The chatter in the Quantico conference room ebbed as the scent of warm, home-cooked meals filled the air. Hannibal, ever the gracious host, had brought lunch—neatly packed containers for Jack, Will, and Alana. And then there was yours. Different. Unassumingly placed before you, it looked ordinary enough, yet the first glimpse sent a quiet shiver through you. The unmistakable aroma curled into your senses, striking something buried deep—something you hadn’t felt in years.

Ignoring the curious glances around you, you picked up your fork with practiced indifference, stirring the contents as if you were simply inspecting. Then, hesitantly, you took a bite.

The flavors hit you like a distant echo of childhood—savory warmth, the precise blend of spices, the tender richness of a recipe passed through hands you once held. The air around you seemed thinner, heavier. A silence settled in your chest, a pause between heartbeats. You forced your face into neutrality, muscles tense, but it wasn’t enough. The weight of nostalgia, raw and unexpected, pressed against your ribs, clawing up your throat.

Jack and Will exchanged glances. Even Hannibal’s poised composure faltered at your stalled reaction. Had he… miscalculated?

You swallowed, slow, deliberate—fighting against the ache blooming in your sternum. A quiet sniff, the sting behind your eyes warning of impending betrayal. Then, despite yourself, a single tear slipped free, tracing a path down your cheek as you lifted the fork again, reverent, savoring.

For the first time in years, you tasted home.