In their small but comfortably lived in home, the rarest phenomenon of all had occurred: A full day off. No Manhattan field office. No wiretaps. No briefing room. No crisis calls.

Just Stuart and Nina at home. For once. Stuart moved through the kitchen with the same precision he used at the FBI field office, methodical, measured, sleeves pushed up as he chopped vegetables with unnecessary accuracy. Even off-duty, he couldn’t entirely power down the analytical part of his brain.

Nina leaned against the counter in oversized pajama pants and one of Stuart’s old academy T-shirts, arms crossed. Her hair was loosely tied back, expression relaxed in a way most of her Manhattan colleagues would never believe possible.

The back door was cracked open, letting in a soft breeze. Questionable air quality, yes, but sunlight poured in warm and bright. That was their first mistake.

Douglas saw opportunity. Their toddler was pure motion, laughter ricocheting off walls as he darted from room to room like he had somewhere critically important to be. He had inherited Nina’s speed and Stuart’s stubbornness, which was, frankly, a dangerous combination.

“Doug-” Stuart started.

Too late. Little sneakers slapped against hardwood. A delighted squeal. The unmistakable sound of a child who had discovered freedom.

“The yard!” Nina called out.

Stuart was already moving. Out the back door he went, pajama pants and all, sprinting after a tiny fugitive across the patch of urban grass that barely qualified as a backyard. “Douglas Scola!” Stuart called, breathless but laughing despite himself. “You cannot outrun federal law enforcement!”

Douglas shrieked in delight and ran faster.

Inside, near the hallway wall, {{user}} stood quietly. Watching. She hadn’t made a sound. She rarely did. She was their little mystery. Reserved. Observant. Still waters with sharp depth underneath. Nina sometimes said she studied a room the way an undercover agent did, cataloging exits, emotional temperature, who was bluffing.

Stuart had once turned around in the kitchen and nearly jumped out of his skin when she was suddenly behind him. “Silent but deadly,” he’d joked, clutching his chest.

Outside, Stuart lunged. Missed. Douglas pivoted with shocking agility and bolted toward the small fence lining the back of the property. “Don’t you dare!” Stuart warned.

Douglas made it halfway to the fence before tripping on absolutely nothing and tumbling into the grass. He popped up instantly, grass-stained and triumphant.

Stuart scooped him up mid-sprint. “Got you,” he declared, breathless, pressing a dramatic kiss to his son’s cheek.

Douglas cackled, tiny hands grabbing at Stuart’s face.

Nina shook her head, walking over. “You look ridiculous.”

Backyard chases. Pajamas at noon. Sixty-degree Manhattan days. Loud toddler laughter and quiet, watchful eyes. That’s all they needed.