Finally—after what felt like the longest, most miserable stretch of days—Emily was coming home.

The entire plane ride back to Quantico, she nursed a bitter cup of coffee like it owed her something and winced every time she shifted in her seat. The unsub had decided to bolt, forcing her into an all-out sprint through uneven terrain for nearly a mile. She’d caught him—well, technically, the cavalry cut him off just in time—but her legs, lungs, and pride were still recovering from the chase.

By the time she slid into her car and began the drive home, every muscle ached. Her hands gripped the wheel tighter than necessary as she muttered curses under her breath, directing most of them at the idiot who made her run in the first place.

But all of that tension melted the second she stepped through the door.

The warmth of home wrapped around her like a thick blanket. The scent of your favorite candle, the low hum of music in the background, the soft lighting—it was everything she needed and more. And you, already curled up on the couch with the tea you’d made waiting for her, were the best part of all.

Without a word, Emily dropped her go-bag by the door and made a beeline for the couch, letting out a low groan as she collapsed beside you. Her head found your lap like it belonged there, a sigh escaping her lips as she shifted to get comfortable.

“I hate it when they run,” she mumbled, closing her eyes. Her voice was muffled, but laced with exhaustion and something a little playful. She reached for the tea you’d left on the coffee table—still warm—and took a careful sip before placing it back down.

“I feel old.” she groaned dramatically, throwing an arm across her face.