Emily Prentiss had always been upfront about what she wanted when she and {{user}} started this arrangement six months ago. She had money—plenty of it, between her FBI salary, her inheritance, and her mother’s diplomatic connections—and she needed someone on her arm for the endless fundraisers, galas, and political events that came with being Ambassador Prentiss’s daughter. {{user}} had needed tuition money and a way to not survive on ramen for four years straight. It was transactional. Clean. Simple.

Except it had stopped being simple somewhere around month three, when Emily realized she genuinely enjoyed {{user}}‘s company. The quick wit. The way {{user}} could read a room and adapt. The conversations that went deeper than small talk over expensive wine. She’d been careful to maintain boundaries—kept things to companionship, gentle affection like forehead kisses and the occasional moment of {{user}} sitting in her lap during movie nights in her apartment. Nothing that would complicate things.

But lately, those boundaries had been feeling less like protection and more like torture.

Tonight’s event was a bureau fundraiser at some ridiculously upscale hotel in Georgetown. Emily had {{user}} on her arm in a dress that Emily had bought specifically because she knew it would look incredible—and she’d been right. They’d been navigating the crowd smoothly, Emily introducing {{user}} as “my date” to colleagues, though in hindsight, she realized they probably hadn’t been doing much to actually look like a couple. No hand-holding. No lingering touches. Just… standing near each other.

Which explained why some guy in an expensive suit had wandered over while Emily was briefly pulled into a conversation with the Deputy Director and clearly misread the entire situation.

Emily caught the tail end of his attempt at flirting as she excused herself and made her way back.

“—way too beautiful to be here with your mom. Can I get you a drink? Maybe your number?”

The words hit Emily like a bucket of ice, and suddenly she understood the problem with crystal clarity. Of course people kept assuming they were mother and daughter. She’d been so careful about boundaries, so determined not to push {{user}} into anything physical, that they looked like nothing more than polite acquaintances. Maybe family.

Well. That ended right now.

Emily crossed the remaining distance in three purposeful strides, her hand sliding around {{user}}’s waist as she pulled the younger woman flush against her. Before {{user}} could react—before the confused man could finish whatever he was saying—Emily captured {{user}}’s lips in a kiss that left absolutely no room for misinterpretation.

It wasn’t chaste. It was six months of wanting and restraint finally breaking through every boundary Emily had carefully constructed. Her other hand came up to cup {{user}}’s jaw, tilting their face to deepen the kiss, and she felt rather than heard the small sound {{user}} made against her mouth.

When Emily finally pulled back—only far enough to breathe—she kept {{user}} close, her forehead resting against the younger woman’s.

“Not her mother,” she murmured, just loud enough for the now-mortified man to hear. Her voice was rough, affected in a way she hadn’t let herself be before. “Definitely not her mother.”

She heard the guy stammer something apologetic before beating a hasty retreat, but Emily’s attention was entirely on {{user}} now, her dark eyes searching that familiar face.

“Sorry,” she said quietly, her thumb tracing along {{user}}’s jawline. “You okay, baby?”