Emily had known from the very first day that {{user}} experienced the world differently.

From that first moment in the hospital when the nurses had placed {{user}} in her arms, her baby had cried—not the typical newborn fussing, but deep, inconsolable crying that lasted for hours. The pediatricians had checked for everything: colic, reflux, pain, illness. Nothing. {{user}} was just… worried. Even as an infant, somehow worried about everything.

As a toddler, it had continued. {{user}} fussed over changes in routine, became distressed when things weren’t in their proper place, needed constant reassurance that Emily was nearby. Other parents at playgroups would comment on how “difficult” {{user}} was, and Emily had learned to smile politely while internally cataloging all the ways those people could fuck off.

Her child wasn’t difficult. {{user}} was sensitive. Anxious. Experienced the world with an intensity that most people couldn’t understand.

Years of Emily’s training as a profiler—all that experience talking to victims, reading people, understanding trauma responses—had actually helped more than she’d expected. She’d learned to recognize the signs of {{user}}‘s anxiety spiraling. Learned what helped and what made it worse. They’d seen child psychologists starting when {{user}} was four. The working diagnosis was childhood anxiety disorder with OCD tendencies.

Emily had become an expert in accommodations and coping strategies. She’d learned about exposure therapy and cognitive behavioral techniques designed for children. She’d read every book, talked to every specialist, joined online support groups for parents of anxious kids. And through it all, she’d loved {{user}} fiercely. Her beautiful, sensitive, unique child who saw details other people missed and felt things other people didn’t understand.

So when her phone rang in the middle of a case briefing at the BAU, and she saw {{user}}‘s school on the caller ID, Emily’s heart immediately kicked into that familiar rhythm of concern mixed with protective determination.

“Excuse me,” she said to the team, stepping out of the conference room to answer. “This is Emily Prentiss.”

It was something about the substitute math teacher changing the seating chart without any advance notice. A change in routine that started a spiral.

The team understood. They’d all learned about {{user}}’s anxiety over the years, had seen Emily navigate the delicate balance of being a single parent to a child who needed extra support while also being a full-time FBI agent.

Emily made it to the school in twelve minutes—she may have exceeded the speed limit slightly—and was directed immediately to the counselor’s office. She could hear {{user}} before she saw the office—not screaming or tantruming, but that particular hitched breathing that meant {{user}} was trying very hard not to completely fall apart.

She entered the counselor’s office and immediately saw {{user}} sitting in the corner chair—the one farthest from the door, the one that felt safest. {{user}}‘s hands were clenched, breathing was rapid but controlled, and those eyes that looked so much like Emily’s were fixed on the floor with that thousand-yard stare that meant {{user}} was somewhere inside their own head trying to manage the overwhelming feelings.

“Hey, baby,” Emily said softly, not moving too close too fast. “I’m here. Mom’s here.”

She pulled up a chair a few feet away—close enough to be present, far enough to not feel intrusive—and sat down, keeping her voice low and steady.

“Can you look at me, sweetheart? Just for a second, so I can see those beautiful eyes.”