Prentissmylove

"Emily," you say, your voice a low, amused purr that cuts through the sizzle of the pan. "What, exactly, is happening in here?"

She doesn’t look up immediately, her focus intensely fixed on a bubbling pot of what was supposed to be David Rossi’s legendary, generational Sunday gravy. She wields a wooden spoon like a weapon, stirring with a fierce, stubborn determination.

"It’s Rossi’s authentic Neapolitan ragù," she declares, though there’s a slight, telltale twitch at the corner of her mouth. "Or, at least, it’s a Prentiss-modified, urban-survivalist adaptation of it."

You step closer, the hardwood floor cool beneath your bare feet, and peer over her shoulder. The sauce is a deep, slightly concerning shade of maroon. It smells heavily of oregano—and something distinctly sweet.

"An adaptation?" You slide your arms around her waist, chin resting lightly on her shoulder. The familiar, comforting scent of her—expensive cedarwood perfume mingled with garlic and fresh rain—wraps around you, warmer than the blanket. "Did you lose the recipe?"

"I have the recipe right here," she insists, nodding toward the tablet propped up against a flour canister, the screen splattered with red droplets. "What I didn’t have was a gourmet Italian market within a five-mile radius that was open after a twelve-hour shift."

She turns her head to kiss your temple, a lingering, soft press of lips that makes you close your eyes for a second.

"Rossi’s recipe calls for San Marzano tomatoes, Pancetta, and a very specific, aged red wine from a vineyard only he and three Monks in Tuscany know about," Emily explains, her tone shifting into that dry, rhythmic cadence you adore. "But the corner bodega had generic crushed tomatoes, maple bacon, and a bottle of Cabernet that was wearing dust like a coat."

You wince slightly, but keep your smile tucked into the crook of her neck. "Maple bacon? In a ragù?"

"It’s pork!" she defends, though a laugh bubbles up in her throat, vibrating against your chest. "And for the heavy cream, I might have used a splash of the vanilla oat milk we had left. It’s all about chemistry, sweetheart. Fat, acid, heat. We’re adapting."

"You’re a profiler, Prentiss, not an alchemist," you tease, squeezing her waist before stepping back. "Let me taste the experiment."

Emily presentation is flawless. She ladles a small spoonful of the sauce, blowing on it gently before offering it to you like a prize. Her dark eyes gleam with a mixture of hope and impending cinematic disaster.

You take the bite.

For a fraction of a second, your brain tries to process the sensory whiplash. The acidity of the cheap tomatoes hits first, followed immediately by a jarring, aggressively sweet wave of artificial maple and vanilla. It tastes like a pancake fell into a marinara trench. It is, without a doubt, the most spectacular, culinary tragedy you have ever encountered.

Your expression freezes. You try, you truly try, to keep your face neutral, but the sheer chaos of the flavor profile forces a slow, horrified blink from your eyes.

Emily watches you, her eyebrows slowly rising. "That bad?"

"Emily," you squeak, your throat tightening as you swallow the evidence. "I love you. I love your mind, I love your heart, I love your hands." You reach out, taking the wooden spoon from her fingers and setting it safely on the counter. "But David Rossi would have you arrested for war crimes if he tasted this."

She stares at the pot, then back at you, and then she breaks.

The laugh starts deep in her chest—a rich, breathless sound that fills the kitchen and chases away any lingering fatigue from the work week. She leans against the counter, covering her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking.

"It’s that bad?" she asks through her fingers.

"It tastes like a breakfast buffet collided with a pizza parlor at ninety miles an hour," you confess, laughing now too, wrapping your arms back around her to pull her against you.

Emily sighs, a beautiful, defeated sound, and rests her forehead against yours. The warmth of her skin, the crinkle of the lines around her eyes, the sheer ease of being held by her in the quiet sanctuary of your shared home—it washes over you like a wave.

"I just wanted to make you something nice," she murmurs, her voice softening into something tender, the playful armor dropping away. "A real, comforting dinner. We’ve both been running on fumes lately."

"Hey," you say gently, tilting her chin up with a finger so she has to look into your eyes. "This is nice. The burning, maple-scented catastrophe is perfect. Because you’re here, and we’re off the clock."

She smiles, the genuine, soft expression she only saves for the quiet hours with you. "So, no turning this into a pizza night?"

"Absolutely not. We are ordering Thai," you decree, reaching into your pocket for your phone. "And we are never speaking of the vanilla-oat-milk ragù again."

"Agreed," Emily laughs, already reaching up to pull the pins from her hair, letting the dark waves tumble down around her shoulders.

An hour later, the kitchen is dark, the offending pot soaking in the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. The living room is a sanctuary of cushions and shadows. You are curled into Emily’s side on the couch, the television playing an old movie on a low murmur, the blue light washing over the room.

The cardboard takeout containers sit empty on the coffee table—pad thai and spring rolls, a far cry from Tuscany, but exactly what was needed.

Emily’s arm is wrapped securely around your shoulders, her fingers idly tracing patterns on your bare arm, a slow, soothing rhythm that matches the rain outside. You rest your head against her chest, listening to the steady, comforting thud of her heartbeat.

She shifts slightly, kissing the crown of your head, her breath warm against your hair.

"Next time," Emily whispers into the dim light, her voice laced with sleep and contentment, "I’m just making grilled cheese."

You smile into the soft cotton of her shirt, closing your eyes as you pull the blanket higher up over both of you. "I’d love that. Just leave the maple bacon in the fridge."

“Not just you, sugarplum. Not just you. And Emily’s bad mood hasn’t exactly helped.”

Without you noticing, Penelope studies you, weighing whether to address the elephant in the room. But when she sees your tired eyes, your dejection at Emily’s name, she thinks better of it and lets it go.

“And I made no progress on the profile. It feels like I’m failing,” you mumble, leaning against the metal wall behind you. “Emily was pissed when I didn’t have good news.”

“Don’t take it personally,” she soothes you, patting your shoulder. “She was annoyed at everyone, probably herself too. She hasn’t found a thread in the case either.”

You look at her in surprise, about to respond, but the elevator dings, announcing your arrival.

“Overheard her conversation with Rossi,” Penn winks. “Totally by accident! See you later, sugarplum. Wear something nice. Like the blue dress.”

Three hours later, you’re standing in front of Penelope’s apartment door, tugging at the hem of your dress for the umpteenth time. You can already hear muffled voices, soft music, and the unmistakable delicious smell of pizza. You give yourself a mental pep talk, not entirely sure why you agreed to this. Maybe to convince yourself. Or maybe to convince others. Hesitant, you shift your weight, take a deep breath, and finally knock.

“Sugarplum!” Penelope pulls you into a hug, looks you up and down, and clicks her tongue appreciatively. “You look absolutely delicious.”

“Thanks,” you reply, embarrassed, eyeing her outfit. “You dressed up too. Is Luke here tonight?”

Caught, Penelope smacks your shoulder and drags you inside. “Less talking, more enjoying.” Her pink cheeks give her away. You nailed it.

Your gaze sweeps over the apartment, it’s crowded, more than you expected. You spot Luke and JJ in one corner, Rossi and Tara in another. But the person you’ve subconsciously been looking for isn’t there.

“That’s my friend Lucía over there,” Penelope says, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You follow her gaze. The woman’s presence is striking, her smile practically lighting up the room, and you feel a hint of nerves creep in. That’s good. You haven’t been excited about a date in a long time. Except when you’re with Emily. You shake the thought away and follow Penelope over to Lucía, who already greets you with an infectious smile.

“Lucía? This is my colleague Y/N. Y/N, this is Lucía,” Penelope introduces you, then disappears less than a minute later.

“Nice to meet you,” you say, gently shaking her hand. Her skin is soft, warm and so different from Emily’s. You look up into her brown eyes, flecked with lighter specks.

“Likewise!” she says, smiling again. “Penn’s told me a lot about you. How long have you worked together?”

As you sink into a conversation that’s far more pleasant than most you’ve had before, you take the time to really look at her. But the more you do, the more you realize you’re comparing everything about her to your boss. The way she laughs. The way she talks. Her gestures, her expressions. You curse yourself: your thoughts, your feelings, your inner chaos. You want to give this a chance. Give Lucía a chance. She’s kind, attentive, easy to talk to. She’s a nice woman. Just not Emily.

“And that’s how she helped me get the job,” Lucía finishes her story, and you nod enthusiastically, trying to trick your brain.

“That sounds like Garcia,” you reply, smoothing your dress again.

Lucía follows the motion, leaning forward slightly and brushing your forearm. “You should try green sometime. I think it would really suit you.”

“Oh—thank you,” your voice barely a whisper, caught off guard by the sudden closeness. “Is green your favorite color?”

You couldn’t help but notice her green earrings, her handbag, her shoes, everything in forest green.

“With your job, I guess I don’t need to ask how you figured that out,” she laughs, fine lines crinkling at her eyes, giving her a glow that draws you in. It works. You just have to let it.

“Not hard to guess,” you say, not mentioning that you prefer blue on yourself. “Reading people is part of my job.”

Lucía laughs again, leaning closer, her floral perfume wrapping around your senses. Her hand burns against your bare skin, her nails tracing lightly along your forearm. “Sounds like you’re in the field a lot, right? Unlike Penelope. That must come with risks, crazy hours, travel, all that. Right?”

You already know what she thinks of your job and schedule. You can read it in the way she leans back slightly, expectation and disappointment flickering in her eyes, her smile a little too practiced. You can’t help but wonder why she agreed to meet you at all. Did Penelope not tell her what you do?

“That’s right. Didn’t Penelope tell you?” you ask carefully.

Lucía shakes her head slightly, still smiling, and you continue.

“I analyze offender behavior, look for patterns, consistencies. We usually travel to where the crimes happen. Sometimes it’s just a few hours, sometimes a day. Sometimes longer.”

“Oh,” she says, and there it is, the spark of disappointment. Your job has ruined many dates. Still, you love it. “What was your longest assignment?”

You think for a moment, but that case comes back instantly. André Hernandez. Brutal. Draining. One of the worst of your career. You’d nearly broken under it, until Emily pulled you aside, put a hand on your shoulder, and—

“Y/N?” Lucía’s hand on your shoulder feels wrong, especially after thinking about Emily again. You smile apologetically and sip your wine.

“Sorry. Sometimes cases stay with you. I think we were near Las Vegas for three weeks. It was so hot and—” you trail off, noticing how Lucía restrains herself from interrupting.

After that, she steers the conversation elsewhere, her interest in your job already gone, even though she hardly knows anything about it. Her intentions for the evening don’t seem serious anyway. You play along, try to lose yourself in her, which works—to a point. Your hand at her hip, her lips near your ear as she tells you something not meant for everyone.

It works until the moment Emily Prentiss walks into the apartment.

It’s like the world tilts. Like you feel her presence before you even see her, a magnet pulling you into her orbit. You try not to react, dive into a conversation about music, something you love. You adore ’80s music; Lucía doesn’t, but she lets herself get swept up in your enthusiasm, listens to a track you play on your phone, asks about your favorite band, how many concerts you’ve been to.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Emily, who hasn’t noticed you yet or at least pretends not to. She heads toward JJ, now standing with the rest of your colleagues. They’re laughing, talking animatedly. At some point, you see JJ nod in your direction. Only then does Emily finally turn to you.

For a moment, your breath catches. Your body goes haywire. Your brain short-circuits.

Emily is wearing the deep red blouse you love so much. The neckline is scandalously low, her tailored slacks hugging her toned legs, accentuated by her heels. Her hair is down tonight, soft curls falling over her chest. In the apartment’s gentle light, silver strands shimmer through her dark hair, lending her a grace that makes you wet your lips.

You see her eyes travel over you, the way her throat bobs, the way she bites her lip. You try to make sense of her reaction but when Lucía makes herself known at your side again, Emily’s gaze darkens.

“Let’s get another drink,” Lucía whispers into your ear, her warm breath teasing your skin.

You manage little more than a nod, paralyzed by Emily’s possessive, dark stare. There’s no other way to describe it, that’s what it makes you feel. Like you belong to her. She’s never looked at you like this before. Maybe there were moments when you thought she had, but that was wishful thinking, right? Before you can spiral any further, you follow Lucía to the kitchen.

“Another glass of wine?” Lucía’s hand settles on your lower back, her fingers brushing lower in a teasing way.

“More wine,” you agree, shifting slightly out of her touch.

Lucía tops off your glass, fills her own, and gestures to the now-empty couch in the middle of the living room. Right on display. “Let’s sit. These heels are killing me,” she says, and together you head over.

Garcia has joined your colleagues by now and throws you a look you don’t quite understand. Shouldn’t she look pleased? After all, you’re talking to her friend, the friend she set you up with.

You try to focus on the small talk Lucía resumes. She’s pleasant, but her hand on your knee and Emily’s burning stare at your back won’t let you fully relax.

“So how long has it been since your last relationship?” Lucía asks after telling you about her ex Claire in all detail.

“A while,” you evade. You hate this topic. Between your job and education, you never had time for a real relationship. There were people, sometimes, but no one who stayed. The accusations were always the same: your job matters more than your girlfriend, you stay late on purpose, or the classic: you’re married to your work.

“And how long is ‘a while’?” she presses, her finger tracing circles on your knee.

“Five years,” you admit, glancing sideways.

Emily’s eyes are still on you. Her posture is tense, shoulders drawn up, the tendon in her neck standing out. She grips her glass too tightly, knuckles white, lips a thin line. Her eyes are dark, unreadable, her face a stone mask. Something shifts inside you at the sight, and you sink deeper into the cushions. Your dress rides up slightly, and Lucía’s fingers trace your bare skin.

She grins, and before you can say anything, before you can pull your dress back down, Emily steps into your line of sight. How she crossed the room so fast is a mystery to you.

Her gaze locks on your face, drops to Lucía’s hand on your knee, then to the woman beside you.

“Y/N,” is all she says, her tone so strained it makes your eyebrows lift in surprise.

Lucía looks up too, intimidated by Emily’s presence, scooting a little closer to you. Emily swallows, biting the inside of her cheek until it bleeds.

“Emily?” you ask softly. “It’s good to see you.”

“I got an update on our current case.” The words are clipped, rehearsed, like a lie. You look at her, about to tease her for her greeting, but she continues. “I need to tell you about it. It’s important.”

“Now?” Your question hangs in the air, and when she nods, you realize you’ve been holding your breath.

Lucía jumps in. “We’re at a party. We’re talking.”

“I’m sorry—” you begin, but Emily steps closer, nodding toward the balcony.

“That’s the job. If there’s a breakthrough, we act.” Her voice cuts through the party noise. Penelope and JJ look over, trained to react to Emily’s authority. Something flashes across Penelope’s face when you send her a pleading look.

Slowly, you pull away from Lucía, from her hand on your knee, offer an apologetic smile, and murmur, “I’m sorry. I’ll come back.”

“I want you to—” Lucía starts, but Emily is already between you, her hand settling on your back. The same place Lucía’s had been. A shiver runs through you, and you fight the urge to lean into her touch. Gently but firmly, Emily guides you through the crowd, her grip tightening with every step—more possessive, more urgent—until she steers you onto the balcony.

Cold air hits you, and suddenly the party sounds vanish, replaced by the rush of the interstate.

“Emily,” you begin, even though you have no idea what you want to say. Nothing makes sense right now.

“The blue dress, huh?” is the first thing she says, making you freeze.

She steps closer, looking down at you. Her heels make her nearly a foot taller now. Overwhelmed by her proximity, you step back, trying to escape the scent of gardenia and sandalwood, only to hit the balcony railing. Cold steel presses into your back, but Emily’s gaze warms you from the inside, sets you on fire. There’s so much hunger in her eyes. Hunger you’ve never seen before.

“Blue suits you best,” she continues, stepping closer until there’s nowhere left to go.

You feel her body heat, swallow. Breathe in her scent, press your lips together. Swallow again. You don’t trust your voice or your body. You’re trembling, and it has nothing to do with the cold.

Slowly, almost indulgently, she grips the railing to your right with one hand, then places her other hand near your left hip. She’s caged you in, trapping you between her arms. You’re completely at her mercy, and you’ve never wanted anything more.

“But you didn’t wear it for me, did you?” There’s a growl in her voice. When you don’t answer right away, you feel her leg press against yours. “Did you?”

“No,” you whisper. “Penelope suggested it.”

Emily looks satisfied. At least you didn’t say Lucía’s name. You can’t help but wonder if Penelope reminded you of the blue dress on purpose. If she remembered the gala three months ago. Emily’s gaze glued to you all night. How she raved about your outfit for days afterward.

“Hm.” Emily presses her leg more firmly against yours until your knees part and her thigh slides gently between them.

You suppress a sound, a movement, any telltale sign of what the position does to you. “Weren’t you going to tell me about…” you start, but Emily places a finger on your lips.

“Shh, darling.” She leans in, her face barely four inches from yours. You fall silent, acutely aware of her finger against your mouth. Slowly, she traces the outline of your lips, down to your chin, until she can hold it. Her other hand settles on your waist, her warmth burning through the silky fabric of your dress, and everything in you screams to finally be kissed by Emily. But she seems to enjoy your torment, wants to make you suffer for what happened in the living room.

“You’re not going back to her,” she murmurs against your ear, her lips brushing your earlobe. “Or letting her touch you. Understood?”

“I—” Your mind goes blank as her tongue grazes beneath your ear.

“What were you going to say?” she asks, breathing against the damp skin of your neck.

“No, I won’t,” you force out. “But—”

“No buts,” she warns, turning your chin aside to expose your neck. “I’ve given you far too much space for far too long. That ends now. You belong to me. Or am I wrong? The way you’ve been looking at me for ages. The way you press your legs together when I’m close. How you avoid my gaze, my proximity. How every date is a catastrophe. You’ve been mine for a long time already. Haven’t you?”

Caught, you close your eyes, realizing the power play she’s pulling. She knows about your feelings, and the realization nearly knocks the ground out from under you.

“How long have you known?” you ask, placing your hand over hers, which is still holding your chin.

“Long enough,” she replies, kissing the back of your hand. “But I had to be sure first…”

You can’t suppress a laugh, staring at her in disbelief. “Be sure of what?”

“How serious you were. I—” She breaks off, suddenly avoiding your gaze. For the first time since stepping onto the balcony, she hesitates.

Something flickers across her face, an emotion you rarely see. And suddenly the confident, dominant Emily is gone. In her place stands an Emily who looks unsure, vulnerable, nervous. The complete opposite of seconds ago.

“Emily,” you whisper, taking her hand in both of yours, stroking it gently. “No woman was ever good enough. Not one. I compared them all to you… but I didn’t know if you—”

You falter, unsure whether to say the words, how exposed they make you feel. But standing here in the moonlight, you realize she’s opened herself to you completely. This is Emily. Not Emily Prentiss. Not Agent Prentiss. Not Unit Chief Emily Prentiss. Just Emily: raw, honest, vulnerable. A side of her very few people ever get to see.

“Emily,” you say again, guiding her hands to your waist before cupping her face. “You mean more to me than you probably realize. And you have for a long time. You’re incredible—strong, mysterious, beautiful. How could I not—” You exhale, studying her profile, her damp eyes, her tense mouth, the way she looks at you now. You feel her pulse racing under your fingers and pull her closer until you feel her breath on your face again. “How could I not be in love with you?”

A soft whimper escapes Emily, one that shatters your heart and runs straight through your body, pushing you to take the final step.

“May I?” you murmur, your lips a breath away from hers.

She nods almost imperceptibly, but it’s all you need. You close the distance. You kiss her gently. You kiss her fiercely. Slowly. Quickly. You kiss her with love, because you never want Emily Prentiss to doubt her worth again. Never doubt that she deserves to be loved. And from now on, you’ll prove it to her in every possible second of your life.

“You say that every time.” You wipe your hands on a napkin, toss it neatly into the trash can to your left, and shake your head slightly.

“No arguments,” Penelope says, already pulling out her phone and typing. “Tonight. Six p.m. I’ll get you a table at the Trattoria.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. What if it’s another disaster? Then she’s also your—” you rush to say, because you don’t want another date. Not even with Penelope’s friend.

“What’s going to be a disaster?” a voice suddenly asks from behind you, and a shiver runs through your body. Not a bad one, warm, pleasant, electric. That voice does things to you you will never say out loud. Her footsteps stop right behind you. You can feel her presence without turning around, without needing to see the way she’s looking at you.

“Nothing,” you answer instantly, but you know Penelope Garcia too well. She won’t leave it at that. She’s going to explain everything to your boss in painful detail. Still, you shoot her a sharp look, which she skillfully ignores.

“I’m trying to set her up on a date for tonight,” Garcia squeaks excitedly, gesturing wildly between you and Emily. “With my friend Lucía. You met her at the last party, Emily. Long brown hair, cute Spanish accent, she’s been living in Quantico for three years. I met her in a knitting class.”

“I remember,” you hear Emily exhale heavily, forcing a polite tone as you turn slightly toward her, just in time to see her smooth the creases from her forehead. You don’t miss her tense jaw, or the way her left thumb picks at the fingers of her right hand.

“I told her she’d be perfect for her after last weekend’s date turned into another catastrophe, but…” Penelope rattles on, completely oblivious to the fact that Emily isn’t listening anymore.

“You had a date this weekend?” Emily asks you, pressing her lips together. “You didn’t mention that on Friday.”

On Friday, the two of you had lunch together again, like you so often do lately. Even though being near her is slowly tearing you apart, you can’t, and don’t want to stop seeing her. It’s a vicious cycle, like an addiction to Emily Prentiss. You enjoy her presence a little too much every time, and you can’t shake the feeling that she does too. Not often, but sometimes, a brief touch here, a subtle comment there. The way her gaze lingers on you longer than it should. But maybe all of that is just hope. A dream you keep chasing.

“Yeah, I…” You falter under her intense stare, get lost in her dark brown eyes, which no longer look friendly but hard and closed off.

“Well, and then I suggested she could—” Penelope continues, completely absorbed in her story, fading into background noise compared to the frantic pounding of your heart.

Emily tilts her head, waiting for an answer you can’t give her. You hadn’t wanted her to find out about the date. Hell, you hadn’t even wanted to go on it. But your best friend had arranged it, insisted on it, so you’d finally stop thinking about your boss. Another hope that shattered against the cliffs of your heart.

“Amber arranged it. I’d completely forgotten until she texted me a reminder that evening,” you defend yourself, hating how defensive you sound. How much you want to calm her, soothe her. But her eyes stay hard.

“Is that so?” She bites her lower lip, then turns to Penelope, cutting her off mid-story. “I need the phone analysis on Daniel Morten.”

When Penelope looks from Emily to you, her thoughts plainly written all over her face, Emily clears her throat and adds, “As soon as possible.”

“Got it, boss,” Penelope says, disappearing into her office at lightning speed, though not without throwing you one last questioning look.

More placating words are already on your tongue, but Emily cuts you off with a gesture. “I want Morten’s profile and victimology today.”

“Today?” You glance at the clock behind her. It’s already 2 p.m. You’ll need at least until six. The date was supposed to be at six. Not that you were eager to go.

“Today,” she repeats, folding her hands in front of her stomach and looking at you expectantly. “Why? Do you have something important planned?”

“No, just Penelope…” you mumble, feeling heat creep into your cheeks, uncertainty taking hold.

“Then we’re good,” is all your boss says before turning on her heel and disappearing into her office. The door slams shut behind her, and you suppress a dramatic sigh.

What the hell was that about?

Even days later, you still can’t make sense of Emily’s behavior. Not that you’ve talked much. Almost every day you stay later than usual, and Emily’s office remains closed most of the time. She keeps piling endless tasks on you, so time-consuming that only coffee keeps you upright. Luke has reassured you more than once that things will get better, but so far, they haven’t. Maybe you tell yourself it’s purely professional. That she’s pushing you because she knows what you’re capable of. Because she trusts you. Because she needs someone who won’t break. And part of you clings to that thought, even though it doesn’t feel true anymore.

If only you knew why she’s punishing you with distance and impossible workloads, you might be able to make sense of it all. She hasn’t asked you to lunch anymore either. Instead, she’s been going to the little bistro near the office with JJ, the place where you’d been joking around together not long ago. And for the first time, the thought hits you full force: maybe it’s not punishment for bad work. Maybe it’s punishment for seeing someone else. For trying to move on. Away from her.

The thought won’t let you go. It lingers, heavy and unshakable, despite every rational explanation you cling to. You don’t know what it means, only that it refuses to leave you alone.