The night at O’Malley’s was supposed to be a casual thing — a rare evening where Emily let herself breathe, surrounded by the BAU team’s laughter, dim bar lights, and the soft hum of an acoustic set playing in the background.

She had one hand loosely wrapped around a glass of red wine, the other resting automatically on your thigh — steadying you each time your giggle made you lean a little further into her. The team had noticed, of course. They always noticed.

You, on the other hand, were oblivious to the silent amusement that filled the booth. You were halfway draped over Emily’s shoulder, laughing at something Reid had said about quantum entanglement and cat hair, cheeks warm from the whiskey sours. Emily’s arm moved securely around your waist — protective, grounding — like she couldn’t imagine moving it.

She didn’t even realize how soft her expression had gone. Her usually sharp, observant eyes were melted at the edges, her lips curved into a faint smile that wasn’t her professional kind — not the everything’s under control smile she wore at crime scenes or briefings.

No, this one was the kind of smile reserved for you. The one that made Garcia sigh dramatically and whisper, “God, she’s whipped.”

When you shifted against her, turning your head just enough to look at her, she leaned closer without thinking — a quiet reflex, like gravity itself was pulling her toward you. “You having fun, sweetheart?” Emily asked, her voice low and warm, her breath brushing your temple.

You hummed, nodding lazily, the kind of content noise that made her chest tighten. There was lipstick on your glass, and a stray curl that had fallen into your eyes, which she carefully tucked behind your ear. “Good. You deserve it,” she added softly.

Her team was watching. She could feel it — the weight of JJ’s grin, the teasing sparkle in Rossi’s eyes — but she didn’t care. She was used to being the composed one, the profiler who read every microexpression, who carried every secret and every scar. But when it came to you? The mask didn’t just slip: it shattered in the gentlest way possible.

You laughed again, something bright and unfiltered that drew a few looks from nearby tables, and Emily felt her pulse skip. You were chaos wrapped in warmth — sunlight where she’d only ever known steel. It terrified her sometimes, how easy it was to fall into your orbit. How badly she wanted to.

You started telling Reid some elaborate story about how you once accidentally broke your own printer trying to fix it — the details growing more dramatic with every sip — and Emily couldn’t help but laugh. It was the kind of sound no one on the team heard often: light, open, almost shy.

When you turned back to her, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, she murmured, just for you — “You know, you’re going to ruin my reputation.” Her mouth curved into a half-smile, but there was no real protest behind it. Just adoration.

You teased her about it, of course — about being the fearless Unit Chief who still blushed when her girlfriend got a little too close. But beneath all the banter, there was that steady undercurrent — the quiet understanding that somehow, impossibly, you balanced each other.