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The first thing she’s aware of is you. You’re warm where your body meets hers, breathing deep and even. Emily keeps her eyes closed, desperate to stay in the bubble of early morning for as long as possible. Her arm is looped around your waist, palm just under your ribs, thumb making slow lazy circles against the cotton of your shirt.
You’re curled into her chest, forehead tucked beneath her chin. Your legs are tangled underneath the duvet, the familiar press of you grounding her in a way nothing else can. She breathes you in, catching the faintest trace of your shampoo, and the more subtle scent of your skin. A smell that belongs purely to you.
She presses a gentle kiss to the crown of your head, pulling you tighter to her before moving to press another behind your ear. You hum softly, shifting against her, and your nose brushes the soft skin at her collarbone.
“Morning,” you murmur, voice thick with sleep.
“Morning,” she echoes, kissing the slope of your shoulder. Her hand shifts, moving lazily along your side, there’s no ulterior motive, she just wants to keep you close.
It’s warm there and you’re both safe in your cocoon of blankets and Saturday morning cuddles. She’s content to stay like this for hours, but you’re already restless. You stretch your legs, and place a soft kiss on her cheek before you slide carefully out from under her arm.
“Where’re you going?” It's nothing but a mumble, her eyes still half-closed.
“I need caffeine,” you whisper, with a soft smile, “and breakfast.”
She hums in approval, but stays where she is, not quite ready to move. You slip from the bed, padding barefoot across the floor, the sound of your steps fading as you move closer to the kitchen.
For a moment, the room is still. Sheets still soaked with your warmth, and the air tinged with your scent. Emily lies there, a slow smile tugging at her mouth.
She sits up softly, and slips her hand towards her nightstand. She slides the drawer open just enough to reach inside, and her fingers close around a small velvet box. She brings it into the light, turning it over in her hand.
The worn fabric is familiar now. She’s had it hidden for weeks, just waiting for the right moment. She flicks the lid open softly, the diamond winks in the early light, scattering tiny bursts of color over her palm.
Her smile grows as she imagines slipping it onto your finger. Wondering if you’ll tear up, and knowing she will.
From the kitchen, there’s the faint clink of a mug, and your voice is a soft hum that drifts back to her. She tucks the box closer to her for just a moment, and then slides it back into its place.
She finds you at the stove, legs bare, except for where her old FBI shirt falls around your thighs. Your hair is still mussed from sleep, and you move easily between the stove and counter. The coffee machine you insisted on getting murmurs in the background, filling the air with that rich, familiar scent.
“You’re up,” you say with a little grin, glancing over your shoulder at her.
“I could’ve woken you up better than coffee,” she says, leaning against the doorway.
“Oh yeah?”
Her smirk is slow and deliberate. “Trust me, angel. You’d still be in bed.”
You laugh, shaking your head, but she catches the way you duck slightly, like you don’t want her to see the warmth that spreads across your cheeks.
“You making me breakfast, too?” She asks, padding into the kitchen.
You hum softly, flipping whatever’s in the pan. “Only if you’re nice.”
She steps closer to you, wrapping her arms around your waist, chin finding your shoulder the way it had in bed. “I’m always nice.”
“You’re always something,” you counter, and she chuckles against your ear.
The smell of coffee follows you onto the balcony, and the small bistro table is crowded with mismatched plates. There are eggs, pancakes, and a small bowl of fruit in uneven slices. The chairs scrape against the wood when you sit, toes brushing hers beneath the table in a casual rhythm that feels like muscle memory.
Emily pours the coffee, steam curling in the morning air. You pass her the sugar without needing to be asked, knowing exactly how she takes it, and when she thanks you, you just shrug- because you’ve been doing this for years.
The sun reflects off your hair just right, turning it gold in some places, and every time you lean forward to cut into your pancakes she catches herself staring. You notice once, and despite the urge to call her out, you just tilt your head and smile like you’re letting her get away with something.
Halfway through, you push your plate toward her.
“Eat this, I’m done.”
She glances at the untouched eggs, and the half eaten stack of pancakes. “You’ve only eaten like 4 bites.”
“Yeah. And?”
“Baby, you’re going to be hungry again before lunch.”
You snag a blueberry from the fruit bowl and pop it into your mouth. “I’ll figure it out.”
“By stealing my food later,” she mutters, but she’s already dragging your plate closer.
You give her a smug little grin, which says you know me so well. “And you’ll let me.”
“Unbelievable,” she says, shaking her head, but it’s devoid of heat, her tone full of nothing but fondness.
The rest of the meal continues in a quiet rhythm: coffee refills, shared bites, and your foot nudging hers under the table. It’s the easy comfort of a morning with no reason to hurry.
The morning lingers until she’s finished, and you lean back with a little sigh, downing the last dregs of your coffee. You move to clear the table, but she waves you off, you cooked, so she’s got the rest.
It doesn't take long before you're tugging her into sneakers and comfortable clothing, insisting on a trip to the farmer’s market while it’s “still morning enough to get the good stuff.” She lets you lead, your hand warm and sure in hers as the quiet neighborhood opens into a hum of weekend life.
The market greets you in a rush of color and sound, the rows of stalls strung with canvas, air sweet with peaches and strawberries, sharp with herbs. Vendors call out to regulars. Somewhere nearby, a busker’s guitar folds into the low murmur of voices.
Emily’s half-listening to it all, but mostly she’s watching you. The way you drift from table to table, stopping to breathe in bundles of flowers wrapped in brown paper. The way you bite your lip in concentration when you compare jars of honey like you’re making the most important choice of the day.
At a stall toward the center, the air is warm with the smell of fresh bread and pastries. She orders one, it’s golden and flaky, and powdered sugar is dusted across the top. She raises an eyebrow and takes a slow first bite as you watch her with that not-so-innocent look.
Before she can swallow, your hand darts out and snaps a piece right from her fingers, slipping it into your mouth like you’ve been plotting it since breakfast.
“Really?” she says, incredulous but smiling.
You give a tiny shrug, already chewing. “You weren’t looking.”
Her eyes narrow. “You only had four bites of breakfast and now you’re stealing my snack?”
“Sharing,” you correct, licking a bit of sugar from your thumb. “I’m sharing with myself through you.”
“That’s not how that works,” she says, but her lips are twitching.
You take another piece before she can stop you. “And yet, here we are.”
“Unbelievable.”
“And you love it,” you shoot back, grinning like you’ve just won something.
She shakes her head, but she doesn’t pull her hand away when you slide your fingers through hers again, dragging her toward the fruit stalls. You stop at a table piled high with strawberries so red they almost glow, picking one up and holding it toward her.
“Try this,” you say, thumb brushing along the surface until a bead of juice slides over your skin.
She bites into it, the sweet burst mixing with the faint tang of your fingers against her lips. And when she looks up, your eyes are already on her, soft but lingering.
“What?” you ask, smiling.
“Nothing,” she says, but she doesn’t look away.
Later, back home, the small kitchen fills with the smells of bread and wine. You move smoothly around each other, bumping hips and stealing tastes from the cutting board. She’s mangling a loaf of bread until you take the knife away with a sigh.
“Maybe you should stick to profiling,” you tease. “Let me cook.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
She slips out of the kitchen and into the bedroom, returning barefoot, a smirk stretched across her lips.
Music hums low from the corner, and you start to sway softly as you stir the pot on the stove. She watches you for a few beats, then steps into your space, hand finding your hip.
“Dance with me?” She whispers softly.
Your cheek brushes hers as you sway together and everything narrows to just the two of you.
“You’re perfect.”
“You’re biased, Em.”
“Two things can be true.”
The couch swallows you both later, the soft throw blanket tangled around your legs. She takes your hand, turns it palm-up in hers, and traces the faint lines with the pad of her thumb, slowly enough to memorize them. Her gaze lingers on your fingers for a long beat before she reaches into her pocket.
When her hand comes back, there’s something in it, that small, worn velvet box. She doesn’t open it. Not yet. She just watches you, as if committing every angle of your face to memory. Then she flips the lid, and the diamond catches the lamplight, scattering shards of color over your skin.
You blink, startled. “What is this?”
Her voice is quiet but certain. “I love you,” she says, each word deliberate, steady. “I want every sleepy Saturday morning with you. I want to spend our nights on a porch swing like your parents. I want the little garden that we plant every year, despite never getting good results. I want you forever. Marry me?”
Your lips part and your breath catches. When you speak again, your voice is watery. “Are you serious?”
Her thumb brushes over your knuckles, grounding herself in the feel of you. “More serious than I’ve ever been.”
You laugh, startled and breathless, and cup her face in your hands. “Yes,” you whisper, almost laughing again through the rush of it. “God, yes.”
Her world narrows to the taste of your lips, the warmth of your hands framing her cheeks, the steady press of your smile against her mouth. For a heartbeat, there is only this. Only you, soft and close and hers.
And then—
Her mouth is cold.
The air is still.
The ceiling above her is gray.
Her heart is still hammering, trying to finish a beat it never can. She turns toward your side of the bed, finding nothing but cool sheets and an untouched pillow.
The house is silent. There’s no clink of pans as you make breakfast in the kitchen.
She sits at the edge of the bed. Staring at the closet door where your untouched robe hangs.
Her chest is tight. Each breath, shallow and uneven. She tries to stand, wobbly on her feet despite her body moving without her permission. Her movements are almost robotic as she moves down the hall and past the kitchen, until she reaches the living room, and her mind drags her under.
You. On the floor.
She’s running again. Knees slamming into the hardwood so hard that her teeth jar together, but she barely feels it, she’s too focused on grabbing you.
“Baby-” The word tears out of her. She shakes you once, then twice, and gasps in horror as your head lolls.
Her hands find your face. You’re cold. Too cold… and too still. It’s a stillness that drags the air from her lungs.
She can taste the iron in the air. And when she glances down, her hands are red.
It blooms across your shirt, spreading across your chest as she presses down. It’s still hot under her palms as her fingers slip, but she pushes harder. Desperately trying to keep it in, keep you in.
“Please- stay with me.” The words escape her mouth with a sob.
You fought it. Your knuckles are split, your lip cut, and there's the beginning of a bruise that will never fully form on your jaw.
Her eyes fill with tears as she sees it. One mark. It’s placed deliberately on your neck. She recognizes it. She’s seen it before, recognizes it from case files, and photographs.
And then she knows. This wasn’t random. It wasn’t just a senseless act of violence.
You were targeted.
They left you for her.
“This is my fault,” she gasps. Her voice is raw and unrecognizable.
Someone tugs her off of you. Pulling her away despite her protests. She was still pressing down even as the cops came in, and your warmth had long dissipated from your body, cooling in her hands, sticky and clinging.
She blinks, and she’s on the couch.
Her breath is ragged. Her palms still feel tacky even though they’re clean. The ring box is in her lap. She can feel the tears drip down her face as she opens it. The diamond catches the light, and for a heartbeat, her fingers are slick again, dark red pooling in the lines of her skin.
She blinks and it's gone.
She closes the box, but carries it with her as she moves towards the kitchen. Clutching it like she’s holding your hand.
The drawer slides open under her hand and the weight she takes from it is cold, and certain.
She sits again, the ring she never got to give you in one hand. Cold steel in the other.
“I should have protected you,” she whispers. “I could have kept you safe… this is all my fault.”
She inhales once, a deep inhale that she holds as she lets her shoulders fall.
And as her eyes close, there you are. You’re humming in the kitchen, filling her with warmth as she wraps her arms around you. She can feel your smile against her skin.
It’s the last thing she lets herself feel.