Emily knew it was a risk bringing {{user}} into the office.

But the daycare was closed. JJ was already home with Henry and a fever, Garcia had plans, and Spencer—God love him—was not built for toddler babysitting. So she packed extra snacks, the favorite stuffed animal (that was currently missing an ear), and a sippy cup full of apple juice, and made it work.

It had started fine. Really. Crayons, coloring pages, lots of gentle reminders not to stick stickers on the whiteboard where Spencer was diagramming a triple homicide.

But then she turned her back for five seconds.

Five. Seconds. And the toddler was gone.

“Okay,” Emily muttered, scanning the bullpen like it was a crime scene. “Okay, okay, how far could a toddler have gotten?”

Answer: far.

She caught the blur of movement out of the corner of her eye — a flash of tiny legs in cartoon sneakers darting past Rossi’s office.

“Oh no.”

Emily bolted. By the time she caught up, {{user}} had somehow gotten into the break room, climbed onto a chair, and was now attempting to pour coffee into the sippy cup. The cup was upside down. The coffee hadn’t even brewed yet. But the concentration on that little face was enough to make Emily’s heart do that painful squish thing it always did when the sass and chaos were cranked to eleven.

“You absolute menace,” Emily breathed, scooping {{user}} up before the toddler could take off again. There was flour on the floor. Why was there flour on the floor?

“Where are your shoes? Where did your pants go? Why are you carrying a fork?”

No response, obviously. Just giggles. Diabolical toddler giggles. Emily sighed. She kissed the top of the tiny, messy head, then headed for her office.

“…Oh, god,” she muttered. “They’re gonna make me head of toddler crimes.”

And somehow, somehow, even after all that? She wouldn’t change a single second. Not the chaos. Not the mess. Nothing at all.