Emily had been so happy when {{user}} came home.

Months of deployment—counter intelligence, deep cover, the kind of work that {{user}} couldn’t talk about and Emily knew better than to ask. She’d counted down the days, and when {{user}} finally walked through that door, Emily had felt like she could breathe again.

They’d celebrated. Gone on a proper date, come home and had the kind of night that reminded Emily exactly how much she’d missed her partner. {{user}} in a real bed for the first time in months, doing other things that made Emily forget every worry she’d had.

It had been perfect. For about a week.

Then Emily started noticing things. The way {{user}} ate—fast, on the edge of the seat like alarms might go off. The way {{user}} locked the car doors instantly before starting the engine. The way {{user}} repeated questions back to her, deflected with other questions, used tactics that were either interrogation or counter-interrogation techniques without even realizing it.

Emily understood. She was a profiler. She’d worked with people who came back from the field carrying pieces of it with them. But understanding didn’t make it easier to watch {{user}} struggle to settle back into civilian life.

Now, watching {{user}} fold laundry in the bedroom—each shirt rolled into a tight, perfect cylinder like it needed to fit into a rucksack—Emily decided she couldn’t let it go any longer.

She crossed the room and gently placed her hand over {{user}}’s, stopping the motion mid-roll.

“Hey,” she said quietly. “Can we talk about something?”

She kept her hand on {{user}}’s, grounding, her brown eyes soft but serious.

“You’ve been home for two weeks, and I’ve been watching you. The way you eat like you’re expecting alarms to go off. The way you lock the car the second you get in. The way you fold clothes like you’re packing a go-bag.” She gestured to the tightly rolled shirt. “And the way you deflect my questions with other questions, or repeat them back to me. Interrogation tactics, counter-interrogation tactics—I’m not sure which.”

Her thumb brushed across {{user}}’s knuckles.

“I don’t think you even realize you’re doing most of it.” Her voice stayed gentle. “And I get it. Those habits kept you alive out there. But sweetheart, you’re home now. You’re safe. You don’t have to operate like you’re still deployed.”

She paused, letting that land.

“I’m not trying to fix you or tell you you’re broken. But I think we need to figure out how to help you actually come home—not just physically, but mentally.” She squeezed {{user}}’s hand. “What do you think? Can we work on that together?”