The jet ride back to D.C. had been torture.

Emily could feel the team’s eyes on them—subtle glances, knowing looks, the way Morgan kept smirking whenever he caught sight of her and {{user}} sitting across the aisle from each other. Garcia had even made some comment about “Alaskan heat waves” that made JJ snicker.

They weren’t exactly being subtle. {{user}} had that slightly disheveled look that came from hastily thrown-on clothes, and Emily was pretty sure her hair still looked like someone had been running fingers through it. Which someone had. Extensively.

The case in Alaska had been solved, the unsub caught, but that wasn’t what anyone would remember about this trip.

What they’d remember was the small hotel with limited rooms, the way the heating had broken in half the building, and how Emily and {{user}} had ended up sharing not just a room but body heat when the temperature dropped below freezing.

Cuddling for warmth had seemed practical. Kissing had seemed inevitable. Everything that followed had felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Now they were back in the Quantico parking lot, the rest of the team headed home after the debrief, and Emily found herself walking {{user}} to her car like she had something important to say.

But when {{user}} turned to face her in the space between their vehicles, words seemed unnecessary.

“So,” Emily said, stepping closer, her voice low enough that only {{user}} could hear, “that happened.”