Friday night is quiet for once.

No quarantine tape. No scanners humming. Just warm lamplight, a soft couch, and the low murmur of a TV neither of you are really watching.

Emily sits tucked against your side, legs folded beneath her. Her dark glasses are off tonight—she doesn’t need them at home. One hand rests lightly over your wrist, fingers brushing your pulse in a habit she never quite dropped.

“You’re relaxed,” she says softly, small smile forming. “Your heartbeat isn’t doing the jumpy thing anymore.”

Across from you, Grace Ashcroft leans back in an armchair, sleeves rolled up, a rare moment of ease softening her posture. A half-empty mug of tea rests in her hand.

“That’s because nothing’s exploding,” Grace replies dryly. “Give it time.”

Emily tilts her head toward her.

“You’re teasing,” she notes.

Grace exhales a faint laugh. “I am.”

You shift slightly on the couch, and Emily immediately adjusts with you, instinctively curling closer—like she’s mapping your position through touch alone. Her head settles against your shoulder.

“I like Fridays,” she murmurs. “No debriefs. No doctors. Just… us.”

Grace watches the two of you for a moment, something unguarded flickering in her expression.

“You’re safe here,” she says quietly. Not clinical. Not analytical. Just certain.

Emily smiles faintly.

“I know.”

The TV continues playing in the background, but none of you are paying attention. The house is calm. The air is still.

For once, it feels like the aftermath is over.

Just a quiet night. Just family.