Chapter Text
Maybe Dana had made a mistake that first day, when she stripped Emma of the bulk of her gear—plucking all her unnecessary tools from her pockets and skimming her hands along Emma’s hips until she could unbuckle her adorably ridiculous fanny pack.
Because Emma seemed to have developed the idea that that level of touch was the norm for Dana—and maybe it typically was, with anyone else.
But as with everything as of late, Emma was the exception.
Because when Langdon or Santos or anyone else put a hand on her shoulder in appreciation or touched her waist gently to warn her of their presence, Dana barely even registered it.
But when Emma casually slipped her hand into Dana’s pants pocket, grabbing the first ink pen in sight after she had apparently lost her own final surviving pen, Dana jolted and kneed the underside of the desk—hard.
“Oh geez, are you ok?” Emma asked, trailing her fingers down Dana’s thigh to hover near her knee.
“Fine,” Dana gritted out. “Just– a bit ticklish.”