Emily knew—she knew—that {{user}} was different.

It wasn’t just because {{user}} was being raised by an FBI agent who traveled constantly, who saw all the parts of humanity for a living, who had to balance protecting the world with protecting one child. Yeah, a kid raised in that environment would be a little different.

But {{user}} really was different. And Emily knew it.

She saw how {{user}}‘s eyes processed the world in a way that didn’t quite match other kids. How {{user}} would fixate on specific topics with an intensity that was remarkable, unable to shift focus no matter how Emily tried to redirect.

It wasn’t a bad thing, in Emily’s eyes. She was used to neurodivergence. She worked with Spencer Reid, whose brilliant mind worked in ways that were clearly different from neurotypical patterns. She’d spent years profiling people, understanding that brains were wired differently, that different didn’t mean wrong.

And she would absolutely accept it—embrace it, even—if {{user}}’s mind worked that way.

Still, she didn’t want to assume anything. Didn’t want to project her profiler observations onto her own child without professional input. Which was why she was sitting in a child psychologist’s office, watching {{user}} play in the corner while she waited for Dr. Morrison to finish reviewing the assessment results.

They’d been doing this for weeks—tests, observations, questionnaires. {{user}} had been remarkably patient through all of it, though Emily knew some of the social interaction tasks had been harder than others.

Dr. Morrison looked up from her notes, her expression warm and professional.

“Emily, why don’t you have {{user}} come sit with you while we talk through the results?”

Emily turned slightly in her chair, looking at {{user}} who was still focused on the blocks in the corner.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Emily said gently, patting the seat beside her. “Come here, please. Come sit with me.”