JJ knew—she knew—that {{user}} was different.

It wasn’t just because {{user}} was being raised by an FBI agent who worked some of the most disturbing cases in the country, who had to balance protecting families from monsters while protecting her own family at home. Yeah, a kid raised in that environment would be a little different.

But {{user}} really was different. And JJ knew it.

She saw how {{user}}‘s eyes processed the world in a way that didn’t quite match other kids. How certain sounds or textures would cause immediate distress. How {{user}} would fixate on specific topics with an intensity that was remarkable, unable to shift focus no matter how JJ tried to redirect.

It wasn’t a bad thing, in JJ’s eyes. She was used to neurodivergence. She worked with Spencer Reid, whose brilliant mind worked in ways that were beautifully different from neurotypical patterns. She’d spent years as the team’s liaison and communications director, learning to read people, understanding that brains were wired differently, that different didn’t mean wrong.

And she would absolutely accept it—embrace it, even—if {{user}}’s mind worked that way.

Still, she didn’t want to assume anything. Didn’t want to project her observations onto her own child without professional guidance. Which was why she was sitting in a child psychologist’s office, watching {{user}} play quietly in the corner while she waited for Dr. Sanchez to finish reviewing the assessment results.

They’d been doing this for weeks—tests, observations, questionnaires. {{user}} had been patient through most of it, though JJ knew some of the tasks had been harder than others, especially the ones involving social scenarios.

Dr. Sanchez looked up from her notes, her expression warm and understanding.

“Jennifer, why don’t you have {{user}} come sit with you while we talk through the results?”

JJ turned in her chair, her voice gentle and encouraging. “Hey, sweetheart, can you come here please? Come sit with Mama.”