Prentissmylove

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

“Hi. Can you tell me your name?”

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

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

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

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

Your own name is asked again, closer now.

“Yes,” you answer in a flat tone.

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

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

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

A beat passes.

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

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

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

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

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

Her voice breaks completely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simple words. Wrong kind of simple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You handled that well.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get in,” she says quietly. You do.

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

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

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

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

Her words unravel something deep.

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

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

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

“Emily“, you begin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His weapon remains raised as fragments of shattered glass continue to rain from the ceiling around him, sparkling in the light before crashing onto the floor below. People who hadn’t reached cover in time shield their heads as they stumble toward the nearest stores, desperate to get out of the open.

Another shot cracks through the air, again into the ceiling.

The sound reverberates through the restaurant, rattling the windows in front of you. Without thinking, you press yourself closer against Claire. Her fingers are wrapped so tightly around your wrist that they’re beginning to hurt, but neither of you notices.

Then movement catches your eye.

Dark tactical vests appear from both sides of the lower level, spreading through the corridor with practiced precision. White letters flash across their backs as they move.

FBI.

Several agents close in at once, weapons raised, their voices carrying even through the glass.

“FBI! Drop the weapon!”

The man turns sharply at the command. For a moment, it almost looks as though he’s going to raise the gun again. But instead, he only smirks and bolts.

He disappears into one of the side corridors, knocking over a display stand as he runs. The agents are after him instantly, vanishing around the corner only seconds later until nothing remains but the echo of hurried footsteps somewhere deeper inside the mall.

The restaurant falls strangely quiet. Nobody moves, and nobody seems willing to believe it’s over.

Then, somewhere beyond the corridor where the agents disappeared, another shot rings out. Every head jerks toward the sound.

A few seconds later, the speakers crackle overhead.

“Evacuation routes are active. Follow staff direction. Keep moving toward exits.” The unfamiliar voice booms over your head, shattering the tense chaos of the mall and the calm that had crept in over the last few minutes.

The people around you look around frantically, searching for someone who can show them the way out. You find yourself doing the same. More than anything, you just want to get out of here.

Rising onto your tiptoes, you try to see over the crowd, your fingers digging into Claire’s shoulder as she follows your gaze. A blonde woman wearing an FBI vest stands by the railing on the lower level, one arm extended as she directs people to the left while her eyes constantly sweep the floors above. People hurry past her, stumbling over one another in their rush before disappearing around the corner she keeps pointing toward.

“Come on,” you murmur, turning back to Claire.

Her breathing is loud and uneven now, every inhale catching before it fully reaches her lungs. You can feel the panic taking hold of her more with every passing second, and you make yourself a silent promise to stay calm, even if your own heart feels like it’s trying to break free from your chest.

You take hold of her hand and gently pull her after you. She follows without hesitation. You realize she’s no longer making decisions of her own. She’s simply following your lead, too overwhelmed by fear to think beyond the next step. Only minutes ago, she had been the one guiding both of you through the maze of corridors. Now, without either of you acknowledging it, the roles have quietly reversed.

You turn left and finally reach the corridor where the crowd has disappeared.

The corridor is packed with people. They are no longer running, but they still stumble forward with lingering uncertainty. The panic hasn’t completely faded, but relief hangs in the air now—the growing belief that they are finally safe. You rise onto your toes, trying to see how much farther it is to the exit.

“They shot him,” a man to your left says.

“No, I saw them arrest him,” a woman farther back insists.

No one seems to know for certain, but hope is beginning to push back the fear. You cling to it, too. The crowd around you slows even more, people falling into a single line, employees from the surrounding stores stand along the walls and in open doorways, calmly directing people forward with quiet gestures and reassuring voices. They continue pointing toward the back of the corridor until you finally spot the glass doors leading to the west entrance.

Your eyes wander across the scene, still searching without really knowing what for, until they settle on a dark-haired man wearing an FBI vest.

Like the blonde woman by the railing, he seems completely unaffected by the chaos around him. He issues short, precise instructions, barely raising his voice, yet people obey him immediately. There is something about him that radiates certainty, the kind that makes others believe everything is under control.

You wonder if he’s part of Emily’s team.

As you and Claire draw closer, his eyes meet yours. He gives a single nod, then gestures toward the exit. “This way,” he says. “Stay with the line. Don’t stop.”

You feel Claire hesitate at his words. Right now, she seems to distrust everyone and everything. Her hand tightens around yours, and for a moment, she refuses to move. “Who are you?” she asks, her eyes wide as she looks at the man.

You try to pull her along.

“Luke,” he answers without slowing down. “FBI coordination on site. Please. Keep moving.”

When Claire still makes no move to follow the crowd, Luke stops. His expression softens, if only for a moment. “Everything’s okay. You’re safe,” he reassures her. “Just follow the crowd outside.”

You nod gratefully, and Claire seems satisfied with the answer as well. Her whole body relaxes almost instantly.

Luke is already turning away before you can hold onto anything else he says. He speaks into the radio clipped to his vest, his attention already shifting somewhere else.

A loud noise erupts somewhere behind you. You know immediately that it isn’t another gunshot, and yet your blood turns to ice all the same. You don’t know what caused it, but the panic on the faces around you tells you you’re not the only one who’s terrified. Whatever it was, it scares you.

It scares all of you.

“Come on,” Claire urges, sounding more determined again. “I have to get out of here.”

The exit is right in front of you now.

Bright daylight pours through the doors into the corridor, forming a stark contrast to the dim light inside the mall. The people ahead of you squeeze through the heavy metal doors, some moving far too quickly, others much more slowly. But all of them have only one goal in mind: To get out.

When you finally step through the doors, the cold air hits you all at once. You draw in a desperate breath, feeling your chest rise and fall far too quickly, as though it has developed a mind of its own and decided you need more air. The cold fills your lungs, and for a moment, you feel almost light-headed.

Your breathing remains uneven, your whole body trembling as the tension slowly begins to drain away. You’re safe. Whatever that means now.

You stumble after Claire, who moves aimlessly from left to right. She breaks away from the flow of people, and you have no idea where she is actually trying to go. But you don’t care. At least she is moving away from the mall. Her fingers are still wrapped tightly around your hand, and you haven’t loosened your grip either. It is the only anchor keeping you from falling apart.

Your eyes scan the scene in front of you frantically. So many people. So many screams, voices, so many tears. Tents have been set up across the parking lot, blue lights flashing everywhere. Police officers, paramedics, reporters, and FBI agents move between them, rushing from one place to another. You hear people ahead of you being guided toward one of the tents, led by someone wearing a dark vest. FBI.

Your thoughts drift for a moment, and you catch yourself stretching your neck, searching the crowd for gray hair.

Claire’s steps slow until they stop completely, and the two of you remain standing in the middle of the stream of people. She is pale, her lips cracked from biting them so much, every muscle in her body drawn tight. Something in her posture changes, and when you notice her focus shifting, you follow her gaze. Claire’s fingers slowly loosen around yours, and you could have blamed your reaction on that, but you know exactly why you suddenly stop breathing.

Emily is stepping out of the building in full tactical gear, her vest secured, her weapon resting in its holster, gray hair pulled into a tight, controlled bun that makes her look even more composed than the chaos she is walking out of. Her steps are hesitant, reminding you of the agents inside the mall, as if part of her is still there and not outside in safety yet. Her shoulders are tense, her gaze searching, and yet she carries herself like someone who has everything under control. Seeing her like this, seeing her in this mode as the head of the BAU, does something to you.

The moment she sees you and Claire, something in her control shifts. Claire moves forward before you can even catch your breath again. Step by step, she gets faster until she throws herself into Emily’s arms with full force. Emily catches her, holding her close and giving her the safety and comfort she needs.

And just like that, Claire stops holding herself together.

Her shoulders begin to shake visibly, and you see how tightly her chest contracts with every breath. She lets herself be consumed by Emily’s embrace, collapsing into her arms. Her control is finally gone, replaced by the pure realization of what just happened to both of you.

“I saw him,” Claire manages, but the words break apart as they leave her mouth. “I thought— I didn’t—”

Emily’s hand stays on her back, steadying her in small, repeated motions that do not hurry anything, do not force anything forward, while her other arm holds Claire close.

“You’re safe now,” she says quietly.

You are still standing frozen in place, a few steps away, too overwhelmed by the emotions that have taken hold of you. You can’t do anything but stare at Emily, wishing that she would catch you too.

And then Emily looks at you. Her gaze finds you in the middle of all the chaos, and something inside you reacts without your permission. Your breath stumbles, something in you tenses and then releases again. This feeling has nothing to do with your fear, but with standing in front of Emily. With being seen by her. Her gaze burning into yours, and the fact that she is genuinely worried.

Your body moves before you can think about it, and suddenly you are stepping toward her, into the space she opens for you without hesitation, without even the smallest delay, as if there was never any other possible direction your movement could have taken.

Emily catches you the same way she held Claire, her arm closing around you with the same certainty, and the moment you reach her, something in you breaks in a way that does not hurt as much as it should, because it finally has somewhere to go.

Her scent reaches you first, somehow familiar, even though you don’t want to think too much about why it feels that way. Like coming home. You push the thought away, and you become painfully aware of Emily’s fingers moving slowly over your shoulder blades.

Your fingers curl into her jacket, holding on as if letting go would undo something essential, and the sound that leaves you is not something you can control. Emily’s grip tightens slightly, and for the first time since everything began, there is nothing about her that feels distant. Her voice lowers against your hair, quiet and certain, carrying through you rather than around you. For a brief second, you wonder if those were her lips you felt against your hair, or if your mind is creating something it desperately wants to believe in.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs.

Your breath stutters against her shoulder, catching and breaking, and she exhales once, her forehead lowering just slightly as if she is grounding herself in the same contact that is keeping you upright.

“You’re safe,” she repeats, slower now, as if the words themselves need to settle properly this time.

Emily doesn’t let go of you, and you don’t even think about pulling away from her embrace. Your body is still trembling in her arms, and right now, she is the only thing keeping you standing. Claire is still pressed against Emily’s other side, her face buried into her shoulder, while Emily’s hand continues to move soothingly along her back.

After what feels like an eternity, Emily shifts her position, but she neither loosens her hold nor makes any attempt to let go of either of you. She only adjusts herself, finding a way to keep both of you safely held in her arms. As if she could protect you from what just happened. As if she could keep the outside world away from you for just a little longer.

Emily’s hand moves from your shoulder blade to your shoulder, and she gives it one firm squeeze until you slowly pull away from her. Claire follows your movement, stepping back, mascara running down her cheeks.

“Both of you are going to be okay,” she repeats, her voice gentle but certain.

Claire lets out a quiet sniffle as she takes another step back. Only now do you realize that you are still standing far too close to Emily, but neither of you takes the first step to fully break the connection.

It is only when a gust of wind carries the sound of approaching sirens toward you that Emily finally steps back and looks over your heads toward the parking lot.

“I need to go over there for a moment,” she explains, looking at both of you apologetically. “Let the paramedics check you out.”

And with those words, she hurries toward the black SUV that pulls onto the gravel parking lot with screeching tires, flashing lights, and several people moving around it.

She has barely taken a few steps before you already miss the feeling of having her close.