Prentissmylove

“Are you finally ready?” Claire’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts, and you turn around to find her standing in the doorway, already wearing her coat. Her eyes move over you, then toward the clothes on your bed, and finally back to you. The small smile on her face tells you that she knows something is going on.

“Do not”, you warn her with a finger in the air, checking your outfit one last time.

“I did not say anything.”

“You were about to,” you complain.

Claire laughs softly and steps into the room. “Y/N, it is Emily.”

You look away, pretending to search for something in your bag. “I know.”

“No, I do not think you do.” She shakes her head, amused. “She has seen you during our visit at home, in pajamas, I might add. She has seen you after you have slept three hours. And she has seen you after the mall… I promise you, she is not sitting there wondering if your sweater is the right choice.”

You hate that she is making sense, because Claire does not understand why this feels different for you. Why you are making a fuss about your choice of outfit. How could she? To her, Emily is familiar. Safe. Someone she trusts. Someone who has always been there in some way. She does not know that yesterday Emily stood outside your dorm, held your hand, kissed your cheek, and left you standing there feeling like the entire world had shifted.

She does not know that you have thought about it every few hours since and you definitely cannot tell her.

Claire jingles the keys in her hands, gives your outfit a thumbs up, and gestures toward the door. “Come on. Before we’re late.”

The city is crowded with people, and when you step out of the far too full bus, Claire throws you a look of exaggerated annoyance. “If we had left earlier, we wouldn’t have had to squeeze ourselves into a school bus.”

“Sorry,” you mumble, looking around as you try to get your bearings.

The café is outside of your usual route, in an area you do not visit often. The streets are filled with people in business attire, suits, polished shoes, and ties as far as the eye can see.

“This way,” Claire says, glancing at her phone and following the arrows on her navigation. “Five more minutes walking.”

Five minutes later, you stop in front of a small café. A red-and-white striped awning hangs above the entrance, and two potted plants sit beside the door. The windows are slightly fogged, but through the glass, you spot Emily sitting at a free table.

Her gray hair is worn loose today, soft waves curling at the ends, one strand falling into her face. Beneath her black blazer, a blue blouse is visible. You like the color, although red suits her better. She sits near the window, waiting, one hand tapping an unfamiliar rhythm against the tabletop while the other rests on her thigh. She looks different from yesterday. Less exhausted, more composed, but you can see the traces of the long day behind her eyes.

Claire pushes the door open, and a small bell announces your arrival. Emily’s eyes find you instantly. You had tried to prepare yourself internally for every possible scenario, but your mind goes completely blank. There is a difference between thinking about seeing someone again and actually seeing them. Even though it has been less than twenty-four hours since the last time you saw each other.

You just stand there in the middle of the entrance, feeling Emily’s eyes skim over your outfit, your face, with the knowledge that yesterday is still between you. That both of you remember it. The hug. The kiss on your cheek. The way neither of you seemed quite ready to say goodbye.

Claire, completely unaware of the conversation happening without a single word, brightens at the sight of her godmother. “Emily!” The excitement in her voice breaks the moment, and you feel relieved to be out of the spotlight.

Claire slips past you and reaches Emily within a few steps.

“Claire,” Emily greets her. “It is so good to see you. How are you?”

The hug is effortless, natural. It reminds you again that Emily is not just someone Claire knows. She is her family. Claire trusts and looks up to her, and has always spoken about her with so much warmth that you understand why seeing her again means so much.

“I’m good. And you? How was your drive?”

They are talking excitedly about Emily’s drive and the school bus debacle, but you remain frozen in place. That is, until Emily’s gaze finds yours again.

You do not know what you are supposed to do. A hug feels like too much, a formal greeting totally wrong. Yesterday, you had been close enough to feel her heartbeat, to smell her perfume. She had held you like it was the easiest thing in the world. Today, there are so many people around you, Claire right beside you, and you are painfully aware that you have no idea what the rules are anymore. Emily seems to realize it at the exact same moment.

Her expression softens, but you can see the faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. You know she is not making fun of you or your reaction. She understands what is happening inside your head, the battle you are fighting between what feels right and what feels like too much. She tilts her head and looks at you expectantly, leaving the decision entirely up to you, letting you decide how you want to handle the situation.

“Hi,” you manage to say and your voice sounds much steadier than you feel. You take a small step toward her, leaving only an arm’s length between you.

“Hi,” she replies, giving you a reassuring smile.

“Well,” Claire mumbles, taking off her coat as she looks between the two of you, “that was the most dramatic hello I have ever witnessed.”

Your face heats at her words, and you have to admit, you are completely thrown off. Whatever clever answer might have existed disappears from your mind, leaving you painfully aware that you have no idea what to say.

When you look at Emily, she is hiding a smile as she says, “Was it?” Emily always seems to know exactly how to react in situations like this, or at least it feels that way to you. Unlike the way you stumble through them, never quite sure what to say or where to look.

You turn uncertainly toward Claire before finding Emily again, her hand settling on your shoulder as she gives it a gentle squeeze and guides you toward the chair. A warm shiver runs through you, and you are certain Emily notices it. Her fingers press a little more firmly into your shoulder before she lets go.

“Yes.” Claire sits down. “You two were standing there like you forgot how conversations work.”

You breathe out once, still feeling the heat in your cheeks, while Emily laughs softly and takes the seat right beside you. Maybe that is her strategy, never giving Claire enough of a reaction to make things worse.

“If you’re hungry, we can still order from the food menu until half past.”

Claire turns toward you, her brows pulling together. “I still cannot believe you nearly made us late. We would have missed the food.”

“Excuse me? I didn’t know you already wanted to eat again. We had a huge burger at the dining hall.”

Claire shakes her head, clicking her tongue. “I didn’t finish the burger. Besides, we had to leave earlier because you still wanted to change. And then you changed again. And again.”

“I genuinely didn’t,” you protest, avoiding looking in Emily’s direction.

“You changed your shirt twice and then went for this sweater.” Your entire body stills for a second at Claire’s words, and from the corner of your eye, you notice Emily watching you. “I told you it was fine. You could have just worn the first one. We’re only having coffee, not walking a runway.”

“Claire,” you grumble warningly, heat creeping up your face again. “You are making this sound much worse than it was.”

Never before have you felt so exposed, and the fact that it is your best friend putting you on the spot does not make it any better. You bite the inside of your cheek nervously, your fingers playing with the hem of your sweater as you avoid looking up.

“You think?” Claire asks, laughing. “It is true, all the options would have been fine.”

You look up, ready to say something, just as Emily turns toward you, amusement already visible in her expression. Instead of saying anything, she reaches for the menu and slides it across the table toward you.

“What?” you ask, suspicious of the smile she is trying not to show.

“Nothing.”

You narrow your eyes at her. “That doesn’t look like nothing.”

“I was just thinking.”

“That is never a good sign,” you mumble, finally taking the menu from her.

Claire laughs at the exchange, scratching her jaw as she nods in agreement. You, on the other hand, want nothing more than to disappear.

Emily laughs under her breath. “How many shirts did you actually try?”

You stare at her. “I’m not telling you.”

“Three?”

“No.”

“Four?”

You look at her, offended, and playfully swat at her arm. “I am not answering that.”

Her smile grows at your defensiveness. “Five?”

“You are enjoying this far too much.”

“Maybe a little,” she admits with a laugh, her hand brushing against your forearm for a second.

You shake your head, but you cannot stop the smile pulling at your own mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you’re smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You roll your eyes, unable to suppress a smile as you press your lips together to keep from laughing out loud. It is only when you turn toward Claire that your smile fades. She has been watching the two of you without saying a word, a questioning expression settling across her face. Her gaze moves from you to Emily and back again before she disappears behind her menu. Your heart beats a little faster. Did she notice something?

“You know, Claire was right,” Emily declares. “You should have worn the blue shirt.”

Your eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

Claire lowers her menu a little, and the expression on her face tells you she knows something between you and Emily has changed. Emily, however, carries on talking as though she has not noticed. “She said you should just wear what you picked first.”

You stare at her, then at Claire, pointing from one to the other. “You talked about this?”

“Briefly,” Emily admits, gesturing toward her phone. “We texted an hour ago because I sent her the location.”

“Traitor,” you mutter.

“I believe her argument was that it is only coffee and she does not understand why you were tearing your wardrobe apart. Is that right, Claire?”

“Yes,” Claire answers, only half listening, completely absorbed by the overwhelming selection of food. Or perhaps she is only pretending to be. You cannot tell.

“She does not understand,” you say a little quieter, feeling your heartbeat speed up far too much.

“No,” Emily agrees, looking at you. “I don’t think she does, but I do.”

But I do. The words repeat themselves in your head, over and over, until you can no longer hold Emily’s gaze and your eyes drop to the words you have already read for what must be the tenth time. Water, Coke, Sprite. Your fingers tremble slightly as you turn the page.

The moment passes when Claire starts talking again, and you are grateful for the distraction. You order your drinks, and Claire decides on a small piece of cake.

Claire’s cake arrives a few minutes later, and she looks at the large slice in front of her with obvious excitement. “I have to show this café to Isabelle. She loves cake.”

At the mention of the name, your leg starts bouncing nervously beneath the table. It is an annoying habit, one you have never managed to get rid of. The thought of talking about Isabelle now makes you uneasy, and you know it has everything to do with Emily beside you.

“Try it first,” Emily encourages, taking another sip of her coffee. “Just in case you recommend it to her and it turns out it’s terrible.”

Claire nods eagerly and picks up a piece with her fork. “You’re right.” She takes the first bite and hums dramatically. “Oh, she’s definitely coming here.”

Your leg keeps moving and moving. You know this is a completely normal conversation. Nobody has said anything wrong, and nobody is paying attention to you, but the uneasy feeling inside you refuses to disappear.

You think back to your conversation with Claire, when you told her that you did not like Isabelle as much as she wanted you to. Maybe that is where the feeling comes from. Or because Emily was on the phone that night, listening as Isabelle came over to you, and never brought up the party or Isabelle again. You do not even know what exactly you are afraid of anymore, but your body seems to know on its own.

Without looking at you, Emily lowers her gaze toward the space beneath the table. You feel the warmth of her knee pressing lightly against the outside of your leg. Barely any pressure. Your breath catches at the contact, and you let your leg go still beneath hers.

Emily continues listening to Claire as if nothing happened, nodding at something she says before taking another sip of her coffee. She never looks at you, but her knee stays exactly where it is.

“Okay… this is actually amazing.” Claire stares at the piece of cake in complete disbelief before looking back at Emily. “I’m serious. I think this might be one of the best cakes I’ve ever had.”

Emily smiles into her coffee. “That’s a bold statement after three bites.”

“No, listen.” Claire lifts her fork as if she were about to defend a dissertation. “This is exactly the kind of cake Isabelle loves. Not too sweet, fluffy, the cream isn’t heavy…” She takes another bite before she can finish her own sentence and lets out another satisfied hum. “She’s going to lose her mind.”

“So you’ve already decided for her?” Emily asks, amusement flickering across her face. You study her thoughtfully, going over the evening of the party in your head. Does the mention of Isabelle really not affect her at all? Are you just overthinking this?

Claire looks at you, then at Emily, and shrugs innocently. “She’ll thank me later. She usually does.”

Emily glances at the nearly empty plate, her knee still pressing against yours. You are grateful for the gesture and, at the same time, shocked by the effect this woman has on you. “Good thing I suggested this café, huh?”

“Oh, yeah.” Claire laughs. “Although I don’t understand how you always find places like this.”

Emily’s fingers curl around her mug before she answers. “I’ve had a lot of practice. There were years when I practically lived in cafés. Waiting for witnesses, writing reports, meeting people who refused to come to the office. After a while, you start remembering which places have decent coffee.”

You listen closely to Emily’s words, and you start to understand the kind of life she lives. How many compromises she has to make. How rarely she is actually home.

Claire leans forward and taps the side of her forehead. “Let me guess. You still read the reviews beforehand.”

“I do. I like knowing what I’m recommending before I invite someone. You know that. It’s no secret.”

Claire smiles warmly and claps her hands under her chin. “That is so you. You always looked up restaurants whenever we went on trips. Dad almost lost his mind every time you found a new place with great steaks.”

You listen, your eyes lingering on Emily’s expression and the relaxed position of her shoulders. She speaks freely, her answers coming before she has time to reconsider them. There are no pauses where she weighs how much she wants to reveal, no careful explanations added afterward. You realize how rarely you get to see her like this, with her guard down, her words less measured, and for once, you are not wondering what she is leaving unsaid.

“So,” Claire continues, brushing a few crumbs from the table, “how’s everyone?”

You furrow your brow, wondering who Claire means, while Emily’s smile tells you she already knows.

“They’re good. The usual banter here and there, but we’re getting along.” She gives her goddaughter a small wink. “Same as always.”

“Still surviving each other?” Claire asks, and you assume she means Emily’s team. There is something familiar in the way they talk about them, as though you have walked into a conversation that started long before you arrived.

“Barely.”

Claire laughs, reaching for her glass before adding, “And Penelope?”

Your brows draw together again. You wish you could follow their conversation a little better, but for now, you are left listening, trying to piece together the people and stories you have only ever heard mentioned in passing.

Emily’s smile grows. “She’s still convinced everyone in the office is chronically underfed.”

“Because they are,” Claire says, completely serious.

Emily laughs, shaking her head. “I think she says that every time someone skips lunch.”

“Which is why she’s probably right. I hope she’s keeping an eye on you.” There’s an undertone in Claire’s voice, and you can’t shake the feeling that there is some history behind those words.

“I think that has become a full-time job,” Emily admits, her attention drifting toward Claire’s cake, which has been untouched on her plate for several minutes now. “She left another bag of snacks on my desk yesterday.”

“Did you actually eat them this time?” Claire asks teasingly, eating another forkful of her cake.

Emily hesitates just long enough for Claire to grin knowingly. “…Eventually.”

Claire has told you plenty of times about Emily’s unhealthy eating habits. How rarely she eats regularly, how often she orders food because she never has time to cook. Your thoughts drift back to yesterday evening, to Emily telling you about Taco Bell and how she ate three meals there for three days.

You think back to Judy’s attempt to send her off with as much food as possible when Emily was called away for a case back then. Everyone seems to know these things about her. Everyone except you. Your leg starts bouncing again and the pressure against your knee intensifies.

“And Rossi?” Claire continues, taking another bite of her cake.

At the mention of his name, Emily's face lights up. “He still gets to the office before everyone else.”

“I don’t think that man sleeps. So what brought you here this time?”

The question settles over the table. You turn your attention toward Emily, whose eyebrow lifts at her goddaughter’s question. “A consultation. The local department asked for another set of eyes. We’ve been working with them for the last couple of days.”

“So you’re staying a little longer?” Claire asks hopefully.

You catch your lower lip between your teeth. Would Emily stay longer and want to see you again? Would she text you, ask you to go for a walk in the middle of the night? You know you shouldn’t hope for her to find time for you again… but the wish is there, stronger than you would like to admit.

“I can’t say that yet. It depends on how the case develops and what needs to be done afterward,” Emily replies.

Your stomach drops and your leg jerks upward again, but Emily’s knee meets yours again, stopping the movement before it can go any further.

You glance toward her, but her attention remains on Claire, who is watching her godmother with visible disappointment. “You don’t know?”

Emily shakes her head, her knee remaining against yours. “It depends on how the investigation develops.”

Claire sighs, and you do your best to keep your own disappointment from showing. “I hate when you say things like that.”

Emily gives her an apologetic smile. “I know, but that’s my job. I can’t change that. But if I stay longer, we’ll see each other again. I promise.”

“No…” Claire smiles as well, shaking her head. “I don’t mean it like that. I just wish your job came with normal working hours every once in a while.”

“So do I.” Something unreadable crosses Emily’s face, but it disappears as quickly as it appeared. You cannot help but wonder whether she is thinking about her job or about yesterday. About what it would be like to have more time next time, enough to plan something instead of letting the hours disappear.

Claire reaches for her coffee again. “And next time you’re here—” Her sleeve catches the handle and the cup tips in slow motion.

“Shit!” Claire jumps to her feet and grabs the cup, but the coffee is already completely gone. Coffee has spilled everywhere. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Emily answers as you reach for the napkins at the exact same time, causing your fingers to brush against hers. Together, the three of you quickly wipe up the coffee, catching the last drops before they reach the edge of the table or make an even bigger mess.

Claire looks down at the brown stain on the sleeve of her cardigan and lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Well… I guess I’m going to the bathroom.” She grabs a handful of napkins, her phone, and her bag. “I’ll be back before I manage to embarrass myself any further.”

A smile spreads across your face, and you finally feel comfortable enough to contribute something to the conversation. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Very funny.” Still shaking her head, Claire disappears behind the corner that leads to the restrooms, muttering something about never being trusted with hot drinks again.

The small bell above the café door rings as another customer enters. Somewhere behind the counter, cups and saucers clink together. Someone laughs at the next table, and the coffee machine hisses in the background. You watch Claire disappear from sight, and then you are left with the awareness that the conversation had never really stopped while she was here. She had filled every silence before either of you even noticed it existed. Now there is nothing left to hide behind.

Your gaze settles on the coffee swirling lazily inside your cup, but concentrating on it proves impossible. Every thought circles back to the same thing. Emily. She is sitting close enough that your knees brush beneath the table, and you cannot remember when you stopped leaving space between you.

Now that Claire is gone, you notice every little detail you had managed not to think about before. The warmth of Emily’s knee. The soft brush of her blazer sleeve against your arm whenever she reaches for her cup. The faint scent of her perfume, lingering in the space between you and growing stronger whenever she turns toward you.

Your fingers tighten around the cup, the warmth of the porcelain giving you something else to focus on. It does not last. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Emily looking at you.

“You’ve disappeared again.” Her voice is quiet, blending into the sounds of the café around you.

You blink, looking up. “Sorry, what?”

“You were somewhere else for a minute.”

A nervous smile tugs at your lips. “I don’t think I went anywhere. I was right here.” You don’t miss how defensive you sound, and sigh.

“No?” Her gaze stays on you, patient rather than demanding.

You shake your head, even though you know exactly what she means. “I was just thinking.”

“And what were you thinking about?” she asks gently, her eyes flickering toward your legs. “About why you’re so nervous? Or why you changed your shirt three times?”

Caught, you look at her, warmth spreading across your cheeks. “Nervous? Me? I’m not…”

“Your outfit changes tell me something else. Besides, you have this habit of bouncing your leg whenever a topic makes you uncomfortable or you don’t know how to handle a situation.” She pauses. “You did it when we talked about Isabelle, too.”

Your stomach tightens at the name, and you still your leg. “You noticed that?”

“I notice a lot.”

You stare at her, unsure whether that answer makes you feel more exposed or safe. “I keep forgetting that nothing gets past you,” you murmur, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You just notice everything.”

“Not everything, Y/N.” She takes a deep breath before adding, “I notice you.”

The words are spoken so naturally that they take a second to settle. When they do, they leave your heart beating painfully against your ribs. There is no teasing in her voice, no hidden joke you can use to make the moment less intimate. She says it as though it is the most obvious thing in the world.

You look down at your cup, unable to meet her eyes. “That’s… probably worse.”

“Why?” she asks, her eyes dropping to your hand, your fingers pressing into your thigh hard enough to leave little crescents in your skin.

“Because now I’m wondering what exactly you’ve noticed,” you admit, finding the crumbs scattered across the floor far more interesting than anything else in the café.

Her smile deepens, but she does not immediately answer. “Would you really want me to tell you?”

You glance at her again, and the warmth in her eyes is enough to make you regret the question before you even answer. Why do you always have to say everything that crosses your mind? “I don’t know, probably better if you don’t.”

“That’s okay.” Her voice remains calm. “You don’t have to know yet.”

You look at her for another second, trying to understand how she manages to make something as simple as being noticed feel so much more intimate than it should.

“I still don’t really know how to act around you.” The confession escapes you against your will. You wish you could catch it and put it back where it came from, but it is already sitting between you.

You expect her to laugh or reassure you, but she does neither. Very slowly, Emily’s hand leaves the side of her coffee cup. Your eyes follow the movement, expecting her to reach for it again, but she lowers her hand into her lap, closer to where your own hand rests hidden beneath the table.

Your breath catches at her proximity. She does not look at you and does not make the moment bigger than it is. She simply leaves her hand there, giving you the choice of how to react. No pressure. No expectation. Just an open hand waiting in the space between you.

By now, she knows exactly how you work, and that makes your nerves intensify. There is something unbearable about being understood this easily, about knowing she has noticed the things you have been trying so hard to hide. She notices the smallest changes, the things everyone else misses. But this feels different. This is not Emily reading a person across a table because it is part of what she does. This is Emily paying attention to you.

You let your own hand settle beside hers, already feeling her body heat as nervousness moves through you. Her eyes drop to your hand and then return to yours, searching for your consent. When you nod, her fingers move closer, her fingertips brushing the back of your hand.

You remain exactly where you are, your fingers tingling beneath her touch. She turns her hand, letting her fingers settle around yours, hidden from everyone else. The warmth of her hand seeps into yours, and when her thumb moves over your knuckles, you have to remind yourself to breathe. This woman affects you in a way you have never experienced before.

“You don’t have to know,” she murmurs, her thumb moving across your knuckles once more. “You don’t have to figure it all out. We can just let it happen.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “I’m not sure I’m doing any of it well.”

“I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit,” she replies, her voice carrying a warmth that makes it difficult to dismiss the reassurance as mere kindness. “You’re nervous, and you’re still here. You’re trying, even when you have no idea what you’re supposed to do next. I think that counts for something.”

“I’ve spent the last ten minutes trying not to stare at you,” you admit with a quiet laugh, closing your eyes in embarrassment. Of all the things you could have said, that had to be the one. “So I’m not sure I’m doing any of this very well.”

“I know,” is all she says, and you look at her in confusion. The answer is so immediate, so certain, that you almost wonder if you heard her correctly.

“You know?” you ask, unable to believe it.

“I’ve spent the last ten minutes pretending not to notice.” A small dimple appears on her right cheek as she says it. “I thought I was being subtle, but apparently neither of us is particularly good at pretending today.”

Not exactly the most exciting Friday night, but you love teaching at Quantico now. The thrill of being a field agent nagged at the corner of your brain now and again, but you felt a lot of satisfaction in preparing the new recruits. Plus, it felt really good to have a stable schedule and not have to fly around the country at a moment’s notice anymore. D.C. was a proper home now instead of a transient city where you just slept.

Your eyes shoot up and towards the front door as soon as the knock is heard. Your brows furrow with confusion as you weren’t expecting anyone, nor a delivery. Briefly you think back to old instincts and wonder if an old case came a calling by way of a friend or family member of an unsub since all of your closed cases were still behind bars. You stuffed your fear away and presume it’s Brenda from 4A bringing your mail that got mixed up with hers again. Ever since you got a new postal person, there have been so many mix-ups that all of the fourth floor were getting to know one another. You and Brenda even had dinner one night together on a whim when the older woman with her square glasses and white hair tied up in a bun was so grandmotherly to you that you couldn’t say no. She made one of the best beef barley soups you ever had that night.

So, you pad across the hardwood floor with bare feet and peek through the peep hole to have your heart drop immediately into your stomach so fast that you clutch your abdomen to hold back a wave of nausea.

Emily Fucking Prentiss was outside your door. She was looking down the hall where the elevator was. Maybe she was being aware of her surroundings or maybe, just maybe, she’s unable to hypothetically look at you through the door. Her stiff posture made you believe in the latter. You absorb her features and despite it being over four years since you last saw her, she's barely changed. Emily still has those bangs and a curtain of brown hair that draped against shoulders covered by a light black jacket and a red blouse underneath. You notice the lightly twitching thumb hitting her jean pocket with the rest of the digits safely tucked away.

You remain frozen as Emily’s voice comes through in a haunting whisper of what was.

“Hey there. I’m Agent Prentiss. Welcome to the BAU.”

“I’m fine. Really. What’s a little blood?”

“Life’s a complicated picture of what ifs and wants. Doesn’t mean you should be afraid to try.”

“You and Morgan need to stop babying me. It’s just a little concussion.”

“I never said that. You only heard what you wanted to hear.”

“I swear to fucking god if you die on me, I’ll kill you myself!”

“JJ’s gonna destroy you in darts but, hey, let’s make bets.”

“I never said I didn’t care!”

“Sergio’s expecting you at 8 o’clock.”

“Looks like we’re going to Utah. Yay?”

“There’s nothing to discuss. Stop pushing!”

“I had to …”

“Can we talk?”

“I’m not going to apologize for protecting the team!”

“I didn’t have a choice! He could’ve killed you!”

The second knock at the door forces your held breath to escape in an audible gasp that hurts your ears. It resounds like a bomb going off and you have to wait for the ringing in your ears to subside, the anxiety to calm while staring into brown eyes through the peephole that were filled with cautious hope.

As you take a deep breath, your heels descend back to the floor to ground you as much as you focus on the sound of your inhalations and exhalations. You wanted to make the right choice for yourself to open the door or not. To open it and welcome Emily back was just as strong as telling her off again. Leaving it closed to hurt Emily without a resolution or to keep your heart safe was just as fierce. What did you really want to do?

You pull in one final, deep breath, holding the cool air in your lungs until the tight coil in your chest relaxes just enough to let you move. You reach out, your fingers wrapping around the knob.

The deadbolt turns with a loud, deliberate click.

When you swing the door open, the hallway air hits you first because you can’t take in her form yet. So, you notice the cooler, drafty air and the recent smell of waxed floor. Then there’s Emily. Up close, without the distortion of the peephole glass, she looks slightly smaller, her shoulders pulled tight inside that familiar black jacket. Her dark eyes lock onto yours, widening just a fraction before she blinks, taking in your bare feet, your black tank top, and the messy bun you put together.

For three agonizing seconds, neither of you says a word. The silence hangs between you, heavy with four years of unanswered texts, phone messages, and memory fragments that still bite.

"You're not Brenda," you say, your voice being rougher than you intended.

A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of Emily’s mouth … soft, hesitant, and entirely undefended. "No. I’m not. Sorry to disappoint."

"She brings the mail. And home cooked meals," you reply, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe to cross your arms, tucking your hands away to keep them from shaking. "You usually bring chaos."

Emily lets out a quiet breath that sounds like a mixture of laughter and relief. "Fair enough." Her eyes sweep over your face, studying every nuance she remembered and cataloguing every new line or blemish, before dropping briefly to the floor inside. "Can I... do you have a minute? Or this a bad time?"

You look back at your dining room table, the stack of ungraded recruit papers, the sweat-stained coaster, the single bottle of beer. The peaceful, predictable life you built to replace the adrenaline.

"Come in," you step aside, opening the door wider.

And now you’ve invited chaos back into it.

Emily steps over the threshold, her boots clicking softly on the hardwood. The scent of her … sandalwood, rain, and the faint metallic tang of jet fuel … instantly fills the foyer. Did Emily come straight from the airport to see her?

Emily stops near the edge of the living room, hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, looking around the apartment.

"It’s nice," she says quietly, her voice softening as she takes in the warm lighting and the framed prints on the wall. "It’s... really … quaint and quiet."

"It’s home," you say, closing the door and locking it. "I teach at the Academy now. Standard hours, no late-night calls to wheels up, no unsubs, no hire ups threatening to rein me in with the rest of the BAU for doing our jobs," you say with air quotes as you walk back toward the table, picking up your beer bottle just to give your hands something to do. It felt too intimate to have your hands free. "What are you doing in D.C., Emily? Interpol let you off the leash?"

Emily turns around, her dark eyes steady on yours. The lingering tension in her jaw gives away how nervous she actually is.

"I came back," she says. "Aaron had to step down and went into witness protection. He had to protect Jack."

The casual mention of Hotch brings a sudden pang to your chest, but the structural weight of what she’s saying hits you a second later. You set the beer bottle down with a soft thud.

"Hotch is gone?"

"Yeah," Emily nods, taking a small step closer, her posture shifting into that grounded, authoritative stance you haven't seen in years. "And Dave called me. The BAU needs a Unit Chief and Hotch recommended me for the job."

You stare at her, letting the words settle in the space between you. Unit Chief. She’s taking over the team. She’s back at Quantico, back in D.C., and back in your orbit.

"Unit Chief," you repeat slowly, a slight, humorless chuckle escaping your lips. "Of course you accepted. Always running toward the fire before putting the one out on yourself."

"I hesitated," Emily said, stepping around the table until the distance between you evaporates. Her formal stance softened, her voice dropping down to a whisper. "I hesitated until I thought about D.C.... until I thought about you

Your heart does a violent flip against your chest. "Don't do that, Prentiss."

"I'm serious," she presses, her fingers finally coming out of her pockets to rest flat on the dark wood of your table, right next to a stack of ungraded papers. "When I left for London, I told myself it was professional. I told myself we were too volatile, that the job was getting in the way, that we couldn't keep tearing each other apart every time a case went sideways. That we couldn’t even coexist anymore as friends let alone co-workers.”

She looks down at her hands for a second, a rare flicker of raw vulnerability passing across her face before she looks back up, meeting your gaze with fear.

"I was wrong," she says softly. "I thought distance would fix this. But all those four years did was prove that the distance didn't change a single god damn thing. I was always looking for you in every room I walked into." She pauses for emphasis and lowers her voice. “You were a habit I couldn’t break.”

The room feels suddenly hotter than the D.C. humidity outside. You swallow hard, your hand hovering near the bowl of salsa, the absurd mundane reality of your Friday night crashing into the heavy, unsaid truth she just laid on the table.

"You left," you say, the words landing quiet, sharp, and true. "You left, and you didn't look back."

"I did look back," Emily whispers, her fingers twitching on the tabletop, reaching toward yours just an inch before stopping. "Every single day. And now I’m back and want to talk. If … if you let me.”

You cross your arms over your chest, creating a defensive barrier between the two of you. This conversation was a heavy airing of truths that you were not prepared for tonight and you made it clear it wasn’t going to be easy. The quiet hum of the air conditioner fills the space between you, sounding entirely too loud. Too bad it couldn’t drown out the pounding of your heart within your ears. You are oh so fragile and scared.

"Talking?" you echo, a bitter edge slipping into your voice despite your best efforts. "We had four years for talking, Emily. A shit ton of texts you never responded to let alone all the voicemails I left. Forget about knowing if you were alive or dead the entire time. I just got fucking snippets of existence by third parties.”

Emily flinches. It’s a slight tightening of her jaw and a sharp intake of breath, but you catch it. In the old days at the BAU, you learned to read every single tell she had.

"You think it was easy?" Emily asks, her voice dropping, losing its hard edge entirely. She steps around the corner of the table, closing the distance between you until she’s standing just feet away. "You think I wanted to leave things like that between us?"

"You didn't have to leave like that," you snap, the frustration bubbling over the edge after keeping it locked down for years. Your feet shift on the hardwood, the energy you tuck away safely over the years starting to boil over. "One day we’re clearing the air after a brutal week, and the next you’re taking an Interpol detail in London with barely a twenty-four-hour notice.”

Your gaze narrows with contempt, the catastrophic betrayal coming to a head as you snap further. “You told me over the god damn phone while boarding the plane!”

"Because if I looked at you, I wouldn't have gotten on it!" Emily fires back, her dark eyes flashing with a sudden, raw intensity.

The words hang in the air, absolute and heavy. The silence that follows is deafening.

Emily exhales a long, shaky breath, running a hand through her hair, pushing those familiar bangs back from her forehead before letting her hand drop. All the defensive stiffness drains out of her posture, leaving her looking tired and vulnerable.

"Do you know what it’s like to work counterterrorism across Europe?" she whispers, her gaze locked onto yours with a terrifying amount of honesty. "To be surrounded by intelligence officers, diplomats, and threats every single day, and realize that every time I closed my eyes at night, I wasn't thinking about the mission? I was thinking about your kitchen. I was thinking about the way you used to steal my coffee on the third cup during long profiles. I … I was thinking about how we could tell each other everything and how I fucked it up so bad. I was terrified of what we had and … and all the fucking bullshit with Doyle? … I need something new. So, I ran."

She takes one smaller step forward, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off her, close enough to smell that blend of sandalwood and rain.

"I ran away from you because I was falling so fast, I didn't know how to catch myself," Emily says softly, her voice barely above a murmur. "And it took me four years of looking for you, longing for you in London, in Paris, everywhere I fucking went, to finally realize... I was running from the only place I ever actually felt at home."

Your heart hammers against your ribs, a chaotic mix of anger, fear, and a terrifying wave of hope you thought you'd buried long ago. You look up at her, really look at her, seeing the same woman who once had your back in the line of fire, now standing in your living room, completely disarmed.

You continue to stare at her, your chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. The words are so raw and complete reverberate through the apartment, bouncing off the walls and settling heavily over the two of you.

"You're serious," you whisper, the defensive armor finally cracking completely as your arms drop to your sides. It isn't a question, but a quiet validation of a shock that feels entirely too large to process. "Four years of silence, and you just... walk into my living room and drop that?"

Emily holds your gaze, her shoulders dropping an inch as if she’s waiting for the blow. "I know. I know it’s insane. I don't expect you to just accept it or forgive me for leaving like a coward. But I couldn't keep pretending I was fine with being just a memory to you. Not when I'm back here, and not when I have a second chance."

A nervous, breathless laugh escapes you, shaking your head as you run a hand over the back of your neck. "You really have a knack for upending my entire life, Prentiss. First the BAU, then Interpol, now... this."

A tiny, self-deprecating smile touches Emily’s lips. "Is that a yes to letting me stay? At least for a drink?"

You look past her toward the kitchen counter, then back down at the circular wooden table with its sweating beer bottle, the half-eaten bowl of salsa, and the tiny broken pieces of tortilla chips. The domestic, peaceful life you fought so hard to build suddenly doesn't feel threatened by her presence; it feels like something you might actually want to share with her.

"Well," you mutter, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through your resistance. "The chips are getting a little stale, and the beer is getting warm. But I suppose I can spare a bottle."

Emily lets out a long, audible exhale of pure relief, her shoulders finally losing the last of their stiffness. "I'd love that."

You turn back toward the kitchen, grabbing another cold bottle from the fridge, your bare feet padding softly against the floor. When you turn around, Emily is pulling off her black jacket, tossing it neatly over the back of one of the wooden dining chairs, and pulling out the seat right next to yours.

She watches you set the bottle down, her eyes softer than you've seen them in years. "So," she says, leaning on her elbows on the edge of the table as you slide into the seat beside her. "Tell me everything about teaching recruits.”