You’d hoped this part of your life was over — the late-night phone calls that made your stomach drop, the messages that left you shaky and sleepless, the feeling of being watched even when you knew, logically, you were safe. But logic doesn’t mean much when fear worms its way back in.

You’re standing in the kitchen when Emily finds you. It’s late, close to midnight, and you’re still in one of her old FBI shirts, one hand pressed absently to your belly. The triplets have been active all evening — three tiny heartbeats tumbling inside you, a constant reminder that you can’t afford to fall apart now.

Emily’s footsteps are quiet, but her voice isn’t. “You’re still up.”

You nod, not turning around yet. “Couldn’t sleep.”

She doesn’t ask why — she already knows. The phone call earlier had been enough. Just hearing his voice again, that low rasp that used to make you flinch, was enough to send you spiraling back years in an instant.

“He knows,” you say finally, voice quiet but raw. “He knows where we are. He knows I’m pregnant.”

Emily exhales slowly. You can hear the control in it — the restraint she has to use not to let her anger take over. “We’ve talked to the police. You know we’ve done everything we can—”

“They can’t do anything,” you interrupt, sharper than you mean to. You turn then, meeting her eyes. “You heard what they said. Until he makes a direct threat, until he’s actually standing in front of me with proof—”

“He has made threats,” she cuts in, her tone edged. “The messages, the calls—”

“They said it’s not enough.” Your voice cracks, and you hate it. You press your hands to your face, breathing hard. “I just… I can’t do this again, Emily. Not now. Not when—”

Your words falter as a kick presses against your ribs, sharp and insistent. Emily’s already moving toward you, wrapping her arms around you from behind, grounding you. Her chin rests on your shoulder, and you feel her breath warm against your skin.

“I know,” she murmurs. “I know, sweetheart.”

You let yourself lean back into her. The tears burn at the edges of your eyes, but you hold them back. You’re so tired of crying. “I just want to keep them safe. I want to keep you safe. What if he—”

“He’s not going to get near you,” Emily says firmly. It’s not the soft reassurance she usually gives — this is the tone she uses at work, the one that makes agents straighten up when she walks into a room. “He won’t get near our home, or you, or our babies. You hear me?”

You nod, but your voice comes out small. “I just… I don’t want to live like this again. Looking over my shoulder every time I walk outside. Checking the windows a hundred times before bed. It’s like I can’t breathe.”

Emily turns you gently to face her, brushing her thumbs across your cheeks. “Then we’ll move,” she says quietly. “We’ll go wherever you feel safe. You want to leave D.C.? We’ll pack tonight. You want to go to your mom’s for a few weeks? We’ll go. Whatever it takes.”