Work Text:
It kicks off in the briefing room, sunlight slicing through the blinds. Hotch is at the head of the table, and first thing he clocks are the bags under Reid's eyes. Rough night. Not that Hotch had it much better—thirty minutes of sleep, tops. But everyone's locked in, focused, doing the job. Everyone.
Except Emily, touching her temple, barely moving, just enough to catch his eye. A little too quiet, leaning into her hand like it's holding her up. Pale, but when he asks if she's set to go, she fires off a sharp nod, all business. He moves on, but the mental note's already made—something's not right.
Suburban house, pristine lawns, the whole "perfect life" setup.
Hotch moves through it, talking to Morgan about the victim's daily grind, but his eyes drift to Emily outside, framed in the window. She's propped up against the patrol car, hands braced on the roof, staring down at her feet—shifting them side to side. Her face, though? Pained. But the second she spots him watching, she snaps upright, throws him a nod, and heads for the neighbors like nothing's off.
Keeps pace, never misses a beat, no complaints. Hotch doesn't ask. Doesn't want to push her. But yeah, he's noticed. This team is about as close to family as he's got outside of Haley and Jack. And he's spent more time in the office than in his own head—he's got the divorce papers to prove it. So yeah, he worries.
Interrogation room. Suspect's playing tough, not twitching. Emily's voice cuts in—throaty, with this edge to it, a little frayed. A cold, maybe? Hotch glances at her, catches the tight press of lips. He lets the silence hang, waiting for Mr. I didn't do it to fold, then hands her his water, casually.
Emily barely looks at it, just shakes her head, arms crossed.
Alright, whatever she says—she's a grown woman, knows how to handle herself.
Hotel lobby, Appleton, late night. Hotch steps off the elevator and spots Emily in the corner, slouched in an armchair, shoulders sagging. Her face has lost more color, and when she coughs, it's deep and upsetting.
The second she notices him, she shoots up way too fast. Hotch just raises an eyebrow, but she waves him off before he can even say a word. "I'm fine," it’s automatic, brushing it off. She's stubborn like that, but he can spot stubborn a mile away—he's no different.
"Good thing we're heading home," he says, pulling out his phone as it rings. "You're taking a few days off. Tell Morgan the jet's leaving in twenty."
"Yes, sir," she replies.
They walk side by side toward the jet, the weekend long and exhausting. Emily shifts uncomfortably next to him, her hand briefly clutching her stomach before her face turns a sickly green. Before she can stumble, Hotch catches her arm, steering her to the nearest corner. This time, she doesn't resist. Not even a few steps later, she's doubled over, retching.
Coughing.
He sees it—just barely—petals, clinging to the dirt and whatever she’s had for dinner. A few of them scattered there. White. Fragile. Hotch freezes, his hand still resting on her back.
For a moment, the only sound is her labored breathing and the soft crunch of petals under her boot.
So, Tripp's a no-show for Emily's hospital appointment. Hotch catches part of her phone call and offers to tag along. Tripp—her fiancé, the baseball hotshot—has a game in Ohio or something. Team needs him, you know how it is. Hotch isn't gonna get into the whole "priorities" thing; he literally can't afford to be a hypocrite.
Besides, Tripp's younger, bit of a rookie, probably still scratching his head over how he landed Emily with a sports scholarship. But the guy's alright, no major complaints.
Hotch stands in the corner of the room, arms crossed, posture rigid like he's some kind of statue. But inside everything's coming apart at the seams. His eyes stay on Emily, sitting there on the exam table, shoulders squared, jaw clenched—like she's bracing for the verdict in a case she already knows she's lost.
He doesn't know what's worse—her silence, or the doctor's. Because the doctor's eyes say it before her lips can form the words.
"It's Hanahaki disease," the doctor says.
He knows Hanahaki—everyone does.
It's not some rare condition, it's a cruel punchline the universe delivers to people who love too deeply, one-sidedly. You fall in love with someone who doesn't love you back, and your body takes that as a cue to go rogue, turning your emotions into something physical. Something lethal.
You start coughing up flowers—petals at first, delicate things that seem harmless, until they aren't. Until unspoken feelings are choking you from the inside out.
But Emily? This doesn't add up. She's engaged—been wearing that ring for four months now. How is it possible that she's falling apart over unrequited feelings?
"How long?" he asks.
The doctor hesitates, then sighs. "Hard to say. Could be weeks, could be months. The disease progresses at different rates. The coughing will worsen, and eventually, the flowers—"
"Yeah, I get it," he cuts in, no need to hear the rest. No need to hear the clinical breakdown of how Emily’s body is going to turn against her.
Emily looks up at him then, eyes unreadable but expectant, like she's waiting for him... something. Anything. But what?
The doctor slips out quietly, closing the door with a soft click that feels louder than it should.
Just him and Emily now. And he's not sure what to do with that. Because nothing about this situation makes sense.
"You've been coughing for weeks." The accusation is sharp in his voice, even though he tries to keep it level. He's not angry at her—he's angry. Angry at how goddamn confusing this is.
Emily shrugs, the movement too calm, too indifferent. "Yeah, well, I thought it would go away."
Hotch's jaw tightens. "Clearly, you were wrong." He hears the bite in his words, knows he should dial it back, but can he?
"I didn't want anyone to know," Emily says softly, the admission slipping out like it cost her something. And maybe it does. Because that's Emily. Never vulnerable. Never the one who needs help. "I don't want Tripp to know."
"Right," Hotch mutters under his breath. "Because marrying the wrong guy is really going to solve all your problems?"
"He's not the wrong guy."
He ignores her. "It just makes everything worse. You realize the damage this could do to your body, right?"
"Look, Hotch," she says, her voice firm. "Tripp's a great guy. He gets that I can't see him every weekend, and he genuinely cares about me. He treats Sergio well, and we can talk about just about anything. He's the right guy—I'll get over this, and I'm going to marry him. I'm not your responsibility. You don't have to—"
"Stop." He steps forward, closing the space between them. "Just stop."
She's taken aback for a second, but quickly regains her footing. She always does. That's Emily—resilient. But he's not letting her do this. Not when everything he hears is just a recipe for disaster.
"You should've told me," he continues. "You shouldn't have to go through this alone."
She laughs, but it's a bitter sound, full of irony. "And what would you have done?" Her voice rises, not quite angry, but frustrated. "Dragged me here sooner? I don't—" She stops, but the words hang there, unfinished. The truth is, there is no fix. Not unless she's willing to confront the feelings that got her here in the first place. And if she's not? Well, they both know how that ends. "Forget it."
"C'mon," he says, rubbing his forehead. "Just let me help you. Talk to me—anything helps. Just let it out."
Emily coughs into her wrist and rolls her eyes. "You know, you make me so angry sometimes. No idea how that happened," she says, pointing at him almost accusingly, her eyes misting up, catching him off guard. "You were such an asshole to me when I started in the team."
"Okay, alright. I thought we'd moved past this." He shoves a hand in his pocket, just a foot away from her when her hand grazes his suit, his chest. It takes him longer than he'd like to admit—a profiler struggling to connect the dots. It's him. Isn't it? He's the one poisoning Emily's lungs with flowers. "I see."
"I don't even know," she says, scratching under her collar and leaving a red mark on her pale skin. "I don't know when this all started. I've done my homework, I know what I have. I know how to fix it. But something's wrong with my head. Look, i know you're not the one for me. This would never work out. I'd probably get sick of you in a month because you're just—not for me. And all I have to do is to be completely sure."
"Okay, none taken." Hotch nods, because it makes sense—he's just throwing words out there. Let Emily convince herself it's her mind playing tricks. Let her say she'd be sick of him in a month. Whatever. Brutal honesty. Fine by him. "Whatever you suggest, I'm just here to help."
"Kiss me," she blurts, wrapping her arms around herself and squaring her shoulders. Hotch frowns. This isn't—well, it's not at all what he expected. She's engaged, and it sounds sketchy, almost like a trap. But then she wipes a tear from her cheek, glancing away, her eyes rolling. "I know, never mind, it's stupid."
"Would that actually help?"
"Well, if I hate it, then yeah—it probably would," she shifts her weight, avoiding his gaze. "It's a risk."
He's willing to give it a shot—for Emily's sake, not because he wouldn't kiss her under normal circumstances. Hotch isn't blind, he knows Emily's attractive, smart, with those big eyes that make it almost impossible to talk and not getting a little bit lost in them. But for him, work and romance are archenemies.
Still, he kisses her right there, taking her face in his palms, pressing his lips against hers—mouth to mouth, soft, her perfume brushing past his nose.
Her whole body sags slightly, and he realizes he's been in denial about just how much control he has over her, over what's going on inside her right now.
Now, he believes it.
He slides one hand behind her back, hooking an arm as her knees start to give way. She gasps, wide-eyed, blinking up at him. He brushes her hair back with the hand that was on her cheek, hesitantly saying, "I told you, I'm willing to help," though he's not sure if he's actually helping. Hotch deepens the second kiss, tongue gliding against hers, tasting a faint taste of her Starbucks order, her mouth moving slow and soft, a little sound escaping her—a plea that makes him pull back gently. "Tell me when to stop."
"Okay."
"Should I stop?"
"Yes, I—" She presses a hand to his chest, and he pulls back immediately, his tongue flicking across his lips. Emily has her eyes very much still shut. "Not very helpful." She sighs, giving him a look before scooping her purse off the table. "Come on, we need to get back to work."
He totally didn't hate the kiss.
"Hey," Emily slips into his office two days later, coughing, wheezing. Hotch nearly jumps out of his chair, but patiently waits when he sees her walking over to his desk, pulling a petal from between her lips. "I need five minutes."
Hotch has researched everything there is to know about Hanahaki. He understands now that being rejected by the object of one's affection can actually be fatal. He also knows it'll take Emily at least two months to fully recover, even after the pining fades. And he's aware that any attention he gives her acts like a painkiller—it offers temporary relief. He finds that idea oddly comforting.
This is the seventh time in two days that she's strolled into his office. First three times, he'd just sign papers and take calls while holding her hand, absentmindedly massaging her knuckles—he'd lose track of it until she got up to do something else—talk to JJ, handle her business.
Now she drags her chair a little too close, it's a ritual, like she's doing right now. She brings her pen and files, and Hotch tries to get things done with his left hand since she has his right hand hostage. Her palm is cold, and her lips pale until this little therapy section kicks in, and she allows him to operate at full capacity. She keeps apologizing when she leaves the room, even though he's already said there's no reason for it.
"I don't like this," she exhales, leaning into him, her cheekbone against his shoulder, taking a shaky breath. "Got an appointment to get one of these pesky branches chopped off. It's really starting to hurt. Loving you is getting painful."
The pen slips from Hotch's left hand.
He knows, but hearing it from her so directly catches him off guard. His tongue touches the back of his teeth as his hand flexes over the desk, her fingers finding his. "Like surgery?" he asks, actually concerned. "Do you need to take some time off?"
"I can't get rid of all of it," Emily shrugs. "They'll just make a small incision, nothing else. I'll take the weekend off. It'll be fine."
Hotch mulls it over, the silence stretching between them, before he finally leans down to press his nose to the top of her head, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo, and placing a kiss there. "Do you want me to come with you?" he asks. "What did you tell Tripp?"
"Didn't say anything," she says quietly after a moment. "Couple nights ago, I woke up coughing, and... well, Tripp got a front-row seat to the whole petal situation. Let's just say, wasn't pretty."
"Oh, I'm sorry." He means it. "So, that means you—"
"I have no idea what it means," she says, her eyes fixed on Hotch's thumb pressing against her knuckle. "But we're on a break. He's staying at his mom's. I don't blame him."
The surgery to remove Hanahaki is risky—the quickest way to cure it, sure, since it wipes out the feelings completely. A hundred percent. But there's a fifty-fifty chance you'll survive. Most people avoid it. "He wants you to get rid of it," Hotch assumes. "And you are considering it."
"I should."
The rest of it, they stay silent.
"Agent Prentiss," he says as she stirs awake from the procedure, the flowers reduced to its half amount. He feels awful seeing her like this—chapped lips, hand cold when he takes it. She blinks, slowly coming to her senses. "Hey, you feeling better yet?"
"Oh, yeah, I hired the best of the best gardener," she quips, her eyes fluttering shut. Hotch can't help but mirror her smile, because, well, she's hilarious, she's sweet—and she really doesn't deserve this mess. "You didn't have to come, y'know."
"I figured I'd play chauffeur today," he sighs. "But really, I just want to help you, Emily."
"You do more than enough," she says, her eyes open now, vulnerable, before she looks away, deflecting. "But it's not your fault. This... it was never going to work."
Why, he never asks, because it's her perception, her opinion. If she wants Tripp, that's her call. He doesn't want to complicate things for her. He gets it—work and love don't mix. "It's your life, you do you. Just know I worry."
A week passes. The fog of things hangs between them. It's been busier than usual—a new case, restless nights, and moments of quiet where Hotch can't help but feel that something's shifted. Emily hasn't been around as much. Not the same way she had been. No more visits to his office, no more sitting close during debriefs.
She's still on point, still as sharp as ever in the field. But there's distance now, and he can't decide if it's her pulling away, or him. Maybe both. Maybe he gets the message—yeah, this is how it's gotta be. Or this is how Emily wants it.
Today's no different. They've been chasing down leads all over the city, investigating the shootings. Hotch's focus has been on the broader picture—the patterns, the profiles. Joyner, leading her task force, is someone he's had to work closely with. She's competent, direct, and the kind of ally he doesn't shelve in a case like this.
But then there's Emily. He hasn't missed the small glances she gives him when she thinks he isn't looking. Something's brewing, he knows it, but she's good at keeping her guard up. Always has been.
Now, they're in the station, about to head out again. Hotch steps into the elevator, expecting the usual empty ride down. But Emily slips in just before the doors close, not even looking at him. She stands off to the side, one hand gripping the strap of her bag, her eyes trained on the floor numbers.
The silence stretches uncomfortably. He risks a glance at her, catching the way her jaw tightens slightly. It's enough to make him act.
"You alright?" Hotch's voice is low, almost casual, but he means it. He's noticed the distance, the... whatever it is that's been happening. He doesn't like it.
Emily shrugs, barely meeting his eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine."
But the way she says it—it doesn't sit right with him. His gaze lingers, searching for something more in her expression, but she keeps it locked down.
"I thought you were going with Joyner to that meeting with her team," she adds after a beat, and there's something off in her tone. A little edge, maybe. He doesn't read too much into it at first, just assumes it's the stress of the case.
"I'll catch up with her later," Hotch replies, trying to figure out why her words sound almost... pointed. Like it bothers her. But before he can even process it, Emily gives him a quick nod, like she's satisfied with his answer.
"Right," she murmurs. And then she laughs softly, though it's devoid of humor. "You've been spending a lot of time with her lately. Makes sense."
That catches him off guard. He studies her, but she won't meet his gaze. There's no reason for her to be... what, jealous? No. That doesn't seem right. They've always worked with other teams, other agents. He's worked closely with others before—Morgan, JJ, Garcia. This is no different.
"Emily..." He pauses, trying to find the right words. Something to ease whatever tension's building here. "We need all hands on deck. That's all it is."
"I know," she says quickly, almost too quickly, and finally looks up at him. "I didn't mean anything by it."
But Hotch knows her too well to take that at face value. She's brushing it off, the way she always does when something's bothering her. He steps a little closer, but she doesn't flinch, doesn't back away.
"Are you sure you're alright?" he asks again, his voice softer this time.
"My last X-ray showed most of it was gone. I mean, I have to be doing something right. That's a good thing, isn't it?" Emily looks up at him, and for a second, her expression cracks—just a little. He catches a flicker of something: exhaustion, frustration, maybe even hurt. But she recovers quickly, giving him a small, tight smile.
"I'm fine, Hotch. Really."
Before he can say anything else, the elevator dings, and the doors slide open. She's already stepping out, leaving him behind with thoughts.
"Honestly, Aaron," Joyner says, brushing her hair back with elegance, "I don't know how you manage it. Juggling all this responsibility. You've got this effortless command. It's impressive."
"It's a team effort. We've all been through enough to know what's needed."
Joyner chuckles, tilting her head, eyes locked on him. "Well, I think they're lucky to have you."
The bass is thumping like a heartbeat, and Hotch feels out of place. This isn't his scene—never has been—but the team's celebrating, and for once, he's trying to loosen up. It's not working.
He's by the bar, sipping something noncommittal, eyes flicking to his watch every few minutes. Morgan and Garcia are on the dance floor, JJ's deep in conversation with some guy who's clearly had too much, and Emily—well, Emily's been on another level all night. He's been keeping tabs on her, though, just in case.
Speaking of...
"Hotch!"
It's Emily, stumbling her way over, eyes sparkling with a drunk sort of glee. She's still holding a cocktail, half-gone, and before Hotch can even process what's happening, she pulls him in by the tie and kisses his cheek. She smells like tequila and laughter.
"Miss me?" she says with a mischievous grin, lingering a second too long in his personal space before giggling and leaning against his side.
Hotch doesn't push her away. His hand instinctively goes to her waist to steady her, though his focus is still on Joyner, who raises an eyebrow at the sudden interruption, clearly amused but surprised.
"Emily," Hotch says gently, a hint of exasperation in his tone, but there's no real sting to it. "You're—"
"Adorable?" she offers, her grin wide as she leans in closer, a little bit clinging to him.
Joyner's smile tightens just slightly. "Looks like someone's been having a good time."
Emily giggles again, nuzzling into Hotch's shoulder as if Joyner wasn't even there. "I always have a good time with him."
Hotch sighs, but there's a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He gives Joyner a look that seems to say, I'll deal with this.
"Sorry," he says, trying to regain some semblance of normalcy in the conversation. "She's had a bit too much tonight."
Joyner's smile doesn't falter, but there's a knowing gleam in her eyes. "Looks that way. Must be nice, though, having someone so... devoted."
Devoted.
Hotch doesn't take the bait, nodding politely instead. "It's all in good fun. She's just—"
Before he can finish, Emily suddenly pushes herself upright, swaying slightly as she turns toward him. She places herself right between his knees, hands resting on his thighs, eyes fat with mischief. Not even a single warning—my God, she leans in, her lips grazing his ear as she whispers, her voice low and teasing.
"Dance with me, Aaron," she purrs, breath hot against his skin, her fingers lightly tracing along the edge of his collar. She nips at his earlobe, because it's a game now, stupid, and fun, and scary enough to make him freeze.
A hand instinctively moving to her ribs, squeezing it in a warning. "Emily..." His voice is firm, but not harsh, a quiet command she probably won't listen to in her current state.
He turns back to Joyner. "I'm really sorry," he says, giving the woman an apologetic smile. "I think I'd better get her out of here before she causes any more trouble."
Joyner nods it off. "I understand."
Hotch gives a nod, already standing up with Emily leaning heavily against him. "I'll make sure she gets back safely. Thanks for understanding."
"Of course," Joyner says, but there's something in her smile—a flicker of disappointment, maybe? Either way, she lets him go without further comment.
As Hotch leads Emily toward the door, her hand clutching his shirt, pressing her face into his chest. "You've got her drool all over you."
"Not even impossible. It's your own drool you're dealing with. Let's get you to the hotel, sleep this off. Tomorrow you can regret whatever it is you're doing now."
"I'm never gonna regret it," she mutters as he waves down the security guard for a taxi. "Are you mad at me?"
"Not mad," Hotch mutters, shaking his head as he grips her waist, helping her toward the sidewalk. "Come on, one foot after the other."
But Emily stops dead, arms hanging limply at her sides, her shoulders sagging dramatically. He turns back with a sigh, exasperation creeping into his voice. "Emily... what now?"
"You'd rather be with her," she slurs, staring at him.
"What—?" He shoots her a bewildered look. No, that's not it at all. Actually, it's the opposite. He'd carry a hundred drunken Emilys home before sharing another minute in that bar with anyone else. And he knows why. He sighs, rubbing his forehead. "Let's go, Emily."
"You don't like me," she mumbles, her voice small. "Why don't you like me?"
Hotch frowns, stepping closer and shaking his head in disbelief. "Because I'm out here doing stuff like this for you," he says, thick with the sarcasm, "and not even complaining."
Before she can protest, he steps forward, lifting her over his shoulder, and she lets out a surprised gasp, clutching at his pants for balance. "Hotel."
Tripp decides it's prime time to give Emily a call once they hit the hotel. As he shuts the door, she picks up in a little silly whisper. "Hey, Trippie," she coos, flopping onto her back in bed. "Need something?"
Hotch cracks his tense shoulder, then leans over to pick up one of Emily's shoes and gently pulls it off her foot. "Tell him you'll call tomorrow."
She completely ignores him. "No, I'm not drunk." Hotch would swear lightning might strike him if he denied rolling his eyes at the sly tone in her voice. "I'm in New York, actually, so I don't know if we can talk in person right now."
Hotch takes her other foot, his hands lingering just a bit too long as he pulls off her shoe, thumb brushing against her heel in a brief massage. She's on the phone with her fiancé—or ex-fiancé—and Hotch is... thinking about... things.
What a gentleman.
"There you go. I'm heading to my room. Call if you need anything."
"We're done, I told you," Emily says more firmly this time. "I'm not going to some weird retreat or whatever. Just leave me alone."
Okay, leave it.
None of your business, Hotch, that's what he keeps telling himself. But then he doesn't listen—he snatches her phone from her hold and hears Tripp's voice, "I just want what's best for you. This guy? He doesn't give a shit about you. I do. I want you. We work, Emily. Got it?"
He paces the room, weighing words like stones in a bag. Tripp seemed like a nice guy—naive, even—but all this time he's been a manipulative jerk? Emily sits on the bed now, her eyes expectant, hands clasped around her bent knees. "Em?" Hotch hears from the other end. "You there?"
"Emily will call you back later," he says curtly.
"And who's this?" Tripp asks. Hotch decides to put it on speaker so she can hear too. "Look, if you're who I think you are, I hope you tell Emily this is the last time I'm calling. Tell her not to call me. Ever again."
Hotch winces as she plays with her fingers. "Looking forward to it," he replies before hanging up. He slides the phone back across the mattress to her, but she doesn't reach for it. Instead, she shifts closer to the pillow, curling up slightly as she lies down and closes her eyes. "I care about you, you know that. You really shouldn't listen to him."
"I don't," she murmurs softly. "Not anymore."
He flops onto the carpet, arms sprawled out as he leans his head back against the mattress. "Get some rest, okay?"
"Yes, boss."
"Rise and shine, sleepyhead. Time to roll."
Hotch wakes up to a tap on his cheek—Emily, outlining her upper lip with a pencil. His back protests the movement as he shifts. "Did I crash here?"
"JJ just knocked. Jet's wheels up in 30."
"What time is it?" He rubs his eyelids, letting out a wince. Emily glances at him through the mirror. "You look good," he sighs. "Uh... you feeling alright?"
"Well, not catastrophic as I thought I'd be," she quips, watching him run a hand through his hair. "Mind giving me a hand? Zipper's stuck."
"Yeah, sure." He gets up, fixing his tie as he heads over to Emily's jacket. She bites her lip when his gaze flickers to her face, then quickly looks away. "Yesterday catching up with you yet?"
"Believe me, no one's more embarrassed than I am," she mutters while he wrestles with the zipper, failing miserably. He tugs it down, and finally, it gives. "My doctor says either I'm over you, or your body's subconsciously screaming that you're into me. I've been keeping my distance 'cause I'm pretty sure you're just trying to be nice, and I really don't want to misread this whole thing."
"And you just keep getting better. So, does that mean it's actually working?"
"I think you might be feeling the same way, which means I'm probably delusional," she admits, and his heart plummets straight to his stomach as he finishes unzipping her jacket, sliding it off one shoulder. "Wait... are you taking it off?"
"What if you're not?" Hotch ignores her, his lips tight, studying her. Does she really think it's that hard to be liked? "I mean delusional. You're a smart woman, Emily. Really beautiful too. And I've got eyes."
"I thought your eyes were too busy on Joyner this week," she bites, a little sharp, a hint of jealousy creeping in as she glances away. He steps forward, his boot brushing against her bare foot. She licks her lips, hesitantly resting her toes on top of it. "Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Aaron."
He really likes it. Loves it, even—the way she says his name.
"I was worried about you, actually," he says, and it’s true—Joyner’s directions had thrown him off. His mind was somewhere else entirely. "You got distant."
"I know,” she locks eyes with him this time, her eyebrows knitting together in that telltale way right before someone breaks. Hotch frowns, cupping her face, his thumb brushing under her eye. "Please, don’t do this. I love you. I couldn’t sleep at night. There were branches in my lungs. Actual branches, Aaron. I don’t want you to lie just to make me feel better, or out of some sense of obligation."
"I—" he rolls his eyes, then leans in, pressing his lips firmly against hers. She hums into his mouth, sending a shiver up his arm. "I’m not that good, Emily.”
A tear slips down her cheek as he tugs at his tie, and she reaches for his belt. "Do you think they can hold off a jet for a little longer?"
"Let them go. I think we can manage a later flight," he says, dropping a kiss on her shoulder through the fabric of her blouse, then another on her pale neck. "Let me take care of you."