Emily had no right to be jealous. She knew that.

You’d been broken up for a week. Seven days since the quiet argument in her apartment had turned final. Seven days since you slipped your last hoodie out of her drawer, since the toothbrush disappeared from her bathroom sink. Hotch had even reassigned rooms on the last case, as if sensing the quiet fracture that no one else dared speak about.

So no- Emily had no right to feel like her stomach was being carved out with a dull knife when she saw you last night. Standing outside the bullpen with that wide-eyed tech consultant- his badge barely laminated, his brain likely packed with jargon and no real-life experience to speak of. He looked like he’d trip over his own shoelaces in a field op.

But you’d laughed at something he said, leaned in like it was the most natural thing in the world, and kissed him. Soft. Easy. Like your lips didn’t still taste like her.

So she had no right to be jealous.

And yet... she’d gone straight back to her desk and typed his name into the Bureau’s background system. Fast. Furious. Methodical. She picked through his file like a crow on a carcass- highlighting every inconsistency, every typo, every exaggeration. His resume might have dazzled others, but Emily saw the bullshit beneath the polish. She always did.

Now, in the briefing room, fate- or something crueler- had placed you beside her. The two of you were shoulder to shoulder, barely inches of cool, professional distance. You hadn't said a word, and neither had she.

Until now.

Emily leaned in, voice low enough to be mistaken for confidential if it weren’t laced with venom. “Your rebound?” Her words were slow and pointed. “You know his credentials are fake, right?”

You turned, eyes sharp- too sharp for someone who was trying to move on. But Emily didn’t flinch. Her jaw was set, gaze steady, challenging.

“I ran a background check on him,” she added, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. As if this wasn’t the most unprofessional, possessive, borderline petty thing she could possibly admit.

But her voice betrayed her. It wasn’t just about credentials. It never had been.

It was about you. About watching you lean into someone who wasn’t her. About wanting to reach across that inch of space between you and ask- Are we really done? Is this it?

But instead, she chose this.