You sit at the kitchen table, one socked foot tucked under you, a bowl of cereal in front of you that’s gone soggy. The front door clicks open. You hear the soft shuffle of keys, the dull thud of boots coming off.

“Hey,” JJ says gently as she steps into the kitchen doorway.

You glance up. Her hair’s tied back, loose strands falling from the bun. Her coat’s slung over one arm. She looks tired in the way only she can. Like she hasn’t stopped holding her breath since she left.

“Didn’t think you’d be up,” she says.

“Didn’t feel like sleeping.”

She nods, reading between the lines. She always does.

JJ walks over slowly and pulls out the chair across from you. She doesn’t sit right away, just leans her hands on the back of it like she’s waiting for a signal.

You tilt the cereal bowl toward her. “Want some room-temp disappointment?”

A small smile tugs at her mouth. “I’ll pass.”

She sits.

The silence stretches. Not awkward, but full of things unsaid. It’s been this way lately. You’re older now. She sees it every time she looks at you. It scares her more than the job ever could.

“I’m sorry I missed dinner,” she says.

“You didn’t,” you reply. “You just got home after it stopped being dinner and turned into leftovers.”

That makes her smile again, but her eyes don’t quite lighten. “Still. I wanted to be back earlier.”

You nod. You believe her. You always have.

“I know it’s not like you’re never here." You say. “You were there for every big thing. Birthdays. Awards nights. When I broke my arm and tried to pretend I was fine, you left Quantico in the middle of a debrief.”

JJ tilts her head. “You were being very brave, for the record.”

You smirk. “I was in shock. You drove like a maniac.”

“Learned from Hotch,” she mutters. Then quieter: “I didn’t want you scared without me.”

You stir your spoon through the cereal. “You were always there when it counted. It’s just…”

JJ waits.

"I think sometimes I missed you in the in-between. The little hours. Sunday afternoons. Late-night cereal talks like this. You were here, but not always with us. Not fully.”

“I know,” she exhales. “I felt it too, sometimes. I’d be in some dark motel room writing a profile, and all I’d want was to be sitting on the floor listening to you complain about calculus.”

You glance at her. “I don’t complain about calculus.”

She raises a brow. “You did. With dramatic flair.”

You both smile. Faintly, but it’s real.

JJ leans forward, resting her forearms on the table. “I keep thinking about all the little moments I let slip because I was chasing monsters,” she says. “I don’t regret the work I did. But I regret what it took from us.”

You don’t say anything for a beat. "We noticed. We just didn’t want to make you feel worse.”

JJ closes her eyes, just for a moment.

When she opens them, there’s something steadier in her face. A resolution.

“There’s still time." She says. “I can’t undo what’s already passed, but I can stop rushing through what’s left.”

You hold her gaze. “Okay."

The TV is still on, but the volume’s so low it might as well be silent. Some late-night rerun plays. You’re curled up on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled down over your hands, eyes puffy even though you told yourself you weren’t going to cry. The blanket across your legs is bunched up from tossing it around in frustration.

The front door opens.

JJ steps in quietly, scanning the room as her eyes adjust to the dark. She sees you almost immediately. “You’re still up?” she asks gently.

You don’t turn. Just shrug.

She puts her bag down, kicks off her shoes. You hear the faint rustle of her jacket being peeled off, the light creak of her bones as she moves through the familiar motions of coming home late.

“You okay?”

You nod once, then shake your head. “I don’t know. I fought with Dad.”

JJ raises an eyebrow slightly, concerned but calm. “What about?”

“He got mad that I didn’t take the trash out. I said I forgot, and then it spiralled into this whole thing about responsibility and respect."

“Sounds like it wasn’t really about the trash.”