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1.
The last book hits the edge of the box with a thud, Emily’s increasingly desperate searching making the sound echo louder than it should. Her teeth automatically bite down on her lip. She gnaws on it as she shifts the box away next to the three already caging her and turns her attention to the last one standing, still pushed neatly against the wall where the others had been. There’s a faint tremble in her hands as she pushes her bangs behind her ears.
It’s ridiculous, the voice in her head whispers. You’re being ridiculous.
And it’s right.
Emily ignores it. She ignores the lump lodging itself in her throat, swallowing hard as she drags the last box in front of her crossed legs and grabs the boxcutter Hotch had given her. Her hands are warm as she slices through the tape and tips the box out, fingers sifting through the endless spines. All familiar, all read, all hers.
The rug beneath her is not. The room housing three stacks of said boxes is not.
They’re Aaron Hotchner’s, something she’s still trying to wrap her head around.
Her cat had been adopted by her best friend. Her clothes and jewelry had been sent to her mother, boxed up and unceremoniously dropped off on the estate’s doorstep, where they’d no doubt stayed in a storage closet until her mother came back from Madrid. And, somehow—for some reason—her books had found themselves in the possession of one Aaron Hotchner. Every single book she owned, tipped out of its place on her bookshelves and lined neatly into cardboard boxes, sitting and gathering dust in his unoccupied guest room. Lying untouched in the dark, waiting for her hand to reach for them and dust them off. Waiting, all sealed up and neat, like love letters.
Emily tries and fails to tell herself that it means nothing. Tending to her clothes and her cat was rational, right? But who would miss her books other than herself? That’s what keeps drilling a hole in her skull, a neat little pocket right at her prefrontal cortex where Aaron Hotchner has reigned for longer than she can stomach. The unspoken, unadulterated hope of it all has been a confusing warmth in her chest ever since he told her that he took them in, if she ever wanted them.
Of course she does. But one more than any other.
She thumbs past Poe and trashy science fiction, titles starting to blur as she reaches the end of one row and starts anew at the other. Emily skips over the French Monte-Cristo, pushes away cracked spines of Khalil Gibran, her eyes scanning the rows faster than her hands do. Both searches come up empty; the lump grows in her throat, harder to swallow as she reaches the last line of books.
Logically, she knows that the book is probably here. Hotch isn’t the type to misplace things. And even if he did, she can buy a newer edition from anywhere—a shiny new copy, laminated and smooth, its pages crisp and uncreased. Of all the things she owns, books are some of the most easily replaceable. It’s fine.
It’s fine. It won’t be the one Grandad gave her, his knowing smile to her juvenile pout as he pressed it into her hands and opened up the first page with her, but it’ll still be the same book. The same book that had crumpled her disgruntled contempt, broken it down and made it give way to curiosity; colorful pictures and captivating titles had caught her attention, holding it for longer than anything else in the ice-capped mountains ever could. It was a gateway, Grandad’s hand gentle on her shoulder as he nudged her in, helped her tumble into a world of undiscovered depths. Her love of constellations, mythology, science fiction; it all bred from that one moment, one weathered hand guiding her into a lap and telling her to read.
The sob is working in her throat when she finds it: bottom row, four titles away from the edge of the box, wedged between a romance novel Garcia had lent her and a worn copy of Vonnegut. Emily’s finger grazes the spine, cracked and faded. Her next exhale is shaky with relief as she pulls it out.
It’s not that Emily had never started over from scratch before. That’s nothing new; the desolate emptiness of a vacant home is well known to her, perpetually ingrained in the space behind her eyes.
But she messed up this time. She let the sight fade, let herself believe that there’s no reason to hold on to it any longer, because she’d finally settled. Her roots were planted in rich, plentiful soil, and they wove down so deep beneath the ground she never imagined they’d be torn up again.
She was wrong. Her nerve endings still burn from the force of it.
Emily stuffs the book in her purse and stands, grimacing at the ache in her knees—serves her right for sitting cross-legged for so long—and gingerly stepping between the maze of boxes out of the guest room. She follows the scent of marinara sauce into the kitchen, finding Hotch standing at the stove, sternly overseeing two pans and a furiously boiling pot. He looks up at the click of her shoes on the floor and she’s yet again struck by his domestic image, sharp expression melting into something gentler, soft hair sticking up and soft t-shirt pulled over his shoulders.
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
And his voice. So tender it’s formless, all the time, like he’s stopped bothering to hide it.
Emily doesn’t really think, she just does it. Closes the distance, loops her arms around his neck and feels the scrape of his cheek against hers as her chin settles on his shoulder. Their chests press, air trapped and smothered between them.
“Thank you.” She whispers, the words tucked under his jaw.
He’s warm against her. Stiff. Smelling faintly of detergent and butter-coated, sautéed onions. She’s about to step back when his arms come up around her back, trapping her, gently squeezing.
“You’re welcome.” He says. His voice vibrates through her chest and between the pulses of her thrumming heart. She warms, adrenaline still racing through her blood as his nearly hot hand settles flat to the left of her ribcage.
Emily briefly closes her eyes as his thumb rubs over her shirt, idly smoothing the fabric and notching against the pearls of her spine. Familiar. As if they’ve done this before. He breathes in, and her chest follows his, rising with his inhale.
“Stay for dinner?”
Maybe she would’ve thought it through another time. When her throat wasn’t thick with emotion, when her head was clear enough to ring alarm bells at his low, soft tone and the aimless touches on her back. Maybe she would’ve, another time. But not this one.
“Okay.”
2.
Emily still isn’t entirely sure she hasn’t been spiritually possessed.
It’s barely nine thirty, she’s seated in the sun-drenched booth of an all American diner, (opposite her devastatingly casually dressed boss), and her throat tingles from yelling her voice hoarse at a kiddies soccer game. The culprit sits next to her, blonde hair alight in the sun, his body tilted away at a dramatic angle as he scribbles at a piece of paper. She’s not allowed to look; Emily suspects she’ll be gifted an art piece very soon.
If she can stay awake for it.
She tries to blink the heaviness from her eyes, bringing a palm up to her mouth in an attempt to stifle another yawn. Her coffee is drained, but it doesn’t douse the fatigue; Emily claps her hand against the third yawn in as many minutes.
Hotch wordlessly pushes his still warm, still half full mug toward her, a soft gleam in his eyes that has her searching his mouth for a smile. “Consider it a thank you.” He says as the mug grazes her fingertips, his voice faintly apologetic.
Emily smiles, heat staining her cheeks.
There’s something quietly charming about him in this light. It’s in the easy slope of his shoulders, the dark blue of the polo that drapes over them and shamelessly clings. Plucked from the midst of a teeming soccer field watched closely by hawk-eyed PTA moms, he’s now much more silent in the corner of the booth—words softer, tone lower, altogether shrinking in size. The slightest half moons press into his cheeks, a curve toying with the corner of his mouth.
This side of him has only recently opened up, but Emily is rapidly falling as in love with it as she already is with the stern, no nonsense side she’s known for years. Trouble, her head rings, but she’s far too worn down to care now.
Her hands wrap around the mug, briefly stacking on top of his as she drags it closer, fingers gently parting around his wrist. “No need. It’s just, uh, a tad early.” Her lips twist wryly. But it’s not like she was going to get any more sleep either way; at least she didn’t waste the morning twisted in sheets damp with cold sweat. Hotch’s hand slips from beneath hers; he still keeps his arm extended, fingers pressed against the bottom of the mug. “You guys do this every week?”
He hands her the bowl of sugar as she’s reaching for it. The crystals could melt where they touch her skin. “Jack does. I coach when I can.”
“Luke’s mom says Dad’s the best coach.” Jack pipes up, his neck twisting as he turns to look at her.
Emily, sleep deprived, starving, and four degrees too hot, blurts out, “Oh, I bet she does.”
She only fully realizes what she’s said when Hotch’s ears turn pink. Emily snaps her mouth shut. Opens it again, cringing. Closes it, then hurriedly brings the mug to her lips, barely feeling the hot sting of the coffee as it slides down her throat.
Jesus.
Jack has thankfully returned to his drawing. Hotch shifts in his seat, the hand he had extended across the table drawing back to the nape of his neck.
“Because you’re such a great coach,” Emily rushes out belatedly, a hot flame licking up her jaw. Oh, god, it reaches her cheeks, doesn’t it? “And you obviously care about—”
“Sorry for the delay!” The waitress—Kathy—hurries over in a flurry of clinking plates. Emily’s mouth snaps shut again, hot magma pooling under her cheekbones as Kathy sets her tray down. She swallows against the burn in her throat, singed tastebuds grating against the roof of her mouth; her eyes fix themselves on the rapidly filling table, staunchly not looking up as Hotch murmurs, so quiet it nearly gets drowned out by the clink of plates being set down, it’s no worries.
“Cheese omelette and hash for Dad.” The huge plate somewhat acts as a barrier, Emily thinks with a bit too much desperation. Not as much empty space between their chests. “Chocolate chip pancakes—extra whipped cream—for this handsome boy.” The waitress smiles fondly at Jack as he lifts his drawing up, tucking it inward on his lap. “And waffles for Mom.”
Emily’s eyes snap up, wide as they meet Hotch’s. He doesn’t react, regarding her with cool brown eyes that linger for a beat too long before flitting to the end of the table. The only thing he does is turn to smile thankfully at the waitress after she sets down golden brown, syrup-drenched waffles in front of her.
Nobody corrects her. Jack, having set his drawing back down on the table, continues scribbling with vigor. Air thins in her lungs, kicking her head into a spin.
Emily suddenly feels wide awake.
“Can I get you guys anything else? More coffee for you, sir?”
“No, thank you.” Hotch murmurs politely. His voice is headless.
The waitress turns to Emily, hand already extended to the two mugs at her elbow. “What about you, hon? Can I take that away for you?”
Emily can only nod. Kathy takes her own empty mug, leaving Hotch’s next to her plate. There’s a faint kiss of her lipstick on the rim.
Kathy takes her leave. Emily’s mouth opens and falls shut, words sticky and clinging to her throat.
What can she say anyway?
Sun-drenched brown meets hers again. Jittery, she clutches the mug and brings it to her lips, swallowing down too-hot, too-sweet coffee. Her tongue presses against the rim and she wonders if his had, too.
Not the time, Emily.
“Jack.” Hotch clears his throat. “Crayons away, please.”
“One sec!” Jack scribbles something, then finally turns and hands the paper to her. “For you, Emily.” He says proudly, grinning with two missing front teeth.
Emily’s smile is a tad robotic as she takes the drawing. It softens into something genuine as her eyes trace the picture, taking in the colorful strokes of crayon, bold and sure, firmly pressed into the page and denting it beneath bright paraffin wax.
It’s an impressively comprehensive portrait of the soccer field, with two figures standing in front of the bleachers, cheering on a tiny one as it kicks the ball into the goal. A speech bubble rises above Emily and Hotch’s heads, connecting and warping to fit “go, Jack!!!” in the midst of it. The goalpost is dotted with a dozen mini goal!’s around the hastily drawn ball, some of the letters blending into the wobbly lines of the net.
The waitress’ implication hangs over her shoulders, settling there comfortably along with the shame that accompanies it. Emily shoves them both down, down, feeling them settle into a distant stomachache entirely unrelated to her two cups of coffee glugged on an empty stomach.
“Wow, Jack. I love it. You’re quite the artist, huh? Even got my sunglasses and everything.” She laughs, ruffling his hair. He beams, lips splitting wide to show his toothy grin. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
He launches himself into the hug she offers. “You’re welcome! Can you come next week, too?”
Emily’s eyes dart to Hotch. He’s already looking, his plate untouched. “I—uh. I’d love to, Jack. But I’d have to ask my boss.” She gives Jack a close-lipped, apologetic smile, her hand automatically smoothing down his hair. Jack’s eyes dart to his father’s, and Emily just barely restrains herself from doing the same when he speaks up.
“He doesn’t mind. If you don’t, that is.”
She turns her head, a strange thrill in her chest. It’s like she’s on the precipice of something unknown, toeing a taut line that hangs above inscrutable nothingness.
“No, no, I don’t.” Emily swallows. “I don’t mind.”
They eat their breakfast. Emily’s cheek hardly gets the chance to cool down. Unwilling to let the morning end, she accepts their offer to go home with them. Jack showers, they make cookies; hot, melty chocolate chips smear on the corner of her mouth.
Hotch wipes it off. Tastes the sugar from her lips. Discovers the unending, molten heat in her cheeks.
Jack’s drawing finds its home on her nightstand.
3.
She’s not really looking for anything in particular. Her grocery basket is full enough of everything she knows she doesn’t have at home, a carton of eggs half hidden beneath bars of chocolate and a few other essentials, but Emily still lingers even as the handle starts to grate down on her elbow joint. The aisles are fairly empty; no one loiters around but her, the movement of her body noticeably slow against the brisk rush of other shoppers.
It’s something she’s found herself doing lately: giving more time to small, inconsequential tasks. Chopping her dinner vegetables slower, feeling the cold juice of a tomato soak her fingertips; inhaling the clean scent of fabric softener as she tips it into the washing machine, filling the cap to the brim with cloudy soft solution; slowly combing through the knots in her freshly washed hair, feeling the sticky cold of her shirt where it soaks through with water and fuses with her skin. She’s forcing herself to inhale her breaths slowly, letting them inflate her chest into a balloon until she can feel the beat of her heart in its cage, can hear it echoing faintly in her ears as it uses up the finite oxygen she trapped in her lungs.
It helps ease the tightness in her chest. The sense of doom lessens when she zeroes in on the few seconds she’s physically present in, restless anxiety blurring into the background as she concentrates all of her focus solely on the length of her vision.
So she’s walking around the grocery store at 7:36 pm, her hair still damp from the shower she’d taken to wash the case off, basket swinging in her elbow as she bypasses kitchen supplies to reach the racks of mugs occupying the rest of the aisle.
She needs mugs, she remembers. Cool air blows on the back of her neck as she stops in front of them, her eyes skipping over the rows of ceramics.
She’s always liked shopping for them. Not for any particular reason; her penchant for pretty things has existed as long as she had, flourishing under superfluous wealth and hungry eyes that ravished anything and everything in their line of sight. Her mug collection that she cultivates in each house she finds herself in is almost inevitably started over anew with each move. There was never enough room or need to move them. Besides, they’re fragile. Her kulhad, once brimming with the chai Aarya had poured for her—brown as the swirl of her eyes and nowhere near as sweet—had broken on a temporary move back to DC, cleaved pieces of terracotta clay nestled between bubble wrap, pathetic and entirely useless. It was yet again another bitter reminder not to get attached, but she’s adamant this time.
No movers.
Her near-empty cupboards still house plain mugs, and she’s decided that wouldn’t do. The plain ceramics are as lifeless as the rest of her polished apartment. So Emily spends a sizable amount of time in front of the mug racks, nudging some aside, peering through the gaps into the others.
The one that catches her eye is entirely ridiculous, tucked behind plain monochrome ones and colorful, flower patterned monstrosities.
It has a cat on it. A simple cartoonish cat outlined in black, nearly unremarkable except for the thick-rimmed glasses on its face. Emily laughs when she see it and immediately reaches her hand through the maze of mugs to grasp the handle. As she guides it out her smile gets wider, the cat’s blank expression clashing with its scholarly looking spectacles, its mouth drawn in neutral curves. The rest of the mug is smooth white, save for a line of black circling the rim.
She knows she’ll be taking it with her.
The act could very nearly be considered useless; she hasn’t been spending all that much time in her apartment lately, paying rent for the shadows that frequent it more often than she does, but she goes back every once in a while. Maybe to prove to herself that she can. Sitting alone in the quiet is less bearable than it used to be, the thick silence creeping down her spine and curling into dread in her stomach. Sleeping on her own is very nearly a lost cause, at least if she wants to steer clear of medication.
She still hasn’t fully forgiven Aaron for it. Her bed is infinitely more comfortable than his; her sheets are Egyptian cotton, her pillowcases Mulberry silk, and yet none of it substitutes the tangible safety of his body next to hers. She’d known the moment she’d woken up the first time in his bed, half pinned under his arm and clear-eyed after a full night’s rest, that she was fucked.
But Emily holds herself back from running to the Hotchner home tonight.
She takes her mug home, sorts away the groceries, feeds Sergio, and makes herself a warm chamomile. It relaxes her decently enough by the time she gets into bed, still relatively early to allow herself at least several hours of inevitable tossing and turning before the hand ticks past midnight.
Emily sets her drained mug on the nightstand and automatically smiles when she spots Jack’s drawing glinting behind its frame, a crayon version of her and Aaron shoulder to shoulder. Sergio hops up on the bed and plops himself on her chest as she grabs her phone, halfway through thumbing a message.
Good night, she texts Aaron.
He calls thirty seconds later and she has to hide her smile beneath the slur in her voice, trying to ignore the way she sinks deeper into the mattress at the timber of his voice. Their exchange is brief, questions that sound like I love you's and low murmurs that all but say take care of yourself for me wrapped in static that crackles with the distance. It has her warm by the time they hang up, the phone on her pillow, love heavy in her mouth.
Her eyes slip closed quickly. Sergio nuzzles in her neck, purring up a storm; Emily nuzzles her nose into his fur and hooks a light finger into his collar. She tumbles into sleep and wakes up multiple times throughout the night, cold despite the comforter, but she doesn’t dream.
Emily considers it a victory.
She’s over the next day, a sticky brown rim of coffee lining the bottom of the mug by the time she walks into the Hotchner household.
“Cute,” Aaron says mildly, taking it from her hand and running it under the water, smoothly adding it to his pile of dishes.
Emily leans against the countertop. “Reminds me of my boyfriend.” She grins.
He frowns, mouth softly curving up. She’s almost entirely sure it has to do with her use of boyfriend . “Am I so feline-like?” He asks, his voice bending beneath a combination of teasing and confusion.
She loves him. All the time, but especially like this—brows knitted together without any real tension, contradicting the lines of his smile and his deeply pressed dimples. The realization is nothing new; it doesn’t knock her off kilter. These bells have been ringing for a while now.
Still, her heart thrums faster in her wrists.
“Oh, honey,” she murmurs, straightening and dropping a kiss on his cheek. “I wasn’t talking about you. Maybe if you’d get some glasses, though…” Her brows arch lightly, teeth teasing her lip.
Aaron’s grumble warms her ear. Emily laughs, watching the cat’s face disappear beneath a froth of bubbles and surface again, suds chased away by the running water. Aaron tips the mug upside down on the dishrack, amongst a plastic Spider-Man cup and plain china, and she’s gnawing down on her lip against something she can’t explain as he tilts her jaw, gently greets her with a kiss. His fingertips are pruned and soft against her skin, the scent of lemon dish soap curling around her and pulling her into the miscellany of scents that make up a home.
She hides an uncharacteristic blush in his shoulder before bumping him aside, grabbing a towel and situating herself in front of the dishrack.
It doesn’t take long before the mug is a permanent fixture in his cupboard. It takes less before his cupboard becomes theirs.
4.
The buzz of the gun isn’t new enough to make her anxious, but she’s still stiff as she waits for it to make contact with her rib, breath caught and nail poised on her cuticle. The cold room doesn’t help either; goosebumps pebble on her skin, raise the hairs at the back of her neck.
“Try to relax.” Lizzie says, adjusting the gun in her grip.
Emily closes her eyes as the needle sinks into her flesh. The sting of the pain immediately takes her three decades prior, to her fifteen-year-old self and the yawning emptiness eating at her insides. Her tear-filled eyes, dull and bleak, shutting tightly against the urge to scream. The plastic wrapping on the chair had split beneath her nails, ripping free into shreds in her fists.
It felt good back then, the pain. Like it was penance, though she could never find anything harrowing enough to wipe her clean. She’d never been fully able to shake off that feeling, every bite of pain stirring up the thought that she deserved it for some reason or the other. Her list is miles long. Pick something and it’ll fit.
Her guilt had solidified in her gut, a boulder that she carried around and never knew how to set down, how to throw up, how to crumble to pieces. Sometimes she thinks it might’ve been broken down by acid, because it doesn’t sit as heavy as it used to, the center of her attention; now she feels it more subtly, sharp pebbles lining the underside of her skin, poking and grazing and nicking vessels in various stages of healing. One wrong bump, and everything goes bleeding again.
Now she curls her fingers into her shirt, nails slipping on the soft fabric. It isn’t hers; it’s Aaron’s, stolen under the guise of needing something loose to wear after. Really, Emily has a hundred linen tops and airy blouses. The excuse is as feeble as they come, but he took it. Hummed and kissed her clothed shoulder, his voice warm as he’d asked what she wanted for dinner.
“When did you get this?” Lizzie voice rises above the hum of the gun, breaking Emily from her reverie. Her tongue aches from the bite of her teeth, eyes damp with a glaze she tries to blink away.
Emily wets her lips. September, 1985. The sky couldn’t decide whether to split beneath the relief of rain or hold itself together until the clouds passed them by. “Long time,” she says tightly, her voice lined with a rasp. “Thirty years, give or take.”
Lizzie nods, humming. “It’s in pretty good shape, all things considered. The placement definitely helps.”
It’s not a particularly pretty tattoo. A plain hourglass etched on her side, laying over her ribs, an amalgamation of her blood and pain and miniscule threads of hope that had existed, even back then. The sand eventually bottoms out on one side. It’s how it works.
Emily now knows that’s not quite how things end up playing out. Still, the sight of the fading ink made her rush to search for a parlor, an irrational desperation screaming from her veins, yelling all the way to her head. She won’t forget, she never could. But she still wants her body to bear the memory, her skin and bones to know that there’s a reason the clock is still ticking, her heart is still beating even though his isn’t.
She’s crying by the time it’s done. There’s no use hiding it, long streaks of tears cutting down her cheeks.
The artist hands her a tissue. “Ribs are a tough place.” She says kindly.
Emily wipes her nose, accepts the water and snack she’s given before striding out to her car and crying into the wheel.
Her side stings for the whole rest of the day. Before bed, Aaron helps her change the dressing. Her skin is red and raw, almost violently puckered around the tattoo.
It’s electric blue, Matthew’s favorite color.
5.
The bright sticky note is the first thing to catch her attention.
Emily knows what it means long before she reads what’s written on it. There’s a slight chill clinging to her skin, kissing her spine and the tips of her fingers, lingering without warm palms to massage it out. Never mind the covers brought up to her ear; so long as the other side of the bed is cold, she is, too.
She stretches out a sore, bent elbow. It cracks, echoing in the silence along with the creak of the bed as she shifts her limbs, bringing them back to life after her comatose-like sleep. Rubbing her eye with one hand, she reaches over with the other and plucks the note from Aaron’s distinctly cold pillow. While mildly annoyed, she still handles it with care, gentle fingers and a light grip as she brings it up to her eyes.
It takes a few seconds for the words to come into focus.
Went for a grocery run. I wouldn’t have, but I knew I’d be in bigger trouble if we didn’t have pancakes for breakfast. Be back soon. Don’t make yourself coffee, I’ll get some on the way.
Ps, I did kiss you good morning.
Emily smiles despite herself, the sound of Aaron’s voice echoing crisp and clear as she reads. Her eyes narrow on the last line, his neat lettering turning softer, loopy with amusement.
Smartass. It’s not a good morning kiss if she didn’t feel it.
A knock on the door makes her drop the note, smiling. “Come in, Jack,” she calls out, a grating rasp in her throat.
Jack shuffles in, yawning. He squints, his eyes all but slits, hair and pajamas chaotically mussed as he makes his way over to the bed.
“Morning, baby.”
Jack rubs a fist into his eye. “Dad didn’t wake me.” He says, an equal stickiness to his voice.
“It’s ’cause he went out early. Wanna sleep until he gets back?” She pats the bed.
Jack nods drowsily. He clambers in, gracelessly flopping onto Aaron’s pillow and very nearly crushing the sticky note beneath his head. Emily tucks it under her own pillow just before her arm gets pinned to her side; Jack rests half his weight on her, rooting sleepily into her collarbone.
“’M hungry.” He grumbles.
“But you want to sleep?” Emily laughs, pressing a kiss to his forehead as he nods. “Your dad went out to get us pancake mix. He’ll be back soon.” She whispers, worming her arm out so it’s around his shoulders, tucking him into her side.
Her fingers sift through his soft blonde hair. In a minute his breathing evens out again, warming her skin in equal intervals. Emily’s eyes fall closed, too, but she doesn’t drift. Nose pressed to his hairline, she inhales the faded scent of shampoo and drinks in the quiet of the morning.
When her arm goes numb, and she feels the effect of glugging too much water before bed, she carefully slides out from under Jack. He doesn’t stir as she adjusts his head on her pillow and tugs the comforter up his shoulders.
Emily quietly tiptoes in and out of the bathroom, finding her way in the sparse light from the part in the curtains, water dripping down her chin and soaking her tank top. She goes about her skincare then makes sure to dry her hands properly before grabbing the note, pursing her lips against a smile as she skims it again.
She was surprised when Aaron started leaving them for her, colorful sticky notes stuck to her vanity mirror and cold pillows and tucked under the coffee machine, but really she shouldn’t have been. He’s a romantic, even when he struggles to verbally express it.
The notes contain varying contents. They used to enclose instructions, when she started getting more comfortable in the apartment—how to work the washing machine, telling her to clean out the coffee filter or else it won’t drip down for hours. More than a few held dad jokes, something stupid and bound to make her laugh. Few are love notes. They’re hardly Shakespearean, but the romance is in his neat handwriting on the notes, in the mental image of him hunched over with a pen clutched in his hand and taking a minute to leave her something of the day.
She’s thumbing the note in her hand as she reaches into her side of the closet and through her clothes for a shoe box. It’s not empty, but the dry shuffle of notes inside isn’t quite heavy enough to substitute the weight of a pair of shoes.
The box is lightly perfumed with the scent of dried flowers. They’re a guilty pleasure of hers, one that bloomed after Aaron frequently started to present her with bouquets on date nights. She sneaks one from each neatly wrapped arrangement he gifts her, hangs it upside down deep in the darkness of their closet until it dries, then carefully places it in the box amongst other fragile sprigs of flowers.
Sometimes Emily feels nauseous with the sweetness of it. She’d never been a sentimental person; nostalgia would’ve killed her if she let it. She learned long ago not to get attached to materialistic possessions—things that worm their way into her heart, then into her hands. But she’s learning to let herself have it.
“What’s this?”
Emily startles, biting down on a yelp when Aaron’s arm envelopes her waist.
“Jesus.” She breathes as he brings her back into his chest, her heart pounding under his fingertips. “We need to put a bell on you.”
“What’s this?” He asks again, the smile audible in his voice. It caresses the skin behind her ear, small and lilting with curiosity as he picks up one of the sticky notes and runs his thumb over his own handwriting.
Emily shakes her head, groaning as she plucks it out of his hand. “What it is, is not cute now that you know about it.” She grumbles halfheartedly, her cheeks simmering with a blush. The note floats back down into the box, forgotten when his warm hand cups her jaw and gently tilts her chin over her shoulder.
Aaron lightly presses his forehead against hers. His eyes are alight with curiosity, his smile soft with a tenderness that says even though he wants to dig, he’ll let it go. “Sorry. This is me forgetting.” His fingers tangle in her hair, the base of his thumb pressing warmly against her neck. “Ejecting the memories back to you. See, I can’t even remember a thing anymore.”
It’s so ridiculous she can’t help but laugh, airy and low as his hair tickles her forehead. She sees Jack stir from the corner of her eye and presses her fingers to her mouth, containing the laugh. “You’re ridiculous.” She whispers.
Aaron’s eyes gleam, bright brown sweet as honey.
“I love you,” he murmurs, one hand stroking down her side, tucking under the hem of her tank top, the other tugging her fingers away so he can kiss her.
“I love you.” She sighs against his mouth. The words get swallowed up in a small nibble of her teeth, just enough to make him hum before she pulls away. Still faintly blushing, Emily places the lid back on the box and pretends not to feel the sticky heat of Aaron’s gaze.
It doesn’t work.
His chin lands on her shoulder, hungry lips finding bare skin. “Coffee’s downstairs.” He whispers, rubbing up and down her arm. “And pastries.”
Emily’s brow arches. “Thought you went out to get pancake batter.”
“I did. Figured you might like a pick me up.”
She chews down on her lip, simmering again. They were up late last night.
Clearly remembering, Aaron laughs softly, his arms coming up around her gently rumbling stomach. Emily forgets the box and her embarrassment, turning to get a glimpse of Jack still soundly asleep in their bed.
“Should we wake the big boy?” She murmurs, a ball of glowing light lodging under her ribs.
Aaron’s lips find her temple. He squeezes her, his sun warmed cheek nearly as hot as her flushed one. “Let him sleep.”
+1
Emily’s fingers tangle in the chain as she pulls it out of her pocket. The gold thread twists itself into a knot as she worms her fingers out, two gently clasped hands glinting almost innocently in the sun. Without much thought, she starts picking at the smooth tangle, her nails catching and slipping as she works the knot.
Effervescent waves of screaming children engulf her. The cold breeze ruffles her hair, slyly slips past her coat collar and presses chilly fingers to her spine, coaxing a shiver out. The effect is momentarily balanced out by the heat of the sun, warm rays thrown across her cheeks and knuckles.
Emily’s nail catches on a thread that loosens the knot. She pulls on it, watching as it stretches, formless, and pinches the other piece of the chain at the center. Dragging it free, she unravels the knot and finds her thumb pressing down on the ring.
Its fate is decided, set to be embedded at the murky bottom of the Potomac. Emily doesn’t know why she bothered; she’s sick of the ring, sick of seeing it in bare glimpses through the hidden depths of her jewelry box. Every glance brought about a deep flush of shame, her own frustration at her naivety surfacing like a wave.
The thing is, it made her feel something. A twisted sense of pride, at having done what no one could, making a sociopath fall in love with her. Look at her—she made the invincible fall. A cold-blooded casing of organs and viciousness lying at her feet, daring to love her when no one else has.
And maybe it was that, all along, that stopped her from throwing it out in the first place. The worst humanity had to offer believed she was lovable. But finally someone had. And she had the proof in her hands. He had no empathy, no mercy, but somehow, he had space enough in the cold chamber of his heart for her to occupy.
The waning light bounces off the ring, and she feels stillness. Its cold metal burns her fingertips. They tell her to let go, to warm them again.
Emily listens. She tips her palm outward and the ring tumbles down to the lake, a flash of gold swallowed by deep blue. Some part of her expects to feel relief, her organs lighter. But it’s a blissful sense of nothing except for the cold that wraps her in its embrace.
Leaning against the railing of the bridge, Emily’s fingers curl in her coat, seeking warmth as the November air travels to her lungs. Her gaze skips across cyclists and blushing couples and coat-bundled families.
“Careful, Jack.”
“I got it.”
Emily turns, smiling. Aaron and Jack are haloed in gold a few feet away, close enough for their voices to carry, far away enough for her heart to tug. She shifts along the bridge until the gap closes, too impatient to wait for them to erase the distance, and takes the steaming cup of hot chocolate from the cup holder Jack is holding. “Thank you, handsome.” She murmurs, kissing the top of his head.
“Careful,” Aaron turns the warning to her, his voice soft with care, “it’s hot.”
“Burned my tongue.” Jack says, a small frown pinching his brows.
“Oh, I hate when that happens. You know what helps?” Emily says, adjusting the cuff around the paper cup before lowering it down to Jack’s chin. The droopy swirl of whipped cream starts to melt in the steaming hot chocolate. “Dip your tongue in.”
Jack immediately complies, grinning, cream smearing on his cheeks. Giggles spill from his open mouth, his frown fading in the depths of the silken white froth. Aaron wipes it from Jack’s face—chin, cheeks, nose—and murmurs something about sticking his tongue in the frigid air instead, the retort lost on both him and Emily. He’s still fond as he drops the sticky tissue in his pocket, the weight of his eyes on them chasing away the cold dug into Emily’s bones, molten heat taking its place under her skin.
Jack skips off to the playground when he polishes his drink, blonde hair shining gold as he takes off with two sets of eyes on his back. Emily still holds hers in one hand, the other in Aaron’s. Her fingertips warm, safely encased within his, his two palms sandwiching hers in a pool of heat. His thick platinum band, warmed from his body heat, settles at the base of her knuckles.
The setting sun lights her on fire. Emily closes her eyes, nose nuzzled in Aaron’s collar, and sees the world flash gold under her lids.