Chapter Text
Atlantic City, NJ
Jennifer Jareau didn’t belong here.
Not in this kind of crowd, men in gaudy watches flexing over card tables, women in glittering cocktail dresses who wore bold lips like battle armor, the air thick with cologne and ambition. She didn’t belong in this outfit, either: low-cut sweater, sapphire blue, an impulse buy she hadn’t let herself regret yet, skin-tight black jeans, and kitten heels. The outfit hugged her in ways that were both flattering and foreign.
But belonging wasn’t the point tonight.
The point was escape.
She crossed one denim-clad leg over the other, trying to look relaxed, even though everything about her was wound tight. Her hair was still pulled back the way she wore it on the Hill—neat, polished, controlled. The bartender slid her a second cocktail without her asking. She nodded politely and didn’t ask what it was.
JJ stared through the glittering glass bar shelves ahead of her, watching her own expression refracted in pieces. She looked… fine. Composed. A woman who could handle herself. She looked nothing like the person who’d said the words, “Maybe we should take a little break,” with her arms crossed in the kitchen while Henry slept upstairs.
Will hadn’t argued. He’d just gone quiet. And that hurt more than a fight might’ve.
Sin to Win. That was the tagline, anyway.
Garcia had breathlessly told the entire team about it weeks ago—an Atlantic City promotional stunt: indulgence without consequence, with themed drinks, cash giveaways, hotel upgrades if you wore red. It was all very loud, very neon. Very not JJ. She’d rolled her eyes then, made a snarky comment about STDs and slot machines.
But now here she was.
Not to sin, exactly. Just to be. Somewhere no one expected her to be anything. Not a mother. Not a girlfriend. Not perfect.
The lounge was upscale in that carefully curated way—black marble counters, velvet booths, deep gold lighting meant to flatter. Low music pulsed under the hum of laughter and flirtation. She traced her fingertip around the rim of her glass, fighting the urge to text someone. Anyone.
And then—like a shift in barometric pressure—she felt it.
Someone was looking at her. A flicker of awareness lit up her spine, warm and sudden and rooted in something instinctual. Not danger. Peripheral. Recognition.
She turned slightly, careful not to seem too obvious.
There, at the far end of the bar, stood Emily Prentiss.
Emily leaned one elbow against the polished counter, half-turned toward the room like she owned it. Her whiskey was neat, untouched. The soft ends of her dark hair curled just beneath her shoulders—subtle, luxurious. Her bangs kissed just above her eyebrows, framing her face with effortless precision. Her makeup was soft but intentional, her lips a flush of wine-colored gloss that somehow matched her drink and the curve of her smirk.
She looked stunning. Dangerous. Comfortable.
It hit JJ like a wave, the realization that this was Emily’s scene. She could see it now: the way Emily’s eyes scanned the room with casual disinterest, like she’d already seen everything and was still deciding if any of it was worth her time. She fit here. Belonged.
JJ blinked. A strange swirl of emotion tightened in her chest—envy, admiration, something else unnamed.
Emily’s gaze landed on her, and her brow lifted in surprise. A slow smile bloomed across her face. Her lips formed the word: JJ?
JJ raised her glass slightly, half in greeting, half in disbelief.
Emily didn’t hesitate. She leaned off the marble with fluid grace, whiskey in hand, weaving around the other bar patrons with that unbothered elegance that made it look like the sea parted just for her. Her leather jacket—black and tailored—swung at her hips. Beneath it, she wore a shimmering black dress that dipped just low enough to be distracting, ending at her knees with sheer stockings and sleek heeled boots. Somehow classy and devastating at the same time.
JJ turned her body toward her as she approached, trying to play it cool, like she hadn’t just forgotten how to breathe for a second.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Emily asked, eyes wide with amused disbelief, her voice just curious enough to rise over everyone else talking.
JJ shrugged, lips tilting into a wry smile. “Same as you, I guess.”
Emily arched a brow, “Slumming it with overpriced cocktails and morally ambiguous men?”
That made JJ laugh—a real one. She hadn’t expected that.
“Something like that.”
Emily leaned in slightly, like the rest of the bar wasn’t worth her attention anymore. “Let me guess. Garcia told you about this?”
JJ nodded. “She said I needed to ‘reclaim my inner playgirl.’” She made air quotes, grinning.
Emily snorted, “Sounds about right.” She set her drink down beside JJ’s and took the seat next to her, close but not too close. Her shoulder brushed JJ’s for a second before she settled.
They fell into a comfortable pause. JJ glanced sideways at her, studying the way Emily’s fingers traced the rim of her glass, the way her mouth curved in thought.
She looked at ease.
JJ felt anything but.
And yet, she didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to disappear back into the anonymity of the crowd.
“So,” Emily said, eyes still forward, “you planning to sin, or just here for the experience?”
JJ laughed again, quieter this time. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Emily turned to her then, fully, her eyes catching the low golden bar light. There was something unreadable in them—curiosity, maybe. Something warmer underneath.
“Well,” she said, voice a touch lower, “let me know if you need a partner in crime.”
JJ took a slow sip of her drink, pulse humming.
She wasn’t sure what the night would bring.
But suddenly, she didn’t feel like escaping anymore.
She felt like staying.
—
They were on their second drinks now. JJ had no idea what hers was—something citrusy, topped with a twist of lemon and a sugar rim she’d already half-licked clean without thinking. Emily’s whiskey was still neat, though it had dropped a finger since she sat down.
They hadn’t moved from the bar, though the energy of the lounge had shifted. The lights dimmed half a shade lower. The music was smoother, slower. The crowd more intoxicated, both with liquor and possibility. JJ could feel it all around her, the buzz of indulgence, of people deciding they’d earned something tonight.
Emily was close now. Not close enough to be inappropriate, not really. But enough that when she leaned in to say something, JJ caught the faintest notes of her perfume—something dark and expensive, threaded with something warmer. Amber, maybe. It suited her. Like Emily had bottled dusk.
“You always this quiet when you’re pretending not to people-watch?” Emily murmured, her elbow brushing JJ’s lightly.
JJ smirked, sipping. “You always this nosy when you’re pretending not to profile?”
Emily’s eyes glinted, slow and pleased. “Touché.”
JJ let the smile linger a moment before turning her head, watching the reflection of the room in the mirror behind the bar. “You do fit in here, you know.”
Emily raised a brow, “Yeah?”
JJ nodded. “You look like you’ve done this before.”
Emily took a sip of her drink, “I’ve been to worse bars in better cities.”
“And better bars in worse moods?”
“That too.”
They both went quiet again, not awkwardly, just… thoughtfully. JJ shifted in her seat, angling slightly toward her. She wasn’t sure when the edge had worn off, but something in her had softened. Not let down her guard, not completely, but loosened it.
JJ let the quiet linger a moment before turning her head, watching the reflection of the room in the mirror behind the bar. She caught a glimpse of herself there, again—not alone. Emily was right beside her, closer than anyone else, their bodies tilted subtly inwards, their arms brushing. No one else seemed to notice. But JJ saw it. The closeness. The spark hiding in plain sight. Secret moments in a crowded room.
JJ let her eyes travel over her again—slowly this time. The shimmer of her dress under the bar lights, the delicate dip of her collarbone, the confident stillness in her posture. She’d always known Emily was beautiful. Of course she had. But seeing her here, in this context, was like discovering it all over again. Like seeing someone not at work but in their element, free and unfiltered.
Emily caught her staring. Didn’t flinch. Just tilted her head and said, “You okay?”
JJ looked away with a self-conscious laugh. “Yeah. Just… surprised.”
“By?”
“You. Being here. Looking like that.”
Emily smiled, just barely, “Like what?”
JJ shook her head. “Like someone who didn’t come here to forget anything.”
Emily didn’t respond right away. She reached for her glass instead, turning it once between her fingers before saying, more quietly, “Maybe I didn’t.”
And there it was—something raw beneath the polish. Something real.
JJ felt it like a tether pulled taut between them. A shared understanding. They didn’t need to say it out loud: they both carried ghosts.
She shifted closer without realizing, their knees almost touching now.
Emily watched her. Not with hunger, exactly. With patience. Like she was waiting to see what JJ would do next.
JJ set her glass down. Her voice dropped. “Did you come here alone?”
Emily’s gaze didn’t waver, “Yeah.”
“You do that often?”
A slow smile curved Emily’s lips. “Only when I want to.”
JJ let that sit between them for a long moment. Then, quietly: “Did you want to be alone tonight?”
Emily didn’t answer right away. She shifted, gaze steady, voice velvet-smooth, “Do you?”
JJ’s breath caught. Her mouth parted—maybe to speak, maybe to deflect—but no words came. Just the quiet thrum of her pulse, loud in her ears. She thought of Will, she thought of Henry. She didn’t have an answer to that.
Her fingers brushed Emily’s on the marble, an accidental touch, or something close enough to pretend.
Emily didn’t pull away.
And JJ didn’t, either.
The moment stretched a heartbeat too long. JJ finally exhaled, her voice quieter now. Raw. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said. “I just… I couldn’t stay home tonight. Not with everything feeling like…” she stopped, bit the inside of her cheek.
Emily didn’t push. But her hand was still there, warm beneath JJ’s.
JJ looked down at their joined hands, then away. “Will’s with Henry. He didn’t even ask questions. Just said okay.” She let out a hollow laugh. “I think that hurt worse than if he’d begged me to stay.”
Emily’s gaze softened, “You told him you needed space?”
JJ nodded, “Not in those words, exactly, no.” She stared past the bar again, out into the dwindling crowd, as if the answer was there in all the silk and alcohol and strangers. “I think I just needed to feel like someone else… for a night. Someone who isn’t a mom. Or a girlfriend. Or whatever version of me people expect.”
Emily’s voice was gentler now, “And who are you, here?”
JJ gave a quiet, bitter smile. “I don’t know. Someone wearing a sweater she almost didn’t buy because it made her feel like she was trying too hard.” She looked down at it—sapphire, snug. Not tactical. Not safe. “I see women now in clothes like this and think, ‘That’s not me. I don’t get to be that.’” Her throat tightened. “Like there was a rule I missed, after I met Will.”
Emily was still. “Who told you that?”
JJ blinked. The question landed hard. She didn’t have a clean answer. Just layers—church whispers, Midwestern manners, that tight feeling in her chest the first time she’d stared too long at a girl in college and blamed it on getting too drunk.
“No one,” she said finally. “Everyone.”
A beat passed. Then Emily said, “You know you don’t owe anyone an explanation for who you are, right?”
JJ looked at her then—really looked. At the patience in her expression, the understanding, the quiet promise not to ask more than JJ could give.
“I’m not even sure who that is,” JJ admitted.
Emily’s lips parted just slightly. She didn’t smile this time, “That’s not a bad thing.”
JJ swallowed hard. “It could be. I still have a life, Emily. A family.”
“I know,” Emily said. Her voice didn’t falter. “I’m not asking you to forget that.”
“But if I said I wanted something else… even just for tonight—” JJ’s voice cracked, barely above a whisper, “Would that make me a terrible person?”
Emily didn’t look away. Her answer was low, unwavering, “No. It would make you honest.”
JJ closed her eyes for a second, breathing through the quiet storm in her chest. She didn’t move her hand. She couldn’t.
And then, quietly, Emily added, “But I’m not going to be the reason you run from what you’re afraid to name.”
JJ opened her eyes, “What if I’m tired of being afraid?”
Emily’s expression shifted—hope and heartbreak woven into a single breath.
“Then don’t be,” she said.
—
Emily was the first to move. She slid her hand back gently, not a rejection, just a signal, and gestured with her chin toward a half-empty booth tucked in the shadowed curve of the lounge.
“Come on,” she said, voice low. “Let’s sit somewhere that doesn’t smell like old gin and desperation.”
JJ huffed a laugh, small, grateful—and followed her.
The booth was half-mooned and velvet-lined, set back far enough that the light didn’t quite reach their faces. JJ slipped in on one side; Emily slid in beside her, not across. Close, but not crowding. The gentle music throbbed quieter here, muffled by the curve of the wall. The world outside their table dulled, like they’d stepped into a softer, slower dimension.
Another round appeared without them asking—something with bourbon and honey for JJ now, smoother than her last. She didn’t question it. Didn’t ask how Emily had signaled the server. It felt easier to just exist here, where decisions were fewer and consequences far away.
They drank slowly, and the drinks warmed quickly.
Conversation shifted—gentler, slurred in the way confessions get when alcohol loosens the tongue. JJ talked about Henry’s laugh, about how the house felt too quiet. Emily told her about her first solo trip to Prague, how the city felt like heartbreak and possibility at once.
At some point, JJ leaned in closer. Her shoulder brushed Emily’s arm, and neither of them moved.
“Do you ever wonder,” JJ murmured, “if we missed something? Back then?”
Emily didn’t pretend not to understand. She looked at her, eyes darker now, the light catching flecks of gold.
“All the time,” she said.
JJ didn’t answer. Just took another sip and let the warmth spread before breaking the silence with what neither of them wanted to discuss. “I don’t know what happens after this,” she said, voice low but steady. Her fingers wrapped around her glass like it might ground her. “Next week. Back at work.”
Emily’s gaze didn’t move from the dark, polished tabletop. “We go back to what we were.”
“Can we?” JJ asked.
Emily was quiet for a moment, then said, “We have to.”
JJ huffed a breath, not quite a laugh, “You think Hotch wouldn’t notice if I started breathing different around you?”
That made Emily glance up, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Hotch notices everything. But he also doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t want answers to.”
JJ smirked at that, but the smile didn’t stay long.
“I’m not trying to blow up my life,” she said. “I don’t even know what this is. I just know I feel different around you, and I’ve been trying not to look too closely at that for a long time.”
Emily’s voice was careful, even. “Me too, JJ.” She turned towards JJ slightly, “I’m not asking for anything you can’t give.”
“I don’t know what I can give.”
Emily nodded, “Then we don’t have to figure it out tonight.”
JJ’s eyes searched hers, “You’re really okay going back to how it was?”
Emily didn’t answer right away. She took a sip of her drink, then set it down slowly. “No,” she said, softly. “But I’ll pretend if you need me to.”
There it was. The truth of it. That they’d gotten too close. That neither of them knew how to go back, not really. But also that they both knew how to fake it—had built their careers on knowing how to fake it.
JJ looked down into her drink, swirled what was left. “We’ll keep it professional.”
Emily raised an eyebrow and clinked her glass with JJ’s, “Our version of it, anyway.”
JJ cracked a faint smile. “We’ve always been good at subtext.”
“That’s one word for it,” Emily said, eyes glinting just enough to make the tension feel lighter.
JJ leaned back slightly, her knee still brushing Emily’s, “You’re not going to tell me to stop this before it starts?”
Emily’s lips curved, “Would it matter if I did?”
JJ didn’t answer.
Emily’s voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “Look. If you wake up tomorrow and decide this was a detour, I won’t make it more than that.”
JJ met her gaze. The edges of her uncertainty were still sharp, still present—but for the first time, they didn’t feel like a wall. They felt like something being stepped around, gently. Acknowledge it. Don’t name it. Don’t push.
“Okay,” JJ said quietly. “Thank you.”
Emily hummed her assurance like it was nothing. But she smiled, soft and knowing, and for a second they just sat there in the hush that followed.
Then Emily tilted her head toward the floor, where the music had slowed into something low and hazy. “There’s space now.”
JJ blinked at her, “What?”
“For that dance,” Emily said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “if you still want it.”
JJ arched an eyebrow, playing along. “Is that what we’re doing?”
Emily smiled, rising from the booth, “Let’s call it… movement.”
JJ laughed, the sound loose now, the weight of the night lifting just enough for her to stand. She didn’t reach for Emily’s hand, but she followed.
The floor wasn’t a real dance floor, just a quiet pocket in the center of what remained of the lounge. Most of the bar had thinned out; the music had shifted, and the chatter had dulled to background noise. Everything around them softened.
JJ stepped into the open space. Emily moved with her, hands finding her hips like second nature. JJ’s arms looped loosely behind her neck, fingers brushing against the nape, just barely.
They swayed.
No rhythm, no performance. Just stillness in motion. A silent agreement.
JJ tilted her forehead toward Emily’s temple. Her breath caught at the closeness, the way Emily didn’t flinch.
“I’m drunk,” she murmured.
Emily’s voice brushed the shell of her ear, “Not enough to blame it all on that.”
JJ’s breath hitched. “No. Not enough.”
But JJ’s nose grazed Emily’s cheek, and Emily’s hands slid slightly lower, fingers flexing at her waist. It was the kind of closeness that buzzed under the skin, long after you walked away.
If you walked away.
They swayed, gently, almost lazily. Not quite to the rhythm of the music, but to something quieter, internal. JJ let herself breathe there—in the space between their bodies, in the hush of low saxophone and melting ice in glasses.
Her hands rested loosely behind Emily’s neck. Emily’s were at her waist, thumbs brushing slow, steady arcs over the fabric of her jeans. Familiar. Reverent.
“I keep waiting to feel guilty,” JJ whispered.
Emily’s voice was low, “Do you?”
JJ shook her head against her shoulder. “Not yet.”
Emily didn’t answer. She didn’t move.
Instead, she lifted one hand from JJ’s hip and reached between them, fingers brushing the side of JJ’s face.
And then—delicately, like she’d done it before, or dreamed of it—Emily tucked a soft strand of JJ’s curtain bangs behind her ear.
Her fingertips lingered there. The touch featherlight. Barely a graze of skin against skin.
But JJ felt it like a spark struck to dry kindling.
Her breath hitched.
It wasn’t the touch itself, not really—it was the care in it. The certainty. The quiet way Emily’s fingertips lingered against her cheek after tucking her hair back, like she’d done it before in another life. Or maybe in a dream JJ hadn’t let herself remember.
JJ’s stomach dropped.
That helpless, fluttering sensation hit her low and fast, like tripping forward just enough to remind herself she was still upright. Still standing. Still capable of moving closer instead of running.
She opened her eyes, just barely, and Emily was there.
Watching her.
Soft. Still. Steady.
And JJ—who had spent so long being composed, contained, palatable—realized she didn’t want to hide this. Not tonight. Not here, where nobody knew what version of her was “correct.” Where no one was watching like they expected something from her. Where the music was low and the lights were kind and no one around them cared.
No one was staring.
And even if they had been… she didn’t think she would’ve moved.
Her pulse was a slow, heavy drum in her ears.
Her fingers slid from the nape of Emily’s neck, across her jawline. They were trembling, but she didn’t stop. She leaned in—hesitating just long enough to make sure this wasn’t a mistake, that Emily wasn’t going to pull away.
She didn’t.
Their lips met with the softest pressure. Barely there.
It wasn’t a rush. It wasn’t fireworks.
It was weightless. Like exhaling for the first time in hours. Maybe years.
JJ stilled—her body tense, suspended—waiting for something to crash. For guilt, for fear, for the old voices in her head to start screaming.
But they didn’t.
All she felt was the quiet press of Emily’s mouth against hers, and the way Emily breathed into the kiss like she knew. Like she had been waiting for JJ to meet her here, finally, on even ground.
JJ leaned in further, deepening it just slightly, just enough to let herself feel the shape of it. The curve of Emily’s bottom lip, the warmth beneath it, the subtle way her hand adjusted on JJ’s hip to pull her closer.
It was real.
Soft, and warm, and impossibly steady.
It was a revelation.
JJ kissed her again, slower this time. She shifted forward until their bodies brushed, a line of contact from knee to hip, and her hand settled behind Emily’s neck, anchoring them there. Emily kissed her back without hesitation, like she’d done this a thousand times in her mind and knew exactly where JJ needed her to be.
There was no fumbling.
No doubt.
Only breath, and the faint taste of honey and bourbon on JJ’s lips, and the kind of heat that wasn’t fire, but ember—something slow-burning, patient.
When they finally pulled apart, JJ didn’t let go.
She stayed there, forehead resting against Emily’s, trying to get her heart to slow down. She could feel Emily’s hand still resting on her waist, steady and warm. Not pulling her closer. Not letting her go.
She wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that.
But for once, she didn’t feel like she had to apologize for wanting something.
JJ leaned back half an inch, eyes locking with Emily’s. There was no game in her expression now.
Just a question.
Still waiting.
JJ’s voice was quiet, rough-edged. “You staying here tonight?”
Emily nodded. “Upstairs.”
JJ nodded too.
A pause. An inhale.
Then: “Can I come with you?”
Emily didn’t say anything at first.
She just looked at her for a long moment—and then gave a soft smile. Small. Real. The kind that reached her eyes and held steady.
She said, simply, “Yes.”
JJ threaded their fingers together again.
And they walked away from the music, from the quiet, from the space that had briefly made them feel safe enough to reach for something impossible.
But not unreachable.