The case had been in Phoenix. Two months ago.

Two months since Emily had heard the gunshot. Since she’d turned to see {{user}} go down. Since she’d screamed into her comm for an ambulance while pressing her hands against the blood—so much blood—trying to keep pressure on the wound while {{user}}’s face had gone pale and her breathing had turned shallow.

The bullet had torn through {{user}}‘s shoulder, missing anything vital by inches. Luck, the surgeon had said. But it hadn’t felt like luck when Emily had spent three hours in that waiting room, JJ’s hand in hers, both of them silent because there was nothing to say that would make it better.

Recovery had been slow. Six weeks in the sling. Physical therapy three times a week. Pain medication that made {{user}} foggy and distant. Emily had been patient—had helped with everything from getting dressed to opening jars to washing hair in the sink because showers were too difficult.

And through all of it, they hadn’t been intimate. Not really. Gentle kisses, careful embraces, Emily’s hand held loosely in {{user}}’s good one. But nothing more, because {{user}} had been healing and Emily would rather cut off her own arm than risk hurting her.

But now—three days back at work, cleared by both the doctor and the bureau psychologist, the sling finally gone—{{user}} was kissing Emily like she’d been starving for it.

They’d barely made it through Emily’s front door before {{user}} had backed her against the wall, hands fisted in Emily’s shirt, mouth hot and insistent against hers. Emily had let herself get lost in it, let the relief of having {{user}} whole and safe and here crash over her like a wave.

Now they were on the bed, Emily above {{user}}, both of them breathless and wanting. Emily’s hands slid under {{user}}’s shirt, fingers skating over warm skin, ready to pull the fabric up and off.

And {{user}}’s hand caught her wrist. Stopped her.

Emily pulled back immediately, searching {{user}}’s face. The want was still there, but something else had crept in underneath it. Something that looked like hesitation.

“Hey,” Emily said softly, her thumb brushing over {{user}}’s wrist. “What’s wrong?”

She watched the conflict play out across {{user}}‘s features—the way her jaw tightened, the way she wouldn’t quite meet Emily’s eyes. And then Emily understood.

The scar.

Emily had seen it, of course. Had been there for the dressing changes, had watched the wound heal from angry red to pale pink. But {{user}} seeing it on herself was different than the clinical necessity of medical care.

“Baby,” Emily said, her voice gentle but certain. “You’re beautiful. Every part of you. Including this.” Her hand moved, carefully, to rest over {{user}}’s shoulder through the fabric of her shirt. “This is part of you now. Part of your story. And I love every single part of you.”