He's rusty at this. Not counting the blind date Rossi had set up six months ago - which had ended abruptly when he'd gotten called into work, and he hadn't been particularly torn up about that - his last first date had been with Haley.
Somehow, he doesn't see Emily being excited by a John Hughes movie.
So he profiles what little he knows. She'd talked wine with Rossi which means she knows her stuff, but he's pretty sure that she isn't someone who enjoys pretention or overt attempts to impress. No French, no Italian, and definitely not someplace with a two-hundred dollar tasting menu. Someplace with good food, good wine, quiet enough that he'll be able to hear her but loud enough that he'll have an excuse to lean in.
When he wakes up the morning after their first date and sees her smiling softly in her sleep, he decides maybe he's not as rusty as he thought.
Not that he'd planned on, well…this. And he's pretty sure she hadn't either. The way she'd looked at him after he'd kissed her goodnight at her door had told him she wasn't anticipating whatever it was she'd felt, not any more than he had.
Her eyes flutter open and he can see that same flash of emotion as last night, almost as though she's shocked to be there.
He hears his voice come out a little hesitant. "Hi."
"Hi." She's whispering, and a flicker of fear seems to snowball.
"I can - if you want me to leave - "
For a moment, he can see she wants to let him. And then it's gone, and she's smiling. "Don't. I'm just a little…it's been awhile."
"Really? This is my average weekend," he tells her drily. "I'm considered quite the bureau playboy."
When she bursts out laughing a moment later, the sound is beautiful. She rolls toward him, finally, hand reaching out to brush a few strands of hair off his forehead. "That might've been the least smooth thing I've ever heard."
The same feeling takes hold that he felt last night, and he finds himself once again reaching for her without realizing it, kissing her because it feels like it's the only thing he can do.
Something is happening and he feels like maybe she's inevitable.
He cooks breakfast and they're both sort of fumbling to find the right balance between comfort and caution - and he thinks maybe he's not the only one who's out of his element - and when he goes to kiss her goodbye, there's a surge of heat and he has to break away with a groan before they end up back in her bed.
The team flies down to Little Rock the next day and he surprises himself yet again when he calls her just to say hello and explain his absence and ends up on the phone for an hour, and it happens again two days later.
He's falling for her, hard and fast.
She's known from the moment she saw him watching her at the party that he's going to get her in trouble.
And despite all the opportunities she has to stop it before it gets to that point, she doesn't. She takes risks, stupid ones. Staying that night instead of calling Clyde. Accepting his invitation to dinner. Inviting him inside her apartment and into her bed.
Two weeks after their first date, she realizes exactly how screwed she is when she sees his number flash on her cell and immediately picks up.
While she just happens to be staring down the barrel of a rifle with a member of the Russian mob in her sight.
And still, she's surprised by the softness in her voice when she answers, the way her mouth curves upwards without even meaning to.
She wonders, later on, what would've happened if the stakes had been higher, if she'd had the safety off and an order to shoot.
She's not entirely sure she'd have gone through with it, because every time she thinks about him, hears his voice, she wonders what he'd think if he knew who she really was.
And she's so, so tired of sacrificing for the job, of the gnawing emptiness that's settled in her chest, and the regimen of emotional detachment and occasional casual sex she's confined herself to for the better part of her adult life doesn't feel like a price worth paying anymore.
Something about him mutes the self-doubt that's been steadily rising since Marseille.
It's addictive.
She hears herself asking if he wants company, that she's working tonight and doesn't mind if he gets back after midnight. She doesn't tell him that her late-night work involves bugging an apartment or that she might have to cancel if she's caught, because she'll probably be missing an appendage or two.
When he breathes a sigh of relief and says he'll let her know when he lands, she realizes how long she's been relying on the sole motivation of not dying to get her through the day, and how good it feels to want something.
When she finds herself unscathed and standing on his front steps, knocking on his door, she thinks maybe it'll be worth whatever trouble he'll cause.
"Hi," she murmurs when he opens the door, and then he's pulling her inside, against him, and it's equal parts frantic and exhilarating as his hands run the length of her torso and push her sweater over her head and she unabashedly gropes him, gasping when he responds.
"Protection?" The word is muffled by her shoulder.
She feels her back hit the wall and hears something thud to the floor and doesn't care. "Pill," she gasps out. "Trust you. Just…"
And then she's out of words. She speaks four languages but none of them can come close to how it feels in that moment, how it feels to know for the first time in as long as she can remember that she's safe.