word count: 1.4 k
Summary: You come to spend a quiet weekend away from college with your best friend’s family, expecting nothing more than familiar faces and easy conversation. Instead, you meet Emily Prentiss. Your best friend’s godmother and BAU Unit Chief, composed, intelligent, and impossible not to notice. What starts as polite distance slowly shifts into something harder to define, especially when silence begins to feel louder than words. And by the time she leaves, you are left wondering whether you will ever see her again or why that question suddenly matters so much.
A/N: This will be a series :)
tags: college!reader, fem!reader, emily prentiss unit chief, soft longing, age gap, late night thoughts, quiet tension, things left unsaid, unspoken connection
Masterlist • Taglist • Age gap masterlist • AO3
Claire has spent five years talking about home as though it is a place stitched together from anecdotes rather than brick and mortar. Five years of friendship have a way of blurring the line between your life and someone else's, and somewhere between sharing cramped dorm rooms, celebrating victories, surviving heartbreaks, and spending more nights talking than sleeping, Claire has become family in every way that matters. You know the names before you know the faces.
Her father Roy, who burns every barbecue he attempts and insists it is intentional. Her mother Judy, who collects antique teacups. Her brother Jonathan, who plays football professionally. Her godmother Emily, who apparently travels too much, works too much, and has somehow become the answer to every story that begins with, “You know who would know what to do?”
Emily this. Emily that. Emily, with the dangerous job. Emily, who leads an FBI team. Emily, who spends her life hunting serial killers and coming home with stories she rarely tells. Emily, who speaks six languages, who once punched a man, and who never calls often enough but always shows up when it matters.
By the time you accept Claire’s invitation to spend a weekend at her family’s house, the woman has become less a person and more a collection of impossible characteristics, assembled into something that cannot possibly exist in reality.
During the drive from the airport to her parents' house, you find yourself unusually quiet.
“Are you nervous?” Claire asks, casting you a sideways glance from behind the wheel.
“Nervous? Why would I be nervous?” you counter, flipping the sun visor back into place.
“You’ve checked yourself in the mirror three times already. You only do that when you're nervous.”
You stick your tongue out at her.
“I’m not nervous,” you mutter, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I just respect the whole meeting-the-family thing. That’s all.”
Which isn’t entirely a lie. Families have always felt slightly mysterious to you, especially families like Claire’s. The kind that call each other just to talk, that spend holidays together because they want to rather than because obligation demands it, that collect stories and traditions until they become something solid enough to lean on. Claire speaks about her family with an ease you’ve never quite been able to relate to, and somewhere beneath your nervousness sits a quieter fear, that you’ll step into this life she’s described for years and realize exactly how different it is from your own.
“You don’t have to be scared of them. My parents don’t bite.”
You huff a laugh and turn your attention toward the passing scenery, mentally sorting through everything you know about Claire’s family.
Enough to feel like you've known them for years. Enough to somehow make you even more nervous.
When you arrive the first thing that strikes you about Claire’s family home is how ordinary it seems.
After five years you have accumulated so many stories about her relatives that arriving at the house itself feels strangely anticlimactic. It stands on a quiet street lined with mature trees whose branches cast shifting shadows across the pavement, its brick exterior softened by age and climbing ivy.
You expect to meet her parents, her brother, perhaps the sort of family chaos that Claire occasionally describes with equal parts affection and exasperation.
The moment you step through the front door, those expectations are met with surprising ease.
Judy appears first, emerging from somewhere deeper inside the house with a dish towel slung over one shoulder and the kind of warm smile that makes you feel welcome before you’ve even finished introducing yourself. Any carefully rehearsed greeting vanishes from your mind the second she pulls you into a hug and tells you how happy she is to finally meet the girl Claire never stops talking about.
Mortification arrives right on schedule.
“Mooom.”
“Oh, please,” Judy says, waving away Claire’s protest. “Do you know how many stories I’ve heard about you?”
Far too many, apparently.
Before you can recover, Roy appears from the backyard carrying a pair of barbecue tongs despite there being absolutely no barbecue in sight. His handshake is firm, his grin easy, and within thirty seconds he’s already asking about your flight, your studies, and whether Claire is still as competitive as she was when she was ten.
“She’s worse now,” you answer before Claire can defend herself.
Roy points at you. “I like her.”
The approval arrives so quickly that laughter bubbles out of you before you can stop it.
For the first time since leaving the airport, some of the tension in your shoulders begins to loosen. The house feels exactly like Claire described it: warm, loud, lived-in. The kind of place where conversations overlap each other and nobody seems particularly concerned about personal space.
Which is precisely why the unfamiliar voice drifting in from the kitchen catches your attention almost immediately.
You do not expect to meet her godmother Emily Prentiss.
At first you only hear her voice from another room, low and measured, carrying the effortless authority of someone accustomed to being listened to. The sound itself draws your attention before the woman does, and when Claire calls out a greeting and leads you through the house toward the kitchen, your gaze lifts before you even realize it.
“There you are!” Claire exclaims before pointing between you both. “Y/N, this is Emily.”
Emily stands beside the kitchen island with a wine glass balanced loosely between her fingers, dressed simply in dark slacks and a charcoal sweater, her posture relaxed in a way that suggests hard-earned exhaustion rather than genuine leisure. Silver threads visibly through her dark hair, catching the afternoon light from the windows, and although you know enough about her through Claire’s stories to place her somewhere in her fifties, there is nothing about her presence that encourages thoughts of age. If anything, it is the opposite.
She carries herself with the confidence of someone who has survived enough to stop apologizing for existing exactly as she is.
“So you’re the famous college roommate.” Her voice is lower than you expect. Rich and steady, the kind of voice that sounds dangerous at two in the morning.
You swallow. “And you’re apparently the mythical godmother.”
A flicker of amusement crosses her expression. “Mythical?”
“Claire talks about you like you’re Bigfoot,” you explain with a small laugh.
Claire groans, color rising to her cheeks. Emily laughs, not the polite sort of laugh people offer out of obligation. A real one.
The sound settles somewhere deep beneath your ribs.
“Oh, that’s cruel.” Her gaze shifts from you to Claire before she shakes her head, clearly entertained.
“I mean,” you continue, finding your footing now that words are involved, “I’ve never seen photographic evidence.”
The look she gives you then lingers a fraction too long, and suddenly you’re aware of your pulse again, of the way your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag as though holding onto something tangible might stop your thoughts from wandering somewhere dangerous.
“I’m real, I promise,” she says quietly, and there’s the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth.
Claire laughs at her words and the kitchen moves on without hesitation. Conversations overlap, someone opens a cabinet, Roy starts telling another story. Everything continues exactly as it should. Except you can’t seem to.
You open your mouth, something half-formed already there, but it never quite makes it out. The silence you leave behind feels louder than it should, and you end up swallowing it instead, looking down as if the counter suddenly requires your full attention.
Emily’s eyes are still on you when you finally glance up again. Just for a second, she holds it. Not long enough to make a scene of it. Long enough that you notice she could have looked away already if she wanted to.
Then, softer, almost like she’s letting you off the hook, “In case you were still unsure.”
Her tone is light, almost teasing. And then she finally turns back to the counter as if she hasn’t just left something behind in the air between you.
You don’t answer fast enough. And by the time you could, she’s already looking away, leaving you behind in the moment she didn’t even seem to notice she won.
This is for @theonegeekgirl for their amazing idea (nothing goes unheard from me)
Chapter 1 — The One Who Stayed Cold
Miranda Priestly’s eldest daughter learned early that silence was safer than sound.
Words only invited disappointment, emotion only invited rejection.
So Y/N learned to be quiet, perfectly quiet, the kind of quiet that made people uncomfortable, because it wasn’t meek. It was calculated. Detached. A silence that could slice.
By the time she turned sixteen, she had stopped waiting for her mother’s approval and began to build her own. Top of her class. Model student. No scandals, no distractions. She learned to smile politely at compliments and move past them before they could settle.
Her mother, of course, barely noticed.
When college acceptance letters arrived, Miranda’s only comment had been, “Columbia. Expected.”
No congratulations. No I’m proud of you.
Just expectation, cold and clinical.
Y/N told herself it didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.
And yet… every time she walked past her mother’s office, every time she saw the twins laughing with her, that old ache twisted deeper.
The same one she’d buried years ago under ambition and sarcasm.
At Columbia, she thrived. On paper.
She spoke little, studied hard, and carried herself like she was perpetually two steps ahead of everyone else. Professors admired her. She was polite, brilliant, and utterly unreachable.
But every so often, she’d catch herself staring at mothers hugging daughters on campus move-in days or laughing over coffee on weekends, and her chest would tighten in quiet envy.
She never called home.
Not until she found out her mother had missed the twins’ winter recital.
The call came from Cassidy, her younger sister.
“She said she was stuck in Miami. Work thing. Didn’t even text.”
Y/N could hear the wobble in her sister’s voice, that same tremor she used to have, the one Miranda’s indifference carved into all of them.
Something inside Y/N snapped.
Before she could think twice, she was on the subway heading downtown, fury burning through her like electricity.
Miranda’s office was exactly as she remembered: glass, chrome, silence.
The new assistant ,a brunette with soft eyes and too much sincerity for this place — was trying to organize a stack of portfolios.
“Miss Priestly isn’t—” the assistant began.
But Y/N was already storming past her, heels sharp against the floor.
She slammed open the office door.
“Do you even realize what you’re doing to them?”
Miranda didn’t look up from her laptop. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“The twins,” Y/N spat. “They had their recital tonight. You promised them you’d come.”
“I was in Miami,” Miranda said, as if that explained everything.
“You chose to be in Miami,” Y/N shot back. “You always do. You chose it with me, and now you’re choosing it with them.”
Miranda’s eyes flicked up, sharp, tired, defensive. “I don’t have time for this melodrama. My assistant failed to secure the proper flights. It was beyond my control.”
“Then maybe,” Y/N hissed, “you shouldn’t plan trips that make you miss the few moments your children actually want you there.”
For the first time, Miranda went silent. Her hand froze on her pen.
The air between them pulsed with the kind of tension neither could stand.
Y/N exhaled sharply and turned to leave, and that’s when she saw her.
The assistant was standing by the door, trying to make herself invisible. Her face was flushed, her hands clutching a folder like a shield.
Andy Sachs.
Y/N’s gaze caught hers for half a second, and something shifted.
She wasn’t what Y/N expected. Not the usual polished, trembling fashion interns her mother chewed up and spat out. This one looked real. A little overwhelmed, maybe, but… kind.
Their eyes met.
Andy blinked, then managed a small, awkward smile, the kind of smile that looked genuine in a place that punished sincerity.
Y/N didn’t smile back. But she paused. Just for a heartbeat.
Miranda noticed.
“Close the door on your way out, Y/N,” she said, voice like ice.
Y/N did.
But she didn’t forget that look, the one Andy gave her. Curious. Concerned. Maybe even understanding.
For the first time in years, someone had looked at her not like Miranda’s daughter, not like a disappointment, not like a shadow.
Just… her.
And though Y/N would never admit it, not even to herself, that look stayed with her for a long, long time...
description: A storm traps you in her private space, blurring the lines between control and trust. What begins as tension-filled proximity unfolds into something intimate. Beneath her calm authority, you discover just how willingly you place yourself under her hands.
Professor!Emily Prentiss x fem!student reader
tags: smut, age gap romance, emotional intimacy, power dynamic, professor x student
words: 12.5 k
Outside, the rain turns violent.
It doesn’t fall anymore, it hits hard and relentless against the windshield, each drop blurring into the next until the world beyond the glass dissolves into blurry streaks. The wipers struggle to keep up, dragging back and forth in a steady, mechanical rhythm that does little more than carve brief, fleeting clarity into the storm before it’s swallowed again.
Inside the car, everything feels… contained. You swallow, fingers tightening briefly in your lap before you force them to relax, your voice coming out softer than you intend. “Thank you… for the ride, Professor Prentiss.”
There’s a pause. Not long, but long enough for your pulse to pick up again, for your awareness to sharpen.
Then, without looking at you, Emily's mouth curves slightly. “You’re welcome.”
But there’s something in it, something that lingers. Something that settles low in your stomach, heavy and just a little unsettling. For a few seconds, neither of you speaks. The only sound is the storm and the steady hum of the engine, the soft creak of leather when you shift ever so slightly in your seat.
Then the radio crackles. “…reports of multiple obstructions on Route…fallen trees… drivers are advised to–”
Emily exhales quietly through her nose, one hand adjusting the volume just enough to make the words clearer before lowering it again. “Looks like we’re not the only ones having a difficult evening,” she murmurs.
Another flash of lightning illuminates the road ahead, followed almost immediately by the low, rolling growl of thunder that seems to vibrate through the frame of the car itself. You glance out the window, watching the storm lash against the glass, and for the first time since you left the building, the reality of it settles in.
“Okay,” you admit quietly. “Maybe it’s not just a little bit of rain.”
That earns you a soft, amused sound. “Mhm, I told you”, she hums, finally glancing at you, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
Heat creeps up your neck. “I didn’t think it would get this bad.”
“Most people don’t,” she says lightly, turning the wheel with smooth precision as she slows near an intersection, headlights catching on something ahead. “Storms like this have a habit of escalating.”
You follow her gaze. A cluster of hazard lights flickers in the distance, cars backed up along the road. As you get closer, you can make out the shape of it, a large tree has fallen across the lane, branches stretching wide enough to block most of the path.
“Oh,” you breathe.
“Yeah,” she mutters, already signaling as she begins to turn. “We’re not going that way.”
The car shifts smoothly onto a side street, tires hissing softly against the wet asphalt. The route is unfamiliar, narrower, the streetlights fewer and farther between, casting long shadows that stretch and disappear in the storm.
“This is going to take longer, isn’t it?” you ask.
“A little,” she admits.
The word settles into the quiet between you, stretching out along with the road ahead as she guides the car deeper into unfamiliar streets, the storm pressing in from all sides. Water snakes along the edges of the asphalt, reflecting the dim streetlights in broken, wavering lines. The steady rhythm of the wipers becomes almost hypnotic.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Never quite keeping up but never stopping either.
You shift slightly in your seat, rolling one shoulder back as a faint ache makes itself known, the kind that comes from sitting too long, from a day that started too early and never really slowed down. You hadn’t noticed it before, not during the lecture, not while walking through campus but now in the quiet warmth of the car, it begins to settle in.
Your body feels… heavy. Not unpleasantly so, just tired.
You sink a little further into the seat without meaning to, your grip on your own posture loosening as the tension you’ve been carrying all day slowly unwinds. The warmth inside the car doesn’t help, it wraps around you - a stark contrast to the storm outside. Your hands rest more loosely in your lap now, fingers no longer curled tight, your shoulders dropping just a fraction.
You glance out the window, watching the rain streak across the glass, your focus drifting slightly as the world outside blurs into shifting shapes and lights. Your eyelids feel a little heavier than they did before, your thoughts not quite as sharp, slipping more easily between one thing and the next.
You blink slowly, then straighten just a touch, as if catching yourself. “Sorry,” you murmur under your breath, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re apologizing for.
Emily glances at you briefly, one brow lifting. “For what?”
You shake your head, exhaling softly. “Nothing. Just… long day.”
“Mhm,” she hums, like she understands that without needing anything more.
The car turns again, tires gliding over the slick road as she adjusts the route without hesitation, her movements still precise, still controlled. Outside, another flash of lightning cuts through the sky, followed by the low rumble of thunder that seems to echo a little longer this time.
You shift again, settling back despite yourself, your head resting a little more fully against the seat now.
Your body feels the weight of the day. The lectures, the storm and the constnt awareness you’ve been carrying since you stepped into this car, it all starts to blur together at the edges, fading just slightly as the steady rhythm around you takes over.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
The wipers. The quiet hum of the engine. The rain. Emily.
You blink again, slower this time.
Emily drives in silence for a while, her focus steady on the road as she navigates another turn, adjusting smoothly to the unfamiliar route. There’s something grounding in the way she drives, controlled like nothing could truly throw her off balance, not even this.
You find yourself watching her for a moment. The way her hands move, one guiding the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, fingers tapping lightly in that same quiet rhythm. The soft shadows shifting across her face as streetlights pass overhead. The faint crease between her brows when the rain comes down harder, her attention narrowing just slightly.
Safe. The thought slips in unexpectedly.
You feel safe.
It’s a strange contrast to everything else you’ve been feeling: nervous, aware, tired and unsettled in a way you can’t quite define. And yet, beneath all of that, there’s this quiet certainty that settles deeper than the rest.
You let out a slow breath, your head tipping back slightly against the seat. Outside, the storm continues. Inside, the warmth wraps around you, soft and steady, the rhythmic sweep of the wipers becoming almost hypnotic.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Your eyelids grow heavier before you even realize it. You blink once. Twice. Try to refocus on the road ahead, on the shifting lights and shadows beyond the glass. But it’s harder now. The sounds blur together. Your thoughts drift, untethered, slipping between fragments of the lecture, the storm, the memory of her voice, the warmth of the car.
You don’t notice when your breathing evens out. Don’t notice the exact moment your body gives in. It’s gradual, subtle even. Your head tilts, just slightly at first, your posture loosening as the tension you’ve been holding onto all evening quietly dissolves. Your fingers slacken in your lap, your shoulders sinking further into the seat.
And then it happens without you noticing it at all. One moment you’re watching the rain smear itself across the glass, your thoughts drifting somewhere soft and unfocused, and the next… there’s nothing holding you up anymore. The quiet, the warmth, the steady rhythm of the drive, it all folds in around you, gentle and insistent, until your body simply gives in.
Your head tilts, slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, before it settles against the side of the seat.
Still. Your breathing evens out. The tension that had been sitting in your shoulders, in the careful way you held yourself around her – it slips away completely, leaving something softer behind.
Emily notices immediately. At first, it’s just a quick instinctive glance, the kind that comes with habit. But then it lingers. Her eyes move over you more slowly this time, taking in the shift in your posture, the way your body has relaxed into the seat, the faint parting of your lips as your breathing deepens.
You look… different. Smaller, somehow. The sharpness that had been there before – the awareness, the nervous energy – it’s gone. What’s left is something quieter. Softer. Vulnerable.
Her grip on the wheel loosens just slightly. For a moment, she says nothing, does nothing… just watches, the storm outside momentarily fading into the background of her attention.
Then the light ahead turns red. The car slows, rolling to a smooth stop, the engine humming steadily beneath the sound of rain hammering against the roof.
And now she has time. Her gaze shifts fully to you, unhurried and unobstructed.
She takes you in properly. The way your head has fallen to the side, resting against the seat. The line of your neck, relaxed now. The faint rise and fall of your chest. The way your hands rest loosely in your lap, fingers no longer curled in that tight, nervous hold she’d noticed earlier.
There’s something about it. Something that makes her expresssion soften slightly. Without thinking too much about it, she reaches back with one hand, her movements quiet, careful as she leans just enough to grab her jacket from the back seat. The fabric shifts softly under her fingers before she pulls it forward again, her attention flicking briefly to the road, then back to you.
She hesitates for half a second. It’s barely anything, just a pause in movement, but it’s there. Then she drapes the jacket over your lap. The motion is simple. Practical. Something anyone would do, something she should do. A small act of care, nothing more.
And yet…her fingers brush against your bare thigh in the process. The contact sends something sharp and immediate through her, a quiet jolt that has nothing to do with surprise and everything to do with awareness. She stills before she can stop herself, her hand lingering there for just a fraction too long, long enough to feel it. Your warm skin.
Her breath shifts, almost imperceptibly. Her gaze drops without permission, drawn to the point of contact, to the way the fabric of your skirt rests just above where her fingers had been, to the smooth line of your leg beneath it. There’s nothing provocative about it, not intentionally, but in this moment, in this quiet, it feels like too much.
Too close. Too easy.
Something tightens in her chest, because you don’t react. You can’t. You’re asleep. Your head tipped to the side, your body relaxed in a way she hasn’t seen before, unguarded and completely at ease in a space that is, whether you realize it or not, entirely under her control.
And that does something to her.
Because she’s seen the other side of you. The way you hold yourself in her presence; just a little too aware, a little too careful. The nervous energy, the way your words sometimes come out a second too fast, like you’re trying to keep up, to match her, to not fall behind. The way you watch her, like you’re trying to read something you don’t fully understand yet.
And still, you fell asleep here. In her car, next to her.
That realization settles differently, heavier. Because beneath all that nervousness, all that awareness… there’s trust. You feel safe enough to let go.
And for a moment, that pulls at her in a way she didn’t expect, something softer threading through the tension, something that sits alongside it instead of replacing it.
It makes the space between you feel even more fragile.
More dangerous.
Because now it’s not just about what she wants.
It’s about what you’re giving her without even realizing it.
Emily’s eyes drop back to where her hand still rests against your thigh. A thought slips in, quiet and uninvited. You feel so soft.
Her fingers twitch slightly against your skin, like they want to move, to trace, to test the shape of something she has no business touching. The urge is sudden and unwelcome, not crude, not careless, but something deeper. A pull. A curiosity sharpened by proximity and restraint.
She imagines, just for a second what it would feel like to let her hand stay there, to let it slide, just slightly higher.
To feel…
Her jaw tightens. The thought cuts off as quickly as it came, her hand withdraws. Control. Always control. She leans back into her seat, her posture resetting, her fingers curling briefly against her palm before settling back onto the steering wheel. The red light ahead shifts to green, the world outside demanding her attention again, giving her something else to focus on.
Something safer.
She exhales slowly, steadying herself in a way no one else would notice. Because on the outside nothing has changed. Her expression is composed. Her movements precise. Her focus exactly where it should be.
But inside… something lingers. A quiet tension beneath the surface, a line she is very aware of. And how easily, just now, she almost stepped over it.
The car moves forward again, headlights cutting through the storm, the rain relentless against the glass.
Outside, the world is chaos.
Inside…
You sleep. And she drives.
You don’t wake up all at once. It happens slowly, like being pulled up through water, awareness returning in fragments before it fully settles into something coherent. First, there’s warmth. Not the steady, contained warmth of the car, but something softer, more still. Then quiet… too quiet. No rhythmic sweep of wipers, no muted roar of rain against glass.
Your brow furrows faintly as consciousness catches up. Something feels… off.
You shift slightly, the movement small and sluggish, your body still heavy with sleep. The seat beneath you is different; angled back just a little more than before and something soft rests over your lap.
A jacket.
Something shifts near you. A presence. And then you feel it, a gentle and careful touch. Fingers brushing lightly against your temple, sweeping a loose strand of hair away from your face with a softness that feels almost deliberate in how restrained it is.
“Wake up, sweetheart.” Her voice is close, closer than before.
Your eyes open, heavy with sleep, vision blurred at first as you try to make sense of where you are. Shapes come into focus slowly; the dim overhead light, the shadowed interior of the car, the faint outline of concrete walls beyond…
A garage.
The passenger door is open. And she’s standing there. Emily leans slightly toward you, one hand resting against the frame of the car, the other just pulling back from your face like she hadn’t meant to linger there quite as long as she did. Her expression is calm, composed, but her attention is entirely on you.
Watching. Waiting.
You blink at her, disoriented, your thoughts still catching up. “I…” Your voice comes out rough, softer than intended. You clear your throat, trying again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”
“Fall asleep?” she finishes lightly.
You nod, a little too quickly, pushing yourself more upright, the movement still slow with lingering drowsiness. “Yeah. I just…today was–”
“Long,” she supplies, a faint curve at the corner of her mouth.
You exhale, relieved at the ease in her tone, at how normal she makes it sound. “Yeah.”
Your gaze drifts past her then, drawn by instinct, taking in the space beyond the open door more fully this time, the concrete floor and walls, the dim lighting, the unmistakable structure of a private garage.
Your stomach dips.
“This isn’t…” you start, your voice quieter now as you look back at her. “Where are we?”
There’s the smallest pause, so brief it almost doesn’t exist.
But then: “My place,” she says. It’s delivered simply, almost casually, like it doesn’t carry the weight it immediately drops into your chest. Her tone is measured, controlled like she’s stating a fact, not something that changes the entire situation in an instant.
But it does.
Your breath catches before you can stop it, the reaction small but undeniable. “Oh.”
It’s not enough, that word. It doesn’t cover the sudden awareness settling over you, the way your thoughts seem to sharpen all at once, cutting through the last remnants of sleep. You shift slightly in your seat, the jacket slipping just a little across your lap as your body readjusts, no longer soft and half-asleep but alert now, present and uncertain in a way you can’t quite name.
“I thought–” you start, then hesitate, your brow pulling together as you try to make sense of it. “I thought we were…”
“Heading to your apartment,” she finishes for you again, her voice still calm, still even, like she’s already anticipated the question.
You nod slowly.
She straightens a fraction, just enough to shift her weight, one hand slipping into the pocket of her slacks in a movement that feels practiced, like she’s entirely at ease in this space, in this moment… in a way you’re not.
“The roads closer to your place are flooded,” she explains, her tone steady, logical. “A couple of them are completely blocked. I tried two different routes.”
Your mind catches onto that immediately, clinging to the reasoning, the structure of it. It makes sense. It’s practical. It gives you something to hold onto.
“That bad?” you ask, your voice quieter now.
“Mhm.” The confirmation is soft, but certain. “I could have woken you,” she adds, like it’s an afterthought, like it didn’t matter enough to interrupt what had already been decided. “But you looked like you needed the rest.”
Her gaze lingers on you then. Just for a second longer than necessary. It’s not inappropriate. Not overt. There’s nothing you could point to and say that’s wrong and yet, you feel it anyway. The attention, the way it doesn’t quite feel neutral.
Something tightens faintly in your chest. You glance down, your fingers brushing over the fabric of the jacket still draped across your lap, grounding yourself in something physical, something real. “You didn’t have to bring me all the way here,” you say, your voice soft, almost careful.
“I know.” The answer comes easily, too easily. There’s no hesitation in it. No defensiveness. Just quiet certainty. And somehow, that makes it feel heavier.
Your eyes lift back to hers, searching, though you’re not entirely sure for what. Because everything she’s saying makes sense.
The storm. The flooded roads. You falling asleep. Her not wanting to wake you. It all fits together in a way that’s completely reasonable.
And yet… you’re here. In her garage. In her space. And she’s standing there, watching you wake up like this was always where the night was going to end.
The thought slips in before you can stop it, and once it’s there, it lingers, impossible to fully ignore.
You swallow, your throat suddenly a little dry. “Are the roads still bad?” you ask, softer now, like you’re testing something you can’t quite articulate.
She tilts her head slightly, considering the question in a way that feels just a touch too measured. “They haven’t cleared yet,” she says. “And it’s still not safe to drive through some of those streets.”
Again… reasonable.
Another pause follows, subtle but present, stretching just enough for you to feel it. You nod slowly, because there’s nothing to argue with. Nothing to push back against.
Everything she’s saying makes sense. It does.
And yet, there’s something in the way she says it, in the calm control of her voice, in the way she stands there like she’s entirely comfortable with the outcome, that leaves a quiet question forming at the edges of your thoughts.
Did she really had no choice… or did she choose this?
You don’t voice it. She doesn’t acknowledge it.
Instead, she steps back just slightly, creating space where there wasn’t any before, one hand lifting in a small, effortless gesture toward the open car door.
“Come on,” she says, her tone softer now, but no less certain. “You shouldn’t stay out here.”
Out here. The words land oddly, considering where here actually is, but you don’t comment on that either.
You hesitate, just for a fraction of a second, just long enough for the weight of the moment to settle properly.
Then you move. Because everything she’s said is reasonable.
And everything you feel… isn’t entirely convinced.
But you follow her anyway.
The transition from the garage into her house is almost seamless, and yet it feels like crossing an invisible line you can’t quite step back over once you’ve passed it.
Emily moves ahead of you, one hand pushing open the internal door with quiet familiarity, the other gesturing lightly for you to follow. You hesitate for the briefest second on the threshold. Then you step inside.
Warmth meets you immediately. A soft contrast to the damp chill that clings faintly to your skin from the storm, wrapping around you in a way that feels almost intentional. The lighting is low but steady, casting a golden glow across clean lines and carefully chosen details. It’s not extravagant in the way you might expect. There’s no loud display of wealth, no unnecessary excess.
But it’s there. In the quality of the furniture. In the way the space feels lived in, but never cluttered. Controlled. Like her.
You take a few steps further in, your eyes moving almost involuntarily, trying to take it all in without making it obvious that you are. The living room opens up ahead, spacious but not cold, a large couch facing a fireplace that sits dark for now, waiting.
Emily doesn’t pause. She shrugs off her shoes as she walks, her movements efficient, practiced. Then she turns slightly toward you, gesturing toward the couch.
“Sit,” she says, her tone gentle, but not uncertain.
You obey before you’ve fully decided to. It’s instinctive.
You lower yourself onto the couch, careful, aware of yourself again in a way you hadn’t been while asleep. Your hands settle in your lap, fingers threading together briefly before you force them to relax.
You feel out of place.
Emily crosses the room toward the fireplace, already reaching for what she needs without hesitation. There’s no fumbling, no second-guessing. It shows in the ease of her movements, in the quiet confidence of someone entirely in control of her environment.
You watch her without meaning to. The way she crouches slightly, adjusting something at the base of the fireplace. The soft shift of fabric as she moves. The way a few strands of her silver hair fall forward before she brushes them back absently.
Then the fireplace comes to life with a spark. A soft crackle follows. The fire catches slowly at first, then steadies, light blooming into the room, shadows shifting along the walls in a way that feels warmer, softer... more intimate.
She glances back at you over her shoulder, just briefly. “Have you eaten?” she asks.
The question catches you off guard, not because it’s strange, but because it feels… too casual.
You blink, pulling yourself back into the moment. “Uh… earlier. Not really dinner, though.”
She hums softly, straightening as the fire settles into a steady burn. “Figures.” There’s no judgment in it, just observation.
She moves toward the kitchen area, not far from where you’re sitting, her presence still filling the space even as she puts a bit of distance between you.
“I’m not sure if delivery is an option tonight,” she continues, glancing toward the window where rain still taps against the glass. “Storm like this tends to shut things down.”
You nod, even though she’s not looking at you directly in that moment.
“I can cook something,” she adds, casual again, like it’s no trouble at all. “Pasta, if that works for you.”
Your throat feels a little tight. “Uh… yeah,” you say, a little too quietly. “That’s… yeah, that’s fine.”
She glances back at you then for a second and there’s something faintly amused in her expression. “Okay,” she says simply.
Silence settles again, but it’s not empty. It’s full of small things: The crackle of the fire. The soft clink of something in the kitchen as she moves.
You sit there, hands still in your lap, trying to figure out what to do with yourself.
Because this isn’t a lecture hall, there are no rows of seats, no other students, no distance to hide behind.
This is her space…private. And she moves through it like she owns every inch of it, because she does. And somehow, that extends to the moment itself, to the way the conversation unfolds.
And it extends to you.
You shift slightly on the couch, your gaze drifting toward the fire, then back to her without meaning to. She’s closer again now, moving between spaces with that same quiet control, like nothing about this is unusual.
Like having you here was always a possibility.
The thought sends a small, sharp feeling through your chest. You try to ignore it, but it lingers. Because the truth is, you’re nervous. More than you were in the car. More than you were in the lecture hall.
And it shows in the way you sit a little too still. In the way your eyes keep flickering toward her and then away again, like you’re afraid of being caught looking too long.
She notices… of course she does.
Emily Prentiss notices everything.
But she doesn’t call it out. Instead, she lets the moment stretch just enough, lets you settle into it in your own way, while still, somehow, holding the reins.
Exactly where she wants them.
Exactly where you let her keep them.
Time slips forward without you really noticing when it happens.
At some point, you’re no longer sitting stiffly on the edge of the couch, unsure of where to look or how to hold yourself. At some point, a plate of pasta appears in your hands, warm and simple and grounding in a way you didn’t expect. Conversation comes in small, manageable pieces, nothing too personal, nothing that crosses any obvious lines. Just enough to fill the space. Just enough to make it easier to breathe.
And slowly, the room changes.
The fire burns steadily now, casting a soft, flickering glow that settles into the corners of the living room, chasing away the last of the cold that clung to you from outside. The rain has softened too, no longer violent, no longer pressing insistently against the windows… just a steady, quiet fall that blends into the background.
It’s… comfortable. Dangerously so.
By the time your plate is empty, you’ve sunk further into the couch than you meant to, your posture no longer rigid, your shoulders less tense. Emily sits at the other end, one arm resting along the back, her body angled just slightly toward you.
Your gaze drifts toward the window, following the faint trails of rain against the glass, and something clicks into place a second later.
Your bag. You straighten slightly, your brows pulling together. “I…” You glance toward the direction of the garage, realization settling in. “I think I left my bag in your car.”
Along with your phone.
You shift, sitting up a little more now, your mind already moving ahead of you. “I should probably –”
You glance back toward the window. The storm is gone or mostly. The rain is lighter now, the kind that looks manageable, almost harmless compared to what it was before. The streets aren’t visible from here, but you can imagine them, wet, maybe still messy, but not impossible.
You could go. The thought settles quickly, practical, logical.You could grab your bag., call a cab and get home.
You should call a cab.
You inhale slightly, preparing to say it…
“It’s late.” Emily’s voice cuts in gently, but with a certainty that makes you pause before the words even leave your mouth.
You look at her.
Emily hasn’t moved much, but her attention is fully on you now, her gaze steady, reading you in that quiet way she has, like she already knows where your thoughts were going before you even put them into words.
“The streets are probably still flooded in some areas,” she continues, her tone calm, measured. “And I doubt they’ve cleared all the fallen trees yet.”
You hesitate, because that makes sense… of course it does. You glance back toward the window, as if you could somehow confirm it from here, as if the softer rain might contradict her. But it doesn’t. It just keeps falling, steady and quiet, giving you nothing to argue with.
“I could still–” you start, weaker this time.
“Call a cab?” she finishes.
Your lips press together. She watches you for a moment, not pushing, not interrupting, just letting the thought settle.
“Response times will be slow,” she adds, softer now. “If they’re even running properly in this weather.”
Another pause. And again, you have nothing to counter it with, because it’s reasonable. Everything she’s saying is reasonable.
“Yeah…,” you murmur. It makes sense.
Silence settles again, but it feels different now. Not just quiet, something more aware, something that lingers in the space between you.
You turn your head back toward her. And she’s already looking at you. There’s no hesitation in it. No awkwardness. Her gaze meets yours easily, steadily, like she never looked away.
You sit on one end of the couch. She sits on the other. There’s distance between you, but it doesn’t feel as wide as it did before.
You shift slightly, suddenly aware of your posture again, of the way you’re sitting, of your hands resting in your lap like you’re not quite sure what to do with them. Without thinking too much about it, you smooth them over your skirt, a small, grounding motion, more for yourself than anything else.
But it draws Emily’s attention, you feel it before you even look up. The way her gaze dips, follows the movement.
And when your eyes lift again she’s already looking back at your face.
Composed and unreadable like nothing happened. Like she didn’t just track the movement of your hands over your own body with that same quiet focus she gives everything.
The shift is subtle, but you feel it. It crawls over your skin before you can name it, a quiet, electric awareness that starts somewhere deep in your chest and spreads outward, settling in your shoulders, your arms, the back of your neck. Your fingers still where they rest against your skirt, unmoving now, not because you chose to stop, but because something in you did.
Because of her.
Emily’s gaze is still on you, heavier now. Not just observant, not just quietly attentive like before, but focused in a way that feels different. Sharper. There’s a weight to it that presses in, that makes your breath catch just slightly without you meaning it to.
When you finally look up It hits you all at once.
Her eyes are darker. Not literally, but something in them has shifted, deepened, like the careful distance she’s been maintaining has thinned just enough to let something else through. Something more intent.
It makes your pulse spike. There’s a stillness to her, but not the relaxed kind from before. This one feels coiled. Controlled. Like she’s holding something back with effort so practiced it almost looks effortless.
Like a predator that hasn’t moved yet.
Your chest tightens. for a second you don’t feel like you’re sitting across from your professr. You feel seen… and not in the safe, academic way you’ve grown used to.
In a way that makes your skin prickle. In a way that makes it very clear you’ve stepped into something you don’t fully understand.
Your breath stutters. And suddenly you need to move.
“I– I should probably go,” you say, too quickly, the words tripping over each other before you can steady them. You push yourself up from the couch, the motion abrupt, almost clumsy compared to the stillness that had settled before. “I have classes tomorrow, and I should, uh… prepare, and my phone is in the car, so I can just–” You don’t even finish the sentence.
You turn, already half-stepping away, your thoughts scrambling for something solid, something normal to cling to, anything to break whatever just passed between you.
But you don’t get far, because she moves. Fast. Not rushed, but immediate in a way that makes your breath hitch as she’s suddenly there, coming around the couch with a kind of quiet certainty that leaves no space for hesitation.
Before you can process it, Emily is in front of you. Close…. too close.
Her hands come up firm enough to stop you, settling against your upper arms, just above your elbows. The contact is grounding and not at the same time, her grip steady, controlled, like she knows exactly how much pressure to use and no more.
You freeze. Your breath catches, your body going still under her hands, your thoughts scattering completely as your focus narrows down to one thing…
Emily.
Her thumbs move slowly. Tracing small, absent circles into the fabric of your shirt, just enough to be felt, just enough to keep you there without needing to say anything yet.
You have to look up, there’s no way not to. And when you do, you realize just how close you actually are. Close enough to see the subtle shift in her expression, the control still there but thinner now, stretched just enough to reveal what sits beneath it. Close enough to notice the way her gaze drops for a fraction of a second… to your lips, maybe… or maybe you imagine that.
Your pulse is loud in your ears. You don’t move, you don’t know if you can.
Because even now, she’s not forcing you. She’s just… holding you there. And you’re letting her.
Her thumbs slow slightly, then still. Her grip doesn’t tighten, but it doesn’t loosen either.
And then, quietly:
“Stay.”
It’s not a command, but it lands like one anyway. Soft and low. And oh, so certain. something in your chest tightens in response, your breath catching again as the weight of it settles between you.
Because Emily is still holding the reins. Still composed. Still in control.
But there’s something unmistakable in the way she’s looking at you now, like if she let go of that control, even for a second…
She wouldn’t stop.
Your breath catches around the word ‘Stay’. It settles somewhere deep, heavier than it should be, threading through the nerves already buzzing under your skin. For a second, neither of you moves. Her hands are still on your arms, warm through the fabric, steady in a way that feels grounding. You could step back, you realize that. You could. But you don’t.
“I… should go,” you try again, softer this time, the words lacking the urgency they had a moment ago. They sound almost uncertain now, like you’re testing them rather than meaning them.
Emily’s thumbs resume their slow movement, brushing small, absent circles that aren’t absent at all.
“You could,” she agrees quietly. The words don’t match the touch. Don’t match the way she’s standing in front of you, close enough that you’re aware of her height and the faint scent of her that you hadn’t noticed before but suddenly can’t ignore.
Your pulse stutters.
“But you’re not,” Emily adds. It’s not a question.
Your lips part slightly, like you’re about to argue, about to insist, but nothing comes out. Because she’s right, and the realization of that lands all at once, leaving you standing there, caught between instinct and something else entirely.
“I don’t…” you start, your voice quieter now, less certain. “This is… I mean, you’re my professor.”
There it is. The line. For a moment, something flickers in her expression recognition. She’s been waiting for you to say it.
“I am,” Emily says. No denial. No attempt to soften it. And yet, she doesn’t step back, doesn’t let go. If anything, her grip shifts just slightly, her hands sliding just enough to anchor more firmly, her thumbs stilling as her focus sharpens completely on you. “And you’re still here,” she continues, her voice lower now, quieter in a way that feels more intimate than before.
The silence stretches, thick with everything neither of you is saying, and then something changes. It’s subtle at first. A shift in the air. In her posture. Like the careful restraint she’s been holding onto slips not completely, but enough. Enough that you feel it.
Her hands guide you gently. There’s no force in it, no sudden movement that would make you stumble or lose your balance. Just a steady pressure, a quiet insistence as she steps forward and you step back, because you let her.
Because it feels natural to let her.
One step. Then another.
Your heartbeat is loud now, your awareness narrowing down to the space between you, to the way she moves, to the fact that she’s watching you the entire time, checking, always checking, making sure you’re still with her, still choosing this.
You don’t resist. You don’t stop her. Your back meets the wall softly, the contact grounding and startling all at once, a quiet reminder of where you are, of how close she’s brought you without you even realizing it.
Emily stops there, closer than before, but still careful… always careful. Her hands shift slightly again, sliding just enough to keep you there without pinning you, her touch firm but never overwhelming, like she’s holding a line even now, like she’s making sure you have the space to pull away if you want to. You don’t.
Your breathing is uneven, your chest rising and falling just a little too quickly, your hands hovering uncertainly at your sides like you don’t know where they’re supposed to go anymore.
Emily’s gaze drops briefly, jjust enough to take you in at this distance, to trace the shape of the moment before returning to your face. There’s something different in her expression now. Less restrained. Stil controlled, but only just.
“You’re nervous,” Emily murmurs. It’s not a question.
You swallow. “I… yeah.” Honesty comes easier than it should.
Her thumb brushes once more against your arm, slower this time, more deliberate. “Good,” she says softly.
The word sends a shiver down your spine before you can stop it, because it doesn’t feel like reassurance. It feels like acknowledgment, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. And exactly how much you’re letting her.
Emily leans in slightly, not enough to close the distance completely, not enough to take that last step without you… but enough that you feel it, the shift in space, the way the air between you tightens.
Her voice, when she speaks again, is quieter. Lower. “Tell me to stop... and I will.” The words hang there, heavy with meaning.
An out, a line she’s giving you the chance to draw.
Your heart pounds. You know you should…but you don’t.
And the moment Emily realizes that something in her finally gives in. Her hand lifts, fingers sliding up along your jaw, firm but careful as she tilts your head just slightly, enough to angle you where she wants you. There’s no hesitation in it anymore, no question. Just quiet certainty.
And then Emily kisses you.
It’s not rushed. It’s controlled, like everything else about her, but there’s heat behind it now, something that had been building, pressing against the edges of her restraint, finally finding an outlet. Her lips are warm, claiming space without overwhelming you, testing the shape of the moment like she’s committing it to memory.
Your breath catches against the older woman, your hands instinctively finding something to hold onto, her shoulders, her arms, anything solid… because she’s everywhere now. Close, grounding, in control in a way that makes it easier to let go of your own.
Emily’s other hand slides to your waist, steady and sure, fingers curling just enough to pull you closer, until there’s no space left between you, until you can feel the line of her body against yours, solid and real and there.
You don’t pull back, you don’t even think about it. You lean into it and she notices. The kiss deepens with a slow, measured escalation that feels almost worse than anything rushed could have been. Her hand at your waist shifts slightly, fingers pressing just a little firmer, anchoring you there against the wall, holding you in place like she knows you’re not going anywhere, like she knows you’re choosing to stay.
Your breath is unsteady when Emily finally pulls back. Not far, just enough to create space where there hadn’t been any, just enough for you to feel the loss of her lips against yours. It’s controlled the way she does it, she’s forcing herself to stop there instead of going further.
Her hand is still at your waist holding you in place, but there’s restraint in it now which is more obvious than before, like she’s tightened her grip not on you, but on herself. Her gaze lingers on your face, searching something you can’t quite name.
Emily exhales slowly, her thumb brushing once against your side, more grounding than exploratory now.
“I should…” she starts, then stops herself, her teeth catching her bottom lip as she recalibrates. “I’m trying to hold back.” Her voice is lower than before, roughened just enough to betray the effort behind it. “Not because I don’t want to…,” she adds quietly. “But because I don’t want to scare you off.”
The words settle between you, heavier than anything she’s said so far.
For a moment, you just look at her. At the control she’s holding onto so tightly. At the way she’s giving you space, even now, even like this. At the fact that she stopped, chose to stop when she didn’t have to.
You swallow, your voice softer when you speak. “I’m not scared of you.”
Her expression flickers subtly.
You hold her gaze. “I’m not,” you repeat, a little more certain this time. “I… I know I should probably be, but I’m not.” A small breath leaves you, your hands finally finding somewhere to rest, lightly against her arms, not pushing, not pulling…just there.
“I feel safe,” you admit, quieter now, but no less honest. “With you.” The words come easier than they should, truer than you expected. “Because I know you are,” you add after a beat, your voice almost thoughtful now. “Safe.”
Her eyes don’t leave yours, not for a second.
You hesitate, then continue, softer still, like you’re piecing it together as you say it. “That’s why I got into your car the first time,” you murmur. “Why I didn’t even really think about it.” A small, almost self-conscious exhale. “And why I fell asleep in it.”
That lands. You can see it in the way Emily’s expression shifts, in the way something deeper settles behind her eyes.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Suddenly something in her restraint bends. Her hand at your waist tightens just slightly. Her other hand lifts again, fingers finding your jaw, your neck, guiding you just a fraction closer. This time, when she kisses you, there’s more heat in it, more intent. Still controlled, still careful, but the restraint is thinner now, stretched to its limit, and you can feel it in the way her lips move against yours, in the way she closes that space between you completely.
Your breath catches, but you don’t hesitate this time. You kiss her back. Fully.
Your hands tighten slightly where they rest against her, grounding yourself in her the same way she’s grounding you.
And Emily feels it. Her grip at your waist steadies, firmer now, more certain as she leans into you just enough to meet you there, to match the way you kiss her without completely overtaking it. There’s a balance to it; one she’s controlling, one she’s adjusting in real time; but you can feel the heat building underneath it.
Her hand shifts slow at first. She’s giving you time to register it, to react if you want to, if you need to. You don’t. Your breath stutters instead.
Her fingers slide from your waist, tracing along your side, down over the curve of your hip, until they reach the hem of your skirt. There’s a pause there just for a second, just enough that it feels intentional.
A question without words. You don’t stop her and that’s all she needs.
Her hand slips beneath, warm against your skin as it moves to your thigh, her touch firm but careful, like she’s feeling rather than taking. Your body reacts instantly, a sharp inhale against her lips as your fingers tighten where they hold onto her.
Emily exhales softly against you, she expected that… she likes that. Her grip adjusts, stronger now as her hand hooks just beneath your thigh and lifts, steadying you as she brings your leg up against her side. The shift pulls you closer, changes the angle, eliminates what little space was left between you.
You feel it immediately, the press of Emily’s body against yours, solid and grounding and intentional. Her other hand keeps you anchored, holding you there against the wall.
Reminding you zhat she has you and that you’re letting her.
The kiss deepens. There’s heat in it, unmistakable, threaded through with restraint that feels thinner by the second. Your breath breaks against hers, uneven, your hands shifting instinctively, one sliding up, fingers brushing into her hair without thinking, the other gripping more firmly at her arm, like you need something to steady yourself against the way the moment is tilting.
Emily responds immediately. A quiet and low sound, almost involuntary, against your lips as her hold on you tightens just slightly, to keep you right where she wants you.
Her forehead brushes yours for half a second when she pulls back just enough to breathe, her eyes searching yours again, but there’s less distance in them now, less restraint and more want.
“Still not scared?” she murmurs, voice low, rougher than before.
You shake your head, breathless, your voice barely more than a whisper. “No.”
And this time, when Emily kisses you again, she doesn’t hold back quite as much.
The kiss turns deeper, heavier. It’s in the way she leans into you, in the way her hand on your thigh tightens with more certainty, like she’s finally letting herself have this moment.
Your response is immediate, instinctive. You cling a little closer, your body giving in to the pull of her, to the way she holds you, guides you, keeps you exactly where she wants you and where, by now, you want to be just as much.
Emily adjusts her hold under your thigh, and then without breaking the kiss for more than a breath, she urges your other leg up. It’s smooth, controlled. She gives you just enough time to react, to follow the motion and you do. Your other leg lifts, your body responding without hesitation as she settles you against her fully, your legs now around her waist.
The shift pulls you flush against her, there’s no space left now. And suddenly, the wall behind you feels less like support and more like a point of contact, because she’s the one holding you up.
The realization hits you somewhere between breaths, between kisses… she’s holding you completely. As if it costs her nothing, like she’s done this a thousand times, like she knows exactly how to carry you without faltering for even a second.
Your hands move instinctively, gripping onto her shoulders now, anchoring yourself as the world narrows down to her: the way she keeps you right where she wants you without ever making it feel like you don’t have a choice.
Emily adjusts her grip slightly, one arm steady beneath you, the other firm at your side, and then she moves. But not far, just a few steps.
Enough to shift the angle of the room, to bring the warmth of the fire fully into reach again, the glow brighter here, softer, wrapping around both of you in flickering gold. The carpet beneath is thick, plush, you barely register it before she lowers you down onto it, making sure you land gently.
You sink into it slightly, breath catching as the world tilts and then steadies again, your back meeting the softness of the floor, the firelight dancing above you.
Emily doesn’t pull away, she leans over you instead, one hand still braced near your side, the other briefly leaving you, just long enough to reach back toward the couch. You hear the soft rustle of fabric before she returns, sliding a pillow beneath your head with surprising care, adjusting it until you’re properly supported.
The gesture is… gentle, almost disarming. And then a throw blanket follows, dragged closer, not quite placed over you yet, just there, within reach. Prepared.
Like she’s already thinking ahead, like she always is.
Then her attention is fully back on you. She hovers above you, close but not pressing, her weight supported just enough that you don’t feel trapped, just held in place by the space she occupies, by the way she frames you beneath her.
The fire flickers behind her, catching in her hair, turning the strands of grey into something softer, something warmer than you’ve ever seen before. The light traces the line of her face, the sharpness of her nose, the curve of her heart-shaped lips.
You shouldn’t be noticing things like that. But you are, because you can’t look away and neither can Emily. Her gaze moves over your face slowly, taking you in like she’s memorizing something, as if she’s allowing herself to really see you without the distance of a classroom, without the structure that used to define everything between you.
Your breath is uneven, your hands unsure for a moment before they settle, one against the carpet, the other hovering near her arm, not pushing, not pulling. Just… there, waiting.
You feel it… that shift again. How it settles around you like a warm blanket. But this time it’s not sharp or overwhelming, it’s grounding. Because now you understand it…
You’re under her hands.
You are not trapped or forced, but held there softly. It feels intentional, as if you are chosen by her and somehow that makes it more real. The warmth of it settles deep into your chest. Not trapped.
Emily’s fingers brush lightly along your jaw again, slower this time. She’s allowing herself to explore without rushing past it. Her thumb lingers briefly near your cheek, tracing the edge of something she hasn’t fully named out loud.
Her voice, when it comes, is quieter. “Still with me?”
You swallow, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yes.”
And she watches you for a second longer. She needs to be sure. She wants to be sure before she crosses a line she and you can never come back from.
Emily leans in again, drawn back to you like stopping was never really an option to begin with. One hand braces beside your head, steady against the carpet, while the other settles at your waist. When she lowers herself over you, it’s careful. She’s acutely aware of every inch of contact, making sure you feel her without being overwhelmed by it.
Her lips find yours again, softer this time at first, almost testing. Her lips hoover over yours for a beat, her eyes flicking over your face before they brush against yours gently. The kiss lingers, her mouth moving against yours with a kind of quiet certainty that makes your breath catch despite yourself. Her tongue brushes against your bottom lip, asking for entry.
You feel it before you fully register it, the shift of her hand at your waist, the slow slide upward beneath the fabric of your shirt, fingertips brushing against your bare skin for the first time. Her hands are warm, grounding. The contact pulls a soft gasp from you before you can stop it.
Emily reacts instantly the moment your lips part in a gasp. She deepens the kiss, closing the space you opened, her hand steady at your side as if anchoring you there while everything else tilts just slightly out of control. Her tongue brushes against yours, coaxing you. There’s a confidence in the way she moves, in the way she adjusts to you, like she’s reading every reaction, every breath.
Her long silver hair falls around you like a curtain. The firelight flickers around you, casting shifting shadows across her face as she pulls back just enough to look at you again, really look at you. She stays above you, one arm still braced beside your head, the other resting lightly at your waist where your shirt has shifted just enough to reveal the warmth of your skin beneath her fingers.
Her hand moves again as her fingers trace along the bare skin of your stomach, following the natural line there before drifting lower, until they settle at the waistband of your skirt. She doesn’t push further. Doesn’t cross that line.
She just lingers there, waiting. Her gaze lifts to meet yours, searching, steady, giving you time to understand exactly what she’s asking without rushing you into it.
“Can I…?” she murmurs, her voice quieter now, roughened slightly by everything that’s already passed between you. “Can I see more of you?”
The question hangs there, soft but unmistakable.
Your breath catches from the way she’s asking instead of taking. From the way she’s still holding the reins, but placing them, just for a moment, within your reach.
Your hands shift slightly against the carpet, your pulse loud in your ears as you look up at her, at the woman hovering above you, who only hours ago stood at the front of a lecture hall like she was untouchable.
“Professor Prentiss…” you start, your voice quieter than you intend, a little unsteady, the title slipping out of habit more than thought.
It earns you a flicker of amusement. Her lips curve just slightly, the expression softer than anything you’ve seen on her before, touched with something warmer, something almost fond. And then she leans down again. Not to kiss you, but to bring her mouth near your ear, her breath warm against your skin in a way that sends a quiet shiver down your spine.
“Not right now,” she murmurs, her voice low, intimate in a way that feels entirely different from anything she’s ever said to you before. There’s the faintest brush of her lips near your ear, not quite a kiss, but close enough that it feels like one.
“Just Emily.”
You turn your head slightly toward her, just enough that your cheek almost brushes hers, your voice quiet, but steadier than you expect. “Okay… Emily.” Her name feels different on your tongue, personal.
Her hand is still at your waist, still resting at that line where fabric meets skin, still waiting, never pushing past it without you. And you feel the chpice she’s giving you. Your fingers tighten slightly against the carpet before one of your hands lifts, hesitant for only a second before it finds her wrist.
“You can,” you say softly. The words are simple, but they carry.
Emily’s breath shifts. Her gaze searches yours again, like she’s making sure you mean it, when she finds no hesitation there, no pullback, something in her expression softens even as the tension underneath sharpens.
“Alright,” she murmurs. Her fingers slide along the waistband of your skirt, not rushing, not fumbling… just a smooth, practiced motion as she eases it down, her touch careful, controlled, like she’s paying attention to every reaction, every breath, every small shift in you. The fabric gives way under her hands, guided rather than pulled, until it’s no longer between you in the same way.
Then her hand moves upward this time, fingers brushing lightly along your side as they find the hem of your shirt, pausing there for just a moment, another check, another silent question.
You don’t stop her. So she lifts it. The fabric slides upward, her knuckles grazing your skin as it goes, until it’s pulled away, leaving you more exposed beneath her gaze.
Her attention doesn’t leave you for even a second. Her gaze roams over your body hungrily, taking you in in just your underwear in front of her. How you are laying on her carpet, in her living room, like a present half unpacked.
Emily exhales softly, almost imperceptibly. “You are…” she begins, her voice quieter now, lower. “…striking,” she finishes, her gaze lifting back to yours. “and so utterly beautiful… and all mine.”
There’s something in the way she says it. She means every word and refuses to dilute it into something simpler.
Heat creeps up your chest, your neck, but you don’t look away. Your hand lifts hesitantly at first, but drawn forward anyway, fingers brushing lightly against her arm, then higher. “Can I…?” you start softly, your voice a little unsteady now, your hand hovering near the fabric of her blouse. “Can I see you too?”
It’s quieter than her question had been, but it carries the same meaning, the same need.
For a second, she lets your hand linger close enough to touch, to feel the warmth of her through the fabric. Then she stops you gently. Her hand closes around your wrist as she guides your hand away from her, lowering it back down with a calm that doesn’t feel like rejection so much as… redirection.
Her gaze softens just slightly. “Lie back,” she murmurs. “Let me,” she adds, quieter still, her thumb brushing once over your wrist before she releases you. “Enjoy the show.”
You hesitate for half a second before you do as she says. Your head settles back against the pillow, your body sinking into the softness beneath you, your eyes never leaving her.
Emily straightens slowly. She reaches for the buttons of her blouse, her movements unhurried, but entirely aware of your gaze on her. One button, then another. The fabric parts gradually, revealing glimpses of fare skin beneath, the line of her collarbone catching the firelight, shadows shifting with every small movement. Her eyes find yours again as she slips the blouse from her shoulders, letting it fall aside without ceremony.
Your breath catches as you take her in properly for the first time. It’s not just the fact that she’s standing there in her bra, it’s how she is. The quiet confidence in the way she holds herself, the ease in her posture, like this is simply another extension of her control, another space she fully inhabits without hesitation.
Your eyes travel over the swell of her ample breasts, the softness of her fare skin. The dark fabric of her bra she still wears stands in sharp contrast against it, drawing your eyes without effort, emphasizing rather than concealing. Her hands move next to her waistband just as certain, slowly pushing it past her hips, revealing smooth and long legs in the process.
Your pulse stutters, your body still beneath her gaze even from this distance, caught in the same quiet gravity that’s been pulling you toward her since the beginning… and now there’s nothing left to soften the gravity.
“I…” your voice falters, breath still uneven as your eyes trace over her again, unable to stop yourself now, not even trying. You swallow, a soft, almost disbelieving huff leaving you. “You’re… unreal.” It sounds insufficient the second it leaves your lips, but it’s honest.
Your gaze drifts again, lingering, drawn to her in a way that feels almost magnetic. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone like you,” you admit quietly, like saying it any louder might break something.
Emily’s eyes darken at that. Her head tilts slightly, just enough to study you for a moment longer, to take in the way you’re looking at her without reservation, without pretense.
“…yeah?” She murmurs, voice low and velvety.
And then she moves, closing the distance again with quiet certainty, lowering herself back over you, her presence immediate, grounding, consuming in the softest way possible.
Her hand finds your waist again, steady, familiar now. And her lips find yours. She’s done holding herself quite so far back. Emily kisses you without abandon, her tongue finding its way into your mouth again as she devours you. Slow, languid strokes against your tongue, her body settling more firmly on top of you. You can feel every point of where her soft skin meets yours, the only barrier between you now your underwear. But you can already feel Emily’s fingertips brushing against the hem of your panties.
A soft whimper leaves your lips and Emily swallows it with a hum of her own. She’s pleased by your reaction, feels how you press your hips into her touch, desperate for more, desperate for her.
“Tell me what you need, baby”, Emily murmurs against your lips with a pleased smirk.
Your breath hitches, cheeks warming up under her attention. “Y…you, I need you”, is all you manage to breath out.
The words land differently than everything else she’s said tonight. Her expression shifts, something softer flickering through the intensity, something almost fond again.
“Good,” she murmurs. Her hand slides up your side, slower this time, giving you time to feel how her fingers trace over your soft skin, from your waist, over your soft curves until she reaches the fabric of your bra. With an easy flick of her wrist, she unclasps your bra and brushes it from your shoulders, revealing your delicate breasts to her dark gaze.
“So pretty… all for me”, Emily hums pleased. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips as her both her hands come up to cup your breasts.
You arch into her hands almost involuntarily. Your breath hitching as her hands grope at our breasts, thumbs skimming over your nipples gently before circling them. Your reaction is immediate, your nubs slowly hardening under her attention.
“…and so responsive.”
Your breath hitches as she slowly maps your body with her fingertips, still in control, still holding the reins and you let her, laying there under her hands as if this was always where you belonged.
Your hands move on instinct, drawn to her, fingers brushing over her sides before sliding upward, searching and finding the edge of her bra, the small, delicate clasp at her back.
But before you can reach it, Emily catches your wrists effortlessly. A quiet tch leaves her lips, her head tilting just slightly as she looks down at you, something amused flickering through the heat in her gaze. “Didn’t I tell you,” she murmurs, her voice low, threaded with that same controlled authority, “to enjoy the show, baby?”
The sound you make in response is soft, almost involuntary, caught somewhere between frustration and need, your grip tightening slightly against her hands. “Please…” you breathe, the word slipping out before you can stop it, your voice softer now, more vulnerable than before. “Emily… I want to see you.”
That does something. You see it in the way her expression shifts, in the way the amusement softens into something heavier. The smirk doesn’t disappear, it just changes, becomes less teasing, more… knowing.
For a moment, she just looks at you. She’s taking in the way you said her name. The way you asked instead of demanded. The way you’re still there, still open, still hers in this space you’ve both created.
“Careful,” she murmurs, quieter now, her thumb brushing once over your wrist where she still holds you. “I might get used to you asking like that…”
But there’s no refusal in her tone. And you feel the shift, the way her control bends again, just slightly, just for you. Her hands release your wrists slowly, and then, without breaking eye contact, she moves. Her fingers slide to the strap at her shoulder first, pushing it down with unhurried precision. Then the other. The fabric gives way gradually, the motion smooth.
She lets you watch how her bra slowly falls away, revealing her ample breasts, her dusty nipples already standing up from arousal.
“There,” Emily says softly, her voice lower now, roughened just enough to give away how much this is affecting her too. “Happy?” But it’s not really a question, because she can see the answer all over your face.
And the way she looks at you after that it’s pure want.
Then her hands are on you again, her fingertips grazing along your sides, sliding down to the waistband of your panties. Her fingers hook into it, knuckles grazing your hips as she eases them down your legs, baring you completely now.
You lift your hips slightly to help her remove the last barrier from your body, leaving you in nothing but your soft flushed skin on her white carpet. The light from the fireplace dances over every soft curve of your body, highlighting every dip and curve.
You mirror her then, carefully at first, waiting for her to grab your wrist again, but she doesn’t, not this time. Your fingers slide beneath the waistband and her warm skin, pushing them down with careful hands. Emily let out a quiet breath, shifting to help you. The way she looked at you as the last of the barriers fell away made your stomach flip, heat pooling low in your belly.
And suddenly she’s back on top of you, pressing her bare body into yours, feeling the weight of her breasts pressed against your chest, her legs caging you in as she straddles your lap with ease. These kisses are rough, almost desperate, as she moves from your lips to your neck, sucking a love bite right above your pulse.
Her hips grind against your stomach in need. You can feel the heat between her legs, pressing against your lower abdomen.
“I want you so much”, Emily breathes out against your neck, placing messy kisses there, before skimming lower. Her lips move over your collarbones, down your breasts. She lingers there, letting her tongue glide over the swell of your breasts, breathing you in, tasting you. Then lower still, until she settles above your legs.
“Open your legs,” she murmurs, her voice low and rough. “Let me see what’s mine.”
Emily feels your surrender, the way your body relaxes into the carpet, and it sends a wave of heat through her. She moves even closer, her hand trailing a teasing path up and down your legs until you part them for her.
“Mm, good girl”, the older woman hums, taking you in. Her fingers twitch against your legs, ghosting along your inner thighs before tugging you lower, closer to her. “Let me show you what it means to be my good girl.”
Emily shifts on top of you, parting your legs more firmly as she sets herself between them. Her eyes are darker now, heavier, as she looks down at you, laying there, so open and vulnerable. Then she lowers herself onto you, her aching clit pressing right into yours. The warmth and wetness of her clit meeting yours in a gentle kiss.
She’s pulling you into her more firmly, adjusting your position and hers. The first movement of her hips is shaky, skin catching on skin. It sends a sharp tingle through you nonetheless. Your eyes heavy, lips parted in a silent gasp as you look up at the older woman. Your eyes glued to the way she looks on top of you. The firelight catching in her silver hair and dark eyes, her heavy breasts sway with every movement of her hips as she grinds herself onto you. She looks like a goddess.
Every new roll of her hips sends waves of pleasure through you and her, and surely you meet her rhythm, pushing yourself into her with every glide of her hips. You swallowed thickly, watching the way Emily’s lips parted, her breath catching as your slick bodies find each other again and again, slowly finding the perfect angle and motion to give both of you the pleasure you are looking for.
"God, you feel so good, baby," she murmurs, her voice low and reverent.
You move again, slowly spreading both of your arousal over your skin, the friction between you growing warmer, slicker, more intoxicating. Emily lets out a soft gasp, her warm hands on your hips gently guiding your movements, encouraging you to press yourself harder against her.
Everything around you is pure bliss, starting with the view of Emily on top of you, rubbing her wet pussy over yours, her hands holding onto your thighs as if she needs it to keep herself upright.
“Fuck…baby”, Emily moans. Her moans are so ethereal. The way her lips part in pleasure, eyes heavy as she looks down at you, taking in the sight of your face contorted in pleasure, your breasts bouncing with every roll of her hips against you. On of her hands leaves your leg. Instead she lets her hand grope over your breasts, thumbs rubbing over your nipples to bring you even more pleasure.
Soft whimpers leave your lips, your hands searching for something you can hold onto as the pleasure inside you builds. Your fingers clench into the fabric of the carpet underneath you, then into Emily’s legs, trying to ground you in her.
The strokes become smoother, more fluid, each crossing of your clits sending waves of pleasure through both of you. Her hands guide you as much as yours guided her, your movements perfectly in sync. The friction deepens, filling the silence with soft moans, whimpers, and gasps.
The wet, sinful sound of skin gliding over skin fills the livning room, the air thick with heat and longing. Each drag of your clits against each other sends another jolt of pleasure up your spine, making you gasp, making Emily shudder on top of you.
Slowly, both of your movements become faster, more desperate, feeling the sensation of her wetness painting your body, your swollen clits gliding over each other with so much lust. Emily wants to own you, wants to show you that you are hers now, that you give yourself to her and her control.
“Come for me, baby.”
And you do. You moan her name like a prayer, the sound breaking between soft whimpers and the frantic roll of Emily’s hips against yours. The older woman doesn’t slow down her movements as you shake underneath her with pleasure, your walls clenching around nothing as you come undone.
“I’ve got you," Emily whispers breathlessly, her fingers pressing into your skin, coaxing you to keep going, to hold on just a little longer. Your movements are jerky as you try to move with her again, helping her to chase her high.
And then Emily falls apart on top of you. Your eyes glued to her as her head falls back with a strangled moan, her body shuddering, her thighs clenching around yours. You can feel her release coating you. Slowly, Emily collapses on top of you, skin warm with a thin sheen of sweat as she holds onto you, her body still twitching against yours as she rides out the aftershocks.
You both are breathless now, bodies trembling faintly against each other. Emily’s arms wrap around you, cradling you close as if you were something precious.
“You did so good for me… so good,” she whispers against your ear, pressing a kiss to your temple, then to the tip of your nose, and finally to your lips. She lingers there. Not with urgency anymore, not with that consuming heat from before, but with something softer. She’s easing you down from it, guiding you back just as carefully as she brought you there.
Her fingers trace slow, soothing patterns along your side, absentminded almost, but not really. Even now, she’s aware of you, of every breath you take, every small shift beneath her.
Eventually, she exhales quietly and shifts her weight. Emily lifts herself from above you slowly enough that you can follow the movement, feel the change without losing her completely. The warmth of her lingers even as she reaches for the blanket nearby, pulling it over both of you with an ease that feels practiced, like she’s done this before, taken care of someone like this before.
Or maybe just… knows how to.
The fabric settles around you, soft and warm, the fire still crackling nearby, filling the room with that steady, comforting sound. The storm feels far away now, irrelevant.
She doesn’t put distance between you, instead, she draws you in. One arm wraps around you, firm but gentle as she pulls you against her side, your head settling naturally against her shoulder, her hand coming to rest along your arm, your back, wherever you need it.
Holding you.
Keeping you there.
You feel that quiet sense of being guided, of being kept within something steady and controlled in a way that… allows you to let go, to not think, to just be...
Under Her Hands.
Your breathing begins to slow, matching the rhythm she sets without you even realizing it. Her fingers continue their slow, absent patterns against your skin, grounding, reassuring, like she’s making sure you don’t drift too far too fast.
For a while, neither of you speaks, there’s no need for it. The fire fills the silence, warm light flickering across the room, across her skin, across yours where the blanket doesn’t fully cover.
Eventually, her hand stills just slightly, her thumb brushing once along your arm. “You alright?” she murmurs, her voice softer now, stripped of that earlier edge but not of its certainty.
You nod against her, your voice quiet. “Yeah.” A pause, then more honestly, “Yeah… I am.”
You feel the faintest shift in her chest, something like satisfaction, something quieter than that but deeper too. “Good,” Emily says softly.
And the way she holds you after that… steady, composed, entirely in control even in something this gentle makes it clear she’s not letting go just yet.
Pairing: Emily Prentiss & Unsub’s Daughter (platonic / found family)
Summary:
After a difficult case, the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit discovers the unsub left behind a fourteen-year-old daughter. With no family willing to take her and the trauma of the case weighing heavily on her, Emily Prentiss makes a decision that surprises even the team—she adopts her.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Emily Prentiss stood in the kitchen of her apartment, leaning against the counter while she watched the girl sitting at the small dining table.
Fourteen years old.
Way too young to look that tired.
Her shoulders were tight, hands folded carefully in her lap like she was afraid to touch anything. Like if she moved wrong, something terrible might happen.
Emily had seen that posture before.
Kids caught in the aftermath of terrible things often looked like that—like the ground beneath them had vanished.
“Do you want tea?” Emily asked gently.
The girl hesitated before nodding.
Emily filled a mug, letting the kettle whistle softly before pouring the hot water. Chamomile. Something calming.
Something safe.
She slid the mug across the table.
“Thanks,” the girl murmured.
Her voice was quiet, careful—like every word had to be approved before it left her mouth.
Emily sat down across from her.
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
The case had been brutal. The kind that stuck in your bones long after the paperwork was finished. The team had seen terrible things before, but this one had left a mark.
When the team discovered the unsub’s daughter hiding in her bedroom closet, the girl had looked terrified—not of the agents.
Of what would happen next.
Because there was no one left.
No relatives willing to take her.
Just the system.
Emily remembered the way the girl had looked at them like they were the last solid thing in the world.
Especially her.
“Hotch said the paperwork should be finalized soon,” Emily said softly.
The girl’s eyes flicked up.
“You… you don’t have to do this.”
Emily’s chest tightened a little.
She leaned forward slightly, resting her arms on the table.
“I know I don’t have to,” she said gently. “I want to.”
The girl studied her face carefully, like she was trying to figure out if Emily meant it.
“You don’t even know me.”
Emily smiled softly.
“I know you like astronomy,” she said.
The girl blinked in surprise.
“You were reading a book about black holes when we met,” Emily continued. “You had three sticky notes marking pages.”
The girl glanced down at her mug.
Emily went on.
“You correct people when they misuse big words.”
A small pause.
“And you asked Reid three questions about quantum mechanics in under thirty seconds.”
That earned the tiniest hint of a smile.
“…He liked that.”
Emily laughed softly.
“He loved it.”
Across the table, the girl wrapped both hands around the mug, absorbing the warmth.
“You’re not… scared?” she asked quietly.
Emily knew exactly what she meant.
Scared of who her father had been.
Scared that something about him lived inside her.
Emily shook her head without hesitation.
“No.”
“But—”
“Listen to me,” Emily said gently.
The girl looked up.
Emily’s voice was calm and steady—the same voice she used when comforting victims during interviews.
“Who your father was doesn’t decide who you are.”
The girl’s eyes shimmered slightly.
“You’re your own person,” Emily continued. “You get to decide the rest.”
Silence filled the room.
The girl stared into her tea for a long time before whispering:
“Why me?”
Emily leaned back in her chair, thinking.
The honest answer?
Because when Emily had looked at her that day, she hadn’t seen a monster’s daughter.
She had seen a scared kid who needed someone.
And Emily knew what it felt like to grow up without steady ground.
“Because,” Emily said softly, “everyone deserves someone in their corner.”
The girl stared at her.
Really stared.
Like she was trying to see if Emily would disappear if she blinked.
“Does that mean… I can stay?”
Emily smiled.
“As long as you want.”
The girl’s shoulders relaxed just a little.
Not completely.
But enough.
After a moment she asked quietly:
“Can I decorate my room?”
Emily laughed softly.
“Kid, you can paint the walls purple if you want.”
The girl’s eyes widened.
“Really?”
“Within reason,” Emily added with a grin.
For the first time that night, the girl smiled.
A real one.
---
Later that evening, Emily showed her the spare bedroom.
It wasn’t much.
A bed, a desk, and a bookshelf.
But the girl stood in the doorway like she had just discovered an entirely new world.
“This is… mine?”
Emily leaned against the doorframe.
“It is.”
The girl stepped inside slowly, almost cautiously.
Her fingers brushed the desk, the bedspread, the bookshelf.
Like she was confirming everything was real.
“Reid said he’d bring you some science books,” Emily said.
The girl brightened immediately.
“Really?”
“Oh yeah,” Emily said. “He was already making a list.”
“And Garcia said she’s going to bring you a laptop.”
The girl blinked.
“…Why?”
Emily smiled.
“Because that’s how she shows love.”
The girl nodded slowly, trying to process the idea that strangers would care about her.
“Will I… meet them again?”
Emily pushed herself off the doorframe.
“You’re stuck with them now.”
“Even Morgan?” the girl asked cautiously.
Emily laughed.
“Especially Morgan.”
---
Down the hall, the girl paused again.
“Emily?”
Emily turned.
“Yeah?”
The girl hesitated.
Then quietly asked:
“Can I… call you Emily?”
Emily’s heart squeezed.
“For now,” she said gently.
The girl nodded.
“Okay.”
Then after a pause:
“…Thank you.”
Emily watched as she carefully sat on the bed, still looking around the room like she couldn’t quite believe it belonged to her.
For the first time since the case ended, Emily felt something settle inside her.
description: What starts as academic admiration slowly turns into something far more complicated, as subtle glances, quiet conversations, and lingering moments blur the line between professional distance and something neither of you quite names. And the closer you get, the harder it becomes to tell whether you're reading her wrong… or exactly right.
Professor!Emily Prentiss x fem!student reader
tags: academic setting, professor x student, age gap, power dynamics, soft dominance, mutual attraction, protective energy, tension & chemistry
words: 9.8k
The late afternoon air hangs heavy over downtown, D.C., that strange in–between hour where the day hasn’t quite let go, but night is already waiting just beyond the treeline. The campus of the University hums in a quieter way than it does in the morning, less hurried footsteps, fewer shouted conversations, but there’s still a steady current of movement. Students drift between buildings, some with files tucked under their arms, others clutching paper coffee cups like lifelines.
You fall into step beside your two friends Amber and Jack as you cut across the paved path toward the university building for criminology, your shoes scraping softly against the concrete. The sky above is washed in pale gold, the last light catching on the glass windows ahead. It feels almost calm; deceptively so.
“Are you sure this is the right room?” Amber asks, glancing down at her schedule again.
“It has to be,” Jack replies. “Everyone signed up for this class.”
That part, at least, is obvious before you even reach the doors. There’s a crowd gathered outside the lecture hall, more people than you’ve ever seen for an elective. Not just second–years like you, either. You spot first–years hovering near the back, some whispering nervously, and even a few older students who look like they’ve already seen more than most, probably already worked in a certain field before they could apply for the FBI Academy. The low murmur of voices fills the hallway, layered with the occasional laugh, the rustle of papers, the creak of doors opening and closing.
You slow as you approach, instinctively taking it all in.
Profiling.
It had sounded almost abstract when you first signed up for it, a curiosity more than anything. You’d told yourself it would be useful, that understanding criminal behavior could only make you a better agent. But if you’re being honest, there was something else that drew you in.
The why. Why people break. Why they cross lines others don’t. Why someone becomes the thing everyone else fears.
And there was only one person teaching it this year. Even just hearing her name had been enough to make your stomach twist a little.
Emily Prentiss.
You’d heard the stories long before you even decided to study Criminal Justice. Everyone here had. Unit Chief of the BAU. International cases. Undercover work. The kind of reputation that didn’t need embellishment because it already sounded like something out of a film.
And now she was teaching.
“Come on,” your friend nudges, pulling you out of your thoughts. “If we don’t get seats, we’re going to be stuck at the back.” You push through the crowd with them, slipping inside just as a wave of students funnels into the lecture hall.
It’s bigger than you expected, tiered seating rising in a wide semicircle, rows of long desks with built–in microphones and worn wooden edges. The overhead lights are dimmer than usual, casting everything in a soft, muted glow. At the front, a large screen dominates the wall, currently blank, with a podium off to one side and a whiteboard stretching nearly the full width of the room.
It already feels… different. Most lecture halls at the University are bright, clinical. Designed for clarity, efficiency. This one feels almost deliberate in its atmosphere, the lowered lighting, the quiet hum of the projector warming up, the faint echo of voices bouncing off the high ceiling. Like you’re stepping into something more than just a class.
You and your friends manage to find seats about halfway up, sliding into the row just as it begins to fill behind you. Backpacks drop to the floor. Notebooks are pulled out. Someone two rows down is already flipping through a textbook, while another taps nervously against their pen.
You sit, but you don’t fully relax. Your gaze drifts to the front of the room, to the empty space near the podium.
“She’s not here yet,” Jack whispers.
“Give it a minute,” Amber murmurs back. “They said this class always starts exactly on time.” That only makes the anticipation worse.
The noise in the room swells and dips in waves, but there’s an undercurrent running through it, something tighter, sharper. People aren’t just here to pass a requirement. They’re here because they want to be. Because they’ve heard what this course is.
Or who it’s taught by.
You catch fragments of conversation drifting from nearby seats.
“…heard she was in Interpol…”
“…no, seriously, she led that case in…”
“…you think she’s actually going to teach us interrogation techniques?”
Your fingers tighten slightly around your pen.
Interrogation.
Profiling.
Understanding.
You glance back down at your notebook, the blank page waiting, and for a moment, the weight of it all settles in. This isn’t just theory. Not really. This is the beginning of something that will follow you into the field, into rooms where the stakes are real, where the people across from you won’t just be case studies on a slide.
A sudden shift in the room pulls your attention up again. It’s subtle at first, the way conversations falter, voices lowering without anyone explicitly telling them to.
The door at the front of the lecture hall opens with a quiet, almost unremarkable click. And yet, it changes everything.
At first, it’s just a shift, subtle, like a current passing through the room. Conversations don’t stop all at once; they taper, falter, sentences trailing off mid–word. Someone near the back lets out a laugh that dies too quickly, like they realize a second too late that they shouldn’t have made it.
You feel it before you fully see her. That pull. That sudden awareness that something, or someone, has entered the space and claimed it without asking.
Your spine straightens instinctively, shoulders pulling back as your attention snaps forward. Around you, the same thing happens in waves. People who were slouched moments ago sit up. Heads turn. Pens still. Even the restless tapping you’d been hearing since you walked in seems to fade into nothing.
And then you see her. She steps inside like she belongs there, like the room was waiting for her, not the other way around.
The door closes behind her with a soft thud, cutting off the last sliver of light from the hallway, and for a brief second, the late afternoon sun catches in her hair. It’s longer than you expected, streaked with grey that doesn’t age her so much as sharpen her, make her stand out in a way that feels deliberate rather than accidental.
She doesn’t hesitate. Not even for a second. Her heels strike the floor in a steady, measured rhythm as she walks toward the front, sharp, clean clicks that echo just enough in the high-ceilinged room to make every step feel intentional. There’s no rush in her movement, no sign that she’s even remotely affected by the sheer number of eyes locked onto her.
And there are a lot of eyes. The lecture hall is packed. Every seat taken, people lining the walls at the back. All of them watching her.
You swallow, your fingers tightening slightly around your pen. If it were you, you’d feel it. The weight of it. You’d trip, stumble, do something, anything, to break the tension. The thought of walking into a room like this, knowing every single person was looking at you, judging you, measuring you… You’d probably faceplant before you even reached the podium.
But not her. Emily Prentiss walks like she’s done this a thousand times. Like this is nothing. Like this is hers.
Her outfit is simple, almost deceptively so. A crisp white blouse, sleeves fitted just enough to look sharp without being restrictive. A black vest over it, tailored cleanly to her frame, paired with black pants that fall perfectly to the line of her heels. It’s professional, understated… and yet, on her, it feels like something else entirely.
She doesn’t look around the room. Not really. Not in the way you expect. There’s no nervous glance, no acknowledgment of the crowd in the way most people would. If anything, it feels like she’s already aware of everything, of everyone, without needing to visibly check. Like she doesn’t need to look to know she has your attention. Because she already does.
You don’t realize you’ve been staring until a voice cuts softly into your focus.
“She’s so sexy…” Amber. Her whisper is barely more than a breath against your ear, but it hits you like a jolt, snapping something into place.
You blink, your gaze flicking sideways toward her for half a second, and the grin she’s giving you is immediate; wide, knowing, absolutely shameless.
Yeah. That. That’s exactly what it is.
Because it’s not just that she’s attractive. It’s not just the way she looks, though that would be enough on its own. It’s the way she moves. The way she carries herself. The quiet, unspoken confidence that wraps around her like a second skin. It’s the kind of presence you feel before you understand it. And you definitely feel it.
Amber raises an eyebrow at you, her grin widening when you don’t immediately look away from the front again.
You’re staring. You know you are. And apparently, so does she.
“Wow,” she murmurs, nudging your arm lightly. “You’re not even trying to hide it.”
You huff out a quiet breath, tearing your gaze away for all of two seconds before it drifts back again, helplessly drawn in.
“I hate you,” you whisper back, though there’s no real heat behind it.
“Sure you do.”
Jack leans slightly forward from the other side, glancing between the two of you with a faint, amused shake of his head. “We haven’t even started yet,” he mutters. “At least pretend to be professional.”
You try. You really do. You look down at your notebook, at the blank page waiting, your pen hovering just above it. But the sound of her heels stopping at the front of the room pulls your attention right back up again.
Emily Prentiss sets her things down at the podium with the kind of ease that makes it look like she’s done this exact motion a hundred times before and maybe she has.
The bag alone catches your attention. It’s big. Not bulky, not messy, just… full. The kind of bag that somehow carries everything: files, notebooks, probably three pens that don’t work and one that does, maybe a spare charger, maybe something completely unrelated to work. It’s practical in a way that feels almost out of place against the sharpness of everything else about her.
A mom-bag, your brain supplies unhelpfully. And yet, even that looks deliberate on her.
She sets it down without looking, fingers already moving as she opens it, like she knows exactly where everything is. No hesitation. No rummaging. Just one smooth motion as she pulls out her laptop, places it on the podium, and flips it open.
Her gaze lifts briefly then, not to check, not to assess, but to take in the room. Packed. Every seat filled. People lining the walls. Attention locked on her. She doesn’t look surprised. Not even a flicker of it. If anything, there’s a faint sense of expectation in the way her eyes move over the room, like this is exactly what she anticipated. Like of course the lecture hall would be full. Of course people would show up.
Because why wouldn’t they?
She looks back down, connecting the cable to her laptop. The screen behind her flickers to life a second later, casting a cool glow across the front of the room. There’s no pause, no moment of turning the connector the wrong way, no subtle frustration.
It just… works. Of course it does. You can’t help it, the thought flashes through your mind immediately.
There’s no way she got that in on the first try.
You know how those things go. USB sticks, HDMI adapters… it doesn’t matter which one it is. You always get it wrong the first time. Flip it. Still wrong. Flip it again, somehow that fixes it, even though it should’ve been the same as the first time.
And yet she didn’t even look. Didn’t check. Didn’t adjust. Everything about her feels like that. Like the world just aligns itself properly around her without effort.
It’s ridiculous. And a little unfair.
The laptop finishes connecting, and the screen behind her settles on the first slide; simple, clean. No clutter. Just a title.
Behavioral Analysis.
No flashy graphics. No attempt to impress.
She doesn’t immediately start speaking. Instead, she closes the bag with a quiet, precise motion and rests one hand lightly against the edge of the podium. The other slips into her pocket, her posture relaxed, but not careless. Controlled. Always controlled.
Her gaze lifts again, scanning the room slowly. And this time, she lets the silence sit. It stretches, not awkward, but deliberate. Long enough that people start to shift slightly in their seats, long enough that the last whispers completely die out. Long enough that you become acutely aware of every small sound: The hum of the projector, the faint rustle of fabric as someone adjusts, your own breathing.
And then she speaks: “Most of you are here because you think you want to understand criminals.” Her voice is calm. Even. Not raised, but it carries effortlessly, filling the entire room without strain. A few people shift. She tilts her head slightly, eyes moving across the rows, sharp and observant.
“Why they do what they do. What makes them different. How to catch them faster.” A pause. Not long. Just enough. Her gaze hardens, almost imperceptibly. “And some of you,” she continues, quieter now, but somehow more focused, “are here because you think if you can understand them… you can control them.”
You feel something in your chest tighten. The room has gone completely still. She lets that settle for a beat, then straightens slightly, her hand leaving her pocket as she steps away from the podium.
“But if that’s what you’re expecting,” she says, her tone sharpening just enough to cut through whatever assumptions anyone walked in with, “you’re in the wrong room.” Another step. The sound of her heels against the floor echoes again, measured, precise. “Behavioral analysis isn’t about control.” Her gaze sweeps across the room again, slower this time. Intentional. “It’s about understanding.” A beat. “And understanding means getting uncomfortable.”
Her lips press together briefly, not quite a smile, but something close to it. Something knowing. “Because if you’re doing this right,” she adds, voice lowering just slightly, “you’re not just studying them.” Her eyes hold on the room, on everyone.
“You’re learning how close you are to them.”
Silence. Heavy. Intentional.
And then, just like that:
“Welcome to profiling.”
Your pen finally touches the page.
By the time the lecture ends, it feels like the room has shifted into a different world entirely. You don’t even notice it at first, the way the lights seem brighter now, harsher after sitting in that dim, focused atmosphere for hours. Your neck aches slightly when you tilt your head, your fingers cramped from gripping your pen for far too long without a break.
Three hours. It hadn’t felt like three hours. And yet, somehow, it had.
The scrape of chairs pulls you back as people start to stand, conversations rising again in low, energized waves. It’s louder now than it was before the lecture, but different, less nervous, more charged. Like everyone just walked out of something they didn’t fully expect.
You stare down at your notebook for a second longer and see all these filled pages. Not just bullet points or half-hearted notes, but lines upon lines, observations, phrases, questions she posed that you didn’t want to forget. You’d underlined things. Circled words. Written in the margins when you ran out of space.
You can still hear her voice in your head. Your pen taps lightly against the paper. A quiet breath leaves you before you close the notebook, fingers lingering on the cover for just a moment.
“Jesus.” Amber’s voice cuts in, and you look up just in time to see her lean over, trying to peek at your notes. “You wrote a whole novel,” she says, eyebrows lifting. “Were you even in the same class as us?”
Jack snorts from your other side, already slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Pretty sure she was in a different dimension entirely.”
You huff, standing and gathering your things. “Some of us actually pay attention.”
“I was paying attention,” Jack protests immediately.
Amber gives him a flat look. “You nearly fell asleep.”
“I did not.”
“You literally nodded off at least twice.”
“That was strategic blinking.”
You can’t help it but you laugh, the sound slipping out easier now that the tension of the lecture has finally released. “Strategic blinking?” you echo.
Jack points at you like that proves his point. “See? She gets it.”
“No, I don’t,” you say, shaking your head as you sling your bag over your shoulder. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is a thing,” he insists, falling into step beside you as the three of you shuffle out of the row with the rest of the crowd. “It’s called conserving energy.”
Amber scoffs. “It’s called being boring.”
“Wow.”
“Also,” she adds, nudging your side lightly as you reach the aisle, “don’t think I didn’t notice you.”
Your stomach dips slightly. “Notice what?”
She gives you that look again. The one that’s entirely too knowing for your liking. “The staring.”
You almost trip on the step. “I was not staring,” you say quickly, a little too quickly.
Jack glances between the two of you, immediately interested. “Oh, she was staring?”
“She was absolutely staring.”
“I was taking notes,” you defend, even as heat creeps up the back of your neck.
Amber laughs. “Yeah, I saw all that note-taking you were doing when she was walking around.”
Jack lets out a low whistle. “Wow. First class and you’re already gone.”
“I am not–” You cut yourself off with a groan, pushing the door open as you step out into the hallway. “You’re both insufferable.”
“And yet,” Amber says brightly, “we’re right.”
You don’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because you can’t.
The hallway is crowded, people spilling out of the lecture hall in clusters, voices overlapping as everyone tries to process what they just sat through. You stick close to Amber and Jack as you make your way toward the exit, the cooler evening air hitting your face the moment you step outside.
It’s darker now. The sun has dipped low enough that the sky is painted in deep blues and fading gold, campus lights flickering on one by one along the paths. The day feels like it’s finally winding down and you feel it now, the weight of it settling into your shoulders.
You’re tired. Not just from the lecture, but from everything. The classes before it, the constant focus, the pressure that never really leaves. And yet there’s something else underneath it. A kind of quiet energy that hasn’t faded.
“That was…” Amber exhales beside you, shaking her head slightly. “Okay, that was actually amazing.”
You nod immediately. “Right?”
Jack shrugs, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “It was… better than I expected.”
Amber nudges him. “You mean you expected it to be boring.”
“I expected a three-hour lecture at the end of the day to be torture, yes.”
“And?”
He hesitates, then sighs. “And it wasn’t.”
You grin slightly, hugging your notebook a little closer to your chest. “It was more than that.”
Amber glances at you, amused. “Yeah, we noticed. You were eating it up.”
“I just…” You stop, searching for the right words, your steps slowing slightly as you near the point where the paths split. “It’s different, you know? It’s not just theory. The way she talks about it, it’s like… it matters.”
“Of course it matters,” Jack says.
“No, I mean–” You shake your head, trying again. “She makes you think about it differently. Not just what they do, but why. And how close it is. How easy it is to–” You trail off, realizing you’re rambling.
Amber is watching you with a soft, knowing expression now. “You like it,” she says simply.
You hesitate. Then nod. “Yeah,” you admit quietly. “I really do.”
Jack bumps your shoulder lightly. “Well, congratulations. You’ve found your calling.”
Amber snorts. “Or your professor.”
“Amber...”
“What?” she grins, completely unapologetic. “I’m just saying, if I looked at anyone the way you looked at her, I’d be concerned.”
“I did not–”
“You were practically drooling.”
“I was not drooling!”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “There might have been a little drool.”
You stare at him. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I’m on the side of truth.”
“You’re both terrible.”
Amber just laughs, looping her arm through yours for a second before letting go as you reach the fork in the path. “This is us,” she says, gesturing toward the dorm buildings further into campus. “Don’t stay up all night rewriting your notes.” Amber steps backward, pointing at you. “Next class, I expect a full transcript.”
“Go away,” you say, but you’re smiling.
She grins back. “Night, genius.”
“Night.”
They turn, heading down their path together, their voices fading as they continue bickering with each other. And then it’s just you. The quieter path leading away from campus stretches ahead, lit by scattered streetlights. Your apartment isn’t far, ten minutes, maybe less, but the distance feels welcome. A moment to breathe. To think.
Your grip tightens slightly on your notebook again. Three hours. And somehow, it still doesn’t feel like enough. You glance back once, just once, toward the building you just left. And for a brief moment, you can almost hear her voice again.
“You’re learning how close you are to them.”
A small smile tugs at your lips as you turn away, continuing down the path.
Yeah. You’re definitely taking that class again next week.
The campus noise fades quicker than you expect. One moment there are voices, laughter, footsteps echoing off buildings and the next, it’s just the quiet rhythm of your own steps on the sidewalk, the distant hum of traffic somewhere beyond the trees, and the soft rustle of wind moving through the branches overhead.
It’s darker out here. The kind of darkness that settles in gently, softened by streetlights casting warm pools of light onto the pavement. Your breath comes out a little slower now, your shoulders loosening as you put more distance between yourself and the academy.
Three hours of intense focus will do that. Your head is still full. Fragments of the lecture loop back through your mind, pieces of what she said clicking together in ways that feel almost… unfinished. Like there’s more to understand, more to unpack, more–
A car engine slows beside you. At first, you don’t think much of it. Cars pass here all the time, staff, faculty, the occasional late student. But this one doesn’t pass. It lingers.
Your steps falter slightly, your gaze flicking sideways as the low rumble of the engine stays right next to you. The vehicle is dark, black, sleek in that understated way that immediately feels official. Clean. Government-issued clean. The subtle emblem on the plate catches the streetlight.
FBI.
Your heart skips, then stutters. The passenger window rolls down smoothly. And there she is.
Emily Prentiss sits behind the wheel, one hand resting casually at the top, the other near the window frame. The streetlight casts soft shadows across her features, and without the podium in front of her, without the screen glowing behind her, she somehow looks… different. Less untouchable. Still commanding. But closer.
She says your name. Not quite certain, more like a question, testing if she remembers it right. It takes you half a second to process that she knows it at all.
You stop walking. Your heart picks up, thrumming harder against your ribs in a way that feels entirely disproportionate to the situation.
“It’s… yeah,” you manage, clearing your throat. “That’s me.”
Her mouth curves slightly, subtle satisfaction at getting it right. “Good. I was hoping I didn’t just confidently misidentify one of my students on the side of the road.”
You huff a soft, nervous breath. “No, you didn’t.”
She glances down the street, then back at you. “Do you live far?”
“Not really,” you say quickly. “Just about ten minutes that way.” You gesture vaguely ahead.
She studies you for a brief second. “Get in,” she says lightly. “I’ll give you a ride.”
Your brain short-circuits a little. “Oh, no, that’s really not necessary,” you rush to say. “It’s close. I don’t mind walking.”
“It’s no trouble,” she replies easily. “It’s my direction anyway.”
You hesitate. She tilts her head just slightly, something almost amused flickering in her eyes. “It’s late. It’s dark. And someone like you shouldn’t be walking alone if they don’t have to.”
Someone like you. Your stomach flips. Someone like you? What does that mean? You open your mouth to question it, but the words don’t come. Because she’s still looking at you like that. Calm. Kind. Not commanding, just offering.
And you realize you’re not going to say no. Not really.
“Okay,” you murmur, stepping closer to the vehicle. “Thank you.”
You move to the passenger side, pulse thudding in your ears as you open the door and slide inside. It smells faintly of leather and something warmer, coffee, maybe. The interior is tidy but lived-in. A pair of sunglasses in the center console. A travel mug in the cupholder. A file folder on the back seat. Human things.
“Seatbelt,” she says automatically, already pulling back onto the road.
You click it into place, suddenly hyper-aware of your hands, your posture, your breathing.
“Thank you,” you say again, softer this time. Almost shy.
She glances at you briefly, smiling. “It’s really no trouble. I promise I’m not secretly grading you for accepting a ride.”
You let out a small laugh before you can stop yourself.
“And I meant what I said,” she adds, eyes back on the road. “It’s dark. You shouldn’t have to walk alone if you don’t have to.” There’s no hidden meaning in her tone. No weird undertone. Just genuine concern.
You shift slightly in your seat, warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with nerves this time. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable exactly, but you’re aware of it. A little too aware. You smooth your hands over your jeans, searching for something intelligent to say.
She beats you to it. “So,” she says casually, one hand relaxed on the steering wheel. “First lecture. Survived?”
You blink. “More than survived.”
“Oh?” A hint of curiosity there.
“It was… really good,” you say, and then immediately feel like that’s too simple. Too small. “I mean… really good. It was everything I hoped it would be.”
Her lips curve slightly. “That’s a relief.”
“You thought it wouldn’t be?”
She huffs softly. “It was my first one.”
You stare at her. “First… ever?” you ask.
“As the primary lecturer? Yeah.” She shrugs lightly. “I’ve briefed teams. Spoken at conferences. But this?” She gestures vaguely with one hand. “Three hours of structured academia? Different battlefield.”
You can’t quite hide your disbelief. “You were nervous?”
She glances at you, one eyebrow lifting. “Of course I was nervous.”
That does something strange to you. Because in your head, Emily Prentiss doesn’t get nervous. She walks into rooms and owns them. She doesn’t hesitate with HDMI cables. She doesn’t stumble over words.
“I couldn’t tell,” you admit.
“Good,” she says dryly. “That means I faked it well.”
You laugh again, the tension in your shoulders easing a little. “It didn’t feel fake,” you add quickly. “It felt… intentional.”
She looks at you more fully this time, studying you in a way that feels less like profiling and more like interest. “Intentional’s good.”
You nod and then you start rambling. “I wrote down almost everything,” you confess, gesturing vaguely to your bag. “Probably too much. My friends were making fun of me for it, but the way you explained behavioral proximity and the discomfort aspect and the ethical lines–” You stop to breathe. “It just makes sense. It makes it real.”
She laughs softly. Not mocking,, but warm. “I noticed,” she says.
Your brain stalls. “Noticed?”
“The notes,” she clarifies. “You were very committed.”
Heat floods your face.
“It’s a compliment,” she assures you quickly, amused. “It’s rare to see someone that engaged at the end of a long day.”
You look down at your hands. “I just… really liked it.” There’s a brief pause.
“I’m glad,” she says quietly.
And there’s something about the way she says it; less professor, more person; that makes your chest tighten. You glance at her again, really look at her this time. Without the lecture hall. Without the title hanging in the air like a shield.
Her sleeves are rolled slightly at the wrists now. There’s a faint crease near her shoulder where the vest must’ve shifted. A small line at the corner of her mouth that deepens when she smiles. She’s not just Unit Chief Prentiss. She’s not just Professor Prentiss. She’s a woman driving an SUV at night, giving one of her students a ride home because she didn’t want her walking alone.
“You know,” she says lightly, breaking into your thoughts, “for someone who insisted it was only a ten-minute walk, you look very relieved to be sitting down.”
You let out an embarrassed breath. “It’s been a long day.”
“I remember those,” she says. “Criminology will do that to you.”
“You studied it too?”
“Among other things,” she replies vaguely, but there’s humor in it.
You smile. The awkwardness is fading now, replaced with something easier. Natural. She’s funny. A little dorky, even. And kind. Disarmingly kind. The tension that had been sitting high in your shoulders finally easing into something softer. Something… warmer.
For a moment, it’s easy. Just conversation. Just the quiet hum of the engine, the low glow of the dashboard lights casting soft shadows across the interior. The world outside moves past in streaks of amber streetlights and darkened windows, the occasional passing car briefly illuminating the space between you before disappearing again.
You shift slightly in your seat, angling toward her without really thinking about it. And that’s when it happens. It’s subtle. So subtle you almost miss it.
Her gaze flicks toward you, not unusual, she’s been doing that while talking, but this time it lingers a fraction longer. Not just your face. Lower. Then back up again.
Quick. Controlled. And then gone.
Your breath catches just slightly. You look down instinctively, like you might see whatever she just saw. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers loosely intertwined. Nothing unusual. Nothing that should draw attention.
You tell yourself you imagined it. You must have. She’s your professor. Unit Chief. Someone who walked into a room full of trained, perceptive students and held all of their attention without even trying. Someone who reads people for a living.
Of course her eyes move like that. She’s observant. That’s all.
Still… You swallow, your gaze drifting back to her despite yourself. Nothing has changed, that’s the first thing you notice. Her posture is the same: straight, composed, effortless. One hand rests at the top of the steering wheel, fingers loose but controlled, guiding the car with minimal movement. Her eyes stay on the road, focused, steady. The soft glow from passing streetlights slides over her face in brief, shifting patterns, catching on the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw.
There’s no sign of anything unusual. No hesitation. No awareness of the way your thoughts just spiraled somewhere they absolutely shouldn’t have. Like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just feel something tilt, just slightly, in the space between you.
Your fingers tighten faintly against your jeans.
You’re overthinking it.
You have to be.
She’s trained to observe. To notice details other people miss. A glance doesn’t mean anything. A second longer doesn’t mean anything. That’s her job.
Your gaze drops. Her other hand rests near the gearshift, relaxed, fingers loosely curved over it. For a moment, it’s just that. Just a hand. Still. Controlled. And then her fingers move. A quiet, almost absent rhythm, tapping lightly against the side of the gearshift. Not impatient. Not nervous. Just… something to do. A small, unconscious motion. You watch it without meaning to.
Tap.
Pause.
Tap.
The movement is subtle, but it draws your attention in a way that feels disproportionate. Your focus narrows, catching on the details you hadn’t noticed before.
Her nails. Neat. Clean. Not overly done, painted in a nude color, practical. Most of them are a little longer, evenly shaped, kept just past the fingertip. Except…
Your breath catches.
Her middle and her ring finger are shorter. Not uneven or broken, but deliberately shorter. Your mind stutters, trying to make sense of it.
Oh.
Oh.
The realization lands slowly. Then all at once. Heat floods your face before you can stop it, your gaze snapping back up to the windshield like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.
You stare straight ahead, suddenly very aware of yourself. Of her. Of the small space inside the car.
You’re definitely overthinking it.
People trim their nails differently all the time. There are a hundred normal explanations. Practical ones. Innocent ones. It doesn’t mean anything.
Your heart is beating too fast. You risk another glance at her, slower this time, more careful. She hasn’t changed. Still composed. Still focused on the road. The faintest hint of a smile still resting at the corner of her mouth, like she’s carrying some private thought you’re not part of.
Her fingers tap once more against the gearshift. Unbothered. Unaffected. And for a split second, you wonder… Not if she knows what you noticed. But if she noticed you noticing. Your throat goes dry.
You’re overthinking it. You repeat it to yourself, like if you say it enough, it’ll settle the strange, restless feeling curling low in your stomach.
Because the alternative… The alternative is something you’re not even sure how to begin to process. She’s your professor.
And yet your grip tightens slightly in your lap. It doesn’t quite feel that simple anymore.
Your gaze drifts to the window again, watching the city slide by, trying to settle your thoughts. But it’s harder now. There’s a quiet awareness sitting under your skin, making everything feel just a little sharper.
The hum of the engine fills the silence, low and constant, and for a few seconds, neither of you speaks. It gives your thoughts too much space, room to spiral, to replay that moment, to overanalyze every small detail until it loses all meaning and somehow gains too much at the same time.
You press your lips together, trying to ground yourself.
“So,” she says, easy, conversational, like nothing has shifted at all. “Next week’s lecture.”
Your attention snaps back to her, grateful for the interruption, for something normal to hold onto.
“I’m focusing on victimology,” she continues, her tone thoughtful. “Background patterns. Risk factors. The things people overlook when they’re too focused on the offender.” She glances at you briefly. “Think you’ll come back for that one?” There’s a hint of something in her voice, light, almost teasing. But it’s subtle enough that you could be imagining it. Again.
You straighten slightly in your seat, nodding without hesitation. “Yeah. Definitely.” You almost add of course, but you catch yourself.
She smiles. Not big. Not showy. Just enough. “I’m glad,” she says.
The car slows as she turns, the movement gentle, controlled, and you recognize your street immediately. Your stomach dips, a quiet disappointment threading through the realization.
You’re here already. You barely noticed the rest of the drive. “Just up ahead,” you say softly, gesturing.
“I see it,” she replies.
The SUV glides forward, the familiar buildings coming into view, your apartment just a few seconds away now. The street is quieter here, softer. Dim lights in windows. A distant dog barking somewhere further down.
You shift slightly, already preparing to say thank you again, to gather your things, to step back into your own space.
And then her hand moves. It’s quick, casual, like it means nothing. The same hand that had been resting near the gearshift lifts, crossing the small space between you, and for a brief, almost fleeting moment, her fingers brush against your thigh. Then settle. Your breath catches.
It’s not a grip. Not anything that would draw attention if someone else were looking. Just a touch. A grounding motion. Like she’s steadying you or herself. Or maybe neither. Maybe it’s nothing.
“Don’t overthink it,” she says lightly, eyes still on the road, voice calm.
Your heart stutters. Because for a second, you’re not sure what she’s referring to. The lecture? Your earlier rambling? Or something else entirely?
Your thoughts spiral, but before you can catch up to them, her hand is already gone. Back on the wheel. Like it never happened. Like you imagined that too.
She pulls to a smooth stop in front of your building, shifting the car into park with the same effortless precision she does everything else. Silence settles again. But it’s different now. Charged.
Your pulse is loud in your ears, your body suddenly hyper-aware of the space you’re sitting in, the place her hand had been just seconds ago, the warmth that lingers even though it shouldn’t.
You stare ahead for a moment longer, trying to gather yourself. Trying to make sense of something that doesn’t quite fit into anything you understand. Then you turn to her. She looks back at you.. Calm. Composed. That same faint, knowing softness at the corner of her mouth. Like she’s exactly where she wants to be. Like nothing is out of place.
And somehow that makes it all the more confusing.
“Thank you,” you say softly. “Really.”
She gives you that small, steady smile. “Anytime.”
Anytime. Your heart does that ridiculous thing again.You reach for the door handle, then pause.“And, uh,” you add, gathering a little courage, “for what it’s worth? You don’t have to be nervous about the lectures...”
She tilts her head slightly. “No?”
“No,” you say firmly. “You were… perfect.”
Something flickers in her expression at that. Brief. Almost shy. “Careful,” she says lightly. “Flattery won’t get you extra credit.”
You grin sweetly despite yourself. “Worth a shot.”
She laughs. And as you step out into the cool night air, closing the door gently behind you, you realize something important.
You weren’t imagining everything.
The rainy week passes faster than you expect. Classes blur into each other, notes pile up, days stretch long and exhausting, but somehow, through all of it, one thing stays sharp in your mind.
Thursday. Late afternoon. Behavioral Analysis. You try not to think too much about the car ride. About the way her hand had rested on your thigh, brief and light and impossible to fully explain. About the way she had said don’t overthink it and how you’ve been doing exactly that ever since.
You tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. You tell yourself it was nothing. You tell yourself a lot of things. None of them stick.
And then Thursday comes. The familiar building stands ahead of you again, the sky painted in that same fading light, the air cool and crisp in a way that makes everything feel just a little more alive. You walk beside Amber and Jack, their voices filling the space easily, the rhythm of your steps syncing as you approach the lecture hall.
“You’re excited,” Amber says, not even bothering to hide the grin in her voice.
“I’m not,” you reply automatically.
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“She’s been weird all day,” Jack adds, adjusting his bag. “Distracted.”
“I have other classes,” you protest.
Amber hums. “Mhm. Sure. Nothing to do with a certain professor.”
You shoot her a look, but it lacks any real bite. Because arguing would mean acknowledging something you’re still not entirely ready to put into words.
The hallway is busy, but not like last week. There are still a lot of people, clusters of students lingering outside, voices overlapping, the low buzz of anticipation hanging in the air, but it’s different. Thinner. More contained.
The overwhelming flood of curiosity from the first lecture has settled into something more selective. More intentional. You remember what people always say about these kinds of classes. They start full and then, week by week, people drop off. Lose interest. Decide it’s not what they thought it would be.
Until eventually only the ones who really want to be there remain. The thought settles somewhere in your chest as you push open the door and step inside.
The lecture hall looks the same. Dimmer lighting. The soft hum of the equipment. The large screen at the front already lit, the title slide for today’s lecture displayed in clean, simple text.
But this time she’s already there. Professor Prentiss stands at the front of the room, one hand resting lightly against the edge of the podium, the other holding a remote. She’s not moving much yet, not pacing like she had during parts of the last lecture. Just… waiting. Observing. There’s a quiet confidence in it. A sense that she doesn’t need to fill the space for it to belong to her.
You feel it the moment you step in. That same pull. That same awareness that makes everything else fade just slightly at the edges. And then she looks up. It’s immediate. Too immediate. Like she didn’t just happen to glance toward the door, but knew, somehow, that you were there.
Your breath catches, just for a second, as her eyes meet yours across the room. There are too many people between you for it to make sense. Too much distance. But it feels direct, like she picked you out of the crowd without trying.
You stop for half a heartbeat, your brain scrambling to catch up with your body, with the sudden rush of heat that spreads across your chest. And before you can think better of it… you lift your hand.
A small, awkward wave.
The kind you immediately regret the second you do it. Oh my god. What are you doing? Your hand drops almost instantly, your fingers curling back in as if you can erase the movement, your cheeks heating so quickly it almost feels like a physical burn.
You look away for a split second, mortified. That was so embarrassing. You’re in a lecture hall. She’s your professor. You don’t wave at her like that…
You look back, because you can’t not and she’s still looking at you. But now she’s smiling. Not broadly. Not something that would draw attention from anyone else. Just enough. And suddenly she winks at you, quick and subtle, gone in a second.
But it hits you like a shockwave. Your breath stutters, your entire body going still for a fraction of a second as your brain struggles to process what just happened.
Did she…
Did she just…
“Oh my god,” Amber breathes beside you, low enough that no one else would hear.
You don’t dare look at her. You feel her looking at you, though. Feel the weight of her gaze, the way she’s absolutely thriving off of whatever expression is currently on your face.
If you weren’t standing… If you weren’t very aware of the fact that you are in a crowded lecture hall, surrounded by people… you’re almost certain your knees would have given out. Because that, that was not normal. That was not something a professor does.
Your heart is racing, pulse loud in your ears as you force your feet to move again, heading toward your usual seats with Amber and Jack.
Jack, for once, is quiet.
Amber is not. “You are in so much trouble,” she whispers, barely containing her grin.
“I didn’t do anything,” you hiss back, dropping into your seat a little too quickly.
“You waved at her.”
“I panicked.”
“She winked at you.”
“I…” You stop, your voice catching slightly. “I know.”
Amber lets out a silent laugh, shaking her head as she sits down beside you. “Wow.”
Jack leans forward slightly, glancing between the two of you. “What did I miss?”
“Nothing,” you say quickly.
“Everything,” Amber corrects at the same time.
You bury your face in your hands for half a second before dragging them down slowly, trying to compose yourself, trying to act normal, trying to ignore the way your heart is still beating too fast.
At the front of the room, Emily moves again, her attention shifting to the rest of the class as more students filter in, as if nothing just happened.
But when you risk another glance at her, you catch it again, that same faint, knowing curve at the corner of her mouth. And something in your chest tightens, because whatever this is… it’s not just in your head anymore.
The lecture, somehow, passes both slower and faster than it should. You notice it in fragments, the way time stretches in certain moments, when she pauses mid-sentence and lets silence settle, when she looks at someone just a second longer than necessary until they shift under it, when she asks a question and waits, not filling the gap, not rescuing anyone from it. And then there are the parts that slip by too quickly, where you’re so focused on writing, on listening, on trying to follow the thread of her thoughts, that you barely register the passing minutes at all.
It’s different this time. You’re not just observing, you’re participating. At some point, your hand lifts before you’ve fully decided to do it, your voice cutting into the space of the lecture with a question that feels both too simple and too exposed. For a brief moment, every head in the room seems to turn, the weight of attention settling on you in a way that makes your stomach tighten.
But she doesn’t let it linger. She answers you seriously, thoughtfully, building on what you said instead of correcting it, guiding it instead of dismissing it. And when you nod, when you follow, when you add something else, she smiles. Approving.
And somehow, that feels worse than being called out.
Better.
Much, much worse.
It happens again later, when she asks something of the room and the silence stretches just a little too long, and you hear your own voice answering before you can second-guess it. This time, you don’t even look around to see who’s watching. You look at her.
And again, that look. That brief flicker of something in her expression that feels like recognition, like she expected it.
By the time the lecture winds down, your hand aches slightly, your notebook filled with dense, careful lines, annotations in the margins, arrows connecting ideas that seemed important enough not to lose.
At the front of the room, Emily glances at the clock, then back at the class, shifting her weight slightly as she sets the remote down on the podium. “For those of you who want to get ahead for next week,” she says, her voice steady, carrying easily across the room, “take a look at chapter six in Mindhunter. We’ll be building on those concepts, but from a slightly different angle.”
A few people scribble it down immediately, you already have. Her gaze moves across the room once more, slower this time, like she’s taking something in, measuring, observing.
“Otherwise,” she adds, a faint hint of something almost amused touching her tone, “get some rest. You’ll need it.” A pause. “That’s all for today.”
The room exhales. Chairs scrape against the floor as people begin to stand, conversations picking up almost immediately, the tension of focus dissolving into movement and noise. You sit there for a moment longer, your pen still resting against the page, as if your brain hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that it’s over. Again. Too quickly.
“Okay,” Amber says beside you, already packing her things, “that was actually terrifying.”
You glance at her. “You say that every time.”
“Because it is every time,” she shoots back, shoving her notebook into her bag. “The way she looks at people? I feel like she can see my entire search history.”
Jack huffs, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “That would require you to have shame.”
“Wow. Rude.”
You smile faintly, closing your own notebook carefully, your fingers lingering on the cover for just a moment before you slide it into your bag.
“You were on fire today,” Amber adds, nudging you lightly. “Asking questions, answering questions… who are you?”
You shrug, trying to play it off, even as warmth creeps up your neck again. “I was just… paying attention.”
“Yeah,” Jack mutters. “Very intensely.”
Amber leans in slightly, her voice dropping just enough to keep it between the three of you. “She was looking at you a lot.”
Your heart stutters. “She looks at everyone,” you say quickly.
“Mhm.”
You don’t respond, because you don’t trust yourself to. You finish packing your bag, pulling the strap over your shoulder as you stand, falling into step with them as the three of you move toward the aisle, joining the slow stream of students heading for the exit.
You’re almost at the door when…
“Hey.” Her voice. It cuts through everything else.
You stop. So do Amber and Jack. You turn, your heart picking up in a way that feels entirely too familiar by now.
Professor Prentiss stands at the front of the room, one hand resting lightly against the podium, her gaze directed, not at the class as a whole, at you.
“Could you stay for a moment?” she asks. It’s casual, professional. There’s nothing in her tone that anyone else could question.
Your stomach flips. “Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “Of course.”
Amber’s head turns toward you so fast it’s almost comical. Oh no. You don’t even have to look at her to know what kind of expression she’s wearing.
Jack, for once, looks mildly impressed. “Well,” he mutters, adjusting his bag. “Look at you.”
“It’s probably about class,” you say quickly, even as your pulse climbs.
“Obviously,” Amber agrees, entirely unhelpful. “Definitely just about class.”
You shoot her a look, she grins. Then, leaning closer for just a second, she murmurs, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
You stare at her. “That is the worst advice you could possibly give me.”
“I know,” she says, pleased. “Good luck.”
Jack gives you a small, amused shake of his head. “Try not to get expelled.”
“I’m not going to get expelled.”
“Famous last words.”
You huff, but there’s no real irritation behind it, just nerves buzzing under your skin as you watch them turn and head out of the lecture hall, their voices fading into the hallway beyond.
It’s quieter now. A few students still linger, gathering their things, finishing conversations, but the room is already beginning to settle into that post-lecture stillness. You take a breath, adjusting your bag on your shoulder before stepping down the rows, your footsteps soft against the floor as you make your way toward the front.
Each step feels… louder than it should. You’re aware of her, of where she stands, of the way her gaze follows you and because she’s watching, you become acutely aware of yourself, too.
Of everything. Of the rhythm of your steps, just a fraction too deliberate now, as if you’ve forgotten how to walk naturally under the weight of being seen. Of the way your shoulders hold, a little straighter than usual, your breath measured without you meaning it to be. Of your hands, suddenly unsure of what to do with themselves, tightening briefly around the strap of your bag before loosening again.
And of your skirt. The soft brush of fabric against your legs becomes impossible to ignore, the subtle sway with each step exaggerated in your own perception, like your body has been turned up a notch too high. You can feel it with every movement, small, ordinary sensations that suddenly feel… not so ordinary, not when you know she’s watching. Not when every step carries you closer.
You don’t dare look up at her immediately. Your gaze lingers somewhere just short of meeting hers, tracing the edges of the podium instead, the line of her hand resting against it, the careful stillness in the way she holds herself.
But you feel the attention, the way it doesn’t waver.
And by the time you finally reach the front, stopping just a few feet away, that awareness hasn’t faded, it’s settled somewhere deeper, quieter, threading itself through the way you stand, the way you breathe, the way your pulse seems just a little too present in your own ears.
Like you’ve stepped into something you don’t fully understand.
And can’t quite step back out of.
The last of the students have filtered out now, the door at the back closing with a soft, final click. And just like that it’s only the two of you.
The space feels different now. The air heavier in a way that has nothing to do with the room itself. You stop a few feet from the podium, shifting your weight slightly, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag.
You clear your throat, the sound a little too loud in the empty room, your fingers tightening around your bag again. “You… uh- wanted to see me, Professor Prentiss?”
There it is. The title. A small thing, but it settles something back into place, if only for a moment, draws a line, reminds you of where you stand. Student. Professor. Structure. Distance.
Her mouth curves slightly at it, not quite amused, not quite something else. “I did,” she says, her voice easy, but softer than it ever is during a lecture. “You’ve been asking good questions. Engaging with the material.”
You feel heat rise again, quick and inevitable. “I just…find it interesting.”
“I can tell.” There’s a brief pause. Not awkward, not quite. Just… held. Then, almost lightly, as if it’s an afterthought. “Do you need a ride home?”
You blink. The shift is so sudden it takes you a second to catch up. “Oh- no, it’s okay. I’m fine. It’s just…ten minutes.”
Her eyebrow lifts, slowly and she turns her head, glancing toward the tall windows at the side of the lecture hall.
You follow her gaze. The world outside is a blur of rain, heavy sheets of it slanting against the glass, the sky darkened far earlier than it should be, punctuated by a distant roll of thunder that you hadn’t really registered until now.
Oh. You hesitate.
“It’s just rain,” you try, weaker this time.
“Mm,” she hums, turning back to you, that same look settling in her eyes again, the one that feels like she’s already decided something. “It’s a storm.” Another beat. “It’s still on my way,” she adds, casual, almost dismissive, as if that alone settles it.
You open your mouth. Close it again. Because the thing is, she’s not pushing. Not really. She isn’t insisting, not in any obvious way. Her tone stays light, her posture relaxed, one hand resting against the podium, the other slipping into the pocket of her slacks.
You get the distinct impression that saying no isn’t actually an option she expects you to take. Or maybe just… not one she’ll accept.
You let out a small breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “You’re good at this, you know.”
Her lips curve, just a little. “At what?”
“Making it sound like I still have a choice.”
That earns you a proper smile. “Do you?”
You shake your head before you can stop yourself, a soft huff of amusement slipping out despite the way your pulse has picked up again. “Apparently not.”
“Good,” she says simply, already reaching for her things. “Let’s go.”
The underground garage is quieter than the rest of the building, the sound of the storm above reduced to a distant, muffled roar, broken only by the echo of your footsteps against concrete. You walk beside her. Not quite shoulder to shoulder, either, there’s still space between you, still that invisible line, but it feels… different. Easier, maybe. Or maybe just more dangerous, now that you’re aware of it.
Her keys jingle softly in her hand, and a moment later, the black SUV unlocks with a muted click, lights flashing briefly in the dim space. That strange, heavy feeling settles again in your stomach as you reach it, not unpleasant, not at all, but present in a way you can’t ignore. Anticipation, maybe. Or something you’re not quite ready to name.
You slide into the passenger seat, smoothing your skirt automatically as you settle, the fabric clinging slightly from the damp air, your skin still warm from the walk.
The door shuts. For a moment, you’re alone. Then the driver’s side opens. You don’t mean to look, you really don’t. But you do anyways. And you catch it, just for a second. Her eyes dropping, briefly, taking in the line of your legs, the way your skirt rests against your thighs where you sit, before lifting again, meeting your gaze as if nothing happened at all, as if it was nothing.
Your breath stutters, barely there. You don’t say anything, you can’t. And she doesn’t either. She just settles into her seat, calm, composed, entirely in control as she starts the engine, the soft rumble filling the car, grounding, steady…like everything about her.
Like nothing has shifted.
Like you didn’t just feel the air change again.
Outside, the rain pounds harder against the windshield, the world beyond blurring into streaks of light and shadow.
Inside it feels smaller, quieter and very, very aware. You swallow, fingers tightening briefly in your lap before you force them to relax, your voice coming out softer than you intend.
“Thank you… for the ride, Professor Prentiss.”
There’s a brief pause. And then, without looking at you this time, her mouth curves slightly.
“You’re welcome.”
But there’s something in it. Something that lingers.
Something that makes that strange, heavy feeling settle just a little deeper.
somebody needs to make a story about Emily Prentiss being good friends with a new bau agent’s mom and she falls in love with her but struggles with it because not only is she the daughter of her good friend, but also a subordinate, and way younger.
Saw this post last night and couldn't stop thinking about it because I love ethical age-gap writing, and I'm really normal about Emily. Definitely didn't work on it while I was on the clock, I would never.
Don't know the word count because I didn't look, but it's way longer than intended... oops. God forbid a woman love depth.
tags for Emily kissing you like you're the air she breathes, and poor tension building
Emily Prentiss had always existed in your peripheral vision. A figure who moved through your mother's life with the kind of easy familiarity that spoke of shared history, mutual respect, and the particular bond forged between women who'd survived in male-dominated fields. She was your mother's friend, not yours. A presence at the edges of your adolescence, someone you knew of rather than someone you actually knew.
You were thirteen the first time you really noticed her. Middle school had turned you into a creature of careful observation, hyperaware of social hierarchies and the complex dance of adult relationships. You'd been cutting through the living room to grab your copy of To Kill a Mockingbird from the coffee table when you'd heard your mother's laugh. The real one, not the polite one she used for your father's colleagues, coming from the kitchen.
Emily had been sitting at the breakfast bar, jacket draped over the back of the stool, a glass of wine catching the afternoon light. She'd looked up when you entered, and for just a moment, her dark eyes had met yours with an intensity that made you feel suddenly, inexplicably seen. Not as a child to be dismissed, but as a person worthy of acknowledgment.
"Your daughter's gotten tall," Emily had said to your mother, not to you. Emily never pulled you into conversation against your will.
You'd grabbed your book and fled, but the moment had lodged itself somewhere in your memory, a small stone you'd occasionally turn over in your mind without quite understanding why.
High school brought another encounter, this one more substantial and infinitely more mortifying. Your mother had insisted you attend her New Year's Eve party, "You're sixteen now, old enough to learn how to navigate these situations" and you'd spent most of the evening trying to look sophisticated while nursing a single glass of champagne your mother had grudgingly allowed.
Emily had arrived late, and she hadn't arrived alone.
Andrew Mendoza had been handsome in that effortless way some men managed, all easy smiles and casual confidence. You'd watched them from across the room, the way Emily's hand had rested on his lower back, the way she'd leaned in to hear him over the music. You'd felt something twist in your chest. Not quite jealousy, because that would have been absurd, but something adjacent to it. Disappointment, maybe. A vague sense that the world was arranging itself in ways that excluded you.
Your mother had noticed you watching. She always noticed.
"Emily's boyfriend," she'd said, appearing at your elbow with her own champagne. "He's with the FBI too. Seems nice enough."
You'd nodded, pretending the information meant nothing to you, and had spent the rest of the evening studiously avoiding that corner of the room.
The relationship hadn't lasted. You'd gathered that much from overheard phone conversations between your mother and Emily over the following year. By the time you left for college, Andrew Mendoza had become just another ex-boyfriend, another failed attempt at something conventional in Emily Prentiss's decidedly unconventional life.
College had given you distance, both geographical and emotional. You'd thrown yourself into your studies: psychology, criminology, a minor in linguistics that had seemed esoteric until you'd discovered how language patterns could reveal everything about a person's background, education, and intent. You'd been good at it. Better than good. Your professors had started using words like "exceptional" and "promising," and for the first time in your life, you'd felt like you were becoming someone interesting in your own right, not just your mother's daughter.
You were home for winter break during your junior year when your mother had ambushed you.
"There's a party tonight," she'd announced over breakfast, in that tone that meant the decision had already been made. "Political fundraiser. Lots of law enforcement brass. You should come."
"Mom, I have a paper due—"
"That you've already finished, knowing you." Your mother had fixed you with that look, the one that had probably broken countless suspects in interrogation rooms. "It'll be good for you. Networking. You keep saying you want to work in federal law enforcement. Well, this is how it starts."
So you'd gone, wearing a dress your mother had deemed "professional but not matronly," your hair pulled back in a way that made you look older than your twenty years. The venue had been one of those historic DC buildings that reeked of old money and older power, all marble columns and crystal chandeliers.
You'd been prepared to be bored. You'd been prepared to smile politely at aging politicians and career bureaucrats, to nod along to stories about budget committees and jurisdictional disputes.
You hadn't been prepared for Emily.
She'd been standing near the bar, and the years had changed her in ways both subtle and profound. There was silver threading through her dark hair now, catching the light when she moved. Lines had deepened around her eyes and mouth. Not aging so much as settling, as if she'd finally grown into the face she was meant to have. She'd been wearing a black suit that probably cost more than your entire semester's tuition, tailored to perfection, and when she'd laughed at something her companion said, the sound had carried across the room and lodged itself directly in your solar plexus.
Your mother had materialized beside you, following your gaze. "Come on," she'd said. "I'll introduce you properly this time."
"Mom, I've met Emily before—"
"Not like this, you haven't."
And she'd been right.
"Emily, you remember my daughter," your mother had said, and there had been something in her voice. Pride, yes, but also a kind of presentation, as if she were offering you up for inspection.
Emily had turned, and for the second time in your life, you'd felt the full weight of her attention. But this time was different. This time, you weren't a child to be politely acknowledged. This time, when her eyes met yours, something shifted in her expression. A flicker of surprise, quickly masked, followed by something else. Something that made your skin feel too tight and your breath catch in your throat.
"Of course," Emily had said, and her voice had dropped half an octave, intimate despite the crowded room. "Though I have to say, I didn't expect you to grow up quite so... impressively."
The word had hung between you, loaded with meanings you weren't quite ready to examine.
You'd talked for twenty minutes, maybe longer. About your studies, about the evolving field of behavioral analysis, about a paper you'd written on the linguistic markers of deception. Emily had listened with an intensity that made you feel like the only person in the room, asking questions that proved she wasn't just being polite, she was genuinely interested, genuinely engaged.
"You should apply to the Bureau when you graduate," she'd said finally. "With your background, your skill set... we could use someone like you."
"At the BAU?" You'd tried to keep the eagerness out of your voice and failed spectacularly.
"Maybe." Emily's smile had been enigmatic. "Let's see how the next year goes."
When you'd finally excused yourself to get another drink, your mother had stayed behind. You'd glanced back once and caught them with their heads together, your mother saying something that made Emily's expression go carefully neutral.
You hadn't thought much of it at the time.
You should have.
Graduation came and went in a blur of ceremonies and celebrations. You'd finished top of your class, had three job offers from various federal agencies, and had been preparing to accept a position with the DEA when your mother had called.
"I talked to Emily," she'd said without preamble. "She's willing to interview you for a field agent position at the BAU."
Your heart had stopped. "Mom, you didn't—"
"I absolutely did. You've wanted this since you were twenty years old. Don't pretend otherwise."
"But I don't want special treatment. I don't want to get in just because you're friends with the Section Chief—"
"Emily doesn't do favors, sweetheart. Trust me. If she's interviewing you, it's because she thinks you might actually be qualified. What you do with that opportunity is up to you."
The interview had been scheduled for a Tuesday in late May, at the BAU offices in Quantico. You'd prepared obsessively, reviewing case files, studying the team's solve rate, memorizing the names and backgrounds of every current team member. You'd bought a new suit: navy, professional, the kind of thing that said "competent" without screaming "trying too hard."
You'd been ready for a rigorous professional evaluation.
You hadn't been ready for the way Emily had looked when she'd stood to greet you in her office.
The silver in her hair had spread, no longer just threads but whole streaks that caught the fluorescent light. She'd been wearing glasses, perched on her nose as she'd reviewed what you assumed was your file. When she'd looked up and removed them, the gesture had been so casually intimate that you'd felt heat rise in your cheeks.
"Thank you for coming," Emily had said, gesturing to the chair across from her desk. "I've been looking forward to this."
The interview had been brutal. Emily had pulled no punches, presenting you with hypothetical scenarios that had no clear right answers, asking you to profile her based on her office alone, challenging every assumption you'd made. She'd been professional, thorough, and absolutely merciless.
You'd loved every second of it.
Somewhere around the forty-five-minute mark, you'd been walking her through your analysis of a cold case, a series of murders in the Pacific Northwest, when you'd noticed the shift. The way Emily had leaned forward slightly, the way her eyes had tracked your movements as you'd stood to gesture at the crime scene photos she'd spread across her desk.
"The unsub isn't local," you'd said, pointing to the geographical distribution. "But he's not a drifter either. Look at the timing, every victim was taken on a Thursday, killed within forty-eight hours, bodies discovered on Saturday mornings. That's someone with a rigid schedule, probably professional obligations that keep him in place most of the time. I'd say he travels for work, something that gives him a predictable window of opportunity."
"Go on," Emily had said, and her voice had been rough, almost strained.
"The victims are all women in their forties, professional, attractive but not conventionally beautiful. They're accomplished, a lawyer, a doctor, a professor. He's not just killing women. He's killing women who represent something to him. Authority, maybe. Or success he feels he's been denied."
You'd turned to find Emily watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read. Intensity, yes. Professional interest, certainly. But underneath that, something else. Something that made your pulse quicken and your mouth go dry.
"That's... very good," Emily had said finally. "Better than good, actually. That's exactly the profile we developed, and it took our team three days to get there."
You'd felt a flush of pride, followed immediately by a different kind of heat when Emily had stood and moved around the desk, close enough that you could smell her perfume.
"I'm going to be honest with you," Emily had said, and there had been something almost hesitant in her voice. "You're exactly what we need. Your analytical skills are exceptional, your instincts are sound, and you have the kind of mind that could make you one of the best profilers I've ever worked with."
"But?" You'd heard the hesitation, the unspoken reservation.
Emily had been quiet for a long moment, and when she'd spoken again, her voice had been carefully controlled. "But you're also your mother's daughter. And your mother is one of my closest friends. That complicates things."
"I can handle complicated," you'd said, and you'd meant it. "I'm not asking for special treatment. I'm asking for a chance to prove myself."
Emily had looked at you then, really looked at you, and you'd seen the war happening behind her eyes. Professional judgment warring with something else. Something neither of you could afford to acknowledge.
"Okay," she'd said finally. "Okay. I'll recommend you for the position. But understand this—if you join this team, I will hold you to the same standards as everyone else. Higher, probably, because I'll be watching for any sign that I made a mistake. Any sign that I let personal considerations cloud my judgment."
"I wouldn't want it any other way."
Emily had extended her hand, and when you'd taken it, the contact had lasted a beat too long. Her palm had been warm, her grip firm, and when she'd finally released you, you'd felt the loss of that contact like a physical thing.
"Welcome to the BAU," Emily said.
Working at the BAU was everything you'd hoped it would be and nothing you'd been prepared for.
The cases were brutal. The kind of darkness that seeped into your bones and stayed there, coloring your dreams and changing the way you moved through the world. You learned to compartmentalize, to build walls between the horror you witnessed and the person you needed to be when you went home at night. You learned to trust your team, to read the subtle signals that meant someone was struggling, to offer support without making it obvious.
And you learned to exist in Emily Prentiss's orbit without combusting.
It wasn't easy.
Emily was exactly the kind of leader you'd expected: brilliant, demanding, fiercely protective of her team. She pushed you harder than anyone else, questioned your conclusions more rigorously, made you defend every profile and every instinct. At first, you'd thought it was because of what she'd said in the interview, that she was watching for signs she'd made a mistake.
It took you three months to realize the truth: Emily was pushing you because you could take it. Because you rose to every challenge she presented. Because watching you work, watching you think, seemed to give her a particular kind of satisfaction that had nothing to do with professional pride.
The team had noticed, of course. Profilers noticed everything.
"She's hard on you," JJ had said one day, catching you in the break room after a particularly grueling case review. "Harder than she is on the rest of us."
"I can handle it," you'd said, and you'd meant it.
JJ had given you a look that suggested she saw more than you wanted her to. "I know you can. I'm just wondering if you should have to."
But you didn't mind. If anything, you craved it. The way Emily's attention felt like a spotlight, bright and hot and impossible to hide from. You craved the moments when you'd present a theory and watch her eyes light up with recognition. You craved the rare praise she offered, each word of approval landing like a physical touch.
You craved her, and that was the problem.
Because Emily was your boss. Emily was your mother's best friend. Emily was twenty years older than you, with silver hair and a lifetime of experience that made your own accomplishments feel small and insignificant.
And Emily, you were increasingly certain, wanted you back.
It was in the way she looked at you when she thought you weren't paying attention, a hunger quickly masked, replaced by professional neutrality. It was in the way she found excuses to keep you late, going over case files that didn't really need reviewing, asking your opinion on matters that didn't really require your input. It was in the careful distance she maintained, never touching you unless absolutely necessary, as if she didn't trust herself with even casual contact.
It was in the way she'd frozen, just for a second, when you'd walked into the bullpen one morning wearing a new suit: charcoal gray, tailored to fit, professional but undeniably flattering. You'd caught her staring, her expression unguarded for just a moment before she'd turned away, jaw tight.
The tension between you had become a living thing, present in every interaction, every meeting, every moment you spent in the same room. The team had definitely noticed. You'd caught Tara watching you both with barely concealed amusement, and Rossi had started making pointed comments about "workplace dynamics" that made Emily's expression go carefully blank.
It had been a Thursday evening, the bullpen mostly empty, when Emily had called you into her office to review your report on the last case. You'd known the report was fine, more than fine, actually, but you'd gone anyway, climbing the stairs to her office with your heart beating too fast.
She'd been standing by the window when you entered, her back to you, silhouetted against the city lights. She'd turned at the sound of your knock, and something in her expression had made you pause in the doorway.
"Close the door," she'd said, and your hand had trembled slightly as you'd obeyed.
You'd crossed to her desk, hyperaware of every step, of the way her eyes tracked your movement. She'd gestured to the report spread across her desk, and you'd leaned over to look, bracing your hands on the edge of the wood.
She'd moved to stand beside you, close enough that you could smell her perfume, could feel the warmth of her body. Her hand had come to rest on the desk, inches from yours, and you'd both stared at the pages without really seeing them.
"This section here," she'd said, her voice lower than necessary, and she'd leaned closer, her shoulder brushing yours. "It's good. Really good."
You'd turned your head to respond and found her face inches from yours, her dark eyes locked on your mouth. The air between you had felt electric, charged with six months of wanting. You'd watched her throat work as she swallowed, watched her lean in just slightly, and your breath had caught.
Then her phone had rung, shattering the moment, and she'd stepped back so quickly she'd nearly stumbled. You'd straightened, your hands shaking, and she'd answered the call with her back to you, her voice perfectly professional, perfectly controlled.
When she'd hung up, she'd kept her distance, her expression carefully neutral. "The report is excellent. You can go."
You'd left without another word, but you'd felt her eyes on you all the way to the door. When you'd glanced back, she'd been gripping the edge of her desk, her knuckles white, staring at the spot where you'd been standing like she was trying to memorize it.
The next day, she'd barely looked at you during the morning briefing.
Until your mother's bridal shower changed everything.
Your mother's engagement had been a surprise to everyone, including you. She'd been single for years after the divorce from your father, seemingly content with her career and her friendships and her role as your occasionally overbearing but ultimately well-meaning parent. Then she'd met Richard, a retired federal judge, widowed, kind in a way your father had never been, and something had shifted.
"I didn't think I'd do this again," she'd told you when she'd announced the engagement. "But he makes me happy. And I'm too old to pretend that doesn't matter."
You'd been thrilled for her. Genuinely, completely thrilled. She deserved happiness, deserved someone who looked at her the way Richard did, like she was the most fascinating person in any room.
The bridal shower had been your idea, actually. Something small and intimate, just close friends and family, an afternoon of champagne and laughter before the wedding itself. You'd helped plan it, had spent weeks coordinating with your mother's friends, arranging catering, finding the perfect flowers.
And of course, Emily had been invited. Of course she had.
You'd known she was coming. You'd prepared yourself for it, had given yourself stern internal lectures about maintaining appropriate boundaries, about not reading too much into casual interactions, about remembering that Emily was your boss and your mother's friend and absolutely off-limits in every possible way.
None of that preparation had mattered when you'd seen her walk through the door.
She'd been wearing a dress, the first time in a very long time you'd seen her in anything other than suits or tactical gear. It was simple, elegant, a deep burgundy that made her silver hair look almost luminous. She'd left her hair down, soft waves framing her face, and when she'd smiled at your mother, you'd felt something crack open in your chest.
"You look beautiful," you'd heard Emily say, embracing your mother. "I'm so happy for you."
"Thank you for coming," your mother had replied. "I know you're busy."
"Never too busy for this. For you."
You'd stayed on the other side of the room, helping your aunt arrange gift bags, trying not to stare. Trying and failing spectacularly.
The afternoon had passed in a blur of games and toasts and the particular kind of joy that came from watching someone you loved be celebrated. You'd given a speech that had made your mother cry, had laughed at stories from her college friends, had felt genuinely, uncomplicated happy.
And through it all, you'd been aware of Emily. Her presence like a magnetic field, pulling at your attention even when you were determinedly looking elsewhere. You'd caught her watching you more than once, her expression unreadable, and each time your eyes had met, the air between you had felt charged, dangerous.
You'd been standing by the gift table, arranging the mountain of wrapped boxes, when Emily had approached.
"Your speech was lovely," she'd said, and her voice had been soft, intimate despite the crowded room. "You're good at this. At making people feel seen."
"It's easy when it's genuine," you'd replied, and then, because you apparently had no self-preservation instinct: "You look beautiful, by the way. The dress is... it's really beautiful."
Emily's expression had shifted, something vulnerable flickering across her face before she'd locked it down. "Thank you. I wasn't sure about it. I don't usually..."
"You should wear dresses more often," you'd said, and the words had come out lower than you'd intended, almost rough.
The silence that had followed had been heavy, loaded with everything you couldn't say. Emily had opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again.
"We should probably—" she'd started, but then your mother had called your name, asking for help with something in the kitchen, and the moment had shattered.
You'd spent the rest of the afternoon carefully avoiding being alone with Emily, and she'd seemed to be doing the same. You'd caught her helping clean up, staying busy, her movements almost agitated.
When your mother had asked you to take your little cousin home, you'd been almost grateful for the excuse to leave. The tension had been becoming unbearable, the weight of everything unspoken pressing down on you until you could barely breathe.
You'd said your goodbyes, had hugged your mother, had carefully not looked at Emily as you'd ushered your cousin out the door.
You'd thought that was the end of it. You'd thought you'd escaped.
You should have known better.
The last of the guests had trickled out around four, leaving behind a pleasant debris of champagne flutes, crumpled napkins, and the lingering scent of expensive perfume. Your mother surveyed the kitchen with the practiced eye of someone who'd hosted countless gatherings, already mentally organizing the cleanup.
"You don't have to stay," she said to Emily, who was already rolling up the sleeves of her burgundy dress. "You've done enough just by being here."
"Please," Emily replied, reaching for a dish towel. "You think I'm going to leave you with all this? What kind of friend would I be?"
Your mother smiled, turning on the tap and beginning to rinse champagne flutes. They fell into an easy rhythm, the kind that came from years of friendship. Your mother washing, Emily drying, both of them moving around each other with practiced familiarity.
They worked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the running water and the clink of glass. Then your mother spoke, her voice casual but weighted with meaning.
"So how guilty do you feel?"
Emily's hands stilled on the glass she was drying. She didn't pretend not to understand. "So awful. And I hate that I needed to talk to you of all people about it this whole time."
Your mother glanced at her, something soft in her expression. "She's my daughter, Emily. And she's also a grown woman who makes her own choices. I've seen the way you look at her."
Emily set down the glass carefully, like she was afraid it might shatter. "I've tried not to." Her voice was rough, almost desperate. "God, I've tried so hard not to. But she's... she's witty, and she's gorgeous. And I know I shouldn't—I know all the reasons this is wrong. I could list them all day."
"But you want her anyway."
It wasn't a question. Your mother's voice was gentle, understanding in a way that made Emily's chest tight.
Emily was quiet for a long moment, her hands gripping the edge of the counter. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. "I want her anyway. And I hate myself for it."
Your mother turned off the tap, giving Emily her full attention. "How long?"
"Since she started." Emily's laugh was bitter, self-deprecating. "No, that's not true. Since the interview. She walked into my office in that navy suit, and she was so confident, so sharp, and I thought—I thought I could handle it. I thought I could be professional. And I have been. I've been so careful."
"I know you have."
"Do you?" Emily's voice cracked slightly. She picked up another glass, drying it with more force than necessary. "Because today, when she told me I looked beautiful, I almost—" She broke off, setting the glass down too hard. The clink echoed in the quiet kitchen. "I almost kissed her. Right there, in front of everyone. I wanted to so badly I could barely breathe."
Your mother was quiet for a moment, processing this. She picked up another flute, rinsing it slowly. "What stopped you?"
"You. Her career. My career. The fact that I'm her boss and I could ruin everything for her if this goes wrong." Emily's voice was rising now, all the fear and frustration she'd been holding back spilling out. "The fact that she deserves better than someone who's too damaged and too old and too—"
"Emily." Your mother's voice was firm now, cutting through Emily's spiral. She set down the glass and turned to face her friend fully. "Stop. You don't get to decide what she deserves. That's her choice."
"She doesn't know what she wants. She doesn't know me."
"Doesn't she?" There was a knowing tone in your mother's voice that made Emily look up sharply. "I've seen the way she looks at you too, you know. I'm her mother. You think I don't notice when my daughter is completely gone for someone?"
Emily made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. She pressed her palms against the counter, her head dropping forward. "That makes it worse. If she—if she feels something too, then I'm the one who has to be responsible. I'm the one who has to say no."
"Why?"
The question hung in the air, simple and devastating.
"Because I'm her boss," Emily said, but she sounded less certain now. "Because of the power dynamic. Because she's your daughter. Because-"
"Because you're scared," your mother interrupted gently. She moved closer, leaning against the counter beside Emily. "And I get it, Em. I do. But you can't protect her from everything, I've tried. And you can't protect yourself from feeling things by just... not letting yourself have them."
Emily's hands were trembling now. She gripped the counter harder, as if it was the only thing keeping her upright. "I don't know how to do this." Her voice was raw now, vulnerable in a way your mother had rarely heard. "I don't know how to want someone like this and not fuck it up. I don't let people in. I don't—I've spent my entire adult life keeping people at arm's length because it's easier. Because I can't lose what I never let myself have."
"That's not living, Emily. That's just surviving."
The words landed like a physical blow. Emily's eyes closed, and your mother saw the tears threatening to spill over.
"What if I hurt her?" Emily finally whispered. "What if I'm not—what if I can't be what she needs?"
Your mother reached out, placing a hand on Emily's arm. The touch was gentle, grounding. "What if you are? What if you're exactly what she needs, and she's exactly what you need, and you're both too scared to find out?"
"She's your daughter." Emily's voice broke on the words.
"Yes. And I love her more than anything in this world. Which is why I'm telling you this." Your mother's voice was serious now, weighted with something that sounded like both warning and permission. "If you're going to do this, if you're going to pursue this, you need to be sure. Not because of me, not because of work, but because of her. She's strong, and she's smart, and she knows her own mind. But she also feels things deeply. If you're going to let yourself want her, you need to be all in. No half measures. No running when it gets hard."
Emily opened her eyes, meeting your mother's gaze. "I don't know if I can promise that."
"Then you need to walk away now. Before it goes any further."
The silence that followed was heavy, loaded with the weight of the decision Emily was facing. Your mother watched her friend's face, saw the war happening there. Fear and desire and hope all tangled together.
"I don't think I can do that either," Emily admitted, and she sounded almost broken. "I don't think I can walk away from her. I've tried. God, I've tried so hard. But every day she walks into the office, and she smiles at me, and she's so fucking brilliant at this job, and I just—I want her. I want to know what she thinks about everything. I want to hear her laugh. I want to wake up next to her and make her coffee and listen to her talk about her cases. I want all of it, and I don't know how to stop wanting it."
Your mother's expression softened. She squeezed Emily's arm gently. "Then don't. Don't stop wanting it. Don't stop wanting her. Just... be careful with her heart. And with yours."
"I don't know what to do," Emily said, and your mother could hear the tears in her voice now. "I've never... I don't let myself want things like this. People like this. It's easier that way. Safer."
"Maybe safe isn't what you need anymore." Your mother pulled Emily into a hug, holding her friend as she finally let herself break down, just a little. "Maybe what you need is to let yourself be happy. To let yourself have something good. You've spent so long protecting everyone else, Em. Maybe it's time to let someone protect you for a change."
Emily held on tight, her face pressed against your mother's shoulder. "I'm terrified," she whispered.
"I know. But you're also brave. You're one of the bravest people I know." Your mother pulled back, looking Emily in the eye. "And I think my daughter is brave too. Brave enough to handle whatever comes. Brave enough to handle you. You are also on a very short list of people I trust with her life."
Emily laughed wetly, wiping at her eyes. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise. You just never listened." Your mother smiled, then sobered. "I mean it, though. If you do this, be all in. She deserves that. And so do you."
Emily nodded, taking a shaky breath. She picked up the dish towel again, needing something to do with her hands. "Thank you. For not... for not being angry. For understanding."
"She's my daughter, but she's not a child. And you're my friend, but you're also a woman who deserves to be happy." Your mother turned the tap back on, returning to the dishes. "Besides, I've been watching this build for months. I was wondering when one of you would finally do something about it."
Your mother just smiled, that knowing smile that made Emily's cheeks flush. "Yet."
They finished the dishes in silence, but it was a different kind of silence now. Lighter. Full of possibility instead of tension.
When they heard the front door open and your voice calling out, your mother caught Emily's eye and smiled. "Ready?"
Emily took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. "No. But I don't think I ever will be."
"Good," your mother said. "That means it matters."
The drive to your aunt's house and back had taken forty-five minutes, and you'd spent the entire time trying to talk yourself down from whatever ledge you'd been standing on. This was ridiculous. You were being ridiculous. Emily was your boss. Emily was your mother's best friend. Emily was completely, entirely, absolutely off-limits.
The fact that you wanted her so badly it felt like a physical ache was irrelevant.
When you walked into the kitchen, your mother was smiling, a knowing, almost mischievous smile that made you quirk a brow at her. Emily's eyes were slightly red, but she'd composed herself, her expression carefully neutral.
"Hey, sweetheart," your mother said. "Can you help Emily finish the dishes? I need to go change."
And then she left, just like that, leaving you alone with Emily in a kitchen that suddenly felt far too small.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Emily kept her eyes on the dish she was drying, her movements careful and controlled. You stood by the sink, acutely aware of the space between you. Less than two feet, close enough to touch if you just reached out.
You turned on the tap and picked up a champagne flute, focusing on the simple task of rinsing away the remnants of celebration. Emily moved beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from her body, and picked up another glass to dry.
The silence stretched between you, thick with everything unsaid. You could feel her watching you, quick glances when she thought you weren't paying attention, her gaze lingering on your hands, your profile, the curve of your neck.
You were holding back. She knew you were holding back. Every movement was careful, controlled, keeping just enough distance between you to maintain the pretense that everything was normal. That you hadn't spent the entire drive back thinking about her.
Emily set down the towel.
You felt her shift beside you, felt the change in the air, and then her hand was on the faucet, turning off the water while you were mid-rinse, soap suds still clinging to the glass in your hands.
"Emily, if we cross—"
"I talked to your mom."
The words hung between you for a heartbeat, and then Emily was kissing you.
Her hands found your hips, gripping the fabric of your dress as she pressed you back against the counter. The champagne flute slipped from your fingers into the sink with a soft clink, forgotten, as your hands came up to tangle in her hair. Wet fingers catching at her roots and insisting you dig in.
It wasn't gentle. It was desperate, hungry, six months of wanting compressed into a single moment. Her mouth was hot against yours, demanding, and you opened for her with a sound that was half gasp, half moan. She tasted like champagne and something darker, something that made your knees weak.
Her fingers tightened on your hips, pulling you closer, and you could feel her everywhere. The press of her body against yours, the silk of her dress against your skin, the way she was trembling slightly as if she couldn't quite believe this was happening.
When she finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. Her forehead rested against yours, her eyes still closed, her hands still gripping your dress like she was afraid to let go.
"I've wanted to do that," she whispered, her voice rough, "for so fucking long."
You couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. So you kissed her again, softer this time, slower, and felt her melt against you.
When you finally broke apart, the kitchen felt different. The air felt different. Everything felt different.
You finished the dishes together, but the energy had shifted entirely. Every brush of her hand against yours was deliberate now. Every glance was loaded with promise. She'd lean close to put away a glass, her breath warm against your neck, and you'd have to grip the counter to steady yourself.
You moved to the counters next, wiping them down with practiced efficiency, but you kept finding excuses to be near her. To touch her. Her hand would find the small of your back as she reached past you for the spray bottle. Your fingers would brush hers as you handed her a clean cloth.
It was intoxicating, this new permission to want her openly.
You were wiping down the last counter when you heard footsteps on the stairs. Your mother appeared in the doorway, now dressed in comfortable clothes, her hair down. Her eyes swept the kitchen, the clean dishes, the spotless counters, and then landed on you.
Specifically, on your hips, where the fabric of your dress was wrinkled and creased from Emily's grip.
Her smile was knowing, almost smug, and you felt heat flood your cheeks.
"All done?" she asked innocently.
"All done," Emily confirmed, her voice steady despite the flush on her own cheeks.
"Good." Your mother's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Emily, thank you for staying to help. I know you have a long drive home."
It was a dismissal, gentle but clear, and Emily took it with grace.
"Of course," she said. "Thank you for letting me be part of today."
You walked her out, acutely aware of your mother's eyes on your back. The street was empty now, just you, Emily and her sleek black sedan under the streetlights.
Emily's hand found yours in the darkness between the door and her car, her fingers threading through yours with an ease that felt both new and inevitable.
"I'll call you," she said when you reached her car. "Later tonight. Is that okay?"
"More than okay."
She squeezed your hand, then lifted it to her lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles that made your breath catch. "Good. Because we need to talk about what happens next."
"I know."
"And I need to hear your voice again." Her smile was soft, vulnerable in a way you'd never seen before. "I need to make sure this is real."
"It's real," you promised.
She kissed you once more, quick and sweet, and then she was sliding into her car. You watched her drive away, your hand still tingling where her lips had been.
When you went back inside, your mother was waiting in the kitchen, two glasses of wine already poured.
"Don't say anything," you warned.
"I wasn't going to say anything," she said, entirely too innocently, and handed you a glass. "Except maybe... about time."
You groaned, but you couldn't stop smiling.
You'd been home for an hour, had changed into comfortable clothes and made tea you weren't drinking, when your phone rang.
Emily's name lit up the screen, and your heart jumped into your throat.
"Hi," you answered, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
"Hi." Her voice was soft, intimate in a way that made you feel like she was right there beside you. "I'm sorry it took me a while. I needed to drive for a bit, clear my head."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm..." She paused, and you could hear the smile in her voice. "I'm better than okay. I'm terrified, but I'm okay."
You settled back against your pillows, cradling the phone closer. "What are you terrified of?"
"That I'm going to wake up and this will have been some kind of stress-induced hallucination." Her laugh was shaky. "That you're going to realize what a mess I am and change your mind."
"I'm not going to change my mind," you said quietly. "Are you?"
"God, no." The intensity in her voice made your breath catch. "No, I've been changing my mind about this for months, and I'm done. I'm done pretending I don't want you. I'm done keeping my distance. I'm done with all of it."
"Emily—"
"I know it's complicated," she continued, her words tumbling out like she'd been holding them back for too long. "I know there are things we need to figure out. The job, your mom, all of it. But I don't care anymore. I can't care. Not when I've finally got you."
Your eyes stung with tears you didn't expect. "I've wanted this for so long."
"I know. Your mom told me." There was a smile in her voice now. "She also told me I was an idiot for waiting this long."
"She's not wrong."
Emily's laugh was real this time, warm and genuine. "No, she's not. I wasted so much time being afraid."
"You're not afraid now?"
"Terrified," she admitted. "But not of this. Not of you. I'm afraid of messing it up, of not being what you need, of—" She stopped herself. "Sorry. I'm rambling."
"Don't apologize." You pulled your blanket up around yourself, wishing it was her arms instead. "I like hearing what you're thinking."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
There was a long moment of comfortable silence, and then Emily spoke again, her voice softer. "I meant what I said. About wanting to prove myself. But I also meant what I said to your mom. About wanting you. Both things are true."
"I know."
"And you're okay with that? With me being your boss and also... this?"
"We'll figure it out," you said, and meant it. "Together."
You could hear her exhale, like she'd been holding her breath. "Together. I like the sound of that."
You talked for two hours, about everything and nothing. About the complications you'd face, how to navigate professional boundaries, and what this meant for your future at the BAU. Emily was honest about her concerns: the power dynamic, the potential for gossip, and the risk to your career if things went wrong.
But underneath all of that, there was something else. Hope. Possibility. The tentative beginning of something that felt like it could be real.
"I want to see you," Emily said finally. "Not at work. Not as your boss. Just... as me."
"When?"
"Tomorrow? I know it's Sunday, and you probably have plans—"
"I don't," you said quickly. "I don't have plans. Tomorrow is perfect."
You could hear the smile in Emily's voice. "Okay. Tomorrow. I'll text you the address."
"Emily?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For taking a chance on this. On us."
"Thank you for making me want to," Emily replied softly. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," you agreed.
After you hung up, you sat in the quiet of your apartment, your phone still warm in your hand, and let yourself feel it—the joy, the anticipation, the terrifying exhilaration of standing on the edge of something new.
Your phone buzzed with a text from your mother: I'm proud of you. Both of you. Be happy.
You smiled, typing back a quick response, and then opened the new message from Emily.
It was an address in Georgetown, followed by: Brunch at 11? Fair warning: I'm a terrible cook, so we might end up ordering in.
You laughed, the sound bright in the quiet room, and typed back: I'll bring coffee. See you at 11.
Emily's response came almost immediately: Can't wait.
And neither could you.
You stood outside Emily's building at 10:58, two cups of coffee in hand, trying to calm the nervous flutter in your chest. You'd changed your outfit three times that morning, finally settling on jeans and a soft sweater that felt casual but intentional. Now, staring at the elegant Georgetown brownstone, you wondered if you should have dressed up more, or maybe less, or—
The door opened before you could knock.
Emily stood there in dark jeans and a loose button-down, her hair down around her shoulders, and she was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. Before you could say hello, before you could offer her the coffee, she stepped forward and kissed you.
It was soft and sure, her hand coming up to cup your cheek, and every nervous thought in your head dissolved like sugar in water. You made a small sound against her mouth, and she smiled, pulling back just enough to take the coffee cups from your hands and set them on the entry table.
"Hi," she said, her voice warm and a little breathless.
"Hi," you managed, and she kissed you again, slower this time, her fingers threading through your hair.
When she finally pulled away, she was smiling, really smiling, the kind of smile you'd only seen glimpses of before. "Come in. I should probably stop mauling you in the doorway."
"I'm not complaining," you said, following her inside.
Her apartment was beautiful, hardwood floors, exposed brick, bookshelves lining every wall. It was elegant but lived-in, with throw blankets draped over the couch and a stack of case files on the coffee table that she quickly moved aside.
"So," Emily said, handing you your coffee and settling beside you on the couch, close enough that your knees touched. "Full disclosure: I attempted to make pancakes this morning and nearly set off the smoke alarm. I ordered from that place on M Street instead. I hope that's okay."
You laughed, some of the remaining tension easing from your shoulders. "That's more than okay. I appreciate the effort, though."
"I wanted to impress you," she admitted, and there was something vulnerable in her expression. "I want a lot of things, actually. I want to know you. Really know you. Not just the professional version you show at work, but... everything. What you think about at three in the morning. What makes you laugh. What scares you." She paused, her fingers finding yours. "I want to do this right."
Your throat tightened with emotion. "I want that too. All of it."
"Good." Emily squeezed your hand. "But we need to talk about the practical stuff first. The less romantic but equally important things."
You nodded, appreciating her directness. "Work."
"Work," she agreed. "I'll need to file the relationship disclosure paperwork with the bureau. It's standard procedure when there's a supervisory relationship involved. HR will need to review it, make sure there are no conflicts of interest that can't be managed."
"Will it be a problem?" you asked, trying to keep the worry from your voice.
"No," Emily said firmly. "You report to me, but you're not directly supervised in a way that would create issues. I don't control your assignments or evaluations in a way that would be problematic—the team structure is more collaborative than that. But it needs to be documented. Official."
The word 'official' sent a thrill through you. This was real. She was already thinking about how to make it work.
"As for the team," Emily continued, her thumb stroking across your knuckles, "I think we should keep this between us for a while. Not because I'm ashamed or want to hide you, but because I want us to figure out what this is without everyone watching and weighing in. The team means well, but they're profilers. They'll analyze everything."
"I agree," you said. "I want this to be ours first. Before it becomes everyone else's business."
"Exactly." Emily's expression softened. "And at work, things have to stay professional. I can't show favoritism, and you can't expect special treatment. If anything, I'll probably keep being harder on you than anyone else, just to avoid any appearance of impropriety."
"I can handle that," you said. "I don't want special treatment. I just want to be good at my job. And I want you."
Emily's eyes darkened slightly. "You have me. I'm all in on this. On us. I just need to know you understand what you're signing up for. The complications, the scrutiny if people find out, the fact that I'm twenty years older than you and your mother's best friend and your boss. It's a lot."
"I know it's a lot," you said, shifting closer. "But I've thought about nothing else for months. I've weighed every complication, every reason this could be difficult. And none of it changes how I feel. None of it makes me want this less."
Emily studied your face, searching for doubt and finding none. "Okay," she said finally. "Okay. We're doing this."
"We're doing this," you repeated, and it felt like a promise.
She kissed you again, soft and lingering, and when she pulled back, she was smiling. "The food should be here in about twenty minutes. Until then, tell me something I don't know about you. Something real."
So you did. You told her about the year you spent volunteering at a crisis hotline in college, about the way you still called your grandmother every Sunday, about your irrational fear of birds and your secret love of terrible reality TV. And she told you about growing up moving from country to country, about her complicated relationship with her mother, about the fact that she'd always wanted a dog but never felt settled enough to get one.
You talked through brunch, through the afternoon, through the comfortable silence that fell as you curled up together on her couch. And somewhere in those hours, the nervousness faded completely, replaced by a bone-deep certainty that this, Emily, this connection, this risk you were both taking, was exactly right.
When you finally left that evening, stepping out into the cool night air, Emily walked you to the door with her hand gently resting on the small of your back. She kissed you goodbye like she'd been doing it for years, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like you'd shared a thousand evenings just like this one. Her lips lingered on yours for just a moment longer than necessary.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, pulling back with that knowing smile of hers, the one that made your stomach flip. "At work, where I'll be completely professional and probably ignore you."
"I'm counting on it," you said, grinning. "Section Chief Prentiss."
She laughed, shaking her head. "Get out of here before I change my mind about letting you leave."
You left with her laughter following you down the stairs, your heart full, your mind quiet. You were doing this. You were really doing this.
And it felt like coming home.
Walking into the BAU on Monday morning felt different. Everything looked the same, the same bullpen, the same desks, the same case files waiting to be reviewed. But you felt changed, like you were seeing it all through new eyes.
Emily was already in her office when you arrived, visible through the glass walls. She looked up when you entered the bullpen, and for just a second, her professional mask slipped. You saw the warmth in her eyes, the small smile that tugged at her lips before she controlled it.
Then she was Section Chief Prentiss again, nodding at you in greeting before returning to her paperwork.
But you'd seen it. That moment of unguarded affection. And you knew that later, after the workday ended, after the rest of the team went home, you'd see it again.
You'd spent Sunday at her apartment, talking and laughing and learning each other in ways that had nothing to do with work. You'd learned that Emily took her coffee black, that she had a weakness for old movies, that she was surprisingly competitive about board games. You'd learned that she was gentle when she touched you, almost reverent, like she still couldn't quite believe this was real.
And you'd learned that being with her felt like coming home.
"Morning," JJ said, appearing at your desk with her own coffee. "Good weekend?"
"Yeah," you said, and you couldn't quite keep the smile off your face. "Really good, actually."
JJ's eyes narrowed slightly, that profiler's instinct kicking in, but before she could ask any questions, Emily's voice came over the intercom.
"Team, conference room. We have a case."
You grabbed your tablet and followed the others, taking your usual seat at the table. Emily stood at the head, pulling up crime scene photos, her voice steady and professional as she briefed the team.
But when her eyes met yours across the table, just for a second, you saw it again, that warmth, that promise of later.
And you knew, with absolute certainty, that you'd made the right choice. You both had.
somebody needs to make a story about Emily Prentiss being good friends with a new bau agent’s mom and she falls in love with her but struggles with it because not only is she the daughter of her good friend, but also a subordinate, and way younger.
