Considering how approving and encouraging Miranda was at the prospect of Andy writing the book about her, imagine a fic where they went all “The seven husbands of Evelyn Hugo.”
They’d sit down together, Miranda would give all the juicy details of her life, her job, the industry, her marriages, her enemies, her lovers and Andy would write it all down in order to write the book.
Miranda would drop vague hints about being in love with someone she shouldn’t have been decades ago, how inappropriate it was and how it could never have been.
Obviously because Andy can’t leave it be, she’d dig into that.
Through it Andy would realise that Miranda had actually been in love with her the whole time they’d worked together and even afterwords, which is why she pretended to not know who she was despite still thinking of her often.
And then once she’d figured it out, Miranda would be all
“You took your time.”
God I wish I had the time to write a full fic like this 🤣
francesca’s whole family seeing firsthand at john’s celebration of life how michaela was able to lighten her up in a way no one else could since john died oh this is how violet bridgerton will lead the charge that ensures the legalization of gay marriage when their season comes🙂↕️🙂↕️
The fact that Cressida lived in a dark home all her life with her parents and even called it a mausoleum and now that she has her own home she decorates it in bright pink, I love that for her go Barbie
an// YOU GUYS! Y’all crushed Showtime so much, I had to write a lil extra of the team figuring it all out! Truly thank you to everyone who enjoyed it, I cannot remember the last time I had a fic get so much support! TY 💐
-
It was hard for you and Aaron to go back to being at odds after being undercover. It's been weeks, but it’s taking some time for that mask to go completely back on at work. The team kicked it all back off again with a joke the second you sit down for a briefing.
“Thanks for joining us, Mrs. Hayes.” Morgan smirks, turning in his chair back and forth.
You roll your eyes while Emily sits down next to you and asks him, “You’re still stuck on that?”
“We watched them kiss how many times? You’ve moved on?”
You flip open your file, “You’re welcome for the obsession.”
Hotch doesn’t look up, “Focus, please.”
You look up and glance around at everyone in the room. Rossi’s eyes are already studying you with a small smile.
He taps his fingers on the table before speaking, “Let’s profile a hypothetical.”
The team begins looking between you and Aaron in a curious way.
Emily laughs, “No way. Not with this unit. Impossible.”
“Is it?” Rossi questions.
Hotch doesn’t look up from his file, and you take a sip of your coffee. No reaction.
JJ leans forward, joining their hypothetical, “Okay, so what was the trigger event?”
“Undercover assignment that required intimacy.” Rossi gestures between you two.
Morgan grins, “And boom, they’re both suddenly very convincing.”
“We’re right here.” You finally set down your file.
“Yes,” Garcia grins, “That’s what makes this fun!”
“That level of physical ease doesn’t come overnight.”
You don’t dare cut a look to Aaron, that would not go unnoticed right now. They go back and forth continuing to debate if Hotch was faking uncomfortability the first day undercover or if he was just uncomfortable under their eyes.
“At the risk of my job,” Garcia meekly raises her hand, “After the Flagstaff case I did look into their schedules-”
“Garcia!” Hotch warns.
She unsurprisingly barrels on anyway, “Their access badges have had the same arrival time since Halloween.”
“Lots of people arrive at the same time.”
“Y/n and Hotch also leave within three minutes of each other on non-field days.” Spencer states.
Hotch finally exhales one through his nose. You look up to the ceiling and fight the urge to just close your eyes.
“And they have the same gym sessions blocked out every Tuesday and Thursday, but their badges are never scanned in.”
“Oh my god!” JJ gasps.
Rossi squints, “Why are you so calm right now?”
“Because,” You keep your voice even, “this is entertaining.”
Emily’s eyes widen and she smacks your shoulder, “Oh my god.”
You look over to Aaron finally, the corner of his mouth twitching up barely.
“Hotch.” Morgan notices it too and calls him out.
No denial. Just silence.
Morgan leans back slowly, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
The realization sinks in over the rest of the team. They no longer shout their ideas and evidence over each other, instead they look between you two eagerly. Chomping at the bit for any and every detail.
“You aren’t denying it.” Emily is practically shaking your shoulders now.
You laugh while shrugging her away, “You’re profilers. Profile.”
“Oh, that is so confirmation!” Garcia squeals.
Morgan suddenly stands from his chair, “Months! This has been going on for months?”
Rossi smiles, still just looking between you at Hotch, “Minimum.”
“I feel betrayed,” Emily groans, “How many girls nights out have we had?”
“You let me make undercover kiss jokes for weeks.” Morgan chuckles, shaking his head in pure disbelief.
You can’t help but grin, “You seemed happy.”
“This is the most controlled long-con relationship in BAU history.” Spencer points out.
Hotch meets their eyes. No apology. Just a quiet and quick acknowledgement.
“Yes.”
Rossi claps one, “Well done. Both of you.”
“You realize that we’re never letting this go, right?”
You smile softly now, “We never never expected you would.”
“Human resources have been aware since the relationship started.” Hotch states.
“Which was when exactly?” JJ raises her brows.
You know that Hotch has a lot he wants to reassure the team about. The power imbalance. The age-gap. All of them are completely valid concerns.
Hotch finally closes his file and sets it back on the table. It’s clear they aren’t going to start this briefing anytime soon.
-
Towards the end of the day everyone is reviewing their reports at their desks, trying to get their work done to head home for the weekend. The bullpen is still riding the high of the new revelation, the energy still bouncing off of everyone. You contemplated working in the lair to get away from everyone’s teasing comments, but you know being trapped one on one with Garcia is far more dangerous than everyone else.
The elevator dings.
JJ looks up first, “Hey, Jack’s here.”
Hotch looks up immediately, coming to stand at the top of the stairs by the door to his office. His whole expression softens when Jack trots in with his backpack on and a paper in hand. He makes a beeline for his dad, but detours halfway. Straight to you.
You roll back from your desk in time for a big hug.
“Hi.”
You smile down at him and instinctively brush his hair back, “Hey, you.”
Morgan freezes mid sip and Emily’s brows raise a couple degrees.
JJ whispers, “Oh this is going to be good.”
Hotch clears his throat lightly, “Jack.”
He turns to look up at his dad, “What?”
“You wanna show me what you brought?” Hotch nods down to the piece of paper he has protectively in his hand.
“In a second,” He turns back to you, “Are you still coming over tonight?”
The bullpen goes totally silent.
You don’t miss a beat, “That depends. Did you do your chores already?”
“Yeah, Dad said we should do it before you came over this weekend.”
“Jack…” Hotch warns.
You can tell he’s just getting started.
“Look!” He finally presents the piece of paper he had been holding. It’s a drawing of three stick figures all standing together holding hands. It isn’t labeled with names, but the details make it’s clear who he drew. Jack, Aaron, and you. One of many drawings.
“This is a good one!” You smile softly and lean down to press a kiss to the top of his head, “Go show your dad.”
He launches off of you to chase up the stairs to his dad.
“We built a full behavioral timeline and Garcia hacked into numerous FBI databases when we could’ve just asked the witness.” Rossi shakes his head.
“Always ask the child.” JJ nods.
“Thanks, buddy.” Hotch takes the drawing from him and bends down to scoop him up in a hug.
“I know you said we’re not supposed to tell people at work-”
“It’s okay, buddy.” Aaron reassures.
“Weeks of deduction.” Morgan shakes his head.
“Hell, you should hire him.” Rossi chuckles, “He’s a natural.”
Jack looks confused, “Y/n said that honesty matters.”
You laugh, “Yes, I did. It does matter.”
You hear Emily huff an ‘mhm’ somewhere behind you. You’re sure the whole team just rolled their eyes.
Morgan walks up to Jack and offers him a fist bump, “You closed the case faster than all of us.”
Jack beams, “Does that mean I get a badge?”
“Okay,” Emily leans against the edge of her desk and asks, “Details, Agent.”
Jack nods seriously, “She sleeps over a lot.”
“Jack.”
Hotch’s warning to his son does nothing to stop the red that takes over your face. Your elbows are resting on your desk when you put your head down in your hands.
“What? Honesty matters.”
“Define ‘a lot’.” Morgan continues.
You look up and make eye contact with Aaron. Wordlessly, still holding each other’s gaze while letting them continue asking Jack a plethora of questions. You smile, quiet teasing with a shake of your head, “Rookie mistake.”
Aaron gives you a look. Warm and unguarded. His smile is real, full of life and tender. The expression that is totally foreign to the team on his face, but they now know it belongs to you.
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.
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