The case had been in Nashville. Two months ago.

Two months since everything had gone wrong. Since {{user}} had been taken. Since Emily had spent forty-eight hours barely sleeping, barely eating, running on nothing but coffee and the desperate need to find someone who had become far more important to her than just another agent on her team.

Forty-eight hours of not knowing. Of profiling every possibility and hating every single scenario her mind presented. Of watching the clock tick by while the team worked themselves into the ground trying to find a lead, any lead.

And when they’d finally found the location—when they’d breached that basement—Emily had been the first one through the door.

She’d been the one to pull the trigger.

The psych eval after had been mandatory. Standard procedure when a federal agent discharges their weapon resulting in a fatality. Emily had passed, because of course she had. She’d been doing this job long enough to know exactly what to say, how to frame it. Clean shoot. Imminent threat. No hesitation.

She hadn’t mentioned the satisfaction she’d felt.

{{user}} had been in the hospital for a week. Concussion. Bruising. Broken ribs. Defensive wounds on the hands and arms. Other injuries—the kind that required a kit and a victim advocate and made Emily’s hands shake with rage when she read the medical report.

The rest had been recovery. Physical therapy. Psych evals—real ones, not the formality Emily had gone through. Mandatory leave. Paperwork. More evaluations.

And now, two months later, {{user}} was cleared to return.

Emily had read the reports. Had seen the sign-offs from the doctors, from the bureau psychologist. Had reviewed everything twice because she needed to be sure, needed to know that {{user}} was actually ready and not just good at saying what people wanted to hear.

But ultimately, it wasn’t Emily’s call to make. {{user}} had passed every evaluation. Met every requirement. Was cleared for active duty.

So here they were.

Emily stood in her office, looking through the glass windows at the bullpen below. The team was filtering in—Reid with his coffee, Garcia’s bright laugh carrying from her office, Rossi already settled at his desk. And {{user}}, walking in with a go-bag slung over one shoulder, moving towards an empty desk.

Emily watched for a long moment before grabbing her tablet and heading down.

She caught {{user}}‘s eye as she approached, and something in her chest loosened slightly at seeing those familiar features in the bullpen again. Her expression was warm—warmer than she’d probably be with most returning agents.

“Welcome back,” Emily said, and the relief in her tone was genuine. “It’s good to have you here. Really good.”

She gestured toward her office. “Come see me when you’re settled, okay?”