Emily loves calling you pet names.

If you’re sitting at your desk with that familiar furrow in your brow, buried in paperwork and sighing like the weight of the world is pressing down, she’ll quietly place a steaming cup of tea beside you. Always just the way you like it. A soft smile curves her lips as she leans in close. “How’s my sweet girl doing?” she’ll murmur.

She listens patiently as you vent—about the reports, the bureaucracy, the absurdity of wasting so many trees for something that could easily be digital. She agrees with you wholeheartedly, occasionally tossing in a sarcastic comment to make you laugh. You love that she never makes light of your frustration—only tries to soften it.

In the mornings, when you’re still blinking the sleep from your eyes and shuffling around in your fuzzy socks, she greets you with a sleepy “Good morning, sunshine.” To Emily, your smile is brighter than the sun streaming through the window. It’s what anchors her on the darkest days, what reminds her that the world still has good in it—even after everything she’s seen. It's the kind of smile that could charm a stone, the kind that makes her forget the horrors of her job, if only for a moment.

When the two of you are moving around the kitchen together in a quiet domestic rhythm—wine glasses half full, the smell of garlic and herbs in the air—she calls you sweetheart. Always with a gentle kiss to your shoulder, her hand brushing over yours as she warns, “Careful with the salt,” even as she sneakily sprinkles in a bit more when you’re not looking.

Even when tensions rise, when voices get a little sharper and space is briefly needed, she never stops being tender.

“My love,” she’ll say mid-argument, her voice softer than her expression, a tether keeping you both grounded. Because she knows—it’s just a storm. It will pass. It always does. And soon you’ll be curled up together again, laughing at how ridiculous it was to argue about takeout or laundry or the temperature of the room.

But it’s the quiet evenings like this that she treasures the most.

You’re curled up on the couch together, her arm draped over your shoulder, your legs tangled beneath a cozy blanket. The world outside fades away. There's no crime scene, no travel bag waiting to be packed—just the quiet hum of a movie playing and the sound of your breathing.

She shifts slightly to look down at you, brushing her fingers through your hair.

“How was your day, pretty girl?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.