Chapter 1: The Ghost of Mistletoe Past
Chapter Text
The holidays had never been kind to you.
Your mother was buried under a thin blanket of snow every December, your father had remarried and moved to a sun-drenched condo in Naples with a woman who called you “sweetheart” like it was a curse word, and your siblings scattered themselves across the country the way people scatter ashes, quickly, and without looking back. The only tether you had left was your grandmother, ninety-one, sharp as winter air, and currently napping in the back room of the flower shop she’d handed down to you like a crown you never asked to wear.
Petals & Promises sat on the corner of Maple and 3rd, tucked between a bakery that smelled like cinnamon year-round and a hardware store that still wrapped purchases in brown paper. You knew every warped floorboard, every creaking hinge, every ghost that lingered in the rafters. You knew the town, and the town knew you. There was comfort in that, even when the comfort felt a little like being preserved in amber.
Christmas was chaos in petals and pine needles. Wreaths hung from every door like green halos, and you were the one who made them. You tied velvet bows until your fingers went numb, tucked sprigs of holly into evergreen until the scent clung to your skin like perfume. People came in frantic. Anniversaries forgotten, apologies overdue, proposals rehearsed in frosty parking lots, and you built their small miracles one stem at a time.
That morning, the bell above the door had already jingled a dozen times before ten. You were elbow-deep in two dozen long-stemmed roses the color of fresh blood, threading brilliant sunflowers between them because Mr. Pataki swore his wife was the sun and he was just a planet lucky enough to orbit her. You smiled at the cheesiness of it while you worked. Someone, somewhere, deserved that kind of devotion.
The bell chimed again.
The bell chimed again.“How much for a bouquet?”The voice drifted over the counter like smoke, low, amused, a little husky from the cold.
You didn’t look up. You knew the inventory by heart. “Depends what you’re after. We’ve got roses, hydrangeas, chrysanthemums, sunflowers—”
Your fingers stilled on a thorn. That voice. You hadn’t heard it in fifteen years, but it still slid down your spine like warm brandy.
Slowly—too slowly—you lifted your gaze.
Emily Prentiss stood in the doorway of your shop, framed by softly falling snow and the colored glow of the twinkle lights you’d strung up last week. Older, yes. The sharp edges of adolescence had softened into something dangerous and elegant: cheekbones like cut glass, dark hair spilling in loose waves beneath a charcoal wool coat, those unmistakable brown eyes wide with the same shock punching through your chest.
The roses slipped from your fingers and hit the counter with a muted thud.
Emily’s lips parted, but no sound came out. For a moment, the only noise was the low hum of the cooler and the faint strains of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” playing from the ancient radio in the back.
Fifteen years.
Fifteen years since senior prom, when she’d shown up at your door in a midnight-blue dress that hugged every line you’d memorized in stolen glances. Fifteen years since she’d let you pin a corsage—white gardenias, baby’s breath—to her wrist with shaking fingers. Fifteen years since you’d danced beneath paper snowflakes in the gymnasium, her hand warm in yours, her laughter soft against your ear.
Fifteen years since you’d stood beneath the mistletoe someone had hung over the exit and blurted, “I think I’m in love with you,” like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She’d gone pale. Not angry, never angry, just… startled. Like a deer caught in headlights that suddenly realized the car had always been heading straight for it.
“I can’t,” she’d whispered. “I’m leaving for Europe in three days. Yale doesn’t start until fall, but Mom… you know how she is. I don’t want to ruin us. You’re my best friend.”
You’d nodded. Swallowed the jagged pieces of your heart. Smiled like it didn’t gut you.
Three days later she was gone. No forwarding address that ever quite reached you. Letters returned unopened. Emails that went unanswered until you finally stopped sending them. You’d spent the summer wandering the empty fairgrounds where the carnival lights used to be, eating too much ice cream, crying in your car with the windows fogged, wondering if she ever thought about that kiss you never took.
Eventually the ache dulled to a bruise you only pressed on when December rolled around.
And now she was here. Snow melting in her hair. Looking at you like she was seeing a ghost.
Emily recovered first, she always did. She closed the door behind her, shutting out the wind, and took one careful step forward.
"Hi,” she said, and her voice cracked on the single syllable like thin ice.
You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The scent of roses and pine and cold air clung to her, and it was wrong—so wrong—how familiar it felt.
Emily took one hesitant step inside, the bell jingling softly behind her like an afterthought. Snowflakes clung to her lashes. “It’s… really you.”
Your name left her lips like a prayer she’d never meant to say out loud, and something inside your chest caved in.
You managed, barely, to find your voice. “Emily.”
It came out rough, scraped raw. You watched her throat work as she swallowed, watched her fingers curl and uncurl at her sides like she wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or bolt back into the snow.
“I didn’t know you—” she started.
“You didn’t know I still lived here?” You let out a laugh that hurt. “Where else would I go?”
Her gaze flickered over the shop, the crooked handmade sign that read Petals & Promises in your grandmother’s looping script, the buckets overflowing with crimson amaryllis and snowy white lilies, the half-finished wreath on the counter dotted with pinecones and velvet ribbon, and something unbearably soft crossed her face.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” she said quietly. Then, softer still: “You look… exactly the same.”
You looked nothing like the awkward eighteen-year-old who’d cried into her pillow for months after prom, but the way Emily was staring at you. Like you were the only warm thing in a world gone cold, made you feel eighteen all over again.
The silence stretched, thick with every word you’d never said and every word she’d never let herself say.
Finally, she lifted the bare hand that wasn’t clutching a leather glove and gestured vaguely toward the buckets of flowers. “I, uh… I actually do need a bouquet.” Her smile was small, fragile, the same one she’d given you the night she broke your heart without meaning to. “Something Christmas-y. For… for my mom. She’s in town for the holidays.”
Of course she was here for Elizabeth Prentiss. Not for you. Never for you.
You nodded too quickly, turning back to the counter so she wouldn’t see whatever was written across your face. Your hands moved on autopilot, grabbing burgundy roses, creamy peonies, sprigs of holly and cedar, but every motion felt underwater.
Behind you, Emily’s voice floated, careful and aching. “It’s good to see you.”
You weren’t sure if it was a lie or the truest thing anyone had said to you in fifteen years.
But when your fingers brushed hers as you handed over the wrapped bouquet, just the barest graze of skin on skin, the years collapsed into a single heartbeat, and you knew, with the kind of certainty that terrified you, that whatever this was…
…it wasn’t finished. Not even close.
Your fingertips tingled where they’d touched hers, a spark that shot straight through fifteen years of scar tissue. Emily’s gaze dropped to the bouquet in her hands. Deep red roses nestled against snowy peonies, holly berries like tiny drops of blood, then lifted back to you, wide and uncertain.
She cleared her throat. Twice.
“Actually,” she said, the word catching like a burr, “could I… get another one?” Her cheeks flushed beneath the cold-pink from outside. “For, um… for the house. The ambassadorial residence always looks like a funeral parlor if I don’t bring something with color.”
You almost laughed. Emily Prentiss, fluent in Arabic, Russian, Italian, Spanish, and God knew what else, was tripping over the English language like a teenager asking for extra credit.
“Of course,” you answered, already reaching for fresh stems. Because flowers fixed everything. That was the lie you told yourself every day, and today you needed it more than oxygen.
Silence settled between you, thick as the scent of pine and cinnamon drifting from the diffuser on the counter. Emily hovered, shifting her weight from boot to boot, snow melting into tiny puddles on your hardwood floor.
“So,” she tried, voice soft, “you… stayed.” It wasn’t a question. More like wonder wrapped in guilt.
“Yeah.” You snipped the end of a cedar sprig, the sharp scent grounding you. “Someone had to keep Grandma out of trouble.”
Emily’s laugh was small, surprised, the same sound she used to make when you passed notes in AP Lit. “She still terrifying?”
“More than ever.”
Another beat. You tucked a cluster of frosted pinecones into the new arrangement, white roses this time, edged in silver, baby’s breath like fallen snow. Emily watched your hands the way people watch fires they’re afraid to get too close to.
“I thought about you,” she blurted suddenly.
Your knife slipped. A thorn sliced the pad of your thumb, a bright bead of red welling up. You didn’t feel it.
Emily’s eyes tracked the blood like it was her fault. “I mean—God, that sounded— I just… I wondered. What you were doing. If you were happy. If you…” She stopped, jaw flexing. “I’m bad at this.”
You sucked the copper taste from your thumb and met her eyes. “You were always good at everything else.”
The words hung there, heavier than garland.
Emily opened her mouth, probably to apologize again, when the sharp tap-tap-tap of a cane on hardwood announced trouble in orthopedic shoes.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” came the voice you loved and feared in equal measure. “Look what the cat dragged in all covered in snow.”
Your grandmother stood in the doorway to the back room, leaning heavily on her rosewood cane but with eyes sharp enough to cut glass. She took in Emily in one sweeping glance—boots, coat, the nervous way her fingers worried the cuff of her sleeve—and her grin turned absolutely feral.
Emily Prentiss. Still prettier than any girl has a right to be.”
Emily flushed darker. “Mrs. Han—”
“It’s Evelyn, darling, you know that.” She hobbled forward, cane thumping like a gavel. “Though I suppose I should call you Agent Prentiss now, running around saving the world. My granddaughter is still single, you know.”
Heat exploded across your face. “Grandma.”
“What? I’m old, not blind.” She winked at Emily. “She’s been married to this shop since you left. Terrible wife, that shop. Never takes her on vacation.”
“Grandma, please.”
Emily’s lips twitched, something soft and aching flickering behind her eyes. “I… I heard that,” she said quietly.
You wanted the floor to open and swallow you whole.
Evelyn patted your cheek with papery fingers. “I’m going to go murder the kettle. You two catch up. Or whatever it is you kids do these days when you’re pretending not to stare at each other.”
She shuffled off, humming “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” loud enough to be heard in the next county.
You pressed your forehead to the cool counter for one mortified second, then straightened and slid both finished bouquets across to Emily.
“The first one’s on the house,” you said, voice rough. “Call it a… welcome-home discount.”
Emily was already digging in her wallet. “Absolutely not.”
“Emily.”
“I insist.” She placed a hundred-dollar bill on the counter like it was a gauntlet thrown. “For both. And the thumb you just sliced open because I can’t talk like a normal person.”
You stared at the bill, then at her. “You always were stubborn.”
“Only when it matters.”
The bell above the door jingled again as Mrs. Caldwell came in for her weekly poinsettia, but for a moment it was just the two of you, suspended in pine-scented quiet.
Emily gathered the bouquets carefully, cradling them like something fragile and alive. At the door she paused, snow swirling in behind her.
“I’m here through New Year’s,” she said, not quite looking at you. “If you ever want coffee. Or cocoa. Or… anything.”
Then she was gone, the bell chiming softly in her wake, leaving you standing in a puddle of melted snow and fifteen years of almost.
Emily stepped out into the snow and felt seventeen again.
The cold bit at her cheeks, but she barely noticed. Two ridiculous, perfect bouquets were cradled in her arms like twin hearts she wasn’t sure she deserved, and the scent of you—pine, rose, and something warmer—clung to her coat. She was grinning like an idiot. She knew it. Couldn’t stop it. Fifteen years, and one accidental reunion had turned her into a teenager who’d just been handed a love note in third period.
“Emily!”
The sound of your voice snapped her around so fast a few pine needles scattered onto the sidewalk. You were jogging toward her, cheeks flushed from the cold, breath puffing in little clouds. In your hand was a sleek black phone.
“You left this on the counter,” you said, a little breathless. “I didn’t want you to—”
“Thank you.” She took it too quickly, fingers brushing yours again.
Jesus, why did that still feel like static shock?
“God, I’m a mess today.”
You laughed, soft and awkward and perfect. “It’s fine. Really.”
Silence settled, snowflakes drifting between you like confetti at a wedding no one had planned.
Emily swallowed. Now or never.
“My mom’s throwing this… thing,” she said, the words tumbling out before her brain could veto them. “Christmas Eve. At the residence. Nothing crazy, just diplomats pretending they like each other and too much champagne. You should come.”
Your smile faltered. Just a flicker, but she saw it.
“That’s… sweet,” you said carefully, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “But it’s really not my crowd. And your girlfriend might get mad if some random florist crashes the party.”
Emily blinked. “My what?”
You gestured weakly at the phone now clutched in her hand. “JJ? She texted you. ‘Can’t wait to see you again.’ I just— I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes. I didn't mean to, I swear. I just saw the text when it came.”
Emily opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
JJ. Of course, it was JJ that you thought was Emily's girlfriend.
“No—no, JJ’s—” She started laughing, a sharp, incredulous sound that cut through the quiet street. “JJ is my best friend. She’s married. To a man. With kids. I’m very single.” She paused, then added, softer, “Painfully single.”
Your eyes widened. The tip of your nose was pink from the cold. “Oh,” you whispered.
Emily’s heart was doing something ridiculous in her chest. “So… no girlfriend. Just an overeager best friend who thinks I need to be set up with every eligible lesbian in the tri-state area.”
You bit your lip, and Emily had to look away before she did something stupid like kiss you right there on Maple and 3rd in front of Mr. Jenkins and his yapping terrier.
“I’m swamped anyway,” you said quickly, already stepping back. “Orders through the roof. But thank you. Really. It was… it was good seeing you, Em.”
Before she could find the words--any words--you were already turning, boots crunching through the snow as you hurried back toward the warm glow of Petals & Promises.
Emily stood there, frozen on the sidewalk, two bouquets bleeding fragrance into the winter air and a phone burning a hole in her palm.
She looked down at the screen. JJ’s text glowed innocently:
great! can’t wait to see you again, have fun there ❤️
Emily groaned, long and suffering, and tipped her head back to let the snow fall on her face.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Somewhere behind the frosted windows of your shop, she could see the silhouette of you moving between buckets of roses, head bowed, pretending you weren’t watching her watch you.
Christmas had just become a battlefield. And Emily Prentiss, for once in her life, had no idea how to surrender.
Emily slid into the driver’s seat of the rental SUV, slammed the door hard enough to rattle the bouquets on the passenger seat, and just… sat there. Snow collected on the windshield in fat, lazy flakes while the engine idled and the heater blew warm air across her numb fingers.
She stared at the phone in her lap like it had personally betrayed her. Then she hit the call button before she could talk herself out of it.
It rang once.
“Spill,” JJ answered, no hello, no pretense, pure predatory curiosity. In the background Emily could hear Henry and Michael arguing over whose turn it was with the Nintendo Switch. “You saw her. I can feel it in my bones. Tell me everything.”
Emily exhaled a laugh that sounded more like a groan. “I hate you.”
“You love me. Details, Prentiss.”
Emily leaned her forehead against the cold steering wheel. The scent of your flowers filled the entire car: roses and cedar and something that made her chest hurt.
“I walked into her shop,” she started, voice low. “She was elbow-deep in roses and looked… God, Jayje, she looks even better than she did at eighteen. Like someone took every fantasy I ever had and aged it like fine wine.”
JJ let out a low whistle. “Poetic. Continue.”
“I turned into a complete idiot. Asked for two separate bouquets because I couldn’t figure out how to say ‘I never stopped thinking about you.’ Then her grandmother basically offered her up like a holiday ham, and I—” Emily rubbed a hand over her face. “I invited her to Mom’s Christmas Eve thing.”
Dead silence on the line. Then:
“You invited your high-school almost-girlfriend. The one you ghosted for fifteen years, no postcards, no texts, not even a call, to the ambassadorial residence? Bold strategy, Cotton.”
Emily huffed, turning the wheel and guiding the car onto a street she hadn’t driven down since she was seventeen. Past the diner where you used to split strawberry milkshakes. Past the park where you’d lie on the hood of her beat-up Jetta and try to name constellations you both pretended to see.
“It’s complicated, Jayje. Fifteen years?” She laughed again, bitter this time. “And then she saw your text, the one with the heart emoji, because I’m an idiot who left my phone on the counter, and she thought you were my girlfriend.”
JJ actually cackled. “Oh my God. She thinks I stole you?”
“She very politely told me my girlfriend might not like her coming to the party and then bolted before I could explain that the only person I’ve been pathetic over since 2010 is her.”
The line went quiet again, softer this time: “Em,” JJ said gently, “you still have it bad.”
Emily watched snow collect on the windshield wipers. “I never got rid of it, Jennifer. I just got really good at pretending.”
“You gonna fix this?” JJ asked.
“I don’t even know where to start. I spent fifteen years convincing myself she was better off without me dragging her into my chaos. And now she’s standing there looking like Christmas morning and I—” Emily’s voice cracked. “I’m still the same coward who got on a plane instead of kissing her under that damn mistletoe.”
JJ’s voice was firm. “Then don’t be a coward this time.”
Emily closed her eyes. The streetlights blurred. “I don’t know how to be anything else when it comes to her.”
“Then learn fast,” JJ said. “Because that woman just chased you into the snow to give your phone back. That’s not the move of someone who’s over it.”
Emily glanced at the two bouquets beside her. Your handwriting on the little card tucked into the white roses: Take care of yourself, Em.
She swallowed hard. “I gotta go,” she whispered.
“Fix it, Emily,” JJ repeated, softer now. “Some things are worth the mess.”
The call ended.
Emily sat in the quiet car, engine humming, heart loud enough to drown it out.
Outside, the little town glowed under a blanket of fresh snow, twinkle lights in every window, wreaths on every door, and somewhere in the middle of it all, you.
She put the car in drive. This time, she wasn’t running.
Chapter 2: Sugarplums and Old Regrets
Summary:
“You remember the flower shop on Maple and 3rd? It’s hers now. She owns it.”
Elizabeth’s cup paused halfway to her lips. Recognition flickered, subtle, but Emily caught it.
“Ah,” her mother said, the single syllable carrying the weight of an entire continent. “That girl."
Notes:
It's getting closer to Christmaaas!! So from here on out it's going to be double chapter updates! Also this is dedicated to my good friend Kiya who's struggling with not dying at the moment.
(Also, also, I think the ao3 c*rse has caught up to me because I fell down the stairs the other day after writing a chapter, the entire house was flooded because someone left the faucet running... not me ofc. But yeah, enough life update!)
Hope you like the chapters!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The ambassadorial residence smelled like evergreen, beeswax candles, and the faint, perpetual bite of diplomatic tension. Every room was dressed for the season: garlands thick enough to hide state secrets, a twelve-foot Fraser fir glittering with crystal ornaments, and a string quartet rehearsing “O Holy Night” in the east parlor like the fate of NATO depended on it.
Emily had been back four days and already felt like she was drowning in tinsel.
She sat at the breakfast table in the sun-drenched morning room, pushing a single raspberry around a plate of untouched crêpes. The silver fork scraped porcelain in a rhythm that matched the ache behind her eyes.
Elizabeth Prentiss glided in at exactly 8:17 a.m.—same as every morning since Emily was six—immaculate in winter-white cashmere, pearls glowing against her collarbone. She poured coffee from a Meissen pot, added exactly one sugar, and leveled a look at her daughter that had made ambassadors sweat.
“Dear, you’re distracted,” she said, voice smooth as the crème anglaise cooling beside Emily’s plate. “Something bothering you?”
Emily’s fork stilled. The raspberry rolled to the edge and stopped, bleeding pink onto the china.
She could lie. She was excellent at lying, years of profiling had made her fluent. But this was her mother, who could smell avoidance the way bloodhounds smell fear.
“I ran into someone,” Emily said finally, setting the fork down with a soft clink. “In town.”
Elizabeth’s perfectly arched brow lifted. “Someone.”
Emily exhaled through her nose. “You remember the flower shop on Maple and 3rd? It’s hers now. She owns it.”
Elizabeth’s cup paused halfway to her lips. Recognition flickered, subtle, but Emily caught it.
“Ah,” her mother said, the single syllable carrying the weight of an entire continent. “That girl."
Emily almost laughed. That girl. As if you’d ever been anything less than the axis her entire world had tilted on once.
Elizabeth set the cup down with deliberate care. “And how is she?”
“Beautiful,” Emily answered before she could stop herself. “Stubborn. Still makes the best wreaths in the county. Still hates me, probably.”
Elizabeth studied her daughter for a long moment, the way she studied treaties, looking for the hidden clause.
“You were children,” she said at last. “I needed you in Rome. Then London. Then—”
“I was eighteen, Mother.” Emily’s voice came out rougher than she intended. “Old enough to know what I wanted. Old enough to know what I was giving up.”
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the handle of her cup.
“You are a Prentiss,” she said quietly. “We do not stay, Emily. We serve. We are posted. We leave pieces of ourselves all over the globe because that is the bargain.”
Emily looked out the window at the snow blanketing the manicured gardens. Somewhere beyond the iron gates and the security detail, your shop was open, warm lights glowing, wreaths spinning lazily in the window.
“I left the best piece here,” she said, so softly she wasn’t sure her mother heard.
Elizabeth did, of course. She always heard everything.
“Christmas Eve is in eight days,” she said, rising with the fluid grace of someone who had never once lost control in public. “The gala will be insufferable, as always. If you wish to invite… a guest, I will ensure there is a place card.”
Emily’s head snapped up.
Elizabeth was already at the door, pausing only to add over her shoulder, “I may have been wrong about some things, darling. I am, occasionally, human.”
Then she was gone, heels clicking down the marble hallway like punctuation marks on a sentence Emily had waited fifteen years to finish.
Emily stared at the abandoned crêpes, the lonely raspberry, the cold coffee.
Eight days.
She pulled her phone from her pocket and opened a new text to a number she’d memorized from the business card tucked into one of the bouquets.
Her thumbs hovered.
Then, before common sense could intervene:
Any chance you make house calls for Christmas trees that look like they’re plotting a coup?
I have eggnog. And apologies.
– E.
She hit send, heart hammering against her ribs like it was trying to escape and run back to Maple and 3rd on its own.
By six-thirty the shop was finally quiet, just the low hum of the coolers and the faint scent of crushed pine needles under your boots. You flipped the sign to CLOSED, leaned back against the door, and let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in your lungs since Emily Prentiss walked in four days ago.
Your hands still smelled like eucalyptus and ribbon adhesive. Mrs. Taylor’s “thinking of you” bouquet—pastel roses and lilies—had taken forty-five minutes because she’d cried on your shoulder about her sister’s chemo. Mr. Castello had needed his wreaths bigger than last year. “My new neighbors are from Manhattan, dear, we must impress." And Mrs. Jenkins had insisted on a miniature wreath for her corgi, complete with a tiny bell that jingled every time Pickles sneezed.
You’d been too buried to check your phone all day.
Now, in the sudden stillness, you fished it out of your back pocket and thumbed the screen awake.
One new message.
From a number you hadn’t saved yet didn’t need to, because you’d know those ten digits until you were ninety.
"Any chance you make house calls for Christmas trees that look like they’re plotting a coup?
I have eggnog. And apologies.
– E."
Your stomach flipped so hard you had to grip the counter. You stared at the text until the screen went dark.
Eggnog. Apologies. That little dash before the E, like she used to sign every note she ever slipped into your locker.
You shoved the phone back into your pocket like it burned.
You had a date in forty-five minutes. A perfectly nice date with a perfectly nice woman named Claire who owned the bookstore two streets over and had asked you out three separate times before you finally said yes. Claire used words like “low-pressure” and “no expectations” and definitely didn’t leave the country for fifteen years without a backward glance.
You were moving on. You were.
Grandma Evie was waiting in the back room, perched on her stool like a tiny, judgmental gargoyle, knitting something red and enormous that was probably destined to be a Christmas sweater for the mailman.
“So,” she said without looking up, needles clicking like a metronome, “you’ve finally moved on from Emily? How fascinating. You’re going out with someone new the very week she blows back into town like a winter storm in cashmere. The universe does love its punchlines.”
You groaned, dropping your forehead against the cool doorframe. “I’m looking forward to it, Grandma.”
“Mm-hmm.” Click, click. “That why you’ve been arranging the same carnation for twenty minutes like it personally offended you?”
You glanced down—yep, you’d murdered one poor pink carnation into submission without noticing.
“She told me she’s painfully single,” you muttered, cheeks hot. “Which is just… polite, right? A gentle let-down so I don’t get my hopes up. Classic Emily Prentiss mercy kill.”
Evelyn snorted so hard her glasses slid down her nose. “Child, that girl looked at you like you hung the moon and then spent fifteen years regretting she never told you. I was standing right there. My eyesight’s going, but my bullshit meter still works fine.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. “She left, Grandma.”
“She was eighteen and terrified of her mother. There’s a difference.”
“She never wrote back.”
“She was ashamed. And you were both babies who thought love had an expiration date.” Evie set the knitting down with a decisive thwack. “You know what I saw the other day? A woman who asked for two bouquets because one wasn’t enough excuse to stay in your orbit. A woman who turned the color of a ripe tomato when I mentioned you were single. That’s not ‘moved on,’ sugarplum. That’s ‘still carrying a torch so bright it could guide ships in fog.’”
Your throat felt suddenly thick. “I have a date,” you said weakly.
Evelyn picked her knitting back up, already bored with your denial. “Then go on your date. Wear the green sweater that makes your eyes look like sin. And when it’s as exciting as watching paint dry, remember your grandmother tried to warn you.”
She paused, softening just enough to break your heart. “Some people spend their whole lives waiting for the right snowstorm to bring them home, baby girl. Don’t lock the door just because you’re scared of the cold.”
You stood there in the quiet shop, surrounded by the ghosts of roses and the echo of a text you still hadn’t answered, and felt the past and the future arguing somewhere behind your ribs.
The clock on the wall ticked toward seven.
You had a date. You had a choice.
And somewhere across town, Emily Prentiss was probably staring at a silent phone, wondering if some wounds ever really closed—or if they just waited for the right Christmas miracle to split them open again.
You went. Of course you did.
You weren’t the type to leave someone hanging, even if part of you wanted to crawl under your duvet and pretend the last four days hadn’t happened.
Lé Petit Chien hadn’t changed in fifteen years: same brass bell over the door, same scuffed wooden floors, same chalkboard menu written in looping French that still made you smile. Emily had been the one to translate the name for you the first time you came here together —Le Petit Chien, “the little dog”, and you’d laughed so hard you shot hot chocolate out your nose right onto her chemistry notes. She’d kept the stained page for the rest of the semester like a trophy.
You were ten minutes early—nervous energy had you pacing your apartment until you couldn’t stand it anymore. You ordered a hot cocoa with extra whipped cream, because comfort was comfort, and took the small table by the window so you could watch the door.
The bell jingled. It wasn’t Claire.
Emily stepped inside, shaking snow off her dark hair, cheeks pink from the cold. Her gaze swept the room and landed on you like a spotlight.
She froze. You froze.
For a second the entire café disappeared, just the two of you and fifteen years of static electricity.
Then Emily smiled, small and sheepish, and crossed the floor.
“Hey,” she said, voice soft. “Is this seat taken?”
You swallowed. “Actually… I should warn you, I’m waiting for someone. A date.”
The word date fell between you like a live grenade.
Emily’s face did something complicated: surprise, disappointment, then a quick mask of casual. “Oh. A date. Cool. That’s… really cool.” She rocked on her heels. “I’ll just—” She gestured vaguely toward the counter, clearly planning an escape.
You should’ve let her go. Instead you heard yourself say, “You can sit. Just… until she gets here.”
Emily hesitated, then slid into the chair opposite you like she was defusing a bomb.
Silence stretched, thick and awkward and sweet.
You kept glancing at your phone. No texts. No Claire.
Emily watched you do it twice before she caved.
“So… did you get my message?” she asked, tracing a finger through the condensation on the table. “About the homicidal Christmas tree and the eggnog?”
Heat rushed to your face. “I’m so sorry. I was buried in orders all day. Didn’t even see it until I was closing up.” You bit your lip. “I don’t really do house calls, but… I could probably be bribed with eggnog. And I’m lethal with ornaments.”
Emily’s smile was small and relieved and devastating. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Minutes slipped by. Five. Ten. Fifteen.
Emily started talking. Quiet, careful stories about the two of you at sixteen and seventeen.
“Remember when we used to split that giant strawberry shake after Mr. Henderson’s calculus tests?” she said, eyes bright. “You always stole the cherry.”
“You always let me,” you shot back without thinking.
She laughed under her breath. “Yeah. I did.”
More memories spilled out like someone had uncorked a bottle that had been shaken for fifteen years:
Sneaking notes into each other’s lockers folded into impossible origami shapes.
The way Emily had practiced asking you to prom in her bedroom mirror for three days straight, then blurted it in the parking lot like she was ripping off a band-aid.
How you’d slow-danced in your backyard to the radio because neither of you were out yet and school dances felt too dangerous.
Twenty-five minutes. Thirty. Your phone stayed dark.
Emily’s voice gentled. “I think… you might’ve been stood up.”The words were soft, but they landed like snow on a grave.
You stared at the untouched cocoa, whipped cream slowly melting into sad little peaks. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Looks that way.”
Emily was quiet for a long beat. Then:
“I know this is terrible timing,” she said, rushing the words like she was afraid they’d escape if she didn’t set them free, “but… could we do this again? Just talking. Maybe over actual hot chocolate that isn’t getting cold while we wait for someone who doesn’t show. Or wine. Or dinner. Or—” She stopped, cheeks scarlet. “I’m asking really badly.”
You looked up at her, those dark eyes, the nervous hope she was trying so hard to hide. Your heart was pounding so loud you were sure the couple in the corner could hear it.
“Emily,” you said slowly, “are you asking me out on a date?”
She exhaled like she’d been holding her breath since 2010.
“Yes,” she said, voice steady now. “I am. If you want. No pressure. I just— I’ve waited fifteen years to stop being a coward. I’m really tired of waiting.”
Outside, snow started falling harder, soft and thick and perfect.
You smiled, small, shaky, real.
“I like hot chocolate,” you said.
Emily’s answering grin could’ve powered the entire town.“Good. Tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up at seven. And I promise,” she added, eyes shining, “I’ll show up.”
The snow fell in earnest now, fat, lazy flakes that clung to the café window and blurred the twinkle lights strung along the street into soft halos of gold and red. Emily’s grin didn’t fade; it settled, warm and certain, a promise written in the crinkles at the corners of her eyes. You felt something unclench deep in your chest, a knot you’d carried so long you’d forgotten it wasn’t part of your skeleton.
“Seven,” you repeated, the word tasting like possibility on your tongue. “I’ll be ready.”
She nodded, then her gaze flickered to your abandoned cocoa, the empty chair where Claire was supposed to be. A shadow of something protective—fierce and sudden—crossed her face. “For what it’s worth,” Emily said, her voice dropping to that low, intimate register that had always felt like a secret just for you, “whoever she is… she’s an idiot.”
You laughed, a real one this time, light and startled out of you. “It was a first date. We’d exchanged maybe ten sentences over the counter at her bookstore. It wasn’t…”
“It wasn’t this,” Emily finished softly, and it wasn’t a question.
No. It wasn’t this. This was the air feeling charged, every glance loaded, every silence humming with everything left unsaid for a decade and a half. This was terrifying. This was all you’d ever wanted.
Emily stood, pulling her coat back on. She moved with a new kind of purpose, as if the decision had unlocked a latent energy. “I should let you go. And I have to go convince a twelve-foot fir tree that it’s not the enemy of the state.” She paused, her hand on the back of the chair. “Thank you. For saying yes.”
“You haven’t even asked me properly yet,” you teased, feeling bold, feeling eighteen again in the best way.
Her eyes sparkled. “Tomorrow. I’ll do it right. Bells, whistles, the whole embarrassing production.” She took a step toward the door, then turned back, almost shyly. “Wear something warm. I have plans that involve… a lot of walking.”
Then she was gone, the brass bell singing behind her, leaving you alone with a cold drink and a future that had just dramatically, irrevocably changed.
You sat there for another ten minutes, watching the snow pile up on the sidewalk, feeling the ghost of her smile lingering in the space between the tables. When you finally stood to leave, your phone buzzed in your pocket.
One new message from Claire: So sorry! Got caught up with inventory. Rain check?
You stared at the screen, the words feeling distant and insignificant, like news from another lifetime. You typed back a simple, No worries. Take care, and hit send without a second thought. It was painless. It was nothing.
The walk home was a blur of swirling white and glowing windows. Every wreath you passed—your wreaths—seemed to wink at you from porches and doors. The entire town was holding its breath, wrapped in velvet dark and Christmas anticipation, and for the first time in years, you were part of the magic instead of just the curator of it.
Grandma Evie was still up when you pushed through the shop’s back door into the cozy warmth of the living quarters above. She was in her armchair by the fire, the enormous red sweater now clearly bearing the image of a surprisingly detailed reindeer on the front.
“Well?” she asked without looking up, needles poised like a conductor about to bring down the baton. “Did the bookstore girl sweep you off your feet, or are we still pretending you’re over the tall, beautiful, and emotionally unavailable one?”
You kicked off your boots, peeled off your coat, and tried, and failed to keep the grin off your face. “Claire stood me up.”
Evelyn’s needles stopped mid-click. She lowered them slowly, eyes narrowing with theatrical delight. “Do tell.”
“Emily showed up instead. Completely random. Sat down. We talked for almost an hour.” You hugged yourself to keep from vibrating out of your skin. “She asked me out. Like, actually asked me out. Tomorrow night. Seven o’clock. Plans, she said. Plans that require walking.”
Grandma Evie leaned back, folded her hands over the reindeer’s smug little face, and let out a cackle that rattled the teacups on the shelf.
“I swear that girl could fall into a manure pile and come up smelling like a diplomatic bouquet.” She took a triumphant sip of tea. “I told you the universe has a sense of humor. Also, I told you so. Loudly. Multiple times.”
You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your own brain. “Yes, yes, you’re very wise, you should have your own oracle booth at the winter fair.”
“Don’t tempt me. I’d make a fortune.” She set the mug down with a decisive clink. “Details, child. Did she grovel?”
“She said she’s tired of waiting fifteen years to stop being a coward.”
Evelyn actually whistled. “Well, hallelujah. The woman finally grew a spine. I was starting to worry the FBI had removed it for safekeeping.”
You flopped onto the couch, pulling a quilt over your legs. “She’s picking me up at seven. Said she’ll do the asking properly tomorrow. Bells, whistles, embarrassing production.”
“Of course she will. She’s a Prentiss. They don’t do anything small except apologies, apparently.” Evie eyed you over her glasses. “You said yes, I assume? Or did I raise a complete fool?”
“I said yes.”
“Good girl.” She picked up her knitting again, but the smirk never left her face. “Now. Strategy. You’re wearing the emerald-green sweater that makes you look like forbidden forest temptation. Black jeans that do things to the laws of physics. Those boots with the little heel that make your legs look endless. Hair down. Red lip. Minimal jewelry—she needs to be able to find your pulse without a map.”
“Grandma!”
“What? I’m old, not dead. And neither is she.” She paused, softening. “You’ve got fifteen years of almost, baby. Tomorrow you start turning it into finally. Don’t waste it on safe.”
You buried your face in the quilt, muffling a sound that was half laugh, half terrified squeak.
Evie reached over and patted your knee with surprising gentleness.
“She looked at you in that shop like you were the only warm thing in a lifetime of winters,” she said quietly. “Don’t make her wait another fifteen years to prove she’s home for good.”
You peeked out from the quilt, eyes stinging. “I’m scared,” you admitted.
“I know, sugarplum.” Evie’s smile turned tender. “Love’s always been the most dangerous thing in this house. That’s why it’s worth keeping.”
Tomorrow night, Emily Prentiss was coming back for you. And this time, you weren’t letting her leave without a fight.
The next twenty-four hours were torture in the sweetest possible way.
You trimmed stems, tied perfect bows, and smiled at frantic customers while your brain played a nonstop highlight reel: Emily’s shy grin in the café, the way her voice cracked on the word coward, the promise of seven o’clock sharp. Every red rose you touched reminded you of the flush on her cheeks when she’d finally asked. Every pine needle carried the ghost of her coat brushing your arm.
By six-thirty you were useless. Grandma Evie took one look at your third outfit change and declared, “Green sweater. Black jeans. Boots that make you look like sin on snowshoes. Go. I’ll lock up.”
At 6:59 p.m. headlights swept across the shop window.
She wasn’t in the car.
She was standing on the sidewalk beneath your sign, snowflakes melting in her hair, hands buried in the pockets of a long black coat that made her look like she’d stepped out of a 1940s film. The cream scarf at her throat was the only soft thing about her, everything else looked sharp enough to cut glass.
“Hi,” she said, breath fogging.
“Hi yourself.”
She tilted her head toward the street. “Walk with me?”
You fell in beside her. The town had turned itself into a snow globe: quiet streets, glowing windows, wreaths on every door. Emily led you away from the bustle, past Victorian houses dripping with icicle lights, until the sidewalks narrowed and the only sound was snow crunching under boots.
“I used to walk this route when I came home. You know, when we're not walking home together” she said quietly. “All the way to the overlook. I’d stand there like an idiot trying to guess which light was your bedroom.” A shy sideways glance. “Never could. But pretending made the distance feel smaller.”
Your throat closed. “Not stupid.”
She stopped at a wrought-iron gate you hadn’t seen in years. The historic cemetery—peaceful, blanketed white, headstones wearing little snow caps like polite old gentlemen—in the center stood the town’s Christmas tree: ancient spruce, no garish ornaments, just thousands of tiny white fairy lights wrapped trunk to crown. It glowed like a fallen star.
Emily pushed the gate open. “They light it on December first and kill the switch January second. No speeches, no ceremony. Just… this.”
You walked beneath the branches. The light was soft, moon-pale, turning the snow silver-blue. It felt sacred, like stepping inside a cathedral built of winter.
“I stood right here the night before I left for Rome,” she said, voice low. “Made myself a promise that if I ever got back here—if I ever saw you again—I wouldn’t waste it.” She turned to you, eyes reflecting a galaxy of tiny lights. “I’ve broken a lot of promises. Not this one.”
The air between you felt suddenly too thin to breathe.
She took one careful step closer. “Your grandmother said you’d been married to the shop since I left. That it was a terrible wife.” Her gloved fingers brushed a snowflake from your sleeve, lingering. “I married the job. Also terrible. Emotionally unavailable. Works late. Forgets anniversaries.”
A laugh slipped out of you, watery and surprised.
The words hung there, luminous.
You swallowed. “What are you saying, Em?”
“I’m saying I never got over you. Every room I walked into for fifteen years had your ghost in it. I’m saying walking into your shop felt like walking back into my own heartbeat.” Her voice cracked. “I’m asking for a chance. However you’ll have me. Slow, fast, messy—doesn’t matter. Just… let me stay this time.”
Snow drifted down around you both, soft and deliberate, like the sky itself was holding its breath.
You opened your mouth—not sure what would come out—when the tree suddenly brightened. Not a flicker, but a deepening, a bloom of light that turned the entire grove into something holy. Every bulb glowed stronger, warmer, as if the tree had decided this moment deserved witness.
Emily’s eyes widened. “They time it to the exact minute of full dusk,” she breathed. “Every year.”
You couldn’t look away from her face bathed in that light, every sharp angle softened, every guarded line gone.
Instead of answering with words, you reached for her hand. She let you take it, fingers sliding between yours like they’d never forgotten the way. You tugged her gently toward the old stone bench beneath the lowest branches, brushed the snow off, and sat.
She sat beside you —close enough that your knees touched, close enough that the heat of her bled through wool and denim.
For a long time you just looked at the tree. The silence wasn’t empty; it was full of everything you’d both carried alone for fifteen years and were finally laying down.
“I practiced for three days,” Emily said suddenly, her gaze fixed on the glowing branches.
“Practiced what?”
“Asking you to prom. In my bedroom mirror. I had this whole speech.” She laughed, a soft, embarrassed puff of air. “
It was awful. Something about celestial alignments and the profound beauty of shared experience. I sounded like a bad philosophy textbook.”
You leaned into her shoulder, just a little. “You blurted it out in the parking lot next to my beat-up Civic. ‘So. Prom. With me. Please?’ I think you turned and walked away before I even answered.”
“I was mortified!” she protested, but she was smiling, leaning into your touch in return. "I was convinced I’d ruined everything. Then you slipped a note into my locker the next period. A single word. ‘Yes.’ Folded into a perfect origami crane.”
“You kept it,” you remembered.
“I still have it.” Her voice went soft. “In a box. With the corsage. The gardenias turned to dust years ago, but the ribbon… it’s still there.”
Carefully, like she was handling something priceless, she lifted her arm and draped it across your shoulders. You went willingly, tucking yourself against her side, cheek to the soft wool of her coat, her chin resting lightly on your hair.
Snow kept falling. The tree kept glowing. The world shrank to the circle of her arm and the steady beat of her heart under your ear.
For a long, long time you just sat there, pressed together on the cold stone bench, the great glowing spruce pouring white light over you like a blessing. Snow drifted down in slow, deliberate flakes, catching in Emily’s lashes, melting on your cheeks. Her thumb traced idle circles on the back of your gloved hand.
The space between your bodies had shrunk to nothing; the space between your mouths had shrunk to inches. You could feel the warmth of her breath, could see the way her pupils had blown wide in the fairy-light glow. She tilted her head, just barely. You leaned in to meet her.
The first brush of her nose against yours was feather-light, a question. You answered by parting your lips the smallest fraction.
And then:
“O Holy Night…”
The opening notes soared through the stillness, rich and perfect, carried on a dozen trained voices. A moment later the wrought-iron gate creaked, and the church choir spilled into the cemetery path in a river of red scarves and lanterns—Mrs. Henderson from the library, Mr. Castello who bought wreaths every year, teenagers from the youth group, even Reverend Paul in his long black coat—faces you’d known your whole life, suddenly here, singing like angels had decided to take a stroll through town.
Lanterns bobbed. Breath clouds rose like incense. The carol swelled, wrapping the ancient spruce in harmony.
Emily froze, lips a whisper from yours. You felt her soft exhale of laughter more than heard it.
“Of course,” she murmured against your mouth, the words vibrating through you. “Of course this town would interrupt.”
You huffed a laugh that tasted like her breath and snow and almost.
The choir fanned out beneath the tree, lanterns lifted high, voices climbing into the exquisite, aching French verses. Townspeople followed—families, couples, kids on shoulders—until the little cemetery glowed gold with lantern light and white with tree light and alive with song.
Emily didn’t move away. She stayed exactly where she was—forehead resting lightly against yours, nose brushing yours, sharing the same tiny pocket of air—while “O Holy Night” rose around you like a cathedral built of voices.
Fall on your knees…
O hear the angel voices…
Her hand found yours again, fingers threading tight. You turned your faces toward the music, cheeks still touching, and let the carol wash over you both.
There would be a kiss—later, soon, inevitable—but not here, not rushed, not stolen in the two-second gap between verses.
Tonight was for this: the almost, the reverence, the absolute certainty that when it finally happened it would be only yours, not borrowed from a song or witnessed by half the town.
So you sat wrapped in light and snow and each other, listening to the choir sing about a night divine, and you thought,This is holy enough.
When the last perfect note faded into the hush, the carolers moved on—lanterns swaying, voices already warming up the next song for the next quiet corner of town.
Emily pressed her forehead a little harder against yours, a silent laugh shaking her shoulders.
“Small-town cockblock,” she whispered.
You grinned, nose bumping hers. “We’ve waited fifteen years. We can wait until they’re done terrorizing the nativity scene on Elm Street.”
She stole the tiniest graze of lips—just the corner of your mouth, barely there, gone before it could be called a kiss—and then pulled back enough to look at you, eyes shining.
“Worth the wait,” she said.
You believed her.
Notes:
Please consider commenting, I love it when you guy comment and I get to read it, it really makes my heart happy
Chapter 3: Mulled Wine and Old Flames
Summary:
The second you pushed through the door, a wall of warmth and noise hit you. Mr. Jones—seventy if he was a day, beard like Santa, arms like a lumberjack—looked up from behind the bar and bellowed, “Well Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, if it ain’t Emily Prentiss in the flesh!”
Notes:
Okay, yes, I know, I promised that this fic would have a happy ending. AND IT WOULD. That being said I didn't say that it wouldn't have some complications. That wouldn't be a good story, and also we have to embrace the angst, soooo, TA-DA! A little bit of angst, a little bit of complication to sweeten the end.
Chapter Text
The carolers’ lanterns had barely disappeared around the corner when Emily let out a soft, giddy laugh that fogged in the cold air. She was still holding your hand like she’d never let go again, thumb stroking over your knuckles in restless little arcs.
“That was not a kiss,” she declared, eyes bright, cheeks flushed from more than the cold. “That was… a preview. A post-credit scene. You deserve the full feature-length version, preferably somewhere without an audience of sixty and a soprano hitting high C.”
You grinned so wide your face hurt. “Take me home before ten and Grandma Evie will revoke my adult card. She literally said, and I quote, ‘I’m not your warden anymore, go be scandalous.’”
Emily’s brows shot up. “Evie said scandalous?”
“Direct quote.”
“Then we are absolutely not wasting that permission slip.” She tugged you toward the gate, boots crunching fresh snow. “Come on. Jonesy’s is two blocks away. Spiced cider, dim lights, zero choir. I need a do-over.”
Jonesy’s Tavern hadn’t changed since you were sneaking in with fake IDs senior year: dark wood, red leather booths, strings of Christmas lights looped around elk antlers and old license plates. The jukebox was playing “Run Rudolph Run,” and the air smelled like cinnamon, bourbon, and decades of spilled beer.
The second you pushed through the door, a wall of warmth and noise hit you. Mr. Jones—seventy if he was a day, beard like Santa, arms like a lumberjack—looked up from behind the bar and bellowed, “Well Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, if it ain’t Emily Prentiss in the flesh!”
Emily laughed as he vaulted the bar. Actually vaulted, for a man with two knee replacements, and enveloped her in a bear hug that lifted her boots clear off the floor.
“Look at you, all fancy FBI,” he said, setting her down. “Still breakin’ hearts?”
“Trying not to,” she said, cheeks pink.Mr. Jones turned to you, eyes softening.
“And my favorite florist. First round’s on me, ladies. Call it a welcome-home tax.” He was already ladling steaming cider from a crockpot into two heavy glass mugs, adding a generous splash of something that was definitely not apple juice.Emily reached for her wallet.
“Jonesy, come on—”
“Put it away, Prentiss. You bought exactly one legal drink in my bar before your mama shipped you off to Europe. Consider this fifteen years of interest.”
You clinked mugs—cinnamon, clove, and dark rum curling up in fragrant steam, and the first sip went straight to your head like liquid Christmas.
You were halfway through laughing at Emily’s face when she took her first sip, eyes widening—“Holy hell, Jonesy, you trying to embalm us?”—when a voice cut through the din.
“Emily Prentiss. As I live and breathe.”
You turned.
Lauren-freaking-Mitchell. Head cheerleader, homecoming queen, still looked like she’d stepped out of 2010 Instagram with better highlights.
She was leaning against the bar in a red wrap dress that probably cost more than your monthly rent, holding a martini and a smile sharp enough to shave with.
“I heard you were back,” Lauren purred, eyes flicking over Emily like she was appraising a vintage car. “God, you got hot. Diplomat daughter to FBI badass? The glow-up is criminal.”
Emily’s smile went polite, profiler-level polite. “Hey, Lauren. Good to see you.”
“You know, I had the biggest crush on you junior year. Used to write ‘Mrs. Lauren Prentiss’ in my chemistry notebook.” She laughed, throaty and practiced. “Guess some things never change.”
You watched the whole thing from two feet away like a slow-motion car crash.
Lauren didn’t even glance at you, old habits. To her, you’d always been “Emily’s quiet friend who made the corsages.” She tugged Emily toward the dartboards at the far end of the bar. “Come on, we have to catch up! You owe me a million stories. Ambassador parties, FBI raids—”
Emily shot you a helpless look over her shoulder, being physically steered away like a very polite hostage.
And just like that, you were alone at the bar, cider cooling in your hands.
You slid onto a stool. Jonesy gave you a sympathetic wince and refilled your mug without being asked. “Some date, huh?” you muttered, more to the cider than to him.
Jonesy snorted. “Universe has a real sense of humor tonight.”
You rested your chin in your hand and watched Lauren laugh too loud, watched her rest a manicured hand on Emily’s arm, watched Emily try to extract herself with the same careful tone she probably used on unsubs.
Maybe the universe really was trying to tell you something.Maybe fifteen years was the statute of limitations on almosts. You took a long, miserable sip of cider and tried not to feel eighteen and invisible all over again.
You stayed rooted to the barstool like someone had glued you there with fifteen-year-old insecurity.
Emily was a grown woman. An actual federal agent who stared down serial killers before breakfast. If she wanted Lauren Mitchell off her arm, she could say the word. One polite, razor-sharp sentence and Lauren would be history. She’d done it to diplomats twice her age.
But Emily wasn’t saying the word.
Lauren was loud enough for the whole damn bar to hear. “Junior year I literally had your face taped inside my locker, Em! Senior year I told everyone you were going to take me to prom until you asked her.” She jerked her chin toward you like you were a footnote. “I mean, we all thought it was a phase, right? The quiet florist girl? But look at you now, back in town and still ridiculously hot.”
A couple of old classmates laughed the nostalgic, drunken laugh of people who never left. Lauren preened, looping both arms around Emily’s waist now, pressing close enough that her perfume probably counted as a biohazard.
Emily’s eyes flicked to you—panic, apology, something—but still no extraction. Still no “actually I’m on a date.” reminder.
You turned back to the bar. Jonesy didn’t even ask this time. He just poured two fingers of bourbon, one for you, one for himself and slid yours across the scarred wood.
“That girl’s been opening tabs since she was sixteen and ‘forgetting’ to close them since she was seventeen,” he muttered, jerking his head toward Lauren. “Owes me three hundred dollars and a new liver.”
You knocked the bourbon back in one burning swallow. The heat hit your stomach like a fist.
“She’s like an octopus with commitment issues,” you said, voice rough. “Sticky and impossible to get rid of.”
Jonesy barked a laugh that turned into a cough. “Atta girl.”
Another refill appeared. You stared at the amber liquid like it might tell you why the universe kept dangling Emily Prentiss in front of you only to yank her away again.
Lauren’s voice rose over the jukebox: “Remember when we all thought you’d end up with some European prince, Em? But here you are, back in the same zip code as little miss flower shop—”
You slid off the stool before you did something stupid like throw a dart at her head.
“Need air,” you muttered to Jonesy.
He gave you a nod that said he’d guard your seat with his life.
Outside, the cold slapped you sober. You leaned against the brick wall beside the door, breath fogging, snowflakes melting on your burning cheeks. The muffled thump of music and Lauren’s braying laugh leaked through the wall like smoke.
Inside, Emily finally spotted the empty stool.
Her head snapped around, scanning the bar, the panic in her eyes no longer polite. She tried to step away, but Lauren’s arms were still locked around her like cheap Christmas tinsel: gaudy, tangled, impossible to remove without breaking something.
Emily’s mouth formed your name, you couldn’t hear it, but you saw it.
You looked away, tipped your face to the snow, and let the cold burn the sting out of your eyes.
Maybe some things really were only meant to be almost.
The snow was falling harder now, thick, deliberate flakes that stuck to your lashes and melted cold down your neck. You pressed your back harder against the rough brick, trying to disappear into the shadows beside Jonesy’s flickering neon.
Footsteps crunched closer. “Hey,” a familiar voice said, soft and surprised. “Fancy seeing you here.”
You looked up. Claire--bookstore Claire, soft brown eyes, dimpled smile, the one who’d left you sitting alone with a cold cocoa--stood a few feet away, snowflakes catching in her dark curls like tiny stars.
Of course.
Of fucking course.
“Just… getting some air,” you managed.
Claire tilted her head, studying you with gentle concern. “You okay? You look like someone kicked your puppy and then stole its Christmas presents.”
A laugh slipped out, cracked and bitter. “Something like that.”
She stepped closer, close enough that you could smell her perfume. Something warm and spicy that didn’t make your chest ache with fifteen years of baggage.
“Well,” she said, smile turning playful, “I was about to head inside for a nightcap. Let me buy you a drink? Least I can do after ghosting you last night. Inventory turned into a nightmare, but that’s a terrible excuse.”
You hesitated for half a heartbeat.
Emily was inside, tangled up in Lauren Mitchell’s tentacles, and you were done waiting for someone to choose you.
“Yeah,” you said, pushing off the wall. “I’d like that.”
Claire’s smile widened in relief, maybe even triumph and she held the door open for you.
Jonesy took one look at the two of you and didn’t even blink. He jerked his chin toward the corner booth: dark, private, as far from the dartboards as it was possible to get without leaving the building.
“On the house,” he grunted, sliding over a tray: two steaming mugs of mulled wine and four shot glasses of his best añejo tequila. “You earned it, kid.”
You slid into the booth. Claire sat opposite you, close enough that your knees brushed under the table. She raised a shot. “To terrible timing,” she said.
You clinked your glass against hers. “And worse company.”
The tequila burned clean and bright.
Across the room, Lauren’s voice hit a new octave. “Em! Babe, come on, buy me a drink! You’re, like, rich now, right?”
Emily had finally managed to peel one of Lauren’s arms off, but the other clung like a barnacle. Her eyes were locked on your booth: on Claire’s smile, on the way Claire’s fingers brushed yours when she passed the salt.
Jonesy materialized in front of Emily like a grizzled guardian angel, blocking her view. He set a single shot of bourbon on the bar in front of her and gave her a look that could’ve peeled paint.
You couldn’t hear what he said, but you saw Emily’s shoulders sag, saw her mouth form the word shit.
Claire leaned in, voice low and warm. “So. Want to tell me why you look like someone just told you Santa isn’t real?”
You laughed, surprising yourself with how genuine it sounded. “Long story.”
“I’ve got all night.”
Another shot. Another brush of knees. Another smile that didn’t come with a decade and a half of ghosts.
Emily watched from across the room, bourbon untouched, while the snow kept falling outside and the distance between almost and never felt wider than ever.
Emily was going to commit a felony in Jonesy’s Tavern and the only witness would be a stuffed elk head wearing a Santa hat.
Lauren had both arms around her again, laughing into her shoulder, breath hot with vodka and nostalgia. Every time Emily tried to shift away, Lauren tightened her grip like a drunk octopus.
“Em, come on, one more shot! For old times!”
Old times could choke on tinsel.
Emily’s eyes kept darting to the corner booth where you sat, knees brushing Claire’s under the table, laughing at something the bookstore woman said. The sound of your laugh—real, light, unburdened cut deeper than Lauren’s acrylics digging into her forearm.
She had to fix this.
“Lauren,” she tried again, firmer, “I need to—”
“Relax, Prentiss! God, you used to be fun.” Lauren spun her toward the bar, blocking the path to you. “Jonesy! Another round for me and my girl!”
Jonesy’s glare could’ve frozen rum. He set one single shot in front of Emily —no chaser, no smile and pointedly ignored Lauren. Emily downed it in one swallow, the burn doing nothing to dull the sting of watching Claire lean in to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
That was supposed to be her hand.
Date’s not over, she told herself. Lauren hijacked it. That’s all.
She started moving, shoulder-checking past Lauren, who squawked in protest.
Jonesy stepped into her path like a brick wall with opinions.
“Kid,” he rumbled, low enough only she could hear, “you’re about two seconds from blowing fifteen years of groveling. Choose wisely.”
Emily met his eyes, then looked past him to you—head thrown back laughing, cheeks flushed from tequila and attention that wasn’t hers.
She stepped around him anyway.
In the booth, Claire was mid-sentence, voice warm and curious. “So what do you actually read when no one’s looking? Come on, everyone’s got a comfort series.”
You ducked your head, suddenly shy, fingers tracing the rim of your mug. “Promise not to judge?”
“Scout’s honor.”
You mumbled something into your mulled wine.
Claire leaned closer. “Didn’t catch that.”
“Harry Potter,” you said, louder, cheeks on fire. “I still reread them every December. Grandma and I watch the movies on Christmas morning with cinnamon rolls and spiked cocoa. We’ve done it since… since junior year.”
Your voice softened on the last words, and Emily—now close enough to hear felt her heart crack neatly in half.
Junior year. When she’d saved allowance for three months to buy you the box set because you’d checked Prisoner of Azkaban out of the library so many times the librarian threatened to start charging rent.
Claire’s eyes lit up. “That’s adorable. Which house?”
“Slytherin,” you said, grinning like a kid caught with contraband chocolate. “Don’t judge me.”
“Never,” Claire laughed, and her hand settled on your wrist, casual, warm, claiming.
Emily stood frozen three feet away, Lauren still clinging to her elbow like a sequined barnacle, watching someone else discover the parts of you she used to be the only keeper of.
The date wasn’t over. But God, it was starting to feel like it might be.
Everything happened fast after that.
Lauren decided the moment needed a grand finale. She climbed—actually climbed onto the nearest table, kicked over three beers, and bellowed, “This one’s for Emily Prentiss, the hottest girl in the class of 2010!” Then she tried to twerk to “Jingle Bell Rock.”
Jonesy had seen enough. With the weary efficiency of a man who’d thrown out three generations of drunks, he vaulted the bar, hooked an arm around Lauren’s waist, and carried her toward the door like an overstuffed Christmas stocking.
Emily tried to follow, apologizing under her breath, but Jonesy’s free hand shot out and planted square in her chest.
“You too, Agent Prentiss. Out.”
Emily’s mouth fell open. “Jonesy, I—”
“Out. The last Friday you were here before you left for Europe, I let you drink lemonade all night and cry into it. Tonight you brought a tornado in heels. Out.”
Lauren was already on the sidewalk, giggling and yelling for an Uber that would never come. Emily stood on the threshold, snow swirling around her boots, looking like someone had just told her Santa was real and then immediately shot him.
Jonesy sighed—a sound that came from the bottom of his soul and rubbed the back of his neck.
“You got sixty seconds to fix whatever you broke in there,” he muttered, jerking his thumb toward the booth. “But if that octopus comes back through my door, I’m banning you both until 2030. Clear?”
“Crystal,” Emily breathed, already moving.
She found you exactly where she’d feared: head tilted back, laughing so hard there were tears in your eyes while Claire finished some elaborate story about Tolkien and C.S. Lewis arguing over a lamp in an Oxford pub.
The sound of your laugh, free, unguarded, happy hit her like a slap.
She stopped at the edge of the booth.
“Hey,” she said, voice rough. “I just—can we talk outside? Please?”
You looked up. The laughter faded into something careful.
Claire glanced between you, curious but not unkind. “Know her?”
You gave a small, brittle smile. “A… friend.”
The word landed like a brick.
Emily felt it crack something vital inside her chest.
Friend.
After the tree, the almost-kiss, the fifteen years of ghosts finally named.
Friend.
She swallowed hard. “Two minutes,” she said quietly. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Claire raised an eyebrow at you—gentle, giving you the choice. You looked at Emily for a long second, then nodded once.
Emily stepped back to wait by the door, hands shoved deep in her coat pockets, snow melting in her hair, trying not to think about how friend sounded a lot like goodbye.
The sidewalk outside Jonesy’s was empty except for the slow swirl of snow and a single set of wobbling footprints that disappeared around the corner. Lauren was gone, stumbled home, found a ride, fallen into a snowbank; Emily didn’t care. The relief hit her so hard she almost laughed.
You stepped out beside her, arms folded tight across your chest, scarf pulled high like armor. The neon glow painted your face red, then blue, then red again.
“Look, I’m sorry—” Emily started.
“No need.” Your voice was polite, clipped, the same tone you used with customers who wanted roses in December. “I had a good time anyway. The tree, the carolers… it was a fun night, Emily.”
Fun.
The word landed between you like a slammed door.
Emily’s stomach dropped. “It was supposed to be more than fun. It was supposed to be—” She stopped, hearing the crack in her own voice. “I promised you bells and whistles. I promised I’d do it right this time. And instead you got Lauren Mitchell hanging off me like a cheap ornament.”
You looked away, toward the quiet street where the colored lights blurred in the falling snow. “I got half a date,” you said quietly. “Half a walk. Half a conversation. Half an almost-kiss interrupted by the entire church choir. And then the second half got hijacked by someone who still thinks high school never ended.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” You finally met her eyes, and the hurt there was bright and sharp. “You said you were tired of waiting fifteen years to stop being a coward. But tonight you let Lauren drag you around like a trophy because you were too polite to tell her to get lost. I sat there watching the entire bar remember how shiny and untouchable Emily Prentiss used to be, and I got to be the same invisible girl I was in high school. Again.”
Emily flinched. “I tried to get away from her. I was trying—” The cold burned her lungs. “I was coming back to the booth,” she said weakly. “I was trying—”
“Were you?” The question came out sharper than you meant, but you didn’t take it back. “Because from where I was sitting, it looked like you let her drag you across the bar without a single ‘actually, I’m on a date.’” You pause, trying so hard to not break, not a single tear, no heartbreak this time, at least you hoped. “Trying looks a lot like letting someone else choose where you stand,” you added, softer now, almost sad. “I waited for you once, Emily. For years. I’m done waiting for people to pick me second.”
Emily’s throat worked. “I didn’t want to make a scene.”
“Right.” You laughed, short and humorless. “God forbid Emily Prentiss make a scene. Better to let the entire town think Lauren Mitchell has dibs than risk being rude.”
The silence that followed was brutal. Snow filled it, thick and muffling, erasing footprints, erasing second chances.
Emily’s voice cracked when she finally spoke. “So that’s it? One bad hour and we’re back to strangers?”
You exhaled, a small white cloud that dissolved between you.
“I don’t know what we are,” you said. “But tonight was supposed to be ours, and it wasn’t. That’s on both of us."
Emily’s voice dropped to almost nothing. “I know. And I hate that I did that to you.”
Another beat of silence. Snow filled the gap between you like insulation.
You exhaled, a white plume in the dark. “I think I’m gonna walk home.”
Emily’s whole body went rigid. “Please don’t—”
“I need air that isn’t full of almosts, Em.” You met her eyes, steady and tired. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Or the day after. Or whenever the universe stops laughing at us.”
You turned and started down the sidewalk, boots crunching, leaving her standing alone beneath the flickering neon.
Emily stood under the buzzing neon, hands clenched in her pockets, watching the distance grow until the falling snow swallowed you whole. The night ended not with a kiss, not with hope, but with the quiet, brutal sound of a door you thought was finally open swinging shut again.
Chapter 4: Silent Night... For Breaking and Entering?
Summary:
Emily froze on her knees in a puddle of water and ruined gardenias, brown paper clutched to her chest like a shield.
“Emily Elizabeth Prentiss,” Evie announced, voice ringing off the rafters. “I knew you’d show up, but breaking and entering? In my shop?”
Notes:
Here's a little apology chapters for you guys because the last two were a little angsty. I do not promise that I will not be doing it again, because I will. Hehe
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Emily stood rooted to the sidewalk long after your footprints had vanished under fresh snow.
The neon Jonesy’s sign buzzed and flickered overhead, painting her face red, then dark, then red again—like a warning light she’d ignored all night. She felt hollowed out. Lauren hadn’t ruined the night; she had. One polite, spineless moment at a time.
She dragged a hand over her face and tasted salt that had nothing to do with the cold.
The door creaked behind her.
Claire stepped out, pulling on gloves, scanning the empty street with a soft, disappointed smile. “She went home, didn’t she?” A gentle sigh. “Damn. Missed the chance to say goodbye. Guess I’ll just have to ask her out again.”
The words hit Emily like a slap from someone wearing kid gloves—polite, painless, and devastating.
Claire had every right. Claire hadn’t spent fifteen years running. Claire hadn’t let Lauren Mitchell turn a sacred night into a high-school reunion from hell.
Emily’s hands curled into fists inside her pockets. “Yeah,” she managed, voice raw. “Guess you will.”
Claire gave her a curious look, then a small, kind nod and walked off into the snow, boots crunching away into the quiet.
Emily stayed there until the cold numbed her ears and the tips of her fingers, until the street was empty and the only sound was her own heartbeat telling her she still had time.
8:30.
Grandma Evie had declared no curfew. The night was still young.
She wasn’t done fighting for this.
She turned on her heel and started toward Maple and 3rd, coat flapping open, snow soaking her hair, every step a promise she intended to keep this time.
---
You shoved through the back door into the little apartment over the shop and promptly burst into ugly, snotty tears.
“Good Lord, child, it’s barely past eight-thirty. I distinctly remember telling you—”
Grandma Evie looked up from her armchair, knitting needles freezing mid-stitch. One look at your red-rimmed eyes, your runny nose, the way your shoulders curled in like you were trying to hold yourself together with your own arms, and the needles clattered to the floor.
“Oh, sugarplum,” she said, soft as flannel, and opened her arms. “Come here. Let it out.”
You crossed the room in three stumbling steps and collapsed against her, face buried in the shoulder of her ancient reindeer sweater that smelled like pine needles and vanilla and safety, the same way you used to when you were eight and skinned your knee, or sixteen and got your heart broken the first time.
Only this time it was the same heart, same girl, fifteen years later.
“It was perfect,” you whispered, voice raw. “The tree, the carolers, her arm around me… I thought—” You laughed, a broken sound. “I thought tonight was the night we finally got it right. And then Lauren happened and Emily just… let it happen. She didn’t fight for me, Grandma. Not even a little.”
Evie’s eyes flashed, but her voice stayed soft. “And that hurt worse than the first time she left.”
You nodded, fresh tears spilling. “Because this time she was right there. And she still didn’t choose me. And now, I ruined it,” you sobbed into wool. “I got jealous and mean and I walked away and now she probably hates me and Claire’s perfect and I’m just— I’m still the idiot who waited fifteen years for a girl who can’t even—”
“Shh.” Evie’s papery hand stroked your hair, steady and sure. “Breathe, baby. There we go.”
You cried harder. The whole miserable night spilled out between hiccups and sniffles: the tree, the almost-kiss, the carolers, Lauren’s claws, the tequila, Claire’s kind smile, the way you’d flung “fun night” at Emily like a weapon.
“I told her I needed air that wasn’t full of almosts,” you whispered, voice cracking. “But that’s all we’ve ever been, isn’t it? Almosts.”
Evie pulled back just far enough to cup your wet cheeks in both hands, forcing you to meet her sharp, loving eyes.
“Listen to me, and listen good,” she said fiercely. “That girl walked into a snowstorm tonight to find you. She let Jonesy throw her out of a bar she used to cry in at seventeen because she was trying—clumsily, stupidly—to get back to you. Almosts don’t do that, sweetheart. Almosts don’t look like they’re about to shatter every time you turn away.”
You sniffled. “Then why does it hurt so much?”
“Because love’s always been a reckless thing in this family,” Evie said, thumbing a tear from your chin. “And you, my darling, have loved that girl since you were sixteen years old with braces and a crush you thought would kill you. It didn’t kill you then. It’s not gonna kill you now.”
She pressed a kiss to your forehead, the way she had when you were small and the world felt too big.
“Dry your face,” she ordered gently. “Put the kettle on. And when she shows up—and she will—remember that sometimes people need to fall on their face before they learn how to stand still long enough to hold you.”
You laughed, a wet, shaky sound. “You think she’s coming here?”
Evie picked her knitting back up with a smug little smile. “Child, that girl is halfway here already. I’d bet my best pruning shears on it.”
Outside, through the frosted window, fresh snow kept falling—soft, steady, and forgiving—covering every old track, waiting for new ones.
---
Emily stood on Maple and 3rd, snow up to her ankles, phone flashlight cutting uselessly through the dark.Every florist within twenty miles: closed. Of course they were. The only open shop in the county that could craft magic out of stems and baby’s breath belonged to the one person she’d just wounded.
Irony was a cruel bastard tonight.
She stared at the warm glow behind Petals & Promises’ front window —your window and felt the last of her good sense evaporate.
Five minutes later the ancient lock on the shop door clicked open under a pick set she absolutely wasn’t supposed to carry off-duty. She slipped inside, the bell giving a guilty little jingle that sounded like a warning.
The air was thick with pine and cold roses. Moonlight through the frosted windows painted everything silver. She moved on instinct —grabbed a bucket of white gardenias, a handful of blush roses, some eucalyptus because you always said it smelled like winter and safety. She was halfway through wrapping the stems in brown paper when her elbow clipped a metal bucket.
Gardenias hit the floor in an explosion of petals and water.
"Shit!"
The curse echoed off the rafters like a gunshot.
Upstairs, you were curled on the couch, head in Grandma Evie’s lap, finally asleep —face blotchy, lashes still wet, the kind of exhausted that came from crying until there was nothing left. Evie stroked your hair with one hand and held a cup of chamomile in the other, humming something old and soft.
A crash downstairs. Then a muffled, very familiar curse.
Evie’s eyes narrowed. At ninety-one, her knees might creak, but her hearing was sharper than ever. She eased your head onto a pillow, grabbed her rosewood cane —the one everyone in town knew better than to test, and hobbled down the stairs like an avenging Christmas elf.
She flipped the lights.
Emily froze on her knees in a puddle of water and ruined gardenias, brown paper clutched to her chest like a shield.
“Emily Elizabeth Prentiss,” Evie announced, voice ringing off the rafters. “I knew you’d show up, but breaking and entering? In my shop?”
Emily’s mouth opened, closed. She looked like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar and the entire jar in pieces on the floor.
“I screwed up,” she blurted. “I screwed up so bad, Mrs. Han—Evelyn—ma’am—I just wanted to bring her flowers, real ones, not some grocery-store garbage, and every other place is closed and I—” She gestured helplessly at the mess. “I thought I could make a bouquet that said I’m sorry and I’m an idiot and please don’t give up on me yet.”
Evie regarded her for a long, terrifying moment.
Then she stepped forward and cracked the cane across Emily’s upper arm —not hard enough to bruise, just hard enough to sting like hell.
“That’s for making my granddaughter cry. Again.”
Emily winced, nodding frantically. “Yes, ma’am. Deserved.”
Another whack —lighter, almost affectionate.
“And that’s for murdering my gardenias, you clumsy federal agent.”
Emily rubbed her arm, eyes glassy. “Also fair.”
Evie lowered the cane, planted it like a staff, and fixed Emily with a look that had made grown men weep.
“You want to apologize with flowers?” she asked. “Fine. But you’re going to do it right. Get up.”
Emily scrambled to her feet.
Evie pointed at the worktable. “White roses —for new beginnings, pink tulips —for caring, a touch of forget-me-nots —because Lord knows you’ve done enough forgetting, and wrap it in that midnight-blue paper on the top shelf. The one that matches the dress she wore to prom. And you’re going to write the card yourself. With a real pen. None of this texting nonsense.”
Emily’s hands shook as she obeyed, arranging stems under Evie’s hawk-like supervision.
When it was done —imperfect, earnest, smelling like hope and second chances, Evie took the bouquet, inspected it, and nodded once.
“Good. Now march your sorry behind upstairs, kneel at that couch like the penitent fool you are, and you don’t move until she wakes up. I’ll be in my chair with tea and a front-row seat.”
Emily swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”
Evie smacked her once more —gentle this time on the back of the head.
“And Emily?”
Emily paused at the foot of the stairs.
“Next time you want to apologize to my girl, use the damn door like a normal person.”
Emily’s laugh was wet and shaky. “Yes, ma’am.”
The old woman watched her climb the stairs —bouquet clutched like a lifeline, then turned off the shop lights and followed at her own pace, the only sound was the faint rustle of midnight-blue paper and the slow, careful breathing of someone who had fifteen years worth of apologies to offer.
---
Emily knelt on the hardwood like a supplicant, bouquet balanced carefully on her thighs. Midnight-blue paper caught the glow from the Christmas tree in the corner and turned the whole room soft and underwater.
You were out cold (curled on your side, one hand tucked under your cheek, the other clutching the quilt Evie had draped over you). Your breathing was deep and even, lashes dark against still-puffy cheeks. Every time you shifted, Emily held her own breath, remembering the summer of 2009 when she’d tried to wake you from a nap at the lake because you were turning lobster-red under the sun. You’d growled actual words she still couldn’t repeat in polite company and burrowed deeper into the towel. She’d learned that day: disturb a sleeping you at your own peril.
Evelyn settled into her armchair with the grace of a queen, poured two cups of tea from the pot she’d apparently been keeping warm for this exact occasion, and fixed Emily with a stare sharp enough to pin butterflies.
“Start talking, Emily Elizabeth. Why didn’t you ever write back?”
Emily’s fingers tightened on the bouquet stems.
“I was ashamed,” she said quietly, eyes on your sleeping face. “Every letter she sent felt like proof I didn’t deserve her. I’d read them on the train between postings, or in some hotel room in Sarajevo, or once in a safe house in Marrakech, and I’d think: if I answer, I’ll beg her to wait. And I had no right to ask that. So I didn’t answer at all. Easier to be the villain who vanished than the coward who kept promising a future I couldn’t deliver.”
Evelyn sipped her tea, unimpressed. “You know she still writes to you?”
Emily’s head snapped up.
Evelyn nodded toward the old roll-top desk in the corner. “Top drawer. She doesn’t send them anymore. Started around year five, when the returned letters finally broke something in her. She told me she was tired of giving the postal service hope. So now she writes them on the first of every month, folds them neat, and tucks them away like little time capsules.”
Emily’s throat closed.
“She used to date the envelopes,” Evelyn continued, softer. “First one after you left was postmarked three days after prom. Last one I saw was December first this year. Fifteen years of words you’ll never read unless she decides you’ve earned them.”
A tear slipped down Emily’s cheek and landed on the midnight-blue paper.
“I was trying to be noble,” she whispered. “Turns out I was just cruel.”
Evie reached over and patted her knee. “Noble’s overrated. Love’s messy. You pick the mess and you stay in it. That’s the part you missed.”
Emily looked at you, at the faint furrow still between your brows even in sleep, at the way your fingers curled like they were reaching for something that wasn’t there.
“I’m not leaving again,” she said, voice steady for the first time all night. “I don’t care if I have to sleep on this floor for the next week. I’m staying until she believes it.”
Evie’s smile was small and sharp and fond all at once. “Good. Because my granddaughter deserves someone willing to kneel on hardwood holding half-murdered flowers at two in the morning. Now drink your tea before it gets cold. Vigil’s easier with caffeine.”
Emily took the cup with trembling hands and settled in for the long, quiet watch, the bouquet in her lap, heart on the floor beside it, every breath a promise she intended to keep this time.
---
Emily sat in the hush of the living room, knees aching, bouquet balanced like an offering on her lap, and let the years unspool.
She had memorized every letter you ever sent (every slant of your handwriting, every dried flower you tucked between pages, every joke you tried to make so she wouldn’t worry). They lived in a locked tin box under her bed in D.C., edges worn soft from rereading on nights when the job carved pieces out of her she couldn’t get back.
She could still close her eyes and see them.
October 1st, 2013
(postmarked three years after she left, the paper smelling faintly of gardenias)
𝐸𝓂,
𝐼 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊. 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝐼 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓁𝑜𝓊𝒹, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊’𝓇𝑒 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒷𝒶𝒷𝓁𝓎 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝒫𝓇𝒶𝑔𝓊𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝒾𝓈 𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓃𝑜𝓌, 𝒹𝓇𝒾𝓃𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑒𝓈𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈𝑜 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒾𝒻𝓊𝓁 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓈𝒶𝓎 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓇𝓇𝑒𝒸𝓉𝓁𝓎 𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝓇𝓎. 𝒟𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝒾𝓉 𝒷𝓁𝒶𝒸𝓀, 𝑜𝓇 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝐸𝓊𝓇𝑜𝓅𝑒 𝓇𝓊𝒾𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒸𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝓊𝑔𝒶𝓇?
𝒢𝓇𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓂𝒶 𝐸𝓋𝒾𝑒 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓀𝑒𝓎𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓅 𝓉𝑜𝒹𝒶𝓎. 𝒜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝒶𝓁 𝓀𝑒𝓎𝓈 𝑜𝓃 𝒶 𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝓇𝒾𝒷𝒷𝑜𝓃 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝐼’𝓂 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓀𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝒹. 𝒮𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝐼 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓉𝒾𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓉𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑒𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒾𝓉’𝓈 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝐼 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓅 “𝒽𝑒𝓁𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑔” 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝓇𝓊𝓃𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝒸𝑒. 𝐼 𝓂𝒾𝓍𝑒𝒹 𝓅𝑒𝑜𝓃𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝑔𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓁𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓀 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝓁𝓂𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝒸𝓇𝒾𝑒𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝓌𝑜 𝒹𝒶𝓎𝓈. 𝒲𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝓁𝑜𝓌𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒽𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝓂𝑒. 𝐼’𝓂 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔. 𝑀𝓇𝓈. 𝒞𝒶𝓁𝒹𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝒸𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓋𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒𝒹 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒽𝓊𝓈𝒷𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓉𝓊𝓁𝒾𝓅𝓈 “𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑜𝓃.” 𝒯𝓊𝓇𝓃𝓈 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒽𝑒 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓈𝒶𝓌 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂 𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝓇𝑜𝒸𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓉𝓎. 𝐼 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓇𝑔𝑒𝒹 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒹𝑜𝓊𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝑒 𝒸𝓇𝓎-𝓁𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝒾𝓃 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓃𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝒸𝓊𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓇𝓈. 𝒲𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝒶𝓃. 𝒪𝓇 𝒹𝑜𝓃’𝓉. 𝐼’𝓁𝓁 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒷𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝓇𝒶𝓃𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒻𝓁𝑜𝓌𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓉𝑒𝓃𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝐼’𝓂 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝒾𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔.
𝒜𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒,
𝒜𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈.
Emily had read that one on a train from Vienna to Budapest, forehead pressed to the cold window, tears fogging the glass so badly the conductor asked if she was okay.
March 25th, 2014
(a thicker envelope this time, pressed violet petals inside)
𝐻𝑒𝓎 𝐸𝓂!
𝒮𝓅𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓌𝑒𝒹 𝓊𝓅 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝑒𝓂𝒷𝒶𝓇𝓇𝒶𝓈𝓈𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒 𝓁𝒶𝓉𝑒. 𝐼 𝑜𝓅𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓉 𝑒𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓉𝑜𝒹𝒶𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝑀𝓇𝓈. 𝒞𝒶𝓁𝒹𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝒹𝑒𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒸𝒶𝓉’𝓈 𝒷𝒾𝓇𝓉𝒽𝒹𝒶𝓎 𝓃𝑒𝑒𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝒶 𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁 𝒻𝓁𝑜𝓇𝒶𝓁 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓁𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃. 𝐼’𝓂 𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝑜𝓃 𝒶 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉-𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝓈𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓁𝓎-𝓇𝒾𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓇𝑒𝓉𝒾𝓇𝑒𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝑜𝓌𝓃.
𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓅 𝒾𝓈 𝒹𝑜𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓁 (𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓇𝒾𝒻𝓎𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓁𝓎 𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓁). 𝒢𝓇𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓂𝒶 𝓈𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝒾𝒻 𝐼 𝓀𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓊𝓅 𝐼’𝓁𝓁 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒽𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝓁𝓅 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒻𝓊𝓈𝑒𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓀 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 “𝑜𝓁𝒹 𝓁𝒶𝒹𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝓈𝒸𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝒾𝓅𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈.” 𝒮𝒽𝑒’𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓌𝓇𝑜𝓃𝑔.
𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊? 𝐻𝑜𝓌’𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓂𝑜𝓂? 𝐼𝓈 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝒾𝓈 𝒶𝓈 𝓇𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓃𝓉𝒾𝒸 𝒶𝓈 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝓈𝒶𝓎𝓈, 𝑜𝓇 𝒾𝓈 𝒾𝓉 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒶 𝒸𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓈𝓂𝑒𝓁𝓁𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓇𝑒𝑔𝓇𝑒𝓉?
𝐻𝑒𝓇𝑒’𝓈 𝓂𝓎 𝓃𝓊𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃, 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝒸𝒶𝓈𝑒: 𝟧𝟧𝟧-𝟢𝟣𝟥𝟪. 𝒞𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒾𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊’𝓇𝑒 𝒷𝑜𝓇𝑒𝒹. 𝒞𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒾𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊’𝓇𝑒 𝓈𝒶𝒹. 𝒞𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒾𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊’𝓇𝑒 𝒹𝓇𝓊𝓃𝓀 𝒾𝓃 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒾𝒻𝓊𝓁 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒𝒾𝑔𝓃 𝒸𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓃𝑒𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓈𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒾𝓉’𝓈 𝒶 𝓅𝓇𝒶𝓎𝑒𝓇.
𝒮𝑒𝓃𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓋𝒾𝑜𝓁𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒽𝑜𝓅𝑒𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓈𝓊𝓇𝓋𝒾𝓋𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓁 𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝒾𝒸𝑒!
Emily had memorized that number the first time you wrote it, still knew it better than her own. She’d typed it into burner phones in six different countries and always deleted it before she could hit call.
There were more, dozens more. One every few months at first, then once a year, then nothing after 2015. Returned to sender, then silence.
And then there were the ones you never sent.
Evelyn’s words kept circling: She still writes to you. First of every month. Folds them neat and keeps them.Emily wondered what they said now.
Did you still sign them all my love?
Did you tell the pages about the year the roof leaked and you fixed it yourself at 3 a.m.?
About the Christmas you spent alone because Evie had the flu and you didn’t want to leave her?
Did you curse her name on the bad days and forgive it on the good ones?
She looked at you sleeping peacefully, finally, and felt the weight of every letter she never answered settle on her chest like stones.
She would sit here until her knees gave out if that’s what it took. She would read every unsent letter if you ever let her. She would spend the rest of her life making sure the next ones you wrote had a return address she never ignored again.
The bouquet trembled in her hands—white roses, pink tulips, forget-me-nots, wrapped in the exact shade of midnight blue you wore the night she fell in love with you.
She whispered into the quiet, so low only the dark could hear: “I’m here now. And I’m reading every single one, starting tonight.”
Notes:
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Chapter 5: Seven Days of Almost Christmas
Summary:
“You’re never going to let me live down the Lauren thing, are you?” she called down.
“Nope,” you answered cheerfully. “And tomorrow you’re on wreath duty with Grandma Evie and me. Eight a.m. sharp.”
Chapter Text
You woke to the soft glow of the Christmas tree and the quiet ache behind your eyes that said you’d cried yourself empty.
The first thing you noticed was the weight against the couch: Emily, asleep on the floor, head slumped forward onto the cushion beside your hip, dark hair spilling like ink. She was shivering—small, involuntary tremors—because of course she hadn’t taken a blanket. She’d just… stayed. Knees drawn up, arms wrapped around a bouquet like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.
The bouquet was lopsided but earnest: white roses for new beginnings, pink tulips for caring, forget-me-nots tucked between like tiny blue apologies. Midnight-blue paper. Grandma Evie’s fingerprints all over it.
You sat up slowly, careful not to jostle her. Emily didn’t stir.
For a long moment you just looked at her, the faint bruise of exhaustion under her eyes, the way her mouth had softened in sleep, the stubborn set of her shoulders even now). She looked smaller than the woman who faced down terrorists for a living. She looked like the girl who used to fall asleep on your shoulder during movie nights and pretend it was accidental.
You were still hurt. You were still angry.
You were not heartless.
Quietly, you eased the bouquet from her lap. Her fingers twitched, instinctively trying to hold on even unconscious, and carried it to the kitchen. Filled the prettiest vase you owned, arranged the stems properly because some habits die hard, and set it in the center of the dining table like a truce flag.
Then you made coffee. And pancakes. Because spite doesn’t butter toast.
The smell did what gentle shaking wouldn’t. Emily jerked awake, blinking in confusion at the floor, the couch, the empty space where the flowers had been.
She scrambled upright, hair wild, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, I fell asleep, I was supposed to—”
“Coffee’s on,” you said, not looking at her. “Pancakes in five.”
Grandma Evie was already at the table, smug as a cat with cream, wrapped in her reindeer sweater and victory.
Emily hovered in the doorway like she wasn’t sure she was allowed past the threshold.
“Sit,” Evie ordered, pointing at the chair opposite you with her fork. “Both of you. Eat before it gets cold and I have to listen to more dramatic sighing.”
Emily sat. You slid a stack of pancakes in front of her without meeting her eyes.
Evelyn broke it first.
“To my left,” she said, gesturing at you with her coffee mug, “we have a granddaughter who spent fifteen years learning how to be brave enough to love someone who left. And last night, instead of walking across one tiny bar and saying ‘excuse me, that’s my date,’ she decided to let Lauren Mitchell steamroll the entire evening. Because apparently we’re still in high school.”
You opened your mouth to protest.
Evelyn steamrolled right over you. “And to my right, we have a woman who flew across oceans to finally choose the girl she never stopped loving, only to freeze like a deer in headlights the second an old cheerleader batted her fake lashes. Because apparently the FBI didn’t teach you how to say ‘I’m taken’ in English.”
Emily’s face went scarlet.
Evelyn set her mug down with a deliberate clink. “You two are the dumbest smart people I have ever met. Now eat your pancakes and figure out how to use your words like the adults you pretend to be.”
She speared a bite with unnecessary violence and chewed, daring either of you to argue.
Emily cleared her throat. “I practiced what I was going to say all night,” she said quietly, eyes on her plate. “And then I fell asleep like an idiot and woke up to the smell of your pancakes and forgot every single word.”
You poked at your stack. “I was going to be cold and dignified. And then I saw you shivering on the floor holding lopsided flowers like a kicked puppy and ruined it by making breakfast.”
Evelyn snorted. “Idiots,” she repeated fondly.
Emily risked a glance at you. “The flowers—your grandmother threatened me with a cane until I got the symbolism right.”
“I noticed,” you said, the corner of your mouth twitching despite everything.
Emily took a breath that shook. “I should have said it in the bar. Should have said it the second Lauren touched me. I’m on a date with the only person I’ve ever wanted to be on a date with. That’s what I should have said. Out loud. In front of God and Jonesy and the stuffed elk.”
You looked at her then, really looked. The apology was written in every line of her face.
“I should have walked over and taken your hand,” you admitted, voice small. “Instead of waiting for you to rescue me like I’m still seventeen.”
Evelyn raised her mug in a mock toast. “Progress. Slow, painful, but progress.”
Emily pushed her plate aside and folded her hands on the table like she was about to negotiate a hostage situation. “I have seven days until Christmas,” she said. “I want every single one of them with you. Dates. Real ones. No Lauren. No Claire. No ghosts. Just us figuring out what this looks like when we stop being cowards.”
You studied her for a long moment—the hope in her eyes, the bouquet on the table, the way she was literally holding her breath.
You picked up the syrup and poured a perfect swirl onto your pancakes.
“Seven days,” you said finally. “But you’re buying the cocoa. And if you let anyone interrupt our next almost-kiss, I’m telling Grandma Evie.”
Evie cackled so hard she had to put her fork down.
Emily’s smile broke across her face like sunrise. “Deal,” she said.
And just like that awkward, syrup-sticky, imperfect, the first day of the rest of the almosts began.
Breakfast ended in a sticky, syrupy truce. The plates were barely in the sink when Emily cleared her throat.
“So… remember the homicidal Christmas tree at the residence?” she began, wiping her hands on a dish towel like she was defusing a bomb. “It’s twelve feet of diplomatic beige. No soul. I may have mentioned to Mom that the best florist in three states owes me a favor.”
You arched a brow. “I don’t recall owing you anything, Prentiss.”
Emily’s smile turned sheepish. “I still owe you eggnog and apologies. Plural. Large ones. I thought maybe you could redecorate the tree? Make it look like actual Christmas threw up on it in the best way?”
You pretended to think about it, tapping your chin. “I could be persuaded. But there’s a catch.”
Emily braced herself. “Name it.”
“You’re doing the decorating. I’m supervising. From a comfortable chair. With the aforementioned eggnog. Consider it community service for the Lauren Mitchell incident.”
Emily’s mouth dropped open. “You’re making me decorate a twelve-foot tree?”
“Twelve and a half,” you corrected sweetly. “And yes. You, a ladder, and several thousand ornaments. I will sit, sip, and judge. That’s the price of ditching me mid-date for a drunk cheerleader.”
Grandma Evie cackled from the doorway. “I like this plan. Take pictures, girls.”
An hour later, half the inventory of Petals & Promises was loaded into Emily’s rental SUV (boxes of velvet ribbon, crates of hand-blown glass ornaments, bundles of fresh pine and cinnamon-scented branches). Emily drove while you directed from the passenger seat like a very smug general.
The ambassadorial residence looked exactly like money trying to be tasteful: marble floors, priceless art, and a tree that appeared to have been decorated by the United Nations Committee on Neutrality.
Elizabeth Prentiss met you at the door in cashmere and quiet authority. Her eyes flicked from the mountain of boxes to you, and recognition sparked, sharp, instant.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” she said, extending a hand. “You’re still the reason my daughter learned the word heartbreak before she learned calculus.”
You shook it, startled. “Mrs. Prentiss—”
“Elizabeth, please.” A faint smile. “I owe you an apology that’s fifteen years overdue.”
Emily stepped between you like a human shield. “She’s here to fix the tree, Mom.”
Elizabeth raised one perfect brow at the beige monstrosity in the foyer. “Fix? I had that professionally decorated.”
“By someone who clearly hates joy,” Emily muttered.
You bit back a laugh.
Elizabeth’s gaze softened as she took in the way Emily hovered at your elbow. “Well. I’ll leave you to it. Try not to burn the place down.”
The second she was gone, you turned to Emily with an evil grin.
“Strip the tree, Agent Prentiss. Start from the top. I’ll be over here.” You claimed the velvet chaise by the fireplace, kicked off your boots, and accepted a crystal glass of spiked eggnog from the butler who clearly already loved you.
Emily stared up at the naked tree, then back at you lounging like a very satisfied cat. “You’re evil,” she declared.
“Supervising is hard work,” you said, sipping innocently. “I have to make sure the creative vision is executed properly.”
Emily rolled her eyes so hard it was audible, but she was smiling—real, helpless, fond—she dragged the ladder over and started climbing, box of ornaments tucked under one arm.
Half an hour later she was on the top step, hair full of pine needles, muttering curses under her breath as she wrestled with fairy lights.
“You’re never going to let me live down the Lauren thing, are you?” she called down.
“Nope,” you answered cheerfully. “And tomorrow you’re on wreath duty with Grandma Evie and me. Eight a.m. sharp.”
Emily paused, a golden star in one hand, and looked down at you: sprawled on the chaise, cheeks flushed from eggnog and victory.
“Problem?” you asked, coy smile firmly in place.
Emily saluted with the star. “No, ma’am.”
She went back to hanging ornaments, humming “O Christmas Tree” deliberately off-key just to make you laugh.
And if Elizabeth Prentiss stood in the hallway watching her daughter string lights with pine sap on her cheek and your laughter in her ears, well, Some things, she decided, were worth every diplomatic incident in the world.
Sixty percent of the tree now looked like Christmas had won the lottery and hired a personal stylist. The bottom half still resembled a diplomatic hostage situation. Emily was balanced on the ladder, wrestling with a strand of silver tinsel that had clearly decided to unionize.
“No, no, drape it, don’t strangle it,” you called from your throne on the chaise, eggnog number three warming your veins just enough to make everything hilarious. “You’re garroting the poor thing.”
“I can do it, stupid tinsel,” Emily muttered, blowing hair out of her face. The strand rebelled, looping around her wrist like a vindictive snake. “Who invented this crap?”
You set your glass down, the room was doing a gentle, pleasant sway. and decided mercy was in order. “All right, Grinch. Move over before you hang yourself.”
You climbed the lower rungs behind her, reaching up to untangle the mess. Emily shifted to give you room, and suddenly physics decided to be hilarious.
One foot slipped. One arm windmilled. The tinsel, in a final act of revenge, wrapped around both of you like a glittering lasso.
You crashed together—chest to chest, noses bumping, breath catching—Emily’s hands shot to your waist to steady you; yours landed on her shoulders. The ladder creaked ominously, but neither of you moved.
The tree lights painted soft gold across her cheekbones. Her eyes dropped to your mouth and stayed there.
Finally.
Her head tilted. Your chin lifted. The distance shrank to inches, then millimeters.
“Got it,” she whispered, lips almost brushing yours. “This time I’m not letting any—”
“Girls! I brought sustenance!”
Elizabeth Prentiss breezed in with a silver tray: mini sandwiches, cookies shaped like diplomatic seals, and two fresh mugs of something that smelled suspiciously like more eggnog.
Emily made a noise that was half groan, half wounded animal.
You were both still tangled, tinsel glittering around you like the world’s most inconvenient cocoon.
Elizabeth stopped short, took in the scene: ladder, two grown women basically slow-dancing midair, silver tinsel binding you like a very festive hostage situation, and raised one elegant eyebrow.
“I can come back,” she offered, mouth twitching.
“No,” Emily said through gritted teeth, “please, join us. Apparently the universe has decided I’m not allowed to kiss her until I’ve suffered adequately.”
Elizabeth set the tray down with exaggerated care. “I give it five more interruptions. Tradition is tradition.”
You snorted. Emily dropped her forehead to your shoulder and laughed. helpless, mortified, perfect.
“Five more,” she muttered against your sweater. “I’m keeping count.”
The tinsel held you close while Elizabeth pretended to rearrange cookies, humming “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” with the smug satisfaction of a woman who knew exactly what she’d just prevented.
You were definitely keeping count too.
The last strand of tinsel floated into place like a silver sigh.
You both stepped back—well, Emily stepped, you were still half-leaning on her because the ladder had become a safety hazard—and stared up.
The tree was no longer a diplomatic apology. It was a riot of color and memory: deep crimson ribbons curling like laughter, glass icicles catching firelight, tiny wooden stars Emily had painted when she was ten, nestled beside the delicate paper snowflakes you’d cut from old sheet music. Fresh pine scented the air; cinnamon sticks and dried oranges glowed like lanterns among the branches. It looked like the two of you had poured every almost from the last fifteen years straight into the needles and lights.
Elizabeth appeared in the doorway, took one look, and actually gasped.
Emily’s arm was still around your waist from the tinsel incident. She didn’t move it.
“Stop looking so adorable like that,” she muttered, cheeks pink. “It’s unfair. I’m trying to be dignified here.”
You grinned up at the tree. “You’ve got pine sap in your hair and glitter on your nose. Dignity called; it wants its deposit back.”
She huffed, but her thumb traced a small circle against your hip, like muscle memory from a dance neither of you had forgotten.
“We keep getting interrupted,” she said quietly. “First the entire church choir. Then Lauren. Now my mother with diplomatic cookies.”
“Pattern recognition,” you agreed, leaning just enough into her side that she tightened her hold.
Emily’s voice dropped. “What if we stopped giving the universe chances?”
You raised a brow.
“The lake cabin,” she said. “It’s empty until New Year’s. No carolers, no ex-cheerleaders, no maternal snack ambushes. Just us, a fireplace, and approximately zero excuses.”
You felt your heart trip. “Back to the scene of the crime?”
“Hey, you were the one who threatened to push me into the lake for waking you up,” she protested. “I was trying to save you from third-degree sunburn.”
You bit your lip, picturing it: the little cedar cabin, the dock where you’d counted shooting stars, the porch swing that creaked in perfect slow-dance rhythm.
“I’m closing the shop the twenty-sixth through New Year’s,” you said slowly. “Deliveries Christmas morning, then I’m free.”
Emily’s whole face softened. “No pressure. I just… want one night where the only thing that can interrupt us is bad cell service.”
You pretended to consider it, tapping your chin. “Hmm. Secluded cabin. No witnesses. Suspicious.”
She laughed, low and fond. “Okay, fine. If the cabin’s too much, let me take you on a real date first. Tomorrow night. Dinner—actual restaurant, candles, wine. I’ll even bring you flowers, which is ridiculous because you literally own a flower shop, but I want to watch you pretend to be impressed. Then ice cream. And then,” she said, voice dropping to something that made your knees weak, “a goodnight kiss that no one in this town can ruin.”
You tilted your head. “You sure we won’t get interrupted? Because your track record—”
“I will personally fight the entire population of this town,” she swore solemnly. “I will arm-wrestle Jonesy. I will bribe the choir with donuts. I will duct-tape Lauren Mitchell to a reindeer if necessary.”
From the grand piano in the corner, the sound system—because of course the ambassadorial residence had a sound system—clicked on softly. Frank Sinatra crooned the opening bars of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”
Emily’s arm tightened around your waist. “Dance with me,” she whispered. “Like after prom. When we were too scared to do it in public.”
There was no backyard, no radio static, just the two of you swaying under twelve feet of Christmas magic you’d built together. Her hand settled at the small of your back; yours slid up to rest at her nape, fingers brushing the baby hairs that had escaped her braid.
“Tomorrow,” she murmured against your temple, “I’m picking you up at seven. And if one single person tries to interrupt that goodnight kiss, I’m arresting them for crimes against romance.”
You laughed into her shoulder. “Deal.”
The tree lights flickered, casting golden reflections in her eyes.
Let troubles be miles away, Sinatra sang. For once, you believed him.
Emily pulled up outside Petals & Promises just as the streetlamps flickered on, casting the snow in soft gold.
She was still riding the high of the dance, of your body swaying against hers, of tomorrow night finally feeling real.
Then she saw Claire. Bookstore Claire, erfect curls, perfect smile, perfect timing, stood by the shop door holding a paper bag and looking hopeful.“Hey!” Claire’s face lit up when she spotted you climbing out of the SUV. “I was hoping I’d catch you. Hi again… friend.” She shot Emily a polite nod that somehow managed to sound like a question mark.
Emily’s jaw flexed. Friend. The word still stung like lemon juice on a cut.
You stepped forward, easy and kind. “Hey, Claire. What’s up?”
“So, we never finished that date,” Claire said, cheeks pink but brave. “And you mentioned Harry Potter is your Christmas tradition… I’ve got the extended editions, fresh popcorn, and a very comfortable couch. Tomorrow night?”
Emily felt her spine turn to steel.
You didn’t even hesitate. “That’s really sweet, but Emily’s taking me out tomorrow. Proper date. So… rain check?”
Claire’s smile faltered for half a second, then recovered like a champ. “Of course. Another time, then.” She handed you the paper bag—homemade peppermint bark, because of course—and left with a little wave that wasn’t quite defeated.
The second the door closed behind her, Emily followed you inside, arms crossed. “Rain check?” she repeated, one brow arched so high it threatened to merge with her hairline. “You’re giving Bookstore Barbie a rain check?”
You set the peppermint bark on the counter, biting back a grin. “I was being polite.”
“Polite,” Emily echoed, stepping closer. “You know what’s not polite? Letting another woman think she has a shot when I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours on my knees begging for seven days of your undivided attention.”
You leaned against the counter, tilting your head. “Jealous, Prentiss?”
“Murderously,” she admitted, closing the distance until your back met the counter, until her hand braced beside your head and the other settled at your waist. The shop lights were off; only the streetlamp glow and the twinkle lights painted her face in gold and shadow, all dark eyes and deliberate tension.
“You’re never going on a date with that woman. You hear me?”Her voice dropped, rough and velvet. She was inches away now, breath warm against your lips, the shop lights catching in her hair like misplaced stars.
Your breath caught. “Possessive much?”
“When it comes to you?” She leaned in, nose brushing yours. “Always.”
This time nothing was stopping her.
And then:
“How’s the beige Christmas tree?” Grandma Evie called, flipping on every light like a stage manager from hell.
Emily dropped her forehead to yours with a broken groan.
“Of course,” she sighed against your mouth. “Of course.”
Evelyn took in the scene: you pinned between counter and Emily, Emily’s hand fisted in your coat like she was two seconds from committing a crime of passion and cackled loud enough to rattle the poinsettias.
“Carry on,” she said, waving a hand. “I’ll just be in the back pretending I’m deaf.”
She disappeared again.
Emily’s eyes met yours, dark, frustrated, laughing, desperate.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered, pressing the softest, barely-there kiss to the corner of your mouth. A promise, not a surrender. “Seven o’clock. And if the entire town shows up with pitchforks and carols, I’m kidnapping you anyway.”
You were still catching your breath when she pulled back, smirking like she’d won something.
“Deal,” you managed.
Outside, the snow kept falling.
Inside, the counter was cold against your back, Emily’s hand still warm on your waist, and for the first time in fifteen years, the almost felt a lot like soon.
Srattan on Chapter 1 Fri 05 Dec 2025 07:03PM UTC
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