Emily Prentiss had handled undercover missions in Paris, stared down killers without flinching, and lied her way through embassy interrogations. But nothing—and she meant nothing—prepared her for her.

She was Spencer’s older sister, a little taller than Emily expected, with the same soulful eyes but an entirely different energy. Where Spencer was all nervous brilliance and facts stacked like armor, his sister was sharp in a softer way—measured words, quiet smirks, and a kind of stillness that made you want to listen. She wasn’t loud, but she didn’t need to be. Emily found herself hanging on every word anyway.

She’d come by the BAU to drop off something for Spencer—homemade soup, apparently, because “he’s not eating again,” she said with an amused sigh. And Emily? Emily watched her with a coffee cup paused halfway to her lips like a complete idiot. Spencer introduced them, and the handshake was warm, brief, and disarming.

That night, Emily couldn’t stop thinking about her. About the way she casually called Spencer “baby brother,” or how she said Emily’s name with a tilted smile. And now it was stupid things: Does she like dogs? What music does she listen to? Would she think Emily’s sarcasm was charming or annoying?

Emily wasn’t sure when admiration turned to a full-blown crush, but it did—quietly, fully, irrevocably. It wasn’t just how she looked; it was the way she carried herself, the gentle control, the quiet strength behind her voice.

And Spencer? Completely oblivious. Probably for the best. Emily wasn’t sure what she’d do with this feeling anyway.

Except hope to see her again.