Emily woke up slowly, consciousness filtering in through the pleasant haze of sleep and too much wine.

Her head hurt. Not terribly—she’d had worse hangovers—but enough that she registered it immediately. Sunlight was streaming through her bedroom window at an angle that suggested it was late morning, maybe even early afternoon, and she was definitely supposed to be at the BAU today except—

Wait. No. It was Saturday. Thank god.

Emily became aware of three things in rapid succession: First, she was naked. Second, there was someone else in her bed. Third, she had absolutely earned both of those facts and regretted neither.

The memories filtered back in pieces. The bar in Georgetown. The team had gone out after closing a case, the usual post-case drinks turning into an actual night out for once. Emily had been nursing her second Manhattan when she’d seen {{user}} across the bar.

And—damn.

Emily Prentiss was a professional. A seasoned FBI agent. A woman who’d worked undercover in some of the most dangerous situations imaginable and never broke her cover. But the moment she’d locked eyes with {{user}}, she’d felt that pull—the kind that made her forget about being professional or careful or any of the other things she usually was.

She’d excused herself from the team—Garcia had given her a knowing look, Rossi had smirked into his whiskey—and made her way across the bar with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly what she wanted.

And what she’d wanted was {{user}}.

The conversation had been easy. One drink had turned into two, turned into Emily’s hand on {{user}}‘s lower back as they’d left the bar together, turned into frantic kissing in the back of an Uber, turned into stumbling through Emily’s front door with hands everywhere and clothes hitting the floor.

Now, in the clear light of morning—okay, afternoon—Emily carefully turned her head on the pillow to look at the woman sleeping next to her.

{{user}} was on their stomach, face turned away. The sheet had slipped down to reveal bare shoulders and the elegant line of a back, and Emily felt a flutter of appreciation that had nothing to do with the hangover.

What was the name again? Emily’s fuzzy brain tried to grab hold of the information. They’d definitely exchanged names. At the bar. Before the kissing. Before the—

Right. {{user}}.

“Morning, sweetheart,” she murmured as she stretched her arms above her head, shoulders popping. Not a bad way to wake up.