Prentissmylove

Claire is beside you, but not fully present in the same way. She is folded inward, shoulders drawn in, arms wrapped around herself as if she is holding the pieces of her body in place through pressure alone. Another paramedic kneels in front of her.

“Hi. Can you tell me your name?”

There is a pause before she answers. “Claire.”

“Good, Claire. Can you tell me if you’re hurt anywhere?”

Her eyes flicker down, then up again, unfocused. “I… I don’t know. I don't think so… I mean… It happened so fast.”

The paramedic nods, notes something down, calm in a way that feels practiced rather than distant.

Your own name is asked again, closer now.

“Yes,” you answer in a flat tone.

“Alright. You’re doing fine,” the paramedic replies while checking your pulse, fingers steady at your wrist. “You’re shaking a bit, that’s normal. Just stay with me.”

Claire visibly tenses when her wrist is taken as well. “Don’t,” she says, sharper than she probably means it.

“It’s okay,” the paramedic responds, not reacting to the tone. “I just need your pulse, alright?”

A beat passes.

“Okay,” Claire answers, quieter this time, but her hand stays tense even after he lets go.

“He was so close to us,” she murmurs, not really addressing anyone in particular.

The paramedic looks between the two of you before straightening slightly. “You’re out,” he says, trying to reassure her. “That’s what matters right now.”

“I saw him,” her voice cracking halfway through the sentence. “I saw him, I swear I did. He was—he was right there—”

One of the paramedics tries to interrupt gently, but she keeps talking anyway, the words spilling out faster now. “I couldn’t move. I couldn’t—everything was just… there were so many people, and I thought—”

Her voice breaks completely.

You reach for her hand, hoping to calm her. The strength of her grip tells you that, right now, you are the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.

One of the paramedics glances over his shoulder before looking back at Claire. He studies her for a moment longer than before, clearly recognizing that she is no longer just shaken.

“Okay,” he says gently, lowering his voice. “I’m going to have someone come by and sit with you for a bit, alright?”

Claire doesn’t answer. Her eyes stay fixed somewhere past him, unfocused, as if she is still seeing something that isn’t there anymore.

“You’re safe,” he adds quietly. “You’re out. You’re not back there anymore.” He makes a quick note on his tablet before looking toward one of his colleagues. “Amber will come check on you in a minute.”

Then he gives you both one last look. “If you need anything before then, find one of us, okay?”

He is already turning away, though he gives the two of you one last glance before disappearing into his next task, following the same procedure as everyone else around him.

You lower your gaze to Claire’s fingers wrapped tightly around your hand and only look up again when you realize someone is watching you.

Emily is making her way through the police officers, paraparamedics, and first responders, weaving past flashing lights, temporary tents, and emergency vehicles. She pauses briefly beside an older woman holding a clipboard, one of the coordinators overseeing the civilian response.

Emily’s shoulders no longer seem as tense as they had twenty minutes earlier. And when she turns toward you, she no longer looks like Unit Chief Prentiss. She just looks like Emily.

Only when the crunch of her boots grows closer does Claire notice that she has returned. She hurriedly lets go of your hand and tries to get to her feet, almost losing her balance in the process. Her legs tremble beneath her, forcing her to sink back down, one hand lifting instinctively into the air.

Emily steps closer and crouches in front of her. “Hey. You’re okay. You’re out. You’re safe.”

Claire shakes her head once, but there is no disagreement in it, only overload. “I couldn’t— I didn’t know where—”

“I know,” Emily interrupts her softly. Her hand stays on Claire’s shoulder, her thumb doing small circles to anchor her. “You don’t have to explain it right now.”

Claire’s breath catches again anyway and she leans forward slightly, as if her body has decided that anything solid within reach is something she has to stay close to.

Emily stays with her for another moment, before her attention shifts to you. “You okay?” she asks.

Simple words. Wrong kind of simple.

“I think so,” you manage after a beat, digging your fingers into the fabric of your jeans, scraping your nails against the denim in a quiet attempt to steady yourself.

Emily studies you closely. Her gaze drops to your clenched fingers before lifting back to your lips, still pressed tightly together. She lets out a quiet breath, as though she is having an argument with herself.

“Alright.” Her voice is soft. “Stay here a little longer. They’ll finish checking on both of you, and then we’ll figure out the next steps.”

A paraparamedic returns to Claire, and this time she lets him approach without pulling away. He speaks to her quietly, asking simple questions and grounding her with a calm presence before glancing toward one of his colleagues.

A woman with red hair appears a moment later, moving toward Claire with a calm, gentle expression. She kneels beside her, offering her a small moment of reassurance before introducing herself.

“I’m Amber. I’m going to stay with you for a little while, okay?”

Claire doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t pull away either. Amber gives her a moment before continuing, her voice steady and reassuring.

“We’re going to get you somewhere quieter. Just for a few minutes. They’ll check on you there, and you don’t have to do anything except breathe.”

Slowly, Claire nods. Her eyes remain on you until the last possible moment as Amber helps her toward one of the nearby tents, away from the noise and the crowd.

Emily doesn’t step back. She stays close enough that her presence never quite disappears, even when she isn’t speaking. She knows how much Claire needs someone steady right now. And perhaps she has noticed that you do, too.

“You handled that well.”

You glance at her, unsure how to answer, because nothing about what has happened fits into anything that could still be called well in a way that feels connected to reality.

Emily doesn’t press for a response. She doesn’t seem to need one. And somehow, that makes it easier to breathe. The panic that has been sitting beneath your skin for hours doesn’t disappear, but it quiets. The tightness in your chest loosens, your fingers relax, your body slowly letting go of the instinct to stay ready for the next thing.

“We’ll take care of the rest,” she murmurs quietly. “And if either of you needs help, you’ll get it.”

Your throat tightens, and before you can understand why, a tear slips free. It catches you off guard more than anything else that has happened so far, as though your body has somehow decided that Emily is the one person it can finally let go around. Without you realizing it, your mind has chosen her as the place where it no longer has to keep every emotion under control.

Emily notices the tear, and something in her expression softens. Slowly, she lifts her hand and lets it come to rest against your forearm. The touch is light enough that you could pull away at any moment if you wanted to, yet gentle enough to soothe something deep inside you, like a balm you hadn’t realized you needed. Her thumb traces one slow circle against your skin, and a quiet sigh escapes you before you can catch it.

Emily’s eyes lift to yours, and a small smile settles on both your faces.

Your thumb is already hovering over Emily’s number before you realize what you are doing. Calling her feels reckless, indulgent even, yet something inside you insists that being alone with this sting will destroy you. So you press the button. You listen to the ring. One breath, two.

She answers on the second. Her voice is crisp, alert in a way that tells you she hears the crack in yours even before you form a word. “What happened,” she murmurs, not quite a question, not quite an order, just an instinctive rush of concern that tightens your throat.

“I need to get out of here,” you answer, your voice low, strained. “I just… I don’t want to go home alone.”

There’s a pause, but not the kind that suggests hesitation, rather the sound of her regrouping, calculating the distance, assessing the situation.

“I’m coming,” she states, steady and certain.

The city glows under a sheen of rain as you wait outside the restaurant, arms folded as though trying to hold yourself together. When Emily’s SUV pulls up, the headlights briefly paint you in stark white, and you almost want to disappear beneath it. Yet when she steps out, something in you loosens. She takes one look at you, and her eyes soften with a mix of anger and tenderness, a storm she contains for your sake.

She opens the passenger door for you, her movements impossibly gentle.

“Get in,” she says quietly. You do.

She drives without speaking at first. Her knuckles are tense against the steering wheel, but her gaze flickers toward you now and then, careful, controlled, as if she is fighting the urge to pull over and demand the name of the person who hurt you. She would never say it aloud, of course. Emily’s feelings slip out only in sideways glances and the way she presses her lips together too tightly.

“You deserve better than what you got,” she finally admits, eyes fixed on the road, voice low. There is a distinct tremor in it that she tries to hide.

You stare at the faint reflection of neon lights on the car window, the city smearing into melted colors. Memories of past disappointments flicker behind your eyes: dates that ended in silence, promises broken, smiles that felt hollow. Somehow, telling her this feels less like confessing and more like letting yourself breathe. “I don’t know why I keep hoping someone will stay,” you whisper. “Or why it hurts every time they don’t.”

Emily exhales, long and controlled, though you can feel the tension radiating off her like heat. “Because you still let yourself hope,” she replies softly. “Because even when others fail you, you give them your trust, your attention, your care. You never give up, even when you should.”

Her words unravel something deep.

Before you can answer, the sudden flash of headlights streaks across the windshield. A car swerves recklessly into the lane ahead of you, and Emily reacts with instinctive precision. She jerks the wheel, guiding the SUV into safety with a sharp, fluid movement. Your breath catches, heart leaping, but she remains steady, steady in that way she always is, even when the world tilts without warning.

When the danger passes, she pulls over, not dramatically, rather with quiet urgency. She turns to you then, fully, her eyes searching yours with a ferocity that steals your breath.

“Tell me who stood you up,” she asks you, voice deceptively calm, but beneath it simmers a kind of protective fury she rarely allows anyone to see.“

“Emily“, you begin.

“No, hear me out. Not because I intend to confront them. I wouldn’t. But because I need to understand who keeps hurting you like this.” There is something indescribably intimate about the way she says need, like your pain has reached a place in her she can no longer ignore.

You breathe in slowly, your pulse still rushed from the near impact, from her nearness, from everything unspoken between you.

“It doesn’t matter who it was,” you answer quietly. “It’s not them I called.”

Her eyes widen only a fraction, a crack in the armor so small it would be invisible to anyone else. She shifts closer, subtly, as if the space between you has become unbearable.

“You called me,” she echoes, almost to herself.

You nod. “Because with you… I don’t feel like a second choice.”

The confession trembles between you, and she closes her eyes briefly, as if bracing herself against whatever emotion threatens to surface. When she opens them again, they are impossibly soft, impossibly clear.

“You never were,” she whispers. “Not to me.”

The words hit harder than any near collision, harder than the sting of abandonment, harder than the disappointment that clung to you hours ago. Emily looks at you with a quiet intensity that fills the small space of the car, an intensity born from years of restraint and the possibility of something finally, finally breaking open.

And in that moment you feel it: the shift, the spark, the beginning of something neither of you can turn away from anymore.

Your hand inches toward hers, but you are not touching her. The space between you is charged with everything neither of you has said aloud, yet somehow she has always been holding a place for you there.

She doesn’t move away. She never intended to.