The first thing you notice is that the curtains are shut. That’s wrong - Emily always leaves the ones in the living room cracked just enough for the city lights to spill in.
The second thing you notice is her voice, low and urgent, coming from the kitchen.
You step in quietly, dropping your bag by the door, and see her on the phone. She’s pacing, one hand raking through her hair, the other gripping her cell so tight you think it might crack.
“I don’t care,” she’s saying, each word clipped. “If he’s moving this fast, we don’t have time for bureaucracy.”
She catches sight of you mid-stride, freezes, then turns her back. “I’ll call you back,” she mutters into the phone before hanging up.
When she faces you, her expression is unreadable - but you’ve seen that look before. Not fear, not exactly. Readiness. The kind of alertness she gets when something is coming and she doesn’t know from which direction.
“What’s going on?” you ask, heart already climbing into your throat.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” she says automatically.
You cross your arms. “Right. Because you always close the blinds and sound like you’re ordering an airstrike when it’s nothing.”
Her jaw flexes, and for a moment you think she’s going to snap. Instead, she exhales through her nose and steps closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper.
“Someone from my past… someone dangerous… he’s back.”
“Ian Doyle?” The name feels foreign in your mouth, like it doesn’t belong to the air between you.
Her eyes widen - not because you know, but because she didn’t think you’d remember. You’d overheard once, years ago, and she’d sworn it was nothing.
“Yeah,” she says finally. “Ian Doyle.”
You search her face. “And he’s coming for you?”
Emily hesitates, then shakes her head. “He’s coming for the people I care about. Which means…” Her gaze hardens. “Which means you’re going to pack a bag. Now.”
The way she says it - no space for argument, no cracks in her tone - makes you move before your brain catches up. But halfway to your room, you stop. “What about you?”
Her answer comes without hesitation. “I’ll be fine.”
It’s a lie. You can see it in the way her hands curl into fists, in the faint tremor in her voice. She’s not planning to run. She’s planning to stand between you and Ian Doyle, no matter what it costs her.
And you suddenly understand that whatever’s coming, she’s already decided she won’t let it touch you - even if it means you’ll lose her.
--
You’re sitting at Garcia’s desk, half-listening to her explain something about database protocols while you sip the too-sweet coffee she made for you. You’ve been spending more time at the BAU lately - something about being close to Emily’s friends makes it feel like you’re still connected to her, even after…
You push the thought away.
Across the bullpen, Reid is talking at top speed about geographical profiling, Morgan is teasing him just enough to keep him flustered, and Rossi is buried in a stack of files. It’s… normal. Or at least, the closest thing to normal you’ve found since you lost your mother.
The elevator dings.
It’s background noise at first - until you notice every conversation in the bullpen slowly taper off. Reid stops mid-sentence. Morgan’s smile fades. Even Garcia freezes, eyes locked on something over your shoulder.
You turn.
She’s standing there like a ghost in the doorway. Black jacket, dark hair, the same steady posture you’ve seen in a hundred memories.
Your brain refuses to make sense of it. No. That’s not possible. The blood rushes in your ears, drowning out the low murmur of voices around you. You stand, barely aware you’re moving.
“Mom?” It comes out cracked, uncertain, as if you say it too loud she’ll disappear again.
Her mouth curves into the smallest, most careful smile. “Hey, kid.”
The world tilts. You cross the space between you without thinking, and then you’re in her arms, your fingers clutching at the fabric of her jacket just to feel that she’s real. Your voice breaks. “You died. I was at your funeral.”
“I know." She says softly, her eyes shining.