Chapter Text
Four weeks pass in a blur of late nights and early mornings, the usual work at the BAU consuming Emily as always. Cases pile up, profiles are drafted, long flights blur into grim crime scenes. It’s what she signed up for, and yet, in the rare quiet moments between the madness, her thoughts stray to him more than she cares to admit. Aaron Hotchner isn’t supposed to take up this much space in her head—especially now—but he does, and it frustrates her to no end.
She misses seeing him every day: his steady, imposing presence in the bullpen, the way his brow furrows in concentration over case files, and the way his rare, easy smiles feel like a reward. And then there’s the way his eyes look at her sometimes, hungrily—which she won’t admit she enjoys. She hates herself for counting the days until his return, because she’s the one who drew the line between them. She set the boundary for all the right reasons, but now it feels like she’s punishing herself for it.
And it’s not as if she hasn’t seen him for weeks, like the rest of the team. Somehow, he’s become a presence in her home, either in person or through Adaline, who’s utterly smitten with Aaron, blissfully unaware of the truth that ties them together. The girl talks about him all the time—how funny he is, how he picked out the perfect CDs for their email thread review, their field trips to the music fair, the theater, and the movies. It’s almost enough to make Emily cave and pull him to her each time he brings their daughter home.
Of course, Emily can’t begrudge her daughter’s joy—not when Aaron clearly adores her just as much. But it makes things so much more complicated.
And now, the day has finally come. She knows it the second she wakes up, her stomach twisting with a mixture of nerves and anticipation. Hotch is coming back today. The thought pushes her from the bed, and if she puts some effort into her outfit for the day, she’s not willing to admit it. Emily makes it into the office early, barely able to contain her nervous steps as she rushes into the quiet bullpen, still bathed in the soft, cold light of a September morning. She’s halfway to her desk when she sees him.
He’s already there, sitting at his desk, flipping through papers with his usual calm focus, as though he’s never left. The sight of him stops her in her tracks for a second. He looks... steady. Grounded. She didn’t realize how much she missed that about him until now.
Before she can second-guess herself, she heads to his desk, setting a cup of coffee in front of him.
“Morning,” she says, her voice steady, though her pulse quickens. “Welcome back.”
He looks up, a flicker of surprise crossing his expression before it softens into a smile—a real one, the kind that’s easy and unguarded.
“Thanks,” he says, his voice low and warm, as he reaches for the cup, finding it half-empty.
“I didn’t buy you coffee. It’s mine, but I feel bad for not getting you one since it’s your first day back,” she rambles with an amused smile. He takes a sip anyway, only to wince.
“Why is this so sweet?” he asks, his tone teasing, and she retrieves the cup, feigning offense.
“Because I’m a sweet person,” she mumbles. “I’ve got something else for you,” she adds, pulling a folded piece of paper from her bag. “From Adaline.”
His curiosity is immediate as he takes the paper and unfolds it. It’s a vibrant, detailed drawing—Adaline’s handiwork through and through. It depicts the BAU team in action, each character carefully sketched with remarkable accuracy. Across the top, written in colorful block letters, are the words: Welcome back to the job. Try not to blow up (again).
For a second, there’s silence. Then, Aaron laughs—a soft, genuine chuckle that Emily feels all the way to her chest.
“She’s talented,” he says, tracing a finger over the words.
“She gets that from me,” Emily quips, leaning a hip against his desk, trying to ignore how much his laugh affects her.
“Yeah right, as if you can draw,” he deadpans, but his smile lingers as he folds the paper carefully and tucks it into his bag. “I’ll thank her for this over the weekend. It means a lot.”
Emily nods, her throat tightening for reasons she doesn’t fully understand. It’s in small moments like this—a simple comment that he has weekend plans with their daughter—that she’s reminded of how complicated everything is. How close they are, the intricacies of their lives, and yet how far apart they have to stay. Or how far apart she’s making them stay.
“Sure. Let me know when you’re coming to pick her up. I’ll make lunch plans with the girls,” she says casually, and he nods easily, returning his attention to the paperwork on his desk.
She knows that’s his way of quietly dismissing her, telling her that this is all the attention she’s going to get. And it sucks, because they both want more.
They fly to Lower Canaan a couple of hours later, right on his first day back, and it’s not as if the criminal class of the USA gives a damn about his current condition. Emily watches him throughout the day, her gaze drifting to him more often than she cares to admit, and that’s why she easily catches the way his eyes dart toward every sudden noise, the faintest twitch in his expression when a door slams or someone raises their voice too loud.
On the jet, he’s not his usual composed self, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, his jaw tight, his fingers gripping the armrest like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. She does everything in her power not to reach over to him.
Emily waits until they’re alone, the hum of the jet quieter now that the team has dispersed to their corners. She approaches him, sitting down on the seat before him, her voice low and warm, softened by concern.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her eyes searching his face for answers.
He looks up from the file in his lap, his expression unreadable at first. Then he shakes his head, dismissive. “I’m fine.”
But she knows him. This isn’t fine .
Still, she doesn’t press. Not yet.
She gives him enough space to go on with the day, following her own directions, but she can’t stand still when they’re in the cemetery later that evening.
Emily stands beside Hotch, the cool night air nipping at her skin as they wait for the digging to begin.
It’s a small group tonight—just Rossi and a couple of uniformed officers stationed a few yards away. The atmosphere is heavy, the kind of silence that feels alive, buzzing with unspoken tension, and Emily feels herself clenching her fists as she waits in expectation.
The machinery starts with a low rumble, then roars to life, the noise cutting through the stillness like a blade. The grinding of metal on stone is deafening, echoing off the nearby trees. Emily instinctively flinches at the volume, but her eyes are immediately on him.
His reaction is instant. One hand flies to his left ear, the other to his forehead, before he takes several unstable steps back, and she’s moving before she knows it. She steps closer, her voice urgent and soft.
“Hotch?”
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look at her, his focus entirely consumed by the sound. And then he falters, his knees buckling slightly as he stumbles back.
“Hotch!”
She catches him mid-sway, his balance completely off, and both of her hands dart up, gripping his arms firmly, steadying him. He’s trembling now, and she feels the sharp intake of his breath, ragged and uneven.
“Is there anything I can do? Hotch?” she keeps asking, her voice a steady stream of words, as if trying to keep him alert. On instinct, one arm braces him while the other moves to cover his hand, pressing gently over his ear to muffle the piercing noise. It’s unsettling and heartwarming at the same time, as he just lets her, too out of it to protest.
“Emily, I’m fine,” he rasps, but the words are weak, unconvincing, and his breath is too ragged to mean fine.
“No, you’re not,” she counters, her tone firm but laced with concern. She steps in closer, her voice dropping to a murmur as though she can shield him from the noise with her presence alone. “Just focus on me—it’s almost over.”
Behind them, Rossi notices immediately. The cemetery is lit well enough for him to observe them intently—the way her hands hover over Hotch before landing with delicate assurance, as though she knows exactly how much pressure to apply. It’s the softness that draws his attention—not just hers, but Hotch’s too. The way he lets her touch him without hesitation, how he leans into her just slightly, his usual walls nowhere to be found.
Rossi doesn’t say a word, but he stores the moment away, filing it with everything else he’s been quietly observing.
It’s only when the machinery lands the coffin on the ground and the noise finally ends that Aaron’s voice sounds again, almost unrecognizable, too soft and low.
“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m okay, I’m okay,” he murmurs, though his face remains lowered, and he’s still off balance.
Unsure of herself, Emily steps slightly away, enough attention drawn to them for her to feel her skin prickle, but her eyes stay glued to him as they step closer to the coffin, only to find it empty.
She tries not to, but still, she knocks on his hotel door hours later.
Emily’s hair is still damp from her shower, soft waves curling at her shoulders, and the faint scent of lavender clings to her. She’s dressed in a simple pair of navy-blue pajamas—a loose button-down top and matching pants—but as comfortable as they are, she’s acutely aware of how inappropriate it is to show up at his door like this. Still, the memory of him in the cemetery, almost bending in half from pain, is enough to override her hesitation, and that’s why she stands in the hallway.
Her knuckles barely graze the wood before the door opens. He’s quick, like he’s been expecting someone, and he’s not surprised at all to see her.
Aaron stands there, fresh out of the shower himself, his hair also damp and messy, his plain gray T-shirt clinging slightly to his chest and shoulders. He’s barefoot, and the sight catches her off guard for a moment—it’s such a small, human thing that makes him feel far removed from the polished, armored version of himself she’s used to seeing. Something warm spreads in her chest because this is too familiar, too reminiscent of the nights at her mother’s home when she’d sneak through the hallways into his bedroom.
He steps aside to let her in without a second thought, not even bothering to ask why she’s here, and she slips into the room, her pulse kicking up as she crosses the threshold. His space feels distinctly him, even in its temporary nature. There’s an open file on the small table by the window, beside a half-eaten takeout container. The curtains are drawn, and the dim lamp on the nightstand casts a soft, warm glow across the room.
“You caught me mid-dinner,” he says lightly, gesturing toward the table as he closes the door behind her.
Emily turns to face him, her arms crossed loosely, her posture casual despite the nervous energy buzzing under her skin. “And yet, you still let me interrupt.”
He offers a small smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes but still feels genuine. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
She rolls her eyes, moves toward the bed, and plops down on the mattress without any ceremony, humming in approval. “Your bed is better than mine,” she comments without putting any thought into it, and she feels like punching herself for not using her brain as a proper person should. Desperate to avoid any awkwardness, she sits up comfortably against the headboard and reaches for the remote on the nightstand, flipping the TV on to fill the silence. She scrolls aimlessly through the channels, stopping at the end of a random movie she’s not really paying attention to.
It’s not the first time she’s invaded his space like this, not by far, but it’s the first time since she came back into his life, and something about the intimacy of the moment feels different. Maybe it’s the quiet, or the fact that they’re both stripped of their usual armor of daily life and work—he’s in sweats, and she’s in pajamas, and there’s no badge, gun or propriety to shield them from themselves.
Aaron watches her as she makes herself at home, and something tightens in his chest. He’s trying not to focus on how effortlessly she fits here, in his space, in this moment. Her presence throws him off balance—not because it’s unwelcome, but because it feels too natural, too easy.
“You hungry?” he asks, nodding toward the takeout container on the table as he takes his seat again.
She shakes her head. “I’m good, thanks.”
He sits down, stabs at his food, trying to focus on the meal in front of him, but his attention keeps drifting. He’s acutely aware of her on the bed behind him, her legs stretched out in front of her, the fabric of her pajama pants shifting slightly as she crosses her ankles. It’s maddening how much space she takes up in his mind without even trying.
“You know,” she starts, her tone casual but pointed, “You should’ve told me about your ear.”
He turns slightly in his chair, raising an eyebrow at her. “You were there; you know about the explos—”
“Yeah, but you never told me it was that painful,” she cuts him off before he gets the chance to finish the sentence, her voice not as soft as she initially intended. “You’ve been walking around for weeks, taking Addie to the museum, the music fair, the movies, the theatre, and everything is so damn loud. You should’ve been more careful.” Now she just sounds irritated, dropping the remote on the bed as he turns fully to face her.
She’s incredibly distracting and attractive when she’s angry. Especially when her anger is directed at him.
She crosses her legs in a butterfly position, her lips pressing tightly into a fine line of disapproval.
“I told you, I’m fine. My doctor cleared me—” Again, he tries to argue, but she tilts her head, her piercing eyes boring holes into his.
“Fuck you, you’re lying,” she retorts. There’s foul-mouthed Emily Prentiss, who never took any of his bullshit. Nice to see you again, he almost says, mentally updating the twenty-one-year-old version of her in his head. “You were almost fainting on the jet and again at the cemetery, and I know you’re in pain, but you’re just too much of a macho to admit it.”
Her word choice nearly makes him smile, but he suppresses it, though the effort causes his cheeks to twitch. Instead, he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning into his defensiveness. Of course, he’d rather suffer than admit his pain. “And you came here to tell me that?”
“No,” she bites back, offended. “I came here because I was worried about you, and right now, you just made me really angry because you’re not taking care of yourself.”
His defenses falter for a moment, and he looks down at his plate, his appetite suddenly gone. The vulnerability in her voice, the way she says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world, catches him off guard.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and Emily simply rolls her eyes.
“Don’t be sorry. Be more careful with yourself,” she groans, and for now, it feels like enough.
She leans back against the headboard, her posture relaxing slightly, and returns her attention to the TV, now announcing the movies about to start. He watches her for a moment, and something in him softens. The lines of tension in his face ease, and he exhales slowly, setting his fork down.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
She tilts her head, her expression curious but patient. “For what?”
“Really?” It’s not an answer, but she lets it slide, her eyes returning to the titles on the screen.
“Rom-com, mob movie, or sci-fi?” she offers instead of protesting or prying further.
He lays down his fork, closes the lid on his half-eaten food, and crawls into bed beside her, settling on a pillow that’s just too close to hers. If she minds, she doesn’t say a word.
“Mob movie,” he chooses, and she flicks the remote to the right channel.
“How many times have you watched Casino ?” she asks, curiosity lacing her tone as the opening credits roll.
“How many times have you watched Casablanca ?” It’s another non-answer, but she knows it means too many times to know all the lines , and warmth spreads through her knowing he still remembers her favorite movie.
They settle into the quiet of his hotel room, and if they fall asleep side by side, neither of them dares to bring it up the next morning.
Just as in New York, it takes everything in her not to reach for his car keys when he informs the team he's driving back instead of flying with them. But now, the drive is longer, and the memory of waking up with his arm heavily draped over her middle is still too fresh in her mind. So, she chooses the safe route, boarding the jet with the cookie plate in hand and quietly settling into the seat that's usually his.
She tells herself it’s the right thing, that the space will help her clear her head, but she’s lying. She’s running—not just from what happened, but from the feelings it stirred. It took her almost a week to get back to sleeping properly, without her body craving his warmth or his smell first thing in the morning.
It’s why she’s so quick to volunteer for the Separatian Sect case the moment it crosses their desk, jumping at the chance to go undercover with Reid at the cult's ranch. She tells herself it’s due to the nature of the case—kids always being her weak spot—but deep down, she just needs to breathe fresh air, to step away from her desk that stares directly into his office. Especially during slow weeks, when they're stuck at Quantico.
"Prentiss, my office," he calls from his office door that afternoon, and she dodges Morgan's fifth-grade teasing about her being in trouble. Aaron’s voice is calm, measured, but she notices the subtle tension in the way his fingers tap the edge of his desk. He's standing instead of sitting, and he's on her side of the table, which is unsettling. That’s why she chooses to sit on the couch, away from him.
“You want to go undercover,” he states without preamble, his dark eyes locking onto hers as she settles across from him.
“Yes,” she replies, keeping her tone steady, controlled. She knows this conversation is coming, has already rehearsed her reasons, but being in his office, with him looking down at her, makes it harder to breathe.
“Emily, I need to know you’re sure about this. It’s dangerous, and—”
“And I’ve done this before,” she interjects, her voice firm but not unkind. “I know what’s at stake. Reid and I will be fine.”
His lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t argue, though he wants to ask exactly when and how she went undercover before. Instead, his gaze softens, almost imperceptibly. “You’re not doing this to—”
“I’m doing this because some kid from a cult called 911 and told us about a creep who’s molesting her,” she cuts him off firmly, adding right away, “She’s only three years older than Addie, Hotch. I can’t sit this one out.”
He studies her for a long moment, the silence between them heavy, because he also feels the pull to be at that ranch with her. Finally, he nods. “All right. But if anything feels off, you pull out immediately. Understood?”
“Understood,” she echoes, her tone clipped but not unfriendly. She stands to leave but hesitates at the door. “Oh, and while I’m gone... you can take Addie to dinner. She’s been asking about you.”
The mention of their daughter is enough to wash some of the concern from his face, and he nods eagerly just as she leaves the room with certainty in her step.
But then, everything falls apart in less than 24 hours, and dinner plans don’t even make it into the email thread.
Morgan’s voice cuts through the bullpen like a knife the next morning, and everything is a blur from then on. Hopping on a plane, begging Rossi to take the lead on hostage negotiations, threatening a judge, and trying to come up with something—anything—to grip onto some kind of sanity while he’s desperately working to get Reid and Emily out of the ranch.
“It’s a minimal-loss situation. Each hostage we manage to rescue is a victory on its own,” he faintly hears Rossi’s words, though his brain is still stuck on the man’s earlier statement.
‘ Because the teacher is emotionally involved. And so is the agent in command. ’
Of course, Rossi meant much more with that simple line, and Aaron didn’t even try to protest, immediately agreeing with a quiet, “I know I am.”
Now, he’s staring down at his hands, palms pressed heavily against the cold metal desk. His ears are ringing with the noises coming through the headphones he’s wearing, the bugs they managed to slip into the ranch working their magic. The cacophony of voices and muffled sounds of movement fills his mind, but his focus sharpens as he searches desperately for hers, straining to pick it out amidst the chaos.
The air feels stifling, and his gut churns with unease. He tells himself he’s paranoid, that the dread knotting in his chest is unfounded, that she's safe for now, and that's all that matters. But then, five minutes later, the small TV perched in the corner of the operations room flickers with a breaking news banner. Some eager reporter announces there’s an FBI agent undercover on the ranch.
The room stills, and he feels Rossi's presence beside him. The buzzing of frantic activity around him fades into a muffled background as his world narrows to the sounds in his ears. He’s frozen, waiting, and then he hears it—Benjamin Cyrus’s voice. Smooth, cold, calculated, and chillingly calm as he demands to know who the agent is.
And then… her. Clear as day, just as calm as Cyrus, she answers.
“Me. It’s me.”
Three words. Simple. Measured. And they nearly bring him to his knees.
The world tilts, and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe. His mind claws for reason, for some explanation. He knows she volunteered to protect Reid, knows that she read the situation and understands that the reaction to her lie would be smaller than Reid's. But still, he hates her selflessness just a bit, because Cyrus’s voice rises, barking orders. The shuffle of movement fills his ears, followed by her pained grunt and the sound of dragging. And then he hears it—the thud of flesh against flesh.
“Emily.” Her name slips out louder than he intended as he shoots up from his seat. The metal desk creaks beneath his hands as he grips it tightly, his knuckles whitening.
Another blow lands. And another. The sickening sound of shoving, then breaking glass, and her grunts in succession make him sick. He flinches with each loud sound, every strike carving into him as if it were his own body taking the hits. He would gratefully switch places with her. His mind is a mess, torn between the visceral agony of the moment and the training that demands he keep his head clear. But he can’t. Not with her voice.
“I can take it.”
Her words come through the static, broken and breathy but unmistakable. At first, he’s furious. Why is she taunting him? he thinks. His jaw tightens, anger sparking in his chest because he knows her too well, knows how she challenges authority even in the face of danger.
"She's not talking to him," Rossi steadies him, and realization hits him, sharp and gutting. She isn’t talking to Cyrus. She’s talking to them.
“She’s talking to us, she’s telling us not to come in”, he says, his eyes filled to the brim with tears.
She’s talking to him.
The weight of it slams into him, and he stumbles back a step, pulling the headphones off as if that might silence the truth of her words. But it’s too late. Her voice is etched into his mind, and the subtext—the meaning—shatters him.
I can take it.
He squeezes his eyes shut, and all he sees is her. Months ago, standing in her kitchen, tears staining her face as she pleaded with him, her voice cracking as she said, “I can’t take it.” She’d been talking about them that night—the pain of loving him, the fear of letting him love her back and risking everything, only to have her heart broken again.
And now, here she was, willingly enduring a pain so much greater, so much more tangible, and she was telling him she could take it. Not for herself, but for Reid. For those kids at the ranch. For the safety of the team.
His heart shatters into a million irreparable pieces. He wants to scream, to storm into the ranch and tear Cyrus apart with his bare hands. He wants to make the man suffer, to give him worse than he’s giving Emily. But he can’t. He’s tethered to this room, to this desk, to this plan. And it’s killing him.
“Hotch,” Rossi’s voice cuts through the haze, steady and grounding. “We’ll get her out.”
He nods, but it’s mechanical, a reflex. His eyes stay fixed on the TV screen now showing the exterior of the ranch, his mind replaying every sound, every word. He’s breaking apart, unraveling at the seams, but he can’t let it show. Not here. Not now.
Because she’s counting on him. And he can’t fail her.
The explosion is deafening, and he’s the last person who should be running toward it—disoriented and sick to his stomach—but that doesn’t stop him from bolting to the chapel, weaving through the survivors with single-minded determination. His heart pounds in time with his hurried steps, his chest tight as his eyes frantically scan the chaos for her.
When he finally sees her, it takes everything in him not to collapse with relief—or to slam her body against his in a desperate embrace. She’s standing, but barely, limping down the steps with the crowd that rushes from the underground tunnel. Her face is reddened, streaked with soot, and marked by a few angry cuts. A bruise blooms dark and ominous along her cheekbone, and there’s so much blood on her shirt that he feels like throwing up.
She’s holding her side, her other arm dangling limply, but it’s her eyes that shatter him. Wide, frantic, darting around as if she’s looking for someone—searching for him, he thinks for a brief, selfish moment, before he realizes.
“Where’s Reid?” she rasps, her voice raw and jagged, laced with panic. “Have you seen him? Did he—?”
“There,” he assures, pointing to where Morgan and Reid are walking out together down the stairs, and he almost cries from relief himself when she pulls Spencer into a hug, her whole body shaking. She’s unsteady, gripping the younger agent forcefully, and he knows Reid needs that hug just as much as she does.
“Prentiss,” he says, approaching her, his voice soft but firm, and her eyes snap to his. For a moment, everything else falls away—the wreckage, the smoke, the noise. “You’re hurt. You need a doctor.”
Suddenly, her frustration boils over. “No hospitals,” she demands, her voice rising. “I don’t need to waste time lying in a bed while we—”
“Emily.” This time, it’s Reid who speaks, his voice imploring. He’s still holding her by his side, his expression a mix of exhaustion and concern. “At least let the paramedics check you out. Please.”
Her resolve falters at the sight of him, at the quiet plea in his eyes. She huffs out a breath, looking away. “Fine. The ambulance. But no hospitals.”
Hotch watches as she allows Reid to lead her outside. Every fiber of his being screams to follow, to stay close and make sure she’s okay, but he doesn’t. Guilt roots him to the spot, mingling with the relief that she’s alive and the anguish at how close they came to losing her. Instead, he pulls out his phone, forcing himself to focus on logistics.
By the time they’re on the jet heading back to DC, it’s well past 5 a.m. The cabin is quiet, the team too worn out to speak much. Hotch finds his eyes drifting to Emily, seated across from him with her head leaning against the window. Her face is still pale, and she winces when she shifts in her seat, but she hasn’t complained once.
He wants to say something—to ask if she’s okay, to tell her she scared the hell out of him—but the words stick in his throat. Instead, he keeps watching her, his worry manifesting in silence. When they land, he almost offers to drive her home, but Rossi beats him to it, and he feels a pang of gratitude.
It’s nearly 9 a.m. by the time he stumbles into his apartment. The exhaustion is nearly killing him, his whole body begging for some respite, but he knows rest won’t come. He showers the dust and grime of the desert away, the hot water doing little to ease the tension in his muscles, and lies down in bed only to stare at the ceiling, his head pounding and his chest aching, his stomach rolling in waves of pure nausea. The terror of Emily’s scream is still engraved in his brain, and he shoots up quickly.
He paces the length of his bedroom, then his living room, like a caged animal, his mind replaying every moment. Her face, her voice, her pain—it’s all he can see, all he can feel. The need to see her, to make sure she’s really okay, becomes an ache, a physical thing that tightens in his chest until he can’t take it anymore.
Before he knows it, he’s grabbing his keys and heading out the door.
When he pulls up to her apartment, he hesitates for a moment, his hand hovering over the steering wheel. What would he even say? Would she even want to see him?
But then he’s out of the car, climbing the steps to her door. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do—he just knows he has to see her.
He knocks on her door only seconds later, having rushed up the stairs at a frantic pace. When she doesn’t answer, he pounds on it, his fist striking the wood with an urgency so unusually his that he can’t temper it.
When it finally opens, after torturous long minutes, he’s barely holding himself together, shaking from head to toe, his fingers gripping the doorframe until his knuckles turn white with the force.
And then she’s there.
Her hair is wet, clinging to her neck in dark waves, her skin still dripping and flushed. She clearly ran straight from the shower. She’s wrapped in a soft, plush white robe, tied loosely at her waist and hanging off one shoulder, exposing the reddened skin beneath. The bruise on her cheek looks far worse than it did only a couple of hours ago—or perhaps his mind is playing tricks on him—but it makes her look impossibly fragile. Her eyes are too big, too wide, with no trace of the makeup she usually wears. It twists something deep inside him.
They stand frozen in the doorway, their eyes locked. She looks at him like she’s unraveling, like she’d let him do whatever he wanted to her, whatever he needed, because she sees the panic and need written all over his face. It makes him desperate in a way he doesn’t know how to control, his hands twitching at his sides.
His breath shudders, and before he can stop himself, he steps inside and reaches for her. His hand curls around the back of her neck, pulling her against him. He doesn’t crush her the way he wants to, doesn’t give in to the raw need to bury her in his arms until they’re both whole again. Instead, he holds her with restraint, his arms trembling as he presses her close but not too tightly.
Her scent—fresh, clean, so achingly her—wraps around him as he lowers his face to the curve of her neck, and his head spins with the force of it. His lips find the warm, fragile pulse there, and he lingers, breathing her in. She’s alive. The proof is right there, against his lips, but it still doesn’t feel like enough.
It takes everything in him to pull away from her soft skin, his chin grazing over the exposed junction of her shoulder, and he could live right there. But he steadies himself and takes a minimal step back. His hands come up to cradle her face, his thumbs brushing over her cheekbones as though he’s afraid she might break under his touch. His voice is hoarse when it finally comes, a whisper he can’t seem to steady.
“Let me see. Please, I need—” He can’t finish, desperation dripping from his voice because he can’t forget the sounds of her pain, and the words get lost somewhere in his chest.
Her lips part as if she might ask him what he means, but then she doesn’t. She really would let him do whatever he wanted to her. So, she just nods, her hand slipping into his, and leads him toward her bedroom.
The hallway feels endless, every step tightening the coil of tension in his chest. When they pass Adaline’s room, he notices it’s empty. Relief flickers briefly—Adaline must be with her grandmother, far from the image of Emily, battered and bruised—but it doesn’t ease the fire in his veins. It only stokes some of the anger still simmering there, somewhere. Their daughter, blissfully unaware, had almost become an orphan last night, and the thought almost makes him buckle.
In her bedroom, she turns to him. The space feels too quiet, too intimate, but she doesn’t falter. She moves his hands to the belt of her robe, hesitating only long enough for him to understand her permission, and he steps closer. It’s a small caress of his fingers on hers, and she drops her hands to her sides as he takes over.
The knot comes undone with agonizing slowness, the fabric parting under his hands, his knuckles grazing the span of her abdomen as he follows the path upward. He slides the robe from her shoulders, familiar with the movement, and when it falls away, he’s left staring at her—bare, vulnerable, stunning.
The air shifts. She’s trembling, but it’s not from fear, and he knows she feels it too, this heat between them. It’s overwhelming, almost unbearable. His eyes travel over her body, catching every bruise, every mark, fresh or old. He catalogs the faint stretch marks low on her belly and around her hips and thighs, delicate and beautiful, in contrast to the angry bruises that pepper her skin. The deep purple along her ribs and the cuts near her collarbone stand out starkly. One in particular is painful to look at—a gash right under her left breast, held together by three butterfly stitches that should’ve been real stitches if she weren’t so damn stubborn. It all makes his chest burn with an impossible ache, but he doesn’t look away. He can’t.
He reaches for her hips, his thumbs tracing around her hipbones, and he almost cries at the feel of her stretch marks under his fingertips—the soft dip and texture of them. It’s such a wonderfully mundane feeling that his heart skips a beat. Then, he sinks to his knees, and the sound that leaves her mouth—a strangled breath, surprise and relief mingled—drives him forward.
His breath is warm against the delicate skin of her abdomen as he presses his lips to the worst of the bruises, a deep, mottled purple stain that spreads like a shadow over her stomach. The contact is gentle, reverent, and her soft whimper cuts through the silence. She expected his touch, but nothing prepared her for the warmth of his lips on her tender flesh.
The sound unravels him, so starkly different from the raw, agonized cries she made when Cyrus hurt her. He kisses over her stomach again and again, his hands firmly gripping her hips, keeping her steady. He lingers over the gash beneath her breast, and tears prick his eyes, threatening to fall as he moves to the next bruise, the next cut, each press of his lips an unspoken apology—a silent vow to never let this happen again.
She shivers under his touch, breathless and weak, as he kisses over her navel before burying his face against her belly. His palms spread across her back in a desperate embrace, fingers splayed along her spine as if trying to mold himself to her. Then he kisses her skin again, over and over, before looking up at her, his lips lingering against the edge of a bruise. "You’re here," he murmurs, drunk on her presence. "You’re alive."
His pupils are dilated, and so are hers. Her soft hands rest on the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, holding him there. His lips hover against the patch of skin between her breasts, where he feels her heart hammering. They both know the effect it has on them.
But this isn’t about that.
Her fingers scratch his scalp before moving to cradle his face, so much gratitude and longing etched in her expression.
“I need to sit down,” she whispers, her voice low but certain, offering them both an out from their impossibly intimate embrace. He nods, pressing one last, lingering kiss to her skin.
He rises slowly, his knees protesting. The robe is still pooled on the floor, so he picks it up, draping it carefully back over her shoulders. He ties it at her waist, his fingers lingering just long enough to feel the warmth of her skin beneath the fabric. He can’t put into words how steady he feels right now.
Quietly, he watches as she sits on the edge of the bed, the robe loose around her shoulders, framing her in a way that feels both vulnerable and alluring. She’s watching him too, her eyes dark and searching, as though trying to make sense of where they go from here.
He kneels in front of her again, framed by her thighs, his hands trembling as they find her knees, brushing his thumbs gently over her bare skin.
“I thought I lost you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. It’s raw, stripped of any pretense, and he doesn’t try to hide the tears welling up again. “Emily, I thought—”
She cuts him off, leaning forward, her hand cupping the back of his neck as her forehead presses against his. “I’m here,” she murmurs, her voice a low rasp, and she sounds so strong.
He tilts his head, their noses brushing, and her breath hitches. For a fleeting moment, it’s electric, and she closes her eyes, surrendering to him. But then he pulls back, grounding himself. This is not what she needs, not what she wants. Her taunting “I can take it” still echoes in his mind, just as much as her soft, pleading “I can’t take it” does.
She can’t take him like this—can’t take his want for her—without guarantees that he won’t make her suffer again. And now, he finally understands what she meant. So he reins in his need, his desire, his love—because that’s what it has always been. His fingers trace the line of her cheek, careful to avoid the bloom of bruises, before trailing to her shoulders. He lifts the robe slightly, ensuring she’s covered and warm.
She watches him the entire time, her gaze steady but soft. When he stands, she scoots back on the bed, making room for him as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. She needs his presence just as much as he needs hers.
He doesn’t hesitate. He toes off his shoes, shrugs out of his sweatshirt, and joins her, pulling the covers over both of them as he settles beside her. She shifts closer, her head finding his chest, her hand clutching his shirt like a lifeline, as if she’s afraid he’ll leave. But his arms only wrap around her, one hand rubbing slow circles on her back, the other tangled in her hair. Her breaths even out against him, her body relaxing by degrees, and he feels the tension in her finally begin to ebb.
“I was so scared,” she admits, her voice so quiet he almost misses it. “I’ve never been so scared. I couldn’t stop thinking about Addie.”
His arms tighten around her, his lips finding the crown of her head in a lingering kiss. “You’re safe now. And Addie will be so happy to see you.”
She doesn’t respond, but her fingers flex against his chest, gripping him just a little tighter.
“Aaron…” she softly calls his name after a few minutes, one last nagging thought keeping her from sleep. He hums in response, his lips against her hair.
“If anything happens to me, will you take care of Addie?” she asks, and it rips his heart open.
“Yes,” he responds without a moment’s hesitation. “Of course I will. Always,” he promises, his voice steady, and she exhales a relieved breath, finally able to close her eyes.
They stay like that for what feels like hours, breathing each other in. His hands rub circles on her back, hers do the same on his chest. When her breathing deepens and her grip on him slackens, he knows she’s finally asleep.
Only then does he let himself relax, his own eyes growing heavy as the scent of her hair and the soft rhythm of her breathing lull him into peace.
For the first time in days, they both sleep—exhausted, physically and emotionally—but finally with some degree of solace.