She should have gone to bed. She knew it last night, knew the second {{user}} fell asleep on the couch with her back turned. But the fight had hit a nerve she didn’t expect, one of those old wounds that never fully healed, and she didn’t trust herself to leave—not when things ended like that.

So she sat down on the floor in front of the couch, back resting against it, jacket still on. Her phone buzzed with BAU notifications every half-hour, none urgent enough to pull her away. She tossed a blanket over {{user}}—a small gesture, but one she meant—and stayed there with her legs stretched out across the hardwood.

The apartment was quiet except for distant D.C. sirens and the occasional creak of the old radiator. Emily replayed the argument the way she reviews interviews: what she said, what she didn’t, where she could’ve stopped before things tightened in her chest.

At some point, exhaustion tugged harder than adrenaline, and she drifted off sitting up, chin lowered slightly, posture slack in a way she’d never allow if she were awake.

Morning slides in now, soft and gray through the curtains. She doesn’t open her eyes yet, but she senses movement behind her—a shift in the couch cushions.