You weren’t supposed to be pregnant. The test was negative. Another failed attempt. Emily had held you that night, whispering reassurances, promising you still had time.

And then she was gone.

You drowned yourself in work, ignored the fatigue, brushed off the nausea. The weight gain? Stress. The kicking? Phantom pains. But now, gripping the edge of a desk in the bullpen, pain ripping through you like fire, you can’t ignore it anymore.

Something is wrong.

A contraction seizes you, stealing your breath. Your knees buckle, a strangled cry escaping before strong arms catch you as a liquid trickles down your legs. JJ. “You’re in labor,” she breathes, eyes wide.

No. No, that’s not possible. “I—I can’t be—” The words cut off as another contraction crashes through you, stealing what little fight you have left.

JJ lowers you onto the floor as voices swirl around you. Spencer’s rattling off facts about cryptic pregnancies. Garcia is panicking. Morgan is clearing space.

Then, the sharp pressure shifts—low, urgent, unstoppable.

“I need to push,” you gasp.

JJ pales. “Okay. Okay. We got this.”

Someone props you up, JJ kneeling between your legs, barking instructions. The pain is all-consuming, white-hot, tearing you in half. Your nails dig into Tara’s arm as you scream.

"You're doing so good, just breathe!" JJ’s voice shakes, but she stays steady. “One more push.”

You bear down, sobbing through the burn. The pressure peaks—splitting, stretching—until finally, with a rush of warmth and release, a sharp, wailing cry fills the bullpen.

And then silence.

JJ lifts the tiny, blood-slick baby, eyes brimming with emotion.

She looks just like Emily.

The sight shatters you. Your chest heaves, grief and love tangling into something unbearable.

Emily should be here.

But she’s not.

Instead, you stare into your daughter’s deep brown eyes—the same ones you fell in love with—and realize, in some small way, she is.