJ left you in the room alone for a while and you slowly made your way across the room towards Emily and hesitantly sat yourself in the chair beside the bed, somehow you felt like you didn’t belong here, the people who she considered family were outside while you were in here with her. You reach over and gently take her hand in yours and you allowed the tears to fall freely down your face, you knew that her job had its risks but for some reason you naively thought that because she was the section chief she mostly just did administrative work from her office or at least that was what she had lead you to believe. 

However now that you are sitting here you cannot help but think that she was just telling you what she thought you would want to hear and that broke your heart that she felt that she had to protect you from the reality of what her job really entails. You wanted to hug her and tell her how much you loved her but you also wanted to yell at her for being so stupid for feeling like she had to keep this whole part of her life from you. Before you had much more time to think about it however a light knock on the door startled you, it was a nurse informing you that visitor hours were over, you wanted to protest but you know that you don’t have a leg to stand on.

You slowly walk back out of the waiting room and towards the group of Emily's team, you don't know what to do with yourself, you don't want to go back to Emily’s apartment by yourself even though technically it is your home now too it just doesn’t feel right. The nurse had said that she would let you know when Emily woke up so you didn’t want to leave the hospital just in case. You sit next to JJ and another woman whose voice you recognised as the lady you spoke to on the phone, Penelope. 

They introduced themselves properly to you and they actually seemed really nice. Now that you have seen Emily with your own eyes and know that she is as ok as she can be you relax a little and are able to sink into conversation with these women and you actually had quite a lot in common. You also appreciate that they ignore the obvious age gap between you and Emily, JJ talks to you about her kids, Penelope told you about her cat (who actually used to be Emily’s cat) Sergio, when you asked to hear the story behind that they both exchanged a weirdly ominous look and told you than would have to be a conversation that you had with Emily when she woke up which confused you but you didn’t push further.

The two women eventually went home around 2 am but promised to come back in the morning but you insisted on staying put in the waiting room hoping that Emily would wake up sooner rather than later. You must have fallen asleep at some point because you were woken by a tap on the shoulder by a nurse at around 6 AM, “hey honey I just thought I should let you know that visiting hours have started again, also I think your girlfriend is starting to show signs of waking up”.

You had only been sitting next to her bed for another hour before she started to stir, you gripped her hand with both of yours and you swear she squeezed your hand back again. Before you know it her eyelids are fluttering and she very slowly opens her eyes obviously very confused about where she is. You try to soothe her as best you can “sssh Em you are ok I am here, you are ok”, she is still coming to as she tries to speak “www…what happened?” she manages to get out. You squeeze her hand and stroke her face gently “JJ says that you got shot protecting a young girl”, you try to keep your explanation as short as possible for the moment until Emily was in a better mindset to have that conversation. 

*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*

It all started when Barba had recommended a lawyer for a victim, Avery Jordan, who was fighting to keep custody of her child conceived from rape. He said he knew exactly who to call, and he was right to call Rita Calhoun, the best lawyer for the job. Throughout the custody hearing, Rita fought hard to empathise with Avery and emphasise the ludicrous mindset of Mr. Purcell. She showed the photos he had taken of Avery, before her pregnancy and even before her assault, making it clear that the hearing was solely his way of controlling Avery, or rather in her words, "This is isn't about the baby, This is about you being obsessed with Ms. Jordan." Purcell argued, of course, claiming, "It's wasn't like that." And that he was, "just showing her how much he loved her."

Rita's response was immediately and demeaning, "-By spying on her, menacing her, and trying to humiliate her publicly?" And as she threw down some files onto her table, staring the man in the eyes, before speaking with that condescending smile of hers, "Ever heard of flowers?" You watched from beside Olivia as Rita continued her questioning, or rather her interrogation of Mr. Purcell. Ultimately, Rita achieved full custody for Avery over her baby boy, with minimal supervised visits for Purcell that, unfortunately, was not something Rita could overturn.

During that hearing, you saw another side of Rita, one who was gentle and compassionate with Avery and her usual challenging and deservingly undermining self toward Purcell. Her words were concise as she masterfully awarded the right bearing to each one, whether she needed to be firm, empathetic, or reassuring. However, with everything she had said, one thing had stuck with you, the condescending comment, "Ever heard of flowers?" You couldn't manage to understand why exactly that had stuck out to you, nor stayed in your mind for the next week to come.

It was a speculation that all women loved receiving flowers. For some, it was far from the truth, but for others, it was just that simple, and perhaps it was that way for her. You began to wonder if she would appreciate flowers or rather flowers from you.

Being a detective at SVU meant you had your fair share of run-ins with Rita. It was friendly between you, mostly. Eventually, you had learned to respect her choice of profession, but regardless, you often had moments of disagreement. When a case was going badly for SVU, you had a tendency to question her morals and it would result in arguments, however these never lasted too long as the next time you would see her, you both would be back on the same page again and with time you became more comfortable with one another, trading quips and sarcastic remarks as easy as you breathed.

Still, despite this comfortability you and her had created, you were uncertain whether a thing such as flowers would be taken as an unwanted gesture or more rather a romantic one, which you had assured yourself was not the message you intended, or maybe it was. And so, with that in mind, you decided to entertain this thought for a while.

*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*

The past year or so you've known Rita, it wasn't uncommon for you to visit her at her office and so you had become quite familiar, if not friendly with her assistant who resided at a desk outside Rita's sanctuary. Each Monday morning, a new vase of flowers would find their way onto her desk. At the first appearance of them, Rita had shrugged it off, figuring it had been a client saying thank you despite there being no note indicating as such. After the third week is when she finally became suspicious, she asked her secretary, but apparently it was a mystery who had sent them, and gradually over the next couple of months, the flowers continued and so did her smile at seeing them at the beginning of each week, she found a small comfort in seeing the new arrangement each time, like something to make her want to get out of bed for.

One day, however, She had a trial against Barba, and in the end, he was the victor, both of them wound up walking to Rita's office for a shared drink. As they entered, she approached her desk, getting out a bottle of bourbon, but as she poured them, she turned to see Rafael, who was now seated in front of the desk, eyeing the vase that resided by a stack of papers, amusement and questioning evident from his raised brow. She rolls her eyes and hands him one of the glasses, sitting on the edge of her desk, "What's that look for?" He smirks and shrugs, "Nothing, just wondering what the occasion is?" She takes a long sip of the amber liquor, relishing in the heat at the back of her throat it provided, "If you must know, there is no occasion, I've just been receiving flowers for a while now."

Rafael laughs, tasting the bourbon himself, but the sound falls as he realises she wasn't joking, "Seriously? Well, who are they from?" She gently kicks his leg with her heel at his laugh and surprise before answering, "Yes I'm being serious, and to be honest I don't know who they're from exactly, they never leave a note." Barba's smirk returns, "so...you have a secret admirer?" "What? No, of course not. " "Really, cause it seems like you do- how long have they been showing up in your office?" Rita takes a moment, thinking before she answers, her denial of the flowers' sentimental significance wavering and her voice low. "Every week for....three months."

At this information, he bursts out with a deep laugh once again, this time with more vigour, his grip on his glass tightening as he leans forward. "Jesús, Y/N isn't exactly subtle now, is she?" Rita paused, her glass at her lips as she was about to take another taste of the drink, but her hand lowered, her eyes narrowing and brows knitting together. "What do you mean Y/N, there's no note?" Rafael eventually catches his breath, leaning back against the chair cushion, amused at her true confusion. "Well, I just figured they'd be from her. She has a massive crush on you-" "she does?" "Yeah why'd you think she fights with you so much?" "Cause I'm opposing counsel?." "Seriously? Dios, I thought you knew that already, Calhoun."

The conversation shifts, but she finds her mind returning to the flowers and you. She had always had a way of knowing whether someone liked her, so there was no way you did, right? She shook her head and emptied the glass, the flavour lingering on her tongue.

*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*·.·*

The next few days, she floods her schedule with work, hoping to ignore the idea of confronting you. It's not that she was scared, there was so very few things that scared her, and this wasn't one of them, but she finds herself overthinking this more than she usually does with anything. Over the time she's gotten to know you, you've somehow squirmed your way into her mental list of people she enjoys the company of and even trusts, not that she'd ever openly admit that, but she knew in her heart that there was a reason she had never thought of you as her secret admirer, or at least acknowledged the thought.

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It was mid afternoon friday. She was scribbling down some notes after just finishing a trial. She wasn't expecting company, so when she heard a knock at her door, she looked up quickly. Setting the pen down cautiously, she was half hoping it was you, the other half knowing there was more chance of it being her secretary. But to her luck, as she called for the person to enter, she saw you as the door opened, and almost instinctively, a small but visible smile tugged at her lips as you entered her space. She silently notes the way your eyes flick to the vase, a somewhat matching smile appearing on your features as you see the floral arrangement was well kept, the soft colours sticking out in her office, the small amber glow of a lamp lighting the room, creating a warm but still atmosphere.

"What can I do for you, detective?" She asks, gesturing for you to sit in the chair across from her desk, keeping her voice steady despite the smile on her face. "I just wanted to drop by, y'know, since we haven't had many cases together for a while now." You answer as you sit down, shrugging slightly like you wasn't admitting to actually seeking out her company. She let's out a light, breathy laugh, "Drop by?" "Yeah...I mean- unless you're too busy-" she cuts you off, "No, I'm not too busy...actually, I've been meaning to ask you something." She admits, scanning your face for a reaction of any kind. "Sure, anything." You reply, no more than a second after, missing the way her heart quickened its pace at your eager reply. "Well...I suppose I'll just get right to it then." She stands up, heels clicking softly against the carpet as she walks around to perch on the edge of her desk in front of you, your knee gingerly brushing against her leg as she crosses them. "These flowers....did you send them?"

You take in a deep breath, there was no point in lying to her, not when she was so direct to ask and so with a steady enough voice that you could muster, you tell her the truth. "Yes...I've been sending them." You see her shoulder's relax as she lets out a breath, one she hadn't realised she'd been holding since you walked in. Her heartbeat becomes louder now at your admission, so much so that she could feel it thumping hard against her ribs. A flutter building in her abdomen, it was butterflies, something she hasn't felt in a long time. She swallows her feelings, voice trembling ever so slightly,  "Can I ask...why?"

You think for a moment, your smile growing as you do, an almost prideful look in your eyes which had finally landed on hers. "Well...I uh...got the idea from some comment you made in court and...I thought that considering the criminals you face have to defend each day...that you have to sit back and listen to their crimes and act like nothing happened...I could...well- I wanted to give you something to look forward to, something to make you smile."

For a moment, all air floods out of her lungs, her eyes widen as she listens to your reasoning, and in that moment, she realises the flowers did just that. They gave her a reason to come to work, to get through one week at a time, to smile again for something that wasn't just winning some case. They way you said it, "to make her smile." Like it was the easiest thing in the world, but to her, it was everything, and she had you to thank for that. A delicate and genuine smile stretches across her face at how thoughtful it was.The butterflies fluttering in her stomach become more rampant as she looks at your face, that proud and honest look in your eyes, sat there in front of her with no idea what this gesture is doing to her.

"Thank you...Y/N" Her voice is soft, gentle in the way that's calming to your nerves. A moment of silence draws over the two of you, not an uncomfortable one, but rather a silence that feels full, complete almost, both of you exactly where you wanted to be. Together.

"Do you like them?" You ask, a playful smirk on your lips, and you both share a laugh, a freeing laugh. She stands up off the edge of the desk, looking down at your in that chair, her knee brushing hers, almost intentionally now as she leans toward you, your gaze joined to hers, her hair falling forward, and you instinctively push a loose piece behind her ear, fingers lingering on her cheek, she shivers softly and that's all it took for her to lean down fully, her breath fanning your face, her expensive perfume invading your senses as she whispers, "I love them."

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It all started when Barba had recommended a lawyer for a victim, Avery Jordan, who was fighting to keep custody of her child conceived from rape. He said he knew exactly who to call, and he was right to call Rita Calhoun, the best lawyer for the job. Throughout the custody hearing, Rita fought hard to empathise with Avery and emphasise the ludicrous mindset of Mr. Purcell. She showed the photos he had taken of Avery, before her pregnancy and even before her assault, making it clear that the hearing was solely his way of controlling Avery, or rather in her words, "This is isn't about the baby, This is about you being obsessed with Ms. Jordan." Purcell argued, of course, claiming, "It's wasn't like that." And that he was, "just showing her how much he loved her."

Rita's response was immediately and demeaning, "-By spying on her, menacing her, and trying to humiliate her publicly?" And as she threw down some files onto her table, staring the man in the eyes, before speaking with that condescending smile of hers, "Ever heard of flowers?" You watched from beside Olivia as Rita continued her questioning, or rather her interrogation of Mr. Purcell. Ultimately, Rita achieved full custody for Avery over her baby boy, with minimal supervised visits for Purcell that, unfortunately, was not something Rita could overturn.

During that hearing, you saw another side of Rita, one who was gentle and compassionate with Avery and her usual challenging and deservingly undermining self toward Purcell. Her words were concise as she masterfully awarded the right bearing to each one, whether she needed to be firm, empathetic, or reassuring. However, with everything she had said, one thing had stuck with you, the condescending comment, "Ever heard of flowers?" You couldn't manage to understand why exactly that had stuck out to you, nor stayed in your mind for the next week to come.

It was a speculation that all women loved receiving flowers. For some, it was far from the truth, but for others, it was just that simple, and perhaps it was that way for her. You began to wonder if she would appreciate flowers or rather flowers from you.

Being a detective at SVU meant you had your fair share of run-ins with Rita. It was friendly between you, mostly. Eventually, you had learned to respect her choice of profession, but regardless, you often had moments of disagreement. When a case was going badly for SVU, you had a tendency to question her morals and it would result in arguments, however these never lasted too long as the next time you would see her, you both would be back on the same page again and with time you became more comfortable with one another, trading quips and sarcastic remarks as easy as you breathed.

Still, despite this comfortability you and her had created, you were uncertain whether a thing such as flowers would be taken as an unwanted gesture or more rather a romantic one, which you had assured yourself was not the message you intended, or maybe it was. And so, with that in mind, you decided to entertain this thought for a while.

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The past year or so you've known Rita, it wasn't uncommon for you to visit her at her office and so you had become quite familiar, if not friendly with her assistant who resided at a desk outside Rita's sanctuary. Each Monday morning, a new vase of flowers would find their way onto her desk. At the first appearance of them, Rita had shrugged it off, figuring it had been a client saying thank you despite there being no note indicating as such. After the third week is when she finally became suspicious, she asked her secretary, but apparently it was a mystery who had sent them, and gradually over the next couple of months, the flowers continued and so did her smile at seeing them at the beginning of each week, she found a small comfort in seeing the new arrangement each time, like something to make her want to get out of bed for.

One day, however, She had a trial against Barba, and in the end, he was the victor, both of them wound up walking to Rita's office for a shared drink. As they entered, she approached her desk, getting out a bottle of bourbon, but as she poured them, she turned to see Rafael, who was now seated in front of the desk, eyeing the vase that resided by a stack of papers, amusement and questioning evident from his raised brow. She rolls her eyes and hands him one of the glasses, sitting on the edge of her desk, "What's that look for?" He smirks and shrugs, "Nothing, just wondering what the occasion is?" She takes a long sip of the amber liquor, relishing in the heat at the back of her throat it provided, "If you must know, there is no occasion, I've just been receiving flowers for a while now."

Rafael laughs, tasting the bourbon himself, but the sound falls as he realises she wasn't joking, "Seriously? Well, who are they from?" She gently kicks his leg with her heel at his laugh and surprise before answering, "Yes I'm being serious, and to be honest I don't know who they're from exactly, they never leave a note." Barba's smirk returns, "so...you have a secret admirer?" "What? No, of course not. " "Really, cause it seems like you do- how long have they been showing up in your office?" Rita takes a moment, thinking before she answers, her denial of the flowers' sentimental significance wavering and her voice low. "Every week for....three months."

At this information, he bursts out with a deep laugh once again, this time with more vigour, his grip on his glass tightening as he leans forward. "Jesús, Y/N isn't exactly subtle now, is she?" Rita paused, her glass at her lips as she was about to take another taste of the drink, but her hand lowered, her eyes narrowing and brows knitting together. "What do you mean Y/N, there's no note?" Rafael eventually catches his breath, leaning back against the chair cushion, amused at her true confusion. "Well, I just figured they'd be from her. She has a massive crush on you-" "she does?" "Yeah why'd you think she fights with you so much?" "Cause I'm opposing counsel?." "Seriously? Dios, I thought you knew that already, Calhoun."

The conversation shifts, but she finds her mind returning to the flowers and you. She had always had a way of knowing whether someone liked her, so there was no way you did, right? She shook her head and emptied the glass, the flavour lingering on her tongue.

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The next few days, she floods her schedule with work, hoping to ignore the idea of confronting you. It's not that she was scared, there was so very few things that scared her, and this wasn't one of them, but she finds herself overthinking this more than she usually does with anything. Over the time she's gotten to know you, you've somehow squirmed your way into her mental list of people she enjoys the company of and even trusts, not that she'd ever openly admit that, but she knew in her heart that there was a reason she had never thought of you as her secret admirer, or at least acknowledged the thought.

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It was mid afternoon friday. She was scribbling down some notes after just finishing a trial. She wasn't expecting company, so when she heard a knock at her door, she looked up quickly. Setting the pen down cautiously, she was half hoping it was you, the other half knowing there was more chance of it being her secretary. But to her luck, as she called for the person to enter, she saw you as the door opened, and almost instinctively, a small but visible smile tugged at her lips as you entered her space. She silently notes the way your eyes flick to the vase, a somewhat matching smile appearing on your features as you see the floral arrangement was well kept, the soft colours sticking out in her office, the small amber glow of a lamp lighting the room, creating a warm but still atmosphere.

"What can I do for you, detective?" She asks, gesturing for you to sit in the chair across from her desk, keeping her voice steady despite the smile on her face. "I just wanted to drop by, y'know, since we haven't had many cases together for a while now." You answer as you sit down, shrugging slightly like you wasn't admitting to actually seeking out her company. She let's out a light, breathy laugh, "Drop by?" "Yeah...I mean- unless you're too busy-" she cuts you off, "No, I'm not too busy...actually, I've been meaning to ask you something." She admits, scanning your face for a reaction of any kind. "Sure, anything." You reply, no more than a second after, missing the way her heart quickened its pace at your eager reply. "Well...I suppose I'll just get right to it then." She stands up, heels clicking softly against the carpet as she walks around to perch on the edge of her desk in front of you, your knee gingerly brushing against her leg as she crosses them. "These flowers....did you send them?"

You take in a deep breath, there was no point in lying to her, not when she was so direct to ask and so with a steady enough voice that you could muster, you tell her the truth. "Yes...I've been sending them." You see her shoulder's relax as she lets out a breath, one she hadn't realised she'd been holding since you walked in. Her heartbeat becomes louder now at your admission, so much so that she could feel it thumping hard against her ribs. A flutter building in her abdomen, it was butterflies, something she hasn't felt in a long time. She swallows her feelings, voice trembling ever so slightly,  "Can I ask...why?"

You think for a moment, your smile growing as you do, an almost prideful look in your eyes which had finally landed on hers. "Well...I uh...got the idea from some comment you made in court and...I thought that considering the criminals you face have to defend each day...that you have to sit back and listen to their crimes and act like nothing happened...I could...well- I wanted to give you something to look forward to, something to make you smile."

For a moment, all air floods out of her lungs, her eyes widen as she listens to your reasoning, and in that moment, she realises the flowers did just that. They gave her a reason to come to work, to get through one week at a time, to smile again for something that wasn't just winning some case. They way you said it, "to make her smile." Like it was the easiest thing in the world, but to her, it was everything, and she had you to thank for that. A delicate and genuine smile stretches across her face at how thoughtful it was.The butterflies fluttering in her stomach become more rampant as she looks at your face, that proud and honest look in your eyes, sat there in front of her with no idea what this gesture is doing to her.

"Thank you...Y/N" Her voice is soft, gentle in the way that's calming to your nerves. A moment of silence draws over the two of you, not an uncomfortable one, but rather a silence that feels full, complete almost, both of you exactly where you wanted to be. Together.

"Do you like them?" You ask, a playful smirk on your lips, and you both share a laugh, a freeing laugh. She stands up off the edge of the desk, looking down at your in that chair, her knee brushing hers, almost intentionally now as she leans toward you, your gaze joined to hers, her hair falling forward, and you instinctively push a loose piece behind her ear, fingers lingering on her cheek, she shivers softly and that's all it took for her to lean down fully, her breath fanning your face, her expensive perfume invading your senses as she whispers, "I love them."