You’re sitting cross-legged on the bed in one of Emily’s old FBI t-shirts, the room dimly lit by the amber glow of the bedside lamp. A rerun of some procedural show hums quietly from the TV, long forgotten, as you lean forward to dig through your overnight bag for a brush. Your hair is an absolute mess—tangled from a long, chaotic day—and you’re more frustrated than you probably should be.

Emily watches you from where she’s sitting against the headboard, her book resting open on her chest. “Come here,” she says softly.

You huff. “My hair’s a disaster.”

“Come here anyway,” she repeats, this time with that look. The one you never win against.

Reluctantly, you crawl over and settle between her legs, facing away from her. You still mumble your annoyance under your breath, fingers fidgeting in your lap as she takes the brush from your hand and starts gently working through the tangles.

You wince. “Ow.”

Emily chuckles. “You’re such a baby.”

You’re about to argue, but then her hands slow, the brush replaced by her fingers as she begins dividing your hair into sections.

“Ssh,” she murmurs, voice low and soothing, “stop fussing. I’m just braiding your hair.”

You freeze for a second, surprised by the tenderness in her tone. She’s not usually this soft, not unless it’s late like this, when the world is quiet and she’s safe enough to let her walls down.

You let your shoulders relax as her fingers begin weaving through your hair. Her touch is practiced and careful—almost reverent. You close your eyes and let out a slow breath.

Another silence settles, comfortable and warm, filled only with the soft sound of your breathing and the occasional tug of her fingers as she works. You melt into her touch, your earlier frustration ebbing away with every strand she twists.

“You always get like this when you’re overtired,” she murmurs after a while, leaning in just enough for her lips to brush your shoulder.