Prentissmylove

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.

The café is packed. Conversations overlap without ever becoming one, chairs scrape across the floor, names are called from behind the counter, customers drift forward to collect their drinks before disappearing back into the crowd.

Claire orders once, changes her mind halfway through, apologises to the barista with an apologetic smile that somehow makes everything acceptable, then walks away balancing two cups.

She takes one sip and frowns.

“What’s wrong now?” you ask.

Claire turns the cup slowly between her hands before taking another sip, as though the answer might change if she gives it another chance.

“It’s not what I imagined.”

You stare at her. “You’ve had it for three seconds.”

“Exactly.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You are exhausting.”

“And yet,” Claire replies without missing a beat, “you keep choosing me.”

Somehow she says it with enough confidence that you almost feel like correcting her would be rude.

The afternoon unfolds much the same way. One shop becomes another. Claire insists she is just looking, only to appear minutes later with an armful of clothes and an expression that suggests she has already made several important decisions on your behalf.

She stops in front of you, holding up a pale blue dress against your shoulders before taking half a step back to inspect it. “Try this on.”

You look from the dress to her. “Claire…”

“No arguments.” She presses the hanger into your hands before you can think of one.

You sigh, but take it anyway. A few minutes later, you pull the curtain aside and step out of the fitting room.

Claire barely looks up before wrinkling her nose. “No.”

You blink. “I haven’t even turned around yet.”

“I know.” She folds her arms, completely unfazed. “I can already tell.”

“That’s not how mirrors work.”

Claire dismisses the objection with a flick of her wrist. “Trust the vision.”

You shake your head, disappearing behind the curtain again as Claire’s quiet laugh follows you back into the fitting room.

By the time you leave the store, neither of you has actually bought anything.

“Successful day,” you remark, adjusting the empty shopping bag Claire insisted on keeping because ‘it might come in handy.’

“Obviously.”

You fall into step beside Claire without really thinking about it, the two of you being carried along by the slow current of people moving through the mall. Every store you pass spills its own music into the corridor until the melodies blur together into a noisy, indistinguishable soundtrack. You slow briefly in front of a bookstore, your attention caught by the display in the window. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Claire furiously typing on her phone. Barely two seconds later, it vibrates.

Her thumb already moves across the screen, and there’s that small shift in her expression that you’ve learned to recognise by now, the one that usually means she has decided something without telling you first.

“Isabelle’s here,” she says, still looking at her phone.

You glance at her. “Isabelle? Like… here here?”

Claire has mentioned Isabelle once or twice. She was a girl from her literature class. They had worked on a few projects together, and Claire had made a point of mentioning more than once how kind and thoughtful she was. If you didn’t know Claire better, you might have assumed she had a crush on her.

But you know her better, Claire only likes guys. So this is about something else.

“She came earlier.” Claire slips the phone back into her pocket like it’s already resolved. “She’s waiting in the next store.”

You slow for half a step before catching yourself. Since when had that become the plan? Had Claire mentioned it earlier and you simply hadn’t been listening? Or had she decided it somewhere between your last store and this one, quietly rearranging the afternoon without bothering to announce it?

“Since when—”

“Since I asked her to.”

It’s said casually, almost too casually, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to just rearrange a day like this, and Claire doesn’t even look at you when she says it, just adjusts the strap of her bag and keeps walking as if nothing about this is particularly important.

You exhale through your nose, more amusement than actual complaint. “You invited her?”

“Not invited.” Claire tilts her head slightly as she walks backwards for a few steps now, watching you instead of where she’s going, completely unconcerned with the people she almost bumps into. “Just told her where we’d be.”

“That’s not how invitations work.”

“It is if you do it right.”

You shake your head, but she’s already smiling to herself like she’s won something she hasn’t properly explained yet.

“She asked about you,” she adds after a beat, as if it’s only now relevant.

You’re not entirely sure what to do with that piece of information, or why it suddenly seems important now. You don’t even understand why she’s joining the two of you in the middle of a shopping trip.

“Why?” you ask, genuinely confused, though the question quickly gives way to suspicion when you catch the slightly sheepish look on Claire’s face.

Claire makes a vague sound, half shrug, half confession she doesn’t feel like expanding on. “Because I mentioned you last lecture. We were talking about our last family visits.”

“You mention a lot of people,” you point out, trying to figure out where exactly this conversation is heading.

“Not like this,” she admits.

There’s something in her tone that makes you look at her again, but she’s already looking ahead, weaving through a gap in the crowd as if the conversation is just another thing moving along with them rather than something to linger on.

“She wanted to know who I was spending the day with,” Claire continues, lighter again, as though she’s decided to smooth it over before it becomes anything. “So I told her… and she asked if she could stop by.”

“I don’t understand,” you admit quietly, even though a vague suspicion is beginning to take shape somewhere in the back of your mind.

Claire bites back another grin. “Well…” She draws the word out just long enough to make you uneasy. “Maybe… just maybe… I also showed her a picture of you.”

She looks over at you with that bright, infectious smile of hers. Your stomach drops.

You don’t answer right away, because there’s something strangely unsettling about the idea of being described by someone else in conversations you were never part of, of someone forming an impression of you from stories you never told and a photograph you never chose to show.

Claire bumps your shoulder lightly as you walk. “Relax,” she murmurs, like she can feel the shift even if she doesn’t name it. “You’ll like her.”

The sentence should just pass. Instead it lingers somewhere under everything else, threading itself into the noise of the mall, into the movement, into the way people pass without looking at you twice, until even that feels slightly different for reasons you can’t quite pin down.

And then, without warning, there’s that familiar slip in your attention, not toward Claire, not toward anything here at all, but somewhere else entirely where it doesn’t belong.

Emily.

You should probably ask yourself why she is the person who comes to mind now of all times. But if you’re honest, you already know the answer.

Whenever Claire talks about introducing you to someone, it somehow ends with her trying to set you up. And whether you want to admit it or not, the thought leaves you with an unexpected sense of guilt. Even though you have no reason to feel guilty at all.

Your eyes drift through the crowd without focusing, catching fragments of people, shapes, motion, none of it resolving into anything that matters.

“There she is,” Claire says then, like she hasn’t noticed any of the silence in you at all. She lifts a hand in greeting, already stepping forward.

Isabelle is waiting in front of the vinyl store, dressed in a green top, blue jeans and white sneakers.

“Hi, Isabelle.”

Isabelle’s gaze moves between the two of you, steady but unhurried, taking in the moment without trying to define it too quickly. There is no hesitation in the way she responds, only attention that feels present rather than directed.

“Hi, Claire,” she greets her, before turning to you.

“This is Y/N,” Claire introduces, gesturing toward you in a way that feels far too confident for something that should still be an introduction.

Isabelle turns fully toward you. There’s a brief pause as her eyes linger on you, studying you with quiet curiosity. You suddenly become aware of the photograph Claire admitted to showing her. You find yourself wondering which one it was. What Claire might have said about you. What version of you Isabelle thinks she’s about to meet.

You push the thought aside before it can settle. Smiling politely, you hold out your hand.

“Hi, Isabelle. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Hi, Y/N.” Her hand is cool against yours, almost cold, as though she’s every bit as nervous as you suddenly are.

Claire watches the exchange like she is measuring something only she can see.

Isabelle speaks again before the moment can settle into anything self-conscious. “Claire has told me about you.”

You glance briefly at Claire. “That sounds dangerous,” you reply, drier than you intended.

Isabelle smiles at that, not reacting as if it is a joke she needs to decode, just acknowledging it as something that exists in the conversation. “Mostly in the context of food,” she adds. “And strong opinions about coffee.”

“Accurate,” Claire agrees with an eager nod.

A quiet laugh escapes Isabelle as she brushes a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. You can’t help but watch her, almost analyse her.

She has an effortless kind of presence, the sort that draws attention without ever seeming to ask for it and, somehow, knows exactly how to hold it once she has it. When her eyes meet yours again, there is a quiet spark in them, and nothing about it feels heavy or demanding.

Your mind catches itself searching for a comparison. It doesn’t find one it can hold. Not here. Not in this moment.

“See?” Claire grins, like she is confirming something that has already worked out exactly as she intended. “She’s nice.”

You glance at her, then back at Isabelle. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Obviously,” she replies.

Isabelle looks between the two of you, faint amusement visible on her face, as though she is quietly realising that this dynamic did not begin with her, it has simply expanded to include her. “You know I’m standing right here?” she remarks with another soft laugh, so light and unguarded that, for a moment, you almost forget why the three of you are here in the first place.

The conversation continues like that, without ever needing to find a clear shape, drifting instead through small, unforced questions Isabelle asks about your studies, about your exams, and whether it finally feels as though you’re allowed to breathe again now that they’re over.

You answer more easily than you expected to, not because anything about the questions is particularly revealing, but because nothing in them asks you to be anything other than present in the moment.

Claire wanders off at some point without properly announcing it, pulled away by something on a nearby shelf that apparently requires her immediate attention, leaving you alone with Isabelle in front of a mirror as she slips a handbag over her shoulder.

“It suits me, doesn’t it?” she asks, shifting her weight slightly as she studies herself in the reflection.

Even though she isn’t analysing you the way Emily would, you can still feel her watching you, waiting for your answer, searching your expression before you’ve even spoken.

“It’s your colour,” you reply, becoming aware of the faint discomfort settling somewhere beneath your ribs.

“That’s what you say.” Isabelle laughs softly. “My mum would tell me it makes me look pale.”

The laugh comes easily, completely unforced, and it is impossible to miss how much she enjoys talking to you. She closes her eyes for a brief moment when she laughs, catches her lower lip between her teeth whenever you answer, and smiles as though the conversation itself is enough to keep her attention.

You notice all of it and it leaves you strangely on edge. It feels as though something is quietly being filed away in the wrong place inside you. Whatever this is, it doesn’t fit where your mind keeps trying to put it.

“We probably shouldn’t listen to our mothers all the time,” you remark, hoping your expression doesn’t betray too much, doesn’t reveal how little weight your own mother’s opinion carries with you.

“You’re probably right.” Isabelle holds the handbag up against the blouse draped over her arm before looking back at the mirror. “And it looks amazing with this.”

Later, Claire returns as though she had only stepped away from the conversation for a moment rather than disrupting its entire rhythm, Isabelle now standing near the counter, paying for the handbag she had decided on without much hesitation.

Claire waits until Isabelle is occupied before leaning slightly closer to you. “She likes you,” she teases with unmistakable certainty.

You don’t have to ask how she knows. She had been watching the two of you the entire time. You glance in Isabelle’s direction briefly before answering.

“She is not subtle about it,” you suggest, tone careful enough not to sound dismissive.

Claire watches you for a moment longer than necessary.

“That does not sound very enthusiastic.”

You let out a quiet breath through your nose, weighing the words before they leave you.

“She is nice,” you admit but pause.

It hangs there for a second too long. Claire tilts her head slightly, already anticipating the answer, even if she knew that sound in your voice. “But?”

Your gaze drifts to the mirror again, though you are not really looking at it. “But it is not that simple. She’s nice, yes…”

That seems to settle something for Claire, not in agreement, not in disagreement, but in recognition. “That’s okay,” she murmurs after a beat. “Not everything has to be simple. You’ll get to know her better at the party.”

The subject slips away as Isabelle rejoins the two of you. With a pleased smile, she hugs the shopping bag against her chest before glancing at her watch. “I should get going,” she says. “My shift starts in a few minutes.”

Claire doesn’t hesitate before pulling her into a hug. She pats Isabelle’s back and whispers something that clearly isn’t meant for your ears. When they part, a faint blush has crept across Isabelle’s cheeks as she turns to face you.

“I’m really glad we finally got to meet,” she admits quietly before wrapping her arms around you.

She feels soft in your embrace, carries a light citrus scent that should be easy to notice. But your mind is somewhere else entirely. You barely register the hug before it is already over.

Claire clears her throat pointedly and the look she gives you makes it painfully obvious she thinks you should say something.

“Likewise,” you manage at last, offering Isabelle a smile you hope looks warmer than it feels.

Only after Isabelle disappears into the crowd do you realise you’ve been holding your breath. The moment she is gone, something inside you loosens, as though your lungs finally remember how to work again.

The two of you make your way into the next store, where Claire disappears into a changing room, still talking through the curtain, her voice softened and distorted by fabric and distance.

“I swear,” she adds, half laughing as she wrestles with something that sounds like denim, “if these jeans don’t fit, I’m filing a formal complaint against the entire concept of sizing.”

You let the sound of her voice dissolve into the background of the store, into hangers sliding across metal rails, into footsteps that never fully settle in one place, into music that sits somewhere above everything without belonging to it.

For a little while, everything almost feels ordinary again. Ordinary in the fragile way things often do after something has quietly unsettled you.

Claire is still behind the changing room curtain, trying on yet another dress while telling you about her latest date with Josh, a biology student.

“And then he actually says—no, listen to this—he says he’s ‘not really a dessert person,’” she continues, disbelief sharpening the words even through the barrier between you. “Which, I’m sorry, but that is not a personality trait I can work with.”

A quiet huff escapes you as you suppress a laugh. Leaning against the dresser beside you, you reach down to pick absentmindedly at a loose thread on the hem of your shirt. “You could have just left,” you call back.

“I considered it,” Claire replies without hesitation. “But I stayed. Out of curiosity. And a little bit of responsibility. Mostly curiosity.”

The sentence is still hanging there when a sound cuts through the store, sharp, sudden and loud, close enough that the air itself seems to change before anyone has time to decide what it means. Claire stops in the middle of her sentence. “—wait, did you hear” The question never reaches its end.

For a heartbeat, nothing follows. A strange stillness settles over the store instead, uneven and uncertain, as though everyone’s attention has been pulled toward the same invisible point at once. You notice people looking around, listening, and without thinking, you find yourself doing the same. Customers begin drifting toward the entrance in hesitant steps, peering out into the corridor beyond the shop. No one is running yet. No one is shouting. But something has shifted. You can feel it in the way conversations die away one after another, in the nervous glances exchanged between strangers, in the silent calculation happening behind every face as they try to decide whether they are overreacting or not reacting quickly enough.

Then the sound comes again. This time it is closer. Sharper. Impossible to mistake.

You recognise it before you allow yourself to name it. And the moment you do, the store stops being a store at all.

It was in the flick of her gaze when you’d adjusted the strap of your vest mid-pursuit. The way her eyes had lingered a second too long when you’d crouched beside the victim. The way she’d barked an order to Morgan, voice cool and precise, only to glance back at you after. Just a flicker of concern or something like it.

You’d felt it the entire operation, the quiete pressure, of someone watching your every move. Not judging, but noticing. And distracting.

Earlier, in the woods, the killer had fled without warning, vanishing into a tangle of trees. You’d split up. Emily had been two steps ahead, her breath visible in the cold, her body a sharp silhouette in tactical black. You remember the way she’d looked back over her shoulder when you almost slipped, one hand instinctively reaching for you even though you were ten feet apart. She hadn’t needed to catch you. But she’d wanted to.

The memory lingers now, even hours later.

Back at Quantico, your nerves hum beneath your skin like a current you can’t shut off.

The bullpen is quieter than usual, fluorescent lights casting soft shadows over scattered case files and empty coffee cups. The post-field lull has settled in — paperwork, debriefs, and silence that always follows after something loud.

You return from the locker, vest still strapped to your body, soaked in adrenaline and sweat. Your fingers fumble with the zipper, you got the broken one. Damn it.

It’s caught on the inner lining. You mutter a curse under your breath, frustration bubbling under your skin and try again. Still stuck. You feel ridiculous, trapped in your own gear. You tug harder at the zipper of your vest, but nothing happens.

“Need some help?”

You turn around, startled by her appearance. Emily is there, leaning against the wall with her FBI mug in one hand, the other resting on her hip. Her silver-streaked hair is still damp from the rain, pushed back messily, and there’s a scrape on her temple she hasn’t even looked at yet. Of course she’s here. Of course she’s watching.

“I—yeah,” you say, voice caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “The zipper’s stuck. It does this sometimes. Not a big deal.”

She pushes off the wall with that same calm precision, each movement deliberate. She steps closer, her eyes sweeping over you. You don’t feel exposed, just examined. She sees right through you.

“Let me,” she says simply.

You don’t respond — can’t, really — before she’s behind you. One moment, she’s standing at a polite distance. The next, she’s stepping into your space, not invading, exactly, but close enough to make your heart stutter.

Her fingers graze your side as she moves your hair gently off your shoulder. The touch is featherlight, but it freezes you in place. Her knuckles are cool against the back of your neck. It makes you shiver. The scent of her is familiar by now, but it still hits hard. Clean, earthy, with a hint of her soap.

“You’re tense,” she murmurs, voice low and close to your ear.

“I’m fine.” You’re not. Not with Emily this close. Your heart is racing, palms clammy.

She hums, a small, knowing sound. She doesn’t believe you. Of course she doesn’t. And then, with slow, practiced care, her hand finds the zipper. Slowly, deliberately, she works it free. The vest begins to loosen around you, releasing a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“I’ve seen this one catch before,” she says, almost conversational. Her breath grazes your skin, giving you goosebumps. “You should’ve asked sooner.”

There’s no mistaking it now. Her voice, the closeness, the way she doesn’t move away. Your pulse spikes and your hands twitch at your sides.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you say quietly. As soon as the words are out, you regret them. They sound like an excuse.

Emily lets the zipper drop, but her hand stays, resting lightly against your back, just between your shoulder blades. Not guiding, not possessive. Just there. Like a whisper of something more.

“You never bother me,” she says, softer now. As if she wants you to believe her. As if it matters to her that you don’t think you’re a nuisance.

You turn slightly, your shoulder brushing hers. You don’t mean to, but the contact grounds you. When your eyes meet, she’s closer than she has to be. She’s still not stepping back.

And her gaze? Her gaze holds you in place. Calm, but charged. Focused in that particular Emily way, like she’s reading every thought that just crossed your mind. Like she knows. And maybe she does know. Maybe she always has.

A breath passes between you. One beat. Two. And then, with that same maddening subtlety, her hand drops away. She takes a slow step back.

“Next time,” she says, a smile ghosting over her lips, “don’t wait for me to come to you.”

Her tone is even. But her words… they’re something else entirely. They feel like an invitation to you.

She leaves you standing there with a half-unzipped vest, flushed cheeks, and a pulse that won’t quite settle. You stare at the empty hallway for a moment too long before exhaling slowly, as if that could somehow reset your entire body. Like maybe you can unstitch what she just did to your nerves.

It doesn’t work.

Later, your team debriefs in the conference room. The whiteboard is still stained with the unsub’s timeline. The scent of coffee and exhaustion fills the air.

You say the right things, file the right reports. Nod at the right moments. But your mind drifts. You think about the chase in the woods, Emily’s hand brushing yours when she handed you the evidence bag, her voice in your ear.

“You’re clear. Move.” She is always so calm under pressure.

You remember the way she’d looked at you in the clearing after it was over. When the suspect was cuffed and the storm had finally stopped. You were both covered in mud, and breathing hard. The chase had taken it‘s toll on both of you. She hadn’t smiled, but something in her eyes had shifted.

You remember that most of all.

When the day ends, sore muscles, foggy minds and sleepy eyes, everyone leaves but you. You linger in the parking lot a lot longer than you should, the air cool against your skin, the weight of the day pressing on your shoulders. The sky is pitch black and cloudless, stars shining dimly through the city lights.

Footsteps echo behind you, steady and familiar. You don’t have to turn, you know it’s her.

“Hey,” Emily says. She steps up beside you, arms crossed, posture relaxed. You glance over. Her eyes are on the horizon, not on you.

“Hey,” you reply, almost a whisper.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. There’s only the buzz of the security lights, the faint wind rustling the trees beyond the lot.

“Long day,” she murmurs.

You nod. “Long week.”

“You okay?” She glances back to you, worry grazing her features.

You want to say yes. Want to lie, keep it simple. But the words get stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs. So you exhale instead, and look at her fully this time.

“I think I’ve been pretending not to notice something for a while now.”

She finally turns her head, and meets your gaze. There’s no surprise in her eyes, only patience. And if you look closer, there’s something warm underneath.

“You don’t have to pretend,” she says. „Not with me.“

The silence stretches between you, but it isn’t heavy. It’s featherlight, like it’s waiting for you to do something. You take a half-step closer, close enough for your shoulder to brush hers again.

“Then maybe… don’t let me walk away this time.”

Emily’s eyes soften. She doesn’t smile, not quite. But there’s a shift in her stance, barely there, but unmistakable a quiet yes.

“I wasn’t going to,” she says.