Prentissmylove

Needing to focus on something else before your expression gives you away, you gaze toward the window. Students hurry past with backpacks slung over one shoulder, someone struggles to convince a stubborn dog to keep walking, and a cyclist rings their bell at a group blocking the pavement. Ordinary life carries on around you, completely unaware that beneath this little café table, your fingers are intertwined with Emily’s and your heart is beating hard enough that you are convinced she must be able to feel it through your hand.

The world outside has not changed. But sitting here with Emily, you cannot shake the feeling that something inside you has.

“You’ve relaxed.” Emily’s voice is barely above a murmur.

You glance at her, unsure about yourself. “Have I?”

“At least a little,” she teases. “You were barely sitting still when Claire was here.”

You turn your hand until your fingers intertwine with hers. Your heart beats several times faster, afraid that you have gone too far or crossed a boundary you were not supposed to cross. But when her fingers close more firmly around yours, a smile finds its way onto your face before you can stop it. “I think that’s your fault.”

“I’ll gladly take the blame.” She looks down at your intertwined hands, her smile growing wider. “If it means you’re finally letting yourself relax around me, I can live with that.”

“You seem surprisingly okay with that.”

“I am.” Her answer comes without hesitation, and there is no teasing in it this time. “I like having you here. I like that you’re nervous and still choose to stay. So if holding your hand helps, I’m not going to complain.”

You look away again, mostly because you are certain that if you keep looking at her, she will notice exactly what those words do to you. She probably already has.

The sound of footsteps approaches, and you realize your little moment together is coming to an end. You expect Emily to pull her hand away, to create distance between you again before Claire can reach the table. Emily’s thumb stills, her fingers tightening around your hand one last time. She nods, and you nod too.

She doesn’t pull away right away, and neither do you. For another heartbeat, you remain like that, neither of you willing to be the first to break the contact. Then, slowly, her fingers loosen around yours, reluctant enough that you notice, careful enough that she still gives you every chance to let go first.

The warmth lingers against your skin long after her hand settles back around her coffee cup. You curl your fingers into your palm, as though you could hold on to the warmth a little longer, even after she is no longer touching you.

“I survived and my jacket is almost clean,” Claire announces triumphantly as she returns to the table, dropping back into her chair with an exaggerated sigh. “Although I’m convinced that hand dryer was specifically designed to make me look ridiculous. What did I miss?”

Your heart skips, and your leg starts bouncing again before you can stop it. Did she mean the conversation, or had she noticed what happened between you and Emily while she was gone?

Emily, on the other hand, calmly takes another sip of her coffee. “Nothing dramatic. The man over there ordered a strawberry cake, the woman over there…” She gestures with a small nod toward the left. “Has been waiting for a waiter for over ten minutes. She’s about to leave.”

Claire follows Emily’s gaze toward the other table, turning around to look. “Seriously?” she asks, lowering her voice as if she was afraid the woman in question might hear her. “Ten minutes?”

Emily nods. “At least.”

“That is impressive patience.”

You glance between them, grateful for the return to an ordinary conversation. Emily talks about the people around you, her voice relaxed as she comments on strangers waiting for their coffee, while you cannot stop thinking about the warmth of her hand around yours.

A few minutes ago, her fingers were intertwined with yours. Now she sits beside you as though nothing about the afternoon has changed, and maybe that is what makes the memory of her touch settle even deeper beneath your skin. She does not need to keep holding your hand or remind you what happened. She is right there beside you, calm and familiar, and you can feel the difference in everything anyway.

Claire looks back at the table in question before shaking her head. “I would have left after five minutes.”

“You say that,” Emily replies, “but you also once waited forty minutes for a restaurant table because you were convinced the reviews were too good to ignore.”

“That was different.” Claire points at her. “And coming from you? You read every single review before you go anywhere.”

“How was it different?” Emily asks, shrugging. “You trusted the reviews from a TikTok video. I read the actual ones.”

“It was a really good restaurant, and that many videos cannot all be wrong!”

A small laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Both of them turn toward you, and you freeze beneath their attention, suddenly aware that you have been listening for longer than you realized.

“What?” you ask.

Claire smiles. “Nothing. I just like that you’re finally laughing at Emily’s stories instead of looking like you’re preparing for an exam every time she speaks.”

“I do not do that,” you protest, but the moment the words leave your mouth, your face heats up. You can feel the warmth spreading across your cheeks, betraying you before you can even try to defend yourself.

Emily’s eyebrow arches slightly, and you point your coffee spoon at her. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” she replies quickly, biting down on her lower lip.

You barely manage to tear your eyes away from her lips, and your voice comes out slightly rougher than before. “You didn’t have to.”

A small smile appears on Emily’s face. “I have to admit, I was thinking it.”

Claire laughs, shaking her head. “You two are really weird.”

The words should make you panic. They should make you overthink every interaction, every glance, every little thing Emily has done since she arrived. But somehow, they do not. Emily only smiles into her coffee, and there is no discomfort in the silence that follows.

Claire reaches for her phone when it lights up, checking the screen before putting it back down.

“Josh?”

She nods. “He wants to know if I really think his movie recommendation was terrible and what movies he should pick for our weekend trip.”

“That bad? I hope he picks better movies for your trip. We don’t want you dying of boredom.”

Claire has been nervous about her first trip with Josh for days now. A movie will probably be the least of her worries.

“Worse,” Claire admits. “I really hope the movies are better, because last time…”

Claire begins explaining the entire plot, her hands moving as she talks, completely invested in proving her point. Emily listens patiently, occasionally asking questions that only encourage Claire to continue. And you realize something. This is the side of Emily you rarely get to see.

Not the profiler everyone respects. Not the woman who walks into difficult situations and knows what to do. Not the person who carries the weight of other people’s worst moments. Just Emily. Sitting in a café, listening to Claire complain about a movie, smiling at a ridiculous story, and quietly brushing her knee against yours beneath the table whenever your thoughts start to drift too far away again.

Claire checks the time on her phone and sighs. “We should probably go. Otherwise we are going to miss the bus.”

You look toward the street and realize she is right. The sun has begun to sink behind the buildings, its fading light catching on the windows and windshields of the cars filling the street. There are more people outside now, more traffic, the city slipping into the rhythm of the late afternoon while you had barely noticed the hours passing. The afternoon had gone by much faster than you expected.

After putting on your coat, the three of you leave the café together. Claire walks a few steps ahead, already looking at the bus schedule on her phone and mumbling something about how public transportation somehow always manages to be unreliable exactly when she needs it.

At the entrance, Claire turns back toward Emily. “I’m really glad we got to see you. It was good catching up.”

“Me too. And I’m sorry I never know how long I’m going to be around.”

Claire shakes her head. “Don’t apologize. You know I understand.”

Emily reaches out and pulls her into another hug, shorter than the one they shared when you arrived, but no less genuine. “Text me when you get back,” Emily tells her.

Claire rolls her eyes, but there is no annoyance behind it. “You’re the one who disappears for days and you’re telling me to text you?”

A small laugh escapes Emily. “Yes, after all, I’m your godmother. I’m allowed to do that.”

“You’re right. You are.”

Claire adjusts her bag on her shoulder and starts walking toward the street. You follow her automatically, but after a few steps, you notice Emily is still beside you.

“I’m glad you came today,” Emily admits, her voice softer now that Claire is a few steps ahead of you. “Even if we saw each other yesterday.”

You look at her, caught off guard by the ease in her voice. There is no hesitation, no awkwardness, no sense that either of you needs to carefully step around yesterday. She talks about seeing you again like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m glad I came too… although I have to admit…” You hesitate, suddenly aware of how difficult it is to put this into words. “I wasn’t sure what today would feel like.”

Emily’s gaze stays on you, a small crease forming between her brows. “After yesterday?”

You nod, then look away because you cannot quite manage to hold her gaze. “Yesterday was…” You stop, searching for a word that does not make your thoughts sound as exposed as they feel. “Different,” you finish.

A faint smile touches Emily’s mouth. “That’s not much of an explanation, Y/N. Try to explain it to me.”

There is no teasing in her expression. She is giving you time, but she is not letting you retreat behind a vague answer either.

“Yesterday it was just us,” you murmur eventually, your eyes fixed somewhere ahead as you make sure Claire is far enough away not to hear you. “There was no Claire. No one else around. You just showed up, and then you stayed, and…” Your voice falters. “I don’t know. It felt like yesterday belonged to us.”

Emily’s expression softens, and she looks at you with a warmth that makes your stomach twist. Part of you wishes you could pull the words back, while another part is relieved you finally let them leave your mouth.

“Yes,” she says eventually, slipping her hands into the pockets of her coat. “You’re right. It did. It was our time. Just the two of us.”

Your heart gives a painful little thud at her words. “And today?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Emily glances toward the café behind you, then back at you. “Today was different. You were right about that. Claire was there, we were surrounded by people. We talked about cake and coffee and Penelope leaving snacks on my desk.” The corner of her mouth lifts. “It was a very normal afternoon.”

You lower your gaze, embarrassed by how much you needed her to say more.

“But I was still glad to see you.” She says it like an afterthought, then gives your shoulder a gentle bump with hers.

The words settle somewhere deep inside you, warm and terrifying at once. “I wasn’t sure if you would be,” you admit.

“Why?”

You give a small, helpless shrug. “Because yesterday was… a lot. And I didn’t know what today would be like. I didn’t know if you’d want to go back to pretending it was just a moment that happened and nothing more.”

Her eyes remain on you. “Did you think I wanted that?”

You shake your head almost immediately. “No.”

“Then what were you afraid of?” she asks gently, a crease forming between her brows.

You hesitate, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. “That maybe yesterday meant more to me than it did to you.”

For the first time, Emily looks genuinely caught off guard. Not because she does not know what to say, but because the thought itself seems to hurt her.

“Y/N… I wouldn’t have come back today if I wanted yesterday to mean nothing. I could have stayed in my hotel. I could have told Claire I was too busy. I had plenty of reasons to do exactly that.” A faint smile touches her lips. “I came here because I wanted to see you again.”

You look down, your nerves tightening all over again. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Claire remains absorbed in her phone, completely unaware of the conversation happening only a few feet away, while your heart beats hard enough to climb into your throat.

“How is that a problem?”

“Because now I have even more to think about.”

A quiet laugh escapes her, warm rather than teasing. “You do realize you’re allowed to think about it, right? You don’t have to decide what it means today.”

“Neither of us does,” she adds.

When your gaze finds hers again, you search her expression for hesitation, for some sign that you have misunderstood everything she has been trying to tell you. But there is none. “Okay.”

Emily nods once, a small smile on her lips. “Okay.”

She looks as though she might add something, but her attention shifts toward the street ahead. Before you can ask what she was going to say, Claire’s voice reaches you from a few steps ahead. “Y/N?”

You both look over. Claire slips her phone into her pocket and waits, clearly wondering why you are still standing there. “You coming?”

The moment breaks, but not completely. Emily looks back at you, a small smile lingering on her face. “Go,” she urges softly. “I’ll see you.”

You want to say more. You want to stay, to lose yourself in her arms again, to lean closer and press a kiss to her cheek. But you force yourself to take a deep breath and choose the sensible thing, even when every part of you wants to do anything but. Especially when those little dimples appear in her cheeks.

“See you,” you reply, letting out a reluctant breath.

Then you hurry the few steps toward Claire, while Emily watches you leave.

“We ordered one for you a little while ago,” he offers, and Morgan nods gratefully.

“Thanks.” Morgan presses his lips together, and takes a sip. “I needed that. Did you guys still…”

And even though you had promised yourselves you wouldn’t, the table once again falls into a discussion about the last case. The depths of the human psyche, the darkest places people can descend into, the motives behind what they do. Your thoughts follow the conversation, but you’re far too aware of Emily beside you, her leg pressed flush against yours from hip to knee. Whenever Emily laughs, the sound seems to travel straight through your body, her movement becoming yours.

Emily turns toward Penelope and leans slightly closer to you as she asks, “Penn, were you able to finish the analysis of the network traffic?”

“Mostly,” Penelope jumps in, lighting up at having been given the opening. “The unsub was careful, but not careful enough. He kept bouncing between the hospital’s guest network and three different compromised devices, probably thinking that would make it impossible to trace him back to the original access point.”

Emily raises her glass. “But you found it.”

“Of course I found it.” Penelope gives her an offended look. “It took me six hours, three cups of coffee, and a truly unreasonable amount of swearing, but yes. I found it.”

Morgan laughs from across the table. “And what did it tell us?”

“That he’d been using the hospital’s system for months. Long before anyone noticed anything was wrong. He wasn’t just hiding his activity, he was using it to keep track of where people were.”

Hotch leans forward, his forearms resting against the table, his white shirt pulling across his shoulders. “So the access logs were never random.”

“Exactly. He was building a pattern. Times, names, locations. He knew when people were alone.”

“And if he was monitoring their movements,” Reid adds, already piecing the information together, “he could have been using the network data to establish behavioral baselines. Knowing when someone deviated from their routine would have made them stand out to him.”

Hotch’s expression hardens at his words. “And once he had them alone, he needed to establish control.”

“He made all of them beg,” you add, remembering the details from the case files. “Before he attacked them.”

Reid’s brow furrows. “That wasn’t just about humiliation. Making them beg would have reinforced the power dynamic he was creating.”

Hotch gives a subtle nod. “Which fits with everything else we saw. He needed his victims to understand that he was in control.”

“And the locations weren’t random,” you continue. “They were familiar places. Places where the victims wouldn’t think twice about talking to a stranger.”

“Which means they may not have been selected because of who they were,” Hotch concludes, “but because of when they became predictable.”

“That’s what I think.”

“Exactly.”

Emily’s breath brushes your cheek, and you catch the scent of red wine from her glass, mixed with the faint trace of smoke left behind from the cigarette she had smoked outside. Her perfume, no longer quite as fresh as it had been this morning, is sharp and floral. Beneath it, there’s the coconut scent of her shampoo, now completely overtaken by the stale, smoky smell of the bar.

You force your gaze toward Penelope, but the conversation is already beginning to drift away from the case.

“At least we can officially say it’s closed,” Rossi adds, raising his glass.

“To closing this case and to Y/N,” Morgan adds. “Who had to actually stand there and let the creep flirt with her.”

You groan softly. “Please don’t remind me.”

“I still think the worst part was the waiting,” JJ says. “You were standing there for almost twenty minutes before he finally approached.”

“Twenty-three,” Penelope corrects.

Emily’s gaze drops to your outfit, taking in the short skirt and low neckline before returning to her wine. “Twenty-three minutes,” she murmurs. “That’s a long time to spend standing around in that.”

You glance at her. “I thought the outfit worked.”

“It did.” Her eyes meet yours for a moment. “Very well, from what I remember.”

Morgan snorts. “You two are ridiculous.”

You bite back a smile, while Emily merely raises an eyebrow at him.

“I remember thinking you were never going to get out of there,” Penelope adds. “I was practically holding my breath the entire time.”

“You weren’t the one standing there,” you point out.

“Yes, you're right. Which is why I was suffering from a perfectly safe distance.”

The conversation drifts on, everyone adding their own version of how long those twenty-three minutes had felt, but you barely register it anymore. Emily’s laughter beside you draws your attention back to her, the sound traveling straight through your body.

From the corner of your eye, you notice her leaning back, taking in the table and nodding whenever someone directs a question her way. She exhales noisily and lets her hand fall into her lap, spreading her legs a little wider as she does.

You swallow nervously, daring to glance down at her long-fingered hand, the veins barely visible beneath her skin in the dim light of the bar. What you can see all too clearly, though, are the tendons standing out beneath her skin, something you never manage to look away from. Not when it comes to Emily.

The rest of the conversation fades into the background. Emily is so close that you can feel the warmth of her beside you, and all you can think about is how every subtle movement seems to register somewhere beneath your skin.

Her knee presses more insistently against yours as Emily adjusts her legs, and you instinctively draw yours together in response, seeking the smallest bit of relief from the emotions threatening to overwhelm you. Just a little friction. Just enough to take the edge off.

“Everything okay, princess?” Emily’s voice is right beside your ear, goosebumps breaking out across your skin as her breath brushes your neck.

“Of course, Agent Prentiss,” you reply nonchalantly, taking another sip of your drink.

“You sure?” she presses amused, and you feel the gentle pressure of her fingertips against your bare knee.

You swallow nervously, giving yourself away with the tiny twitch in your throat, and Emily lets out a knowing laugh.

“You do seem a little worked up, though, hmm?” she murmurs quietly, the others far too engrossed in their own conversations to pay either of you any attention.

“I’m fine.” You tilt your head, looking at her over the rim of your glass. “What about you?”

“Hmm.” Her fingertips become fingers, curling leisurely around your knee, her nails pressing lightly into your skin. “Yeah. But it’s been a pretty exhausting day.”

A barely audible sound escapes you, but Emily raises an eyebrow, and you seal your lips shut. Satisfied, she gives a small nod, the pressure of her hand against your knee increasing.

“Y/N, can you tell us a little more about your theory regarding the way he selected his victims?” Rossi asks, pulling you out of your little bubble.

You cross one leg over the other, hiding Emily’s hand from JJ's view.

“Of course.” You clear your throat, hyperaware of Emily’s hand resting against your knee, her fingers now beginning to creep dangerously higher.

Rossi nods, waiting.

“I don’t think the locations were the deciding factor,” you explain, forcing yourself to focus on the conversation rather than the warmth of Emily’s palm against your skin. “I think they were a means to an end. He needed places where he could observe people without drawing attention to himself. Somewhere he could establish routines before he approached them.”

“Which would explain why the victims initially seemed completely unrelated,” JJ adds, resting her chin against her hand.

“Right.” You nod. “He wasn’t looking for a specific type of person. He was looking for a specific type of opportunity.”

“And the moment someone broke from their routine, they became interesting,” Hotch observes, his voice perfectly composed, while all you can think about is Emily’s hand still resting against your knee.

You glance at her, but she doesn’t even look at you.

“That’s my theory,” you manage.

“Good theory.” Rossi lifts his glass toward you. “And annoyingly enough, I think you’re right.”

The conversation carries on, laughter coming more easily now that the exhaustion of the past few days is finally beginning to loosen its grip on everyone.

There’s nothing particularly remarkable about any of it anymore. No case files. No crime scenes. No bodies. Just your team crowded around a too-small table, talking about bad movies, terrible coffee, and whose turn it is to bring snacks into the office.

Eventually, Morgan gets up to order another round, disappearing toward the bar with several empty glasses balanced precariously in his hands. When he returns a few minutes later, he somehow manages to carry everyone’s drinks without dropping a single one.

“See?” he announces proudly as he sets them down. “Perfectly under control.”

“Give it time,” Rossi mutters.

Morgan turns around and tries to sit back down, only to find considerably less room than there was when he left. He attempts to squeeze himself onto the bench anyway, loses his balance, and ends up half-falling sideways, one leg still on the floor and the other awkwardly planted on the seat.

“What the hell?” he exclaims, grabbing the edge of the table to steady himself.

The entire table erupts into laughter. Morgan looks directly at Emily, then at you, his eyes narrowing accusingly before he turns toward the rest of the group.

“Prentiss. Y/N.” He points at the two of you. “You’re the only couple here. Come on, make some room. We’re all friends here.”

Emily raises her eyebrows, completely unbothered. “You could try asking nicely.”

“I am asking nicely.”

Emily considers him for a moment, then lifts her glass. “You’re really not.”

“Prentiss.”

She sets her glass down with a quiet sigh. “Fine.”

With a knowing grin, Emily slips an arm around your waist and pulls you onto her lap. Her hands settle on your thighs, and you suppress a startled sound as she shifts you lower against her.

You almost let another betraying sound escape, but a warning pinch to your thigh makes you stop, swallowing it down as you force yourself to simply enjoy the warmth of her beneath you. You shift a little, moving forward and back to make yourself more comfortable, and Emily answers with a low, nearly inaudible hum.

Two can play the same game.

“Careful,” she murmurs into your ear, her breath ghosting over the sensitive skin. “Otherwise, you won’t get to enjoy this tonight.”

Your breath catches, and you can’t help but lift your hips a little bit before settling back down again. You can feel the strap-on all too clearly between your thighs, the length of it pressing against your skirt, creating just enough friction to make you bite the inside of your cheek.

You force yourself to pay attention to everyone else, laughing at the right moments and responding whenever someone addresses you, carefully schooling your expression whenever Emily shifts beneath you. She, meanwhile, appears completely unaffected, sipping her wine and following the conversation as though you aren’t sitting comfortably in her lap.

You glance at her once. She catches you looking. The smallest, most knowing smile touches the corner of her mouth before she turns back toward Rossi. You immediately look away. Somehow, you manage to survive the rest of the night without giving yourself away.

An hour later the evening finally winds down, glasses emptying one by one as everyone begins to gather their things. Coats are pulled from the backs of chairs, empty glasses pushed toward the center of the table, and the usual goodbyes exchanged as you all spill out onto the sidewalk.

You and Emily decide to take a taxi home rather than walk the twenty minutes, settling into the back seat as the city passes in a blur beyond the windows. You’re far too aware of the warmth of her beside you, of her hand resting casually against your thigh as if nothing about the evening had been unusual.

The ride home passes quietly, and before long, the taxi pulls up outside your apartment. You and Emily make your way inside, the familiar comfort of home settling around you.

The door clicks shut behind you, and absolute silence greets you. All you can hear is your uneven breathing and the soft clink of Emily dropping her keys into the bowl on the console.

You start to slip off your high heels, but a hand closes around your wrist before you can, stopping you in your tracks. You look up.

“You have been a good girl tonight.” Emily smiles at you affectionately, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You deserve a reward. Bedroom. Now.”

Arousal rushes through you, but when you reach for your shoes again, Emily shakes her head. “Leave them on tonight.”

You nod obediently and head toward the bedroom, your hips swaying with every step, acutely aware of Emily’s eyes following you, tracking every movement.

At the doorway, you pause, one hand resting against the white wooden frame as you turn back toward your girlfriend. You admire the confidence in the way she carries herself, love the hunger in her eyes, and think back to the warmth of her hands against your bare thigh, the way you had sat on her lap, the unmistakable pressure between your thighs. Anticipation pools low in your stomach as Emily gives you a small nod toward the bed.

You hurry to obey.

Standing before you, she slowly begins to unbutton her red blouse.  One button at a time, she opens it, revealing the black lace bra she bought a few days ago. Your mouth goes completely dry as her fingers slide beneath the waistband of her jeans, and you realize her hand is reaching for the strap.

Amused, she watches you and says, “Help me out of these clothes, will you, princess?”

Eagerly, you get to your feet, your legs unsteady, barely able to keep your balance on the thin high heels. You slip your trembling fingers beneath the fabric of her blouse, tracing your hands down from her shoulders until the blouse lands on the floor with a soft rustle.

Only a small light is on in the bedroom, bathing Emily’s pale skin in a warm, golden glow and catching in the dark strands of her hair as they fall loosely around her face. The contrast has always captivated you, the darkness of her hair against the luminous softness of her skin.

With your index finger, you trace the delicate strap of her bra upward, hook it beneath your finger, and give it a gentle tug. Then you release it abruptly, the taut strap snapping sharply against the bare skin of her shoulder, the sound echoing softly through the apartment.

Emily runs her tongue over her lower lip, then catches it between her teeth, biting down just enough to leave the damp skin glistening. You close the distance between you, kissing her softly. You reach behind her and undo her bra with one hand, earning an amused huff from Emily.

“Are you showing off, hon?”

“Maybe,” you admit cheekily, and Emily cups your face, her fingers tracing along your temples before slipping into your hair and gently pulling your head back.

“I love it,” she whispers, her lips swollen from kissing, and she tugs a little harder until you let out a quiet moan. “I love you. But now, undo my slacks.”

She presses you downward, her fingertips massaging your scalp as you slowly sink to the floor in front of her. Knees scraping against the wooden floor, the sting barely registering, you let your hands glide along the sides of her thighs. Your eyes linger on the belt around her waist, the buckle slightly off-center, just as you like it.

Your fingers find the buckle, and you carefully undo it, letting the belt loosen beneath your hands. Looking up with glassy eyes, you work at the button of her slacks. It pops open, followed by the zipper.

You wrap your arms around Emily’s hips, gripping the belt loops as you pull the black slacks down. You barely make it five centimeters, shifting them back and forth, before the strap springs free. It’s the blue one, your favorite one from your collection. She isn’t wearing any panties, just the black harness and blue strap. It must have been teasing her in just the right spot all night, because you can see the wetness between her thighs. You look up at her and grin, kissing her on the thigh, catching the scent of her arousal.

“How long have you been wearing that today?” you ask breathlessly as you help her step out of her slacks. Her hands steady themselves on your shoulders, tightening their hold when the silicone brushes against your face.

“You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?” One eyebrow arches, and her hand disappears into your hair again, pulling softly.

“Yes.” Your lips remain parted, and she pulls you up to your feet to kiss you.

You lose yourself in the passion of the kiss and barely notice as she slowly guides you backward toward the bed. Only when your calves brush against the mattress do you break the kiss and look at her questioningly.

“Since we were on the jet,” she murmurs against your lips, and you moan.

“What?” Your pupils widen at the thought of having spent hours sitting beside your girlfriend on the jet, Hotch and Rossi seated directly across from the two of you, all while she was wearing a strap-on and knowing she was going to surprise you with it later. “Emily.” Your voice sounds pleading, almost whiny, and she grins in satisfaction.

“Worth it.”

With those words, she pushes you onto the bed, lifts one of your legs, and runs her fingers along the bare skin.

A shiver runs through you as she rests your foot over her shoulder, her hand briefly closing around the delicate heel still on your foot, before she lowers herself onto the bed, slowly, deliberately, waiting. Her fingers work their way upward inch by inch, pausing at your knee before cautiously moving beneath your skin-tight skirt.

“This outfit drove me crazy all day,” she admits, playing with the hem of your skirt. “That undercover mission was a real challenge for me. Seeing you like that. Watching you flirt with our unsub. Watching him look at you. But knowing that tonight, you’d be kneeling in front of me. That was torture.”

Her fingers slip away from the fabric, and you spread your legs a little wider so her hand can slide up between your thighs. “And I can tell you couldn’t wait for this either, could you?”

“Yes, Emily,” you nod, licking your lips, one hand on your breast, the other wrapping tightly around her leg as it presses against your hip, grounding yourself against her.

Emily doesn't waste another second and skillfully presses her fingers against your clit, drawing a low moan from you. She moves her fingers up and down your panties, feeling how wet and warm you are, how ready for her.

"Then I won't keep you waiting any longer, hm, Princess?" she asks you with a smile on her lips as she pushes your panties aside. She runs her fingers through your slick folds, coating her fingers with your wetness.

She presses your legs farther apart until your skirt rides up to your hips. The tip of the strap presses against you, teasing you, but you only have eyes for Emily, who’s looking at you so lovingly that you pull her toward you to kiss her.

Emily’s teeth dig into your lip, and with her fingers she guides the strap against your entrance, dipping the tip in and out of your drenching pussy. As you can barely take it anymore, she fills you inch by inch, a loud moan of pleasure escapes your lips. Her hips keep moving forward until the full length has disappeared inside of you.

“So needy and ready for me. Right?” she husks against your hot skin, leaving feverish kisses along your jaw.

“Yes, yes,” you whisper between heavy breaths, “I need you...”

You look at her through your hooded eyes, closing them when she hits a particularly sensitive spot inside you, before saying, “All of you.”

Emily doesn’t hesitate for long. She slows down the pace of her thrusts and presses her thumb against your swollen clit, which is already throbbing with pleasure. “Everything okay, Princess?”

"Yes, like this." You squeeze your eyes shut, overwhelmed by the rush of arousal surging through you, making your toes curl. Emily stops moving, and you open your eyes in frustration. "Please, don't stop."

"Look at me," she commands, and you obey.

Her hand slides up your leg, still resting over her shoulder, but otherwise she doesn’t move. Impatiently, you shift your hips, but Emily holds you tight. She presses her lips against your calf and covers your skin with tender kisses. The sensation sends a shiver through you, your heart racing as you struggle to keep your eyes open, but Emily gently bites your leg. “What did I say?”

“I’m supposed to look at you,” you manage, swallowing as her tongue glides over the teeth marks she left on your leg.

"That's exactly what I said," she murmurs, and as you stare at her intently, she adds, "That's my good girl."

The praise pools between your legs, and just as you’re about to say something in response, she thrusts deep inside you and circles your clit again, causing your eyes to roll back in pleasure. But now Emily won’t stop, and the room is filled with the squelching sound of your pussy and the slapping of Emily’s hips against your thighs.

As your legs begin to tremble, she lowers your leg and draws you closer by the hips, penetrating you so deeply that you let out a throaty moan.

“Too much, Princess?” Her voice drops low, her free hand digging more firmly into your hip.

“No, no,” you manage to say, your voice choked with pleasure as you see stars, “Don’t stop. Please.”

"I’ve no intention of stopping. After all, I’ve been waiting all day for this," she growls, thrusting faster and faster.

Your chest rises and falls in quick, uneven breaths and Emily knows exactly how close you are to reaching your climax. A wicked grin settles on her face as she slowly slides out of you. Your body is twitching in anticipation and when Emily uses the tip to spread your wetness over your clit, you cry out, caught somewhere between pain and pleasure.

"Em," you plead excitedly, staring at her with wide eyes, "Please."

“Please what?” she asks, amused, as you try to move farther down the mattress, trying to sink the toy back inside you.

Emily’s hand shoots forward, fingers digging harshly into your hip as she holds you in place. “What do you want me to do?” There’s a defiant edge to her voice, rough and smug. At her tone your pussy clenches around nothing.

“Please,” you whine, “Fuck me hard.”

Hunger darkens her expression, her pupils blown wide until there’s barely any color left around them, and less than two seconds later the full length of the strap fills you once more, pressing against the right spot inside you.

“Fu-uck,” you cry, and Emily’s thumb circles your swollen bud faster, more firmly.

Just as your whole body begins to tremble and a flush spreads across your cheeks, neck and stomach, Emily grabs your hair and uses it to pull you up from the bed. With both arms, she guides you to the edge of the bed, pressing you tighter against her chest and thrusts deep into you at a new angle.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, and you dig your nails into her back until you leave marks.

“Touch yourself,” she instructs you, and your hand moves without hesitation.

Every part of you is tense, and it takes you less than three thrusts from Emily to reach your orgasm. Stars dance before your eyes, and you shake in Emily’s arms as she continues to thrust into you, slowly, gently, until you’ve come down from your high.

You laugh freely, blowing your hair out of your face. Your skin is damp with sweat as you look up at Emily. A grin spreads across her face before she leans down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Damn, Em,” you whisper flustered, “You really liked my outfit, didn’t you?”

“Hmm. Very much so, but especially the thought that you only belong to me,” she replies, gently lowering you onto the bed as she slides the strap out of you. You whimper at the sudden loss.

Emily’s fingers glide over your puffy folds as she lowers herself before you: "And now it’s time for me to kneel before you, Princess."

“She's growing up so fast,” Penelope sighs beside you, watching your daughter as the small braids woven into her blonde hair bounce with every step. “I don't see her for a month and suddenly she's running around like lightning.”

“She's outrunning Morgan now, so...” You stop yourself, suppressing a laugh. “Yeah. She's growing way too fast.”

Your lips press together as you watch Lilia dart across the grass on her unsteady little legs, laughing from the depths of her soul as she glances over her shoulder at whoever happens to be chasing her. Before she can get anywhere near the pond, Morgan swoops in, lifting her high into the air. Lilia lets out a delighted squeal that immediately earns a grin from everyone nearby.

“Seriously, Sugarplum,” Penelope says, turning toward you, “we can't let that much time pass again.”

“You know she was staying with my parents until...” you begin quietly, trying to push down the unpleasant feeling that still settles in your chest whenever you think about it, but the sentence dies before you can finish it.

“I know, I know.” Penelope's hand comes to rest gently on your shoulder. “But if you ever need a babysitter and we're not working a case, I am absolutely available to spend time with that adorable little human.”

“Me too,” Morgan calls from across the grass, and relief softens your smile.

You honestly can't remember when exactly all of you became this close, but you're grateful for it every day. The anxiety you'd felt about joining a new team had disappeared almost immediately, swept away by a welcome so warm it had nearly hurt. Somehow, you'd found yourself included in weekly girls' nights before you'd even had time to settle in.

It doesn't feel like a team anymore. It feels like a family. A unit.

“Thank you, Penelope,” you murmur, squeezing her hand. “I honestly don't know what I did to deserve you guys.”

“There you are!”

The voice carries across the park, and your gaze lifts, landing on the two figures making their way toward your group.

Excitement shoots through you so suddenly that you almost panic, and when your eyes dart toward Penelope, she has to bite back a laugh.

“I thought we could make our little gathering a bit bigger.”

You press your lips together, far too aware that Jennifer isn't the only one approaching. Your boss is walking right beside her. The boss who, up until now, knows nothing about your daughter. At least not officially.

She hasn't been to any of your get-togethers yet, and outside of work you've barely had a chance to talk. There have been too many cases, too many long days, and then your family emergency on top of everything else.

“Hey, everyone,” Emily greets as she reaches the blanket, and somehow that simple greeting is enough to send your pulse racing. “You picked a great spot.”

“Thank God it’s in the shade,” JJ adds.

Penelope nods emphatically. “It's way too hot today.”

You manage little more than a smile, because Emily's presence alone is enough to completely throw you off balance. Ever since she stood in front of the team two months ago and announced that she was your new Unit Chief, things haven't quite felt the same.

Part of it is the change itself, the adjustment to a new dynamic within a team that had already been established. The other part is Emily herself. Emily and the way her smile makes something flutter nervously inside your stomach.

You don't understand your reactions or maybe you do, and simply don't want to acknowledge them because that would make everything far more complicated. Almost anything is easier than admitting that you've developed a bit of a crush on your boss.

And of course Penelope noticed. The slight stutter whenever you give a profile, the new lipstick that mysteriously appeared a few days later, the way you’d suddenly found reasons not to ride with Emily whenever the team headed for the jet, all of it had not gone unnoticed by Penelope Garcia, who has an infuriating talent for noticing everything.

“P…” you mutter under your breath, your eyes following Emily’s gaze as it rests on your daughter. A soft smile has settled on her face, and your heart starts beating even faster. “Why did you—”

You watch Emily think. Watch the subtle shift in her expression as she studies Morgan and Lilia before looking back toward the rest of you. Something changes behind her eyes. She's connected the dots and despite yourself, a thought takes hold.

Would Emily Prentiss ever consider dating a woman with a child? Hell, you don’t even know whether she’s interested in women at all, even with Penelope’s endless theories.

“Alright, Princess,” Morgan says, interrupting your spiraling thoughts as he sets Lilia back on the ground. “Time to eat.”

Only then do you notice the large tote bag beside JJ, the baguettes sticking out from the top, the grapes Emily is carrying, and the strawberries Penelope is currently stealing from JJ's supplies.

“A picnic?” you ask, unable to hide your surprise.

You'd only told JJ last week how much you missed spending an afternoon in a park, sharing food with friends.

“Exactly.” JJ smiles. “I just hope there's something here for everyone.”

Warmth spreads through your chest at the realization of how thoughtful they all are.

“Did you bring cheese, too?” Morgan asks as he settles down cross-legged beside Penelope.

“Of course I did, what kind of question is that?” she replies with mock offense. “I even got the same one we had last time, remember when—”

Whatever story follows is quickly lost on you. Your attention drifts far too easily, drawn instead to Emily, who is unpacking the grapes while repeatedly glancing in Lilia's direction as your daughter continues wandering around the group, seemingly determined to put as much distance between herself and everyone else as physically possible.

“Lilia,” you call, a note of warning slipping into your voice, though it earns you little more than a grin before she continues on her way. “Come back.”

As expected, she has no intention of listening. That stubborn little thing.

With a sigh, you push yourself to your feet and make your way over to her, arms already spread open in anticipation, which sends her into a fit of laughter. By the time you reach her, she is practically bouncing with delight, and you cannot help smiling as you scoop her into your arms, turning once before settling her comfortably against your hip. Instantly, her small hands find your shirt, fingers curling into the fabric while she rests her head against your shoulder with all the unquestioning trust only a child is capable of.

It hasn’t escaped your notice that Emily still hasn’t asked a single question about your daughter, no polite curiosity, no careful probing, none of the usual attempts to confirm what she is to you, or how she fits into your life. Most people never hesitate.

Are you a single mom?

Who's the father?

How do you manage a job like this and a child?

Why have you never mentioned her before?

The questions usually arrive in rapid succession, as though your existence has suddenly become a puzzle people are entitled to solve, and somewhere along the way you've grown used to offering explanations before anyone can even ask. Emily, however, hasn't demanded any. She hasn't made you feel obligated to justify your choices or explain your circumstances, and perhaps that is why the quiet ease of her presence settles so comfortably beneath your skin.

When you return to the blanket with Lilia in your lap, your gaze inevitably drifts back toward your boss, only to find yourself caught by the expression in her eyes. There is nothing there but joy, pure and unguarded, accompanied by a sparkle you've never seen before and a warmth so deep it seems to soften every line of her face. The sunlight filtering through the canopy above catches in her eyes and turns them almost honey-colored, and for a moment you find yourself staring before you remember that staring is exactly what you've been trying not to do for the last two months.

Penelope holds out a strawberry, which you pass to Lilia. She takes a delighted bite, her face lighting up with satisfaction, and it doesn’t take long to realize that she has somehow become the center of the entire group. Everyone’s attention seems fixed on her; you catch snippets of conversation, hear the unmistakable fondness in their voices whenever they talk about her, and for a moment you’re overcome by a warmth that has nothing to do with the summer sun filtering through the trees overhead.

And then there’s Emily.

While everyone else watches Lilia, Emily watches you.

Her head is tilted slightly, her expression soft, thoughtful, and entirely unreadable, yet there is no mistaking where her attention rests. Not on your daughter. On you.

“Lilia is a beautiful name,” she says, slipping a grape into her mouth.

At the sound of her name, Lilia looks up and turns her attention toward the woman who has been occupying far too much space in your thoughts lately. You can almost see the curiosity flickering behind her eyes, though it is tempered by the same caution she reserves for every stranger she encounters. Lilia has never been a child to throw herself into unfamiliar arms. New people are studied carefully first, approached only after extensive consideration and usually with a healthy amount of skepticism.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

The moment Lilia sticks her tongue out at Morgan, he mirrors the gesture right back at her, and she quickly buries herself against your chest, prompting a laugh from the group and a small smile from Emily that somehow does something to your heartbeat that is far too distracting.

“Do you like lilies?” Emily asks.

The question reaches you a second too late, your attention caught instead by the sight of her biting lightly against her lower lip while raising a hand to shield her eyes as a shaft of sunlight breaks through the canopy above.

The effect is unfair. There is no other word for it.

The sunlight settles across her features and turns her skin almost porcelain pale, while strands of dark hair catch the gold spilling through the leaves overhead. Every slight movement seems to reveal a different shade, a different undertone hidden beneath the black, and before you can stop yourself you find your gaze lingering far longer than it should.

Garcia elbows you hard enough to pull you out of your thoughts. Apparently Emily has already said your name twice. You hadn’t noticed, because you were far too occupied with staring at your boss.

“Yeah, you got me,” you admit with a quiet laugh, and the knowing lift of Emily’s eyebrow does nothing to help your composure. “They’ve always been my favorite flowers. The name felt like the obvious choice.”

As the conversation drifts elsewhere, Lilia’s attention settles on the piece of bread in JJ’s hand. With an encouraging smile and the sort of hopeful expression that could probably convince almost any child, JJ offers her a piece. Almost any child. Just not yours.

Lilia presses herself deeper into your lap and shakes her head with surprising determination.

“Sorry,” you whisper apologetically to the blonde.

JJ only laughs.

“It’s okay. Last time she took food from me without a second thought. I’m choosing not to take it personally.”

You smile despite yourself.

“I know. She’s been a little wary of people lately. Ever since staying with my parents…”

The explanation never reaches completion. Halfway through the sentence, you feel Lilia shifting against you, and before you can think much of it, she has already wriggled free from your lap. You glance down, expecting her to wander off in search of another distraction, only to watch in complete disbelief as she straightens and takes a hesitant step toward Emily.

“Grape,” she mumbles, pointing with strawberry-stained fingers toward the container still resting in Emily’s hands.

Your boss’s expression softens at once.

“Would you like a grape, Lilia?”

She holds the container out toward her, but Lilia frowns. The gesture is so familiar it almost makes you laugh. You’ve seen that exact expression in the mirror often enough to know where she inherited it from.

For several long moments she simply studies Emily, rocking gently back and forth on her heels as though weighing a decision of monumental importance. She looks almost as if she’s caught in a quiet inner conflict, one no one else is privy to, and for a moment you find yourself unable to read her at all.

After a long silence, Lilia finally nods and takes another cautious step forward. You aren’t entirely sure whether you should stop her or warn Emily. Right now, you can’t quite tell what she’s going to do, whether she’ll burst into tears from sheer determination, ignore Emily completely, or retreat back into your arms without a second thought. There is simply no way of knowing.

Instead, she seems to overwhelm herself. The confidence that carried her this far suddenly falters, and she takes a step backward again.

Before you can intervene, Emily calmly sets the container aside, plucks a grape from the bunch, and pops it into her own mouth.

“These are really good,” she declares, turning toward JJ. “Sweet, too. Want one?”

“Of course.” JJ accepts the grape with a nod.

“Oh wow, those are good. Henry brought some home from his grandma last week, she got them from a farmer’s market. They were so sour he practically launched them across the room.”

Laughter ripples through the group, but your attention remains fixed on Lilia, who seems fascinated now. Her gaze shifts from the grapes in Emily’s hand to Emily herself and back again, as though she is trying to determine which of the two is actually responsible for holding her interest.

And then, once she realizes nobody is paying attention to her anymore, she inches forward again. Slowly. Cautiously.

The uncertainty is still there, but curiosity appears to be winning. Little by little she closes the remaining distance until the toes of her red sneakers brush against Emily’s black slacks, and a completely irrational part of you can only hope she doesn’t get them dirty.

Emily offers the grape once more, but by now it is obvious that the fruit has become secondary. Lilia’s attention is fixed entirely on her. An encouraging word rises instinctively to your lips, but before you can say anything Emily glances toward you. The look is brief. Reassuring. Calm in a way that settles something restless inside you.

I’ve got this, she seems to say. And somehow, you believe her.

“Would you like a grape?”

This time the question is directed at you.

Only then do you notice Penelope watching from the corner of your eye, entirely too interested in what is happening.

“I’d love one,” you manage, though your voice comes out thinner than intended.

As you reach for the grape, your fingers brush Emily’s. The contact lasts no more than a second. Still, you flinch. Your gaze snaps upward, colliding with hers, and what unsettles you most is the realization that she has never looked away. Not once.

The smile lingering at the corner of her mouth is subtle, almost unreadable, but there is something undeniably knowing about it.

Far from calming your nerves, it makes them infinitely worse.

Did she notice the way you reacted? The slight change in your voice? The fact that your hands suddenly feel far too warm?

Before you can disappear entirely into the spiral of your own thoughts, Lilia decides to solve the situation for everyone. Without the slightest warning, she climbs directly into Emily’s lap.

One hand reaches for the grape while the other settles comfortably against her thigh, as though this is the most natural thing in the world.

The surprise that flashes across Emily’s face mirrors your own. Only for a moment, a brief flicker of uncertainty before it begins to ease out of her expression. Her shoulders loosen almost imperceptibly, and the tension that had caught in her features seems to dissolve as Lilia settles more fully against her.

What takes its place isn’t sudden, but it changes her all the same. The careful restraint she usually carries softens around the edges, replaced by a kind of quiet attentiveness that makes her look, for a fleeting second, as if everything else has fallen away.

Your heart stumbles at the sight, at the way she adjusts Lilia more securely against her, steadying her without even seeming to think about it, something that feels practiced in a way that isn’t learned but lived. Her hand remains where it has come to rest, steady and unthinking, simply there in a way that feels completely natural in this moment.

It is the kind of expression that doesn’t pull focus but still fills the space around it, effortless in the way it holds itself, leaving you oddly unable to look away.

When her gaze drops to your daughter, the change in her expression deepens rather than arrives. It gathers slowly, like something settling into place without resistance, until there is nothing guarded left in it at all. Her smile doesn’t appear so much as it lingers, soft, unforced, shaped entirely by the moment in front of her.

For a second, all you can do is watch.

Emily Prentiss looks happy. A smile spreads across her face so beautiful you think you could spend your life trying to memorize it. Your heart is beating twice as fast now, and the warmth creeping into your cheeks has nothing to do with the sunlight fighting through the trees overhead. It is Emily. Emily and the way she holds your daughter as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

It is not obvious in a way that would immediately register to everyone in the room, and yet it settles into you with an uneasy clarity. You press your lips together, a reflexive attempt to contain the reaction that almost slips through.

“You followed me,” he adds, his gaze remaining on you while the rest of the room stays still, “out there in the woods, you stayed close enough that I could feel it, but you weren’t really watching me.”

Your leg shifts faintly beneath the table, a restrained restless rhythm you don’t notice until it has already begun. When Emily’s hand comes to rest briefly against your knee, your body reacts before your mind catches up. Your breath catches on the inhale, your posture tightening in a way you don’t manage to disguise quickly enough, your fingers lingering a second too long against the table’s edge as though they’ve forgotten what to do next.

The unsub’s gaze drops to it for a moment before returning to your face. Something shifts behind his eyes, not surprise, not satisfaction, but recognition. Then he gives the slightest nod. As though some private debate has finally reached its conclusion.

A strange silence settles over the room. Intentional. Heavy with expectation. His gaze never leaves you, and with every passing second the feeling grows stronger: that you are no longer sitting at the table, but standing under a spotlight you never agreed to step into.

A cold prickle runs through your body, rising slowly, as if the temperature in the room has shifted without warning. His eyes stay on you, and there is a clear sense that this pause is not empty but intentional, as if he is waiting for you to begin recognizing yourself in his words whether you want to or not.

“You were watching her.”

Emily’s gaze flicks to you for a moment, sharp and unreadable, and something in your posture reacts before you decide to let it happen, breath tightening halfway in, shoulders drawing in by instinct, fingers holding too still against the file before they resume moving in a way that feels slightly off-tempo.

“That’s not—”

The words start before the thought finishes and collapse in the middle, because there’s nowhere solid enough in the room to carry them through, and because your own voice feels exposed the second it exists out loud.

Your gaze flicks quick and unplanned toward Emily, and the realization that follows is sharper than anything he has said, not because of what you see, but because of the fact that you looked at all.

His mouth curves slightly as he leans back in his chair, studying you with the quiet satisfaction of someone who has found something worth keeping.

“People like you,” he says, voice almost mild, “are always the most interesting.”

You open your mouth, already feeling the objection taking shape, but he rolls straight over it, never giving the moment enough space to become yours.

“It isn’t just attention,” he continues, voice softening into something that mimics familiarity, “it’s calibration. You measure the room through her presence. When she speaks, your focus narrows. When she’s silent, you compensate without realizing it.”

He drags a hand across his beard, and you hear the rough scrape of it before he speaks again.

“You don’t experience her as a colleague in the same way you experience everyone else. She’s your reference point. That’s why you’re predictable.”

He tilts his head slightly, like it is almost not worth mentioning, like it belongs somewhere between weather and time rather than the room.

“I saw you before,” the unsub remarks, almost idly, eyes still on you. “Not just in the woods.”

Something inside you goes still. What exactly is he talking about?

Because that doesn’t fit. Not with what he should have been able to see. Not from the chase. Not from distance. Not from anything visible through movement, shadow, or a fleeting glimpse between the trees.

Which leaves only one option. Before. Undercover. Earlier than this case, earlier than the pursuit, when you were still just another face in a space that wasn’t supposed to matter, when nothing about you should have been readable at all.

The thought lands wrong, too complete to shake off, and your hands shift against the table’s edge, wood scraping faintly as you force your voice through the pressure building behind it.

“You’re guessing,” you counter, keeping your voice steady.

“You’re building a narrative around behavioral noise,” you continue, slipping into the detached cadence of a profiler. “You’re compensating for gaps in your own recollection by redirecting attention toward emotional framing. That’s not insight. That’s pattern substitution.”

The unsub lets out a faint, almost entertained breath, as if you’ve only given shape to what he already believes, and his attention shifts again as though he’s about to continue, picking up momentum where you tried to interrupt it.

He doesn’t get the chance.

“You will stop,” Emily cuts in, her tone even yet unmistakable, and when he tries to push back into the silence she does not acknowledge the attempt, her attention fixed as she adds, “I am not interested in your interpretations of anyone in this room.”

A brief silence follows, and when he opens his mouth again, Emily leans forward just enough that the movement itself becomes a boundary.

“You are here to answer questions,” she says quietly. “Nothing more.”

For a moment, the room holds still, then Emily moves on. Her attention returns to the case as if the detour never happened, and at one point her hand lifts to her hair, fingers brushing through once in a brief, distracted motion before returning to the table almost immediately.

When she speaks again, her voice sits lower, even and exact.

“You are confusing observation with interpretation. One of them matters here. The other does not.”

A knock against the door cuts through the room. You don’t realize how tightly you’ve been holding yourself until the sound reaches you. Some of the tension slips loose before you can stop it, your shoulders easing by a fraction.

The door opens and Luke steps inside, a stack of files tucked beneath one arm. “Got something,” he calls, attention already on Emily. “We may have a trace on Sarah Darling.”

He shifts the files in his hand. “And there’s a body.”

The words settle heavily in the room. “Fresh lead. They need you upstairs.”

For the first time since the interview began, the unsub’s focus falters. Not much. Just enough to notice. His gaze flicks toward the doorway before returning to the table, his posture drawing inward as though something has forced him to recalculate. Emily catches it too.

She glances at Luke only briefly before looking back at the unsub. A beat passes, then she pushes her chair back. “Interview’s over.”

The unsub never gets the chance to reclaim the conversation, Emily is already on her feet.

The scrape of her chair against the floor cuts through the room, brief and final. Luke steps aside to hold the door and she moves past him without hesitation, gathering the file from the table as she goes. She doesn’t look at you.

For some reason, that is what gets you moving. By the time you step into the hallway, the fluorescent lights feel unbearably bright. You blink hard against them, but the sting behind your eyes remains. People move somewhere farther down the corridor. Phones ring. A door closes. Everything feels too loud.

You turn away before anyone can stop you. The restroom door swings inward beneath your hand and shuts with a soft click behind you. Only then do you realize you’ve been holding your breath. The exhale leaves you all at once.

Your reflection looks back at you from the mirror, drawn tighter than you expected. You stare at it for a second too long before moving to the sink.

Cold porcelain presses against your palms, so you focus on that. The chill beneath your skin. The steady drip from the faucet next to you, that doesn’t quite close all the way. Anything except the conversation replaying itself.

Your pulse has only just begun to settle when footsteps approach from the hallway.

You know who they  belong to, you have them memorized. When the door finally opens, Emily steps inside.

You straighten before you mean to. One hand slips from the sink and smooths across the front of your jacket, a pointless gesture that somehow feels necessary.

Emily notices everything, whether she chooses to acknowledge it is another matter entirely.

“You handled that well,” she says after a moment. Nothing in her voice sounds reassuring or concerned. It’s simply an observation. A fact.

“You didn’t give him what he wanted,” she continues. “That’s what matters.”

Your fingers tighten against the edge of the sink before you notice it, the cold porcelain pressing into your palms until it stops feeling like support and starts feeling like pressure you’re actively holding on to.

“I—”

The sound doesn’t turn into anything else. It simply breaks off and disappears before it can become a sentence, leaving you with your jaw set a moment later as if your body is taking over where speech fails.

Emily doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She lets it stay exactly where it is.

“And listen to me,” she adds after a moment. “You’re allowed to feel it in the moment. That’s human.”

Her voice stays even, almost matter-of-fact. “But you don’t let it show. Not to him, not to anyone. That’s the part you control.”

The hum of the fluorescent lights fills the space between you both.

You swallow once, and when you finally glance at her properly, there is nothing in her expression that leans toward reassurance or criticism. She simply looks at you as if she has already taken the entire moment apart, understood it, and put it back into order.

For a while neither of you moves, then Emily shifts her weight and turns toward the door. She is almost through the threshold when she pauses, and the strip of hallway light spills across the floor between you.

“He was guessing,” she looks back at you briefly, “right?”

“Yeah—” you answer too quickly, then catch yourself and try again. “—guessing.”

She doesn’t leave immediately after that. She stays there just long enough that it becomes something you have to exist inside of, and you push away from the counter to create movement where there isn’t any, smoothing a hand down the front of your jacket even though nothing about it has changed.

“Yeah,” you add again, quieter this time, as if lowering your voice could make the moment easier to hold.

Something shifts in her expression, subtle enough that you might have missed it if you hadn’t been watching her already. She looks at you once more, and the corner of her mouth twitches upward for a moment before she winks, so briefly that you’re left wondering whether it actually happened at all.

By the time it fully registers, she’s already gone, the door closing softly behind her.