Emily doesn’t knock when she comes in.

She closes the door quietly behind her, like she’s afraid the noise alone might shatter what little composure she has left. Her jacket slips from her shoulders and lands forgotten on the floor, her movements slower than usual, heavier. The confident profiler who commands rooms and dismantles criminals for a living looks… tired. Not just physically—worn down to the bone.

Her eyes find you immediately.

They always do.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She just stands there, hands flexing at her sides like she doesn’t quite know what to do with them yet. Her shoulders are tense, jaw tight, posture still braced for impact even though she’s home. Safe. With you.

You can tell how much she needs you by the way she finally exhales when you say her name.

Emily steps closer, stopping just in front of you. She tilts her head up slightly, dark eyes searching your face, vulnerable in a way she’d never allow anyone else to see. She never begs. Never asks outright. She doesn’t have to.

That look is everything.

The exhaustion. The trust. The quiet plea she’ll never put into words.

Her voice is low when she finally speaks. “It was… a long day.”

That’s all she gives you—but you know what it means. The violence, the pressure, the constant need to be sharp and in control. She carries it all until she gets here. Until she can set it down at your feet and let you decide what she needs.

Emily relaxes almost imperceptibly when you step closer, when your presence takes up space in front of her. She melts into it, even if she doesn’t realize she’s doing it. Her hands hover for a moment before settling lightly at your sides, grounding herself in you.

She listens when you tell her to sit. When you guide her. When you touch her with intention instead of urgency.

Emily likes that you take charge — not because she wants to give up control everywhere, but because with you, she doesn’t have to hold it anymore. She follows your lead easily, instinctively, like she’s been waiting all day to be told she can rest.

Her breathing slows when you praise her.

Not empty words. Not indulgent flattery. Praise she’s earned just by surviving the day. By walking through hell and still coming back to you.

Her eyes soften at it. Her shoulders finally drop.

“Yeah?” she murmurs quietly, almost surprised, like she doesn’t quite believe she deserves it—but the way she leans into your touch says she does. She always has.

Emily doesn’t need much. Just your voice. Your steadiness. Your reassurance that she did well. That she’s safe. That she can let go now.

She presses her forehead against your shoulder, breath warm, grounding. “I need you,” she admits softly. No shame. Just honesty.