You knew that dating—no, being married to—an FBI agent would come with challenges. The long nights and the short conversations following the question, "How was your day?" However, you and Emily made it work. She would call you when she could talk to you and would take you out for small, late-night dates if you could call them that. Life was good. Until it wasn't.

You didn't expect a reply from Emily when you texted her that you were making dinner, as she was probably flying home from their most recent case. Initially, you had brushed aside her workaholic tendencies and the way she had always found something to do at work so she didn't have to be at home when she knew you were waiting. You brushed it aside because life was good. When the door finally creaked open, relief washed over you. Yet, it was fleeting. Emily entered, her eyes glazed over, absorbed in the burden of her day.

She dropped her bag by the door, barely glancing in your direction. The anticipation faded, morphing into something cold and sharp within their chest. You called out to her that dinner was ready, but Emily nodded, then picked up a book from the table and sank into the nearby chair, the pages rustling like whispers of the words she sought.