RED

apartments, omens, and tea

hey guys! i think i've figured out where i'm taking this story, at least for now, but if you have any feedback please lmk!! 

word count: 2522

Aaron insisted on taking Emily home after their conversation. He wouldn't take no for an answer, and so, Emily found herself sitting in the passenger seat. The drive to Emily's apartment was silent, tension thick in the confined space of Hotch's car. The city streets were bathed in the amber glow of streetlights, the night pressing in on them with an oppressive weight that neither of them could shake. Emily sat rigid in the passenger seat, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, staring out the window as if the world beyond it was something she couldn't quite grasp. Hotch glanced at her every so often, the tight set of his jaw and the furrowed lines on his forehead betraying his own anxiety. He'd seen her break tonight in a way he never thought possible, and it terrified him how close she'd come to completely unraveling.

They reached her building, and as she fumbled with her keys at the door, Hotch could sense the hesitation in her movements. The click of the lock echoed in the stairwell, unnervingly loud in the stillness of the night. Her apartment was dark when they stepped inside—a dim, lifeless space that seemed to mirror the state of her mind. Hotch flicked on the lights, revealing the mess she'd been hiding—the clothes strewn haphazardly across the floor, empty liquor bottles crowding the countertops, and the overwhelming stench of stale smoke hanging heavy in the air.

Emily avoided his gaze, kicking off her shoes and tossing her bag onto the nearest chair. Hotch watched her, his heart breaking at the sight of how far she'd fallen. The apartment was a physical manifestation of her chaos, a suffocating reminder of everything she'd been bottling up. He could barely recognize the once meticulously put-together woman in front of him.

"Emily..." Hotch began, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand, as if she couldn't bear to hear whatever words he was about to say.

"It's fine," she muttered, her voice hollow. "I'll clean up tomorrow."

Hotch ignored her, stepping further inside and picking up a discarded whiskey bottle from the coffee table. He set it aside, glancing around the room and catching sight of the ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, the smudges of ash that dusted the edges of the table. The curtains were drawn tight, and the air was thick and stifling. This wasn't just neglect—it was deliberate, a desperate attempt to shut out the world.

Emily began to gather clothes from the floor, stuffing them into a nearby laundry basket with hurried, jerky movements. Hotch joined her, sorting through the mess, his brow furrowing at the sheer disarray of it all. As they worked, he noticed something strange—a single white flower, delicate and out of place, sitting on her kitchen counter like an omen. His blood ran cold.

"Emily," he said, his voice taut with alarm. "Where did this come from?"

Emily turned, her eyes locking onto the flower, and for a moment, all the color drained from her face. She knew what it meant; she'd seen this before—a calling card, Doyle's sick sense of humor. Hotch watched the realization flicker in her eyes, a flash of fear that she quickly tried to hide.

"He's been here," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Doyle's been in my apartment."

Hotch's heart sank. He moved quickly, checking the locks on the windows, and scanning the room for anything else that seemed off. It was all wrong—too quiet, too cold, like Doyle had left a piece of himself behind, poisoning the very air she breathed. The thought of him being here, invading her sanctuary, sent a surge of protective rage through Hotch's veins.

"We're not staying here," he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "Pack a bag. You're coming with me."

Emily opened her mouth to protest, but Hotch's expression was unyielding, his eyes burning with a fierce determination she couldn't fight. She nodded, her resolve crumbling under the weight of his insistence. She grabbed her phone, texting Clyde with shaking hands: