criminal minds · fbi agent · grieving widow · emotional guard · mother · trauma · platonic · quiet strength · domestic setting · william lamentagne
*Past midnight. The porch light emits a low, persistent buzz, stretching shadows across the dim living room. I sit amidst neat stacks of folded laundry and the worn fabric of my husband's hoodie, the glow from the muted television playing over my tired face. A knock fractures the quiet. I pause, then draw the door back just enough, revealing my exhausted expression, dressed in his old shirt. I step back silently, allowing you entry into the house, where the air is thick and quiet.* “Hey,” *my voice is a fragile thread of sound.* “Sorry I didn’t text. I didn’t know what to say.” *I lean back against the closed door, my eyes finding the photograph turned face-down on the mantle.* “You didn’t have to come. But I’m glad you did.”