EMMA

The moment I stepped inside, I felt it—this house was nothing like the ones I had been raised in. It wasn't just the smell of something baking in the oven or the faint sound of music humming from the kitchen radio. It was the life woven into every inch of it.

Framed photographs lined the hallway—Jake as a kid, grinning wide with a missing tooth, his arm thrown around a much smaller Kaylee. A Christmas portrait where his mother held him close, looking at him like he was her whole world.

Scuff marks on the wooden floors, worn in by years of running in socks or chasing after a family dog. A handmade quilt draped over the couch—probably Elizabeth's work. A half-finished jigsaw puzzle sat on the coffee table, as if someone had walked away mid-thought. And near the bookshelf, an old baseball glove rested against the wall, worn but well cared for.

It was lived-in. Rooted. Permanent.

And suddenly, I felt like an intruder again. The penthouse in New York was probably the longest I had ever stayed in one place, and even that felt temporary. I didn't have a childhood home like this—one filled with memories, with history. With warmth.

"So," Kaylee said beside me, interrupting my thoughts. "Do you want the tour, or should I just tell you the most embarrassing stories about Jake and let you figure out the house on your own?"

Jake groaned, already looking exhausted. "Can we not, Kay?"

Kayle ignored him and looked like she was about to drop the best kind of bombshell. "Did you know that Jake once got his head stuck between the staircase railings? Cried like a baby until my dad buttered his ears and pulled him out."

I blinked, turning to Jake. "Please tell me that's not true."

Jake just leveled me with a look of pure suffering. Which, naturally, only made me laugh.

"Alright, tour's over," Jake muttered, nudging his sister toward the hallway. "Give us five minutes to breathe, okay?"

"Ugh, fine," Kaylee groaned, making a dramatic show of retreating. But not before tossing over her shoulder, "Try not to make out too loudly."

"Kaylee!" Jake snapped, glaring at her like he had no idea what to do with her.

She smirked at me before disappearing into the kitchen.

Jake exhaled hard, rubbing a hand down his face. "Sorry about her. She's, uh... a lot."

"Oh, I like her," I said, smirking. "She reminds me of me. You have no idea how much of a menace I was as a little sister. Eric still has nightmares."

Jake gave me a wary look, like he wasn't sure if that was a warning or a challenge.

"Alright, c'mon." He sighed, grabbing our bags and nudging me toward the staircase.

And just like that, I stepped further into Jake's world.

The moment I walked into Jake's room, two things became immediately clear. One, this room was undeniably his. The debate team trophies lined up in perfect order, the old baseball glove tucked near the desk—every inch of the space felt like an extension of him.

And two, I was absolutely going to snoop.

"This is weird," I said, stepping further inside, my fingers grazing the spines of his books. "Being in your childhood bedroom. It feels like I've stumbled into a National Treasure exhibit—The Origins of Agent Jake Parker."

Jake rolled his eyes as he dropped our bags near the closet. "It's a bedroom, Emma. Not the FBI archives."

"Right, because I'm sure the FBI archives don't have nearly as many embarrassing secrets hidden in them."

He let out a breathy laugh before flopping onto the bed, stretching his arms over his head.

Bad move.

Because now I had free reign to investigate, and he was too comfortable to stop me.

My gaze swept the room, taking in every detail—the photos, the corkboard pinned with old case theories, probably from his Quantico days, the crime novels with dog-eared pages. It was like walking through a museum dedicated to Jake Parker's brain, and I couldn't help but be fascinated.

Then, a glint of worn leather caught my eye. It was in a slightly open drawer.

Jackpot.

I reached for it without hesitation.

"Emma—" Jake bolted upright the second he saw me grab the journal, his expression shifting into actual horror.

"What?" I feigned innocence, flipping open the cover. "I'm just doing what any good investigative agent would do. You should appreciate that."

Jake groaned, moving fast, but I was quicker, flipping through the pages before he could stop me.

And what I found was...unexpected.

"Oh my God." My eyes widened. "Jake. You wrote poetry?"

Jake froze.

I looked up just in time to see his soul leave his body.

"Give me that," he demanded, already lunging toward me.

"No way." I spun out of reach, grinning as I clutched the journal to my chest. "Unbelievable. What is this—angsty teenage poetry? Love sonnets? Odes to baseball?"

"Emma, I swear—"

I flipped to a random page and read aloud, dodging his attempt to grab me.

"Her eyes were fire, burning bright, a spark in the dark, lost in the night."

I gasped. "Oh my God. You were such a hopeless romantic."

Jake lunged again. I dodged again.

"I hate you," he muttered, his face so red I was sure he was contemplating whether murder was worth the prison sentence.

"No, no, this is amazing," I said, flipping another page. "Wait—this one rhymes! How dramatic were you, Parker?"

"Emma, I will actually throw you out of that window."

"I dare you."

Before I could react, Jake tackled me onto the bed, wrestling the journal from my hands.

I yelped, kicking at him, but years of FBI training had the upper hand. With one final tug, he pried it from my grasp, triumphant, while I lay there, breathless and laughing.

"I can't believe this." I giggled, staring up at the ceiling. "All this time, I thought you were just some stoic FBI golden boy, and meanwhile, you were writing poetry about mysterious girls in the dark?"

Jake groaned, dramatically collapsing beside me, covering his face with his hands. "This is the worst day of my life."

"Oh, come on. It's cute. I definitely deserve a poem of my own now."

"Emma, shut up."

"Maybe a haiku?"

"I'm breaking up with you."

"You could never."

Jake exhaled heavily, turning his head to look at me, his green eyes still a little embarrassed but amused now.

"You're impossible."

"And you never cease to amaze me," I said, my voice softer than I meant it to be.

Jake sighed, rolling onto his side, watching me for a beat before reaching out, his fingers brushing a stray curl from my cheek. The teasing faded into something quieter, something... heavier.

"And you keep stealing my breath away ever since the day I met you."

A slow warmth spread through my chest, catching me off guard.

For a second, the laughter faded, replaced by something quieter. Heavier. Dangerous.

And, of course, I had to ruin it.

I smirked. "You know," I said, still a little breathless, "you told me once that you were a nerd in high school. But this? I didn't see this coming."

Jake groaned again, flopping onto his back like he was begging the universe to strike him down. "I hate that I ever told you that."

"I love it," I admitted, rolling onto my side to face him.

He looked at me, suspiciously hopeful. "You do?"

"Are you kidding? It's adorable. You, sitting in your room, writing poetry about mysterious girls and lost souls? It's like something straight out of a coming-of-age movie."

Jake exhaled through his nose. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"Oh, completely."

His fingers slid into my hair, slow and easy, threading through the strands. The touch was light—just the faintest brush against my scalp—but it sent a shiver down my spine anyway. I fought to keep my expression neutral, refusing to let him see just how much he was getting to me.

His lips twitched into a knowing smirk. "You're never letting this go, are you?"

"Oh, absolutely."

Before Jake could fire back a comeback, a voice boomed from downstairs.

"Jake! Get down here—I want to show you something!"

Jake let out a groan, dropping his head onto the pillow. "I swear, my dad has the worst timing in the world."

I laughed. "Go on, Parker. Your dad awaits."

"You coming?"

"I'll change and meet you down there."

Jake hesitated for half a second before leaning down, pressing a quick, soft kiss to my forehead.

"Don't snoop anymore," he said against my skin, smirking.

"No promises."

He sighed but smiled, grabbing his journal before heading out the door.

I exhaled, staring up at the ceiling, my heartbeat still not entirely steady.

God help me.

I was so far gone for this man, and I knew full well it might be the end of me.

By the time I made it downstairs, the kitchen smelled like something out of a dream—warm spices mingling with the rich scent of butter, roasted turkey, and the faintest hint of something sweet. Maybe pumpkin pie.

Pots clinked on the stovetop, steam curling from dishes as Elizabeth moved around the kitchen with effortless grace, like this was her stage, and she knew every step of the choreography by heart.

The place itself reflected her—cozy, but full of personality. A ceramic jar by the window held a collection of paintbrushes, their bristles stained with remnants of past paintings. Colorful prints hung along the walls—some abstract, some serene landscapes—but my gaze landed on one in particular.

The Storm on the Sea of Galilee.

I stepped closer, drawn in by the way Elizabeth had captured the raw energy of it—the light battling against the darkness, the waves frozen in motion, caught between chaos and surrender.

"You like it?" Elizabeth asked, and when I turned, her green eyes were shining like Christmas morning.

"You've mastered chiaroscuro beautifully," I said, tracing the edge of the frame. "The contrast feels alive—like the moment before the storm swallows the boat whole."

Elizabeth gasped, then clutched her chest dramatically. "Finally! Someone who speaks my language!"

"Hey, I appreciate art," Jake called from the backyard doorway, arms crossed.

Elizabeth shot him a pointed look. "You once called my Degas print 'that painting of blurry ballerinas.'"

I stifled a laugh as Jake sighed and walked outside to join his dad. I knew he actually did appreciate art—just maybe not enough to debate chiaroscuro over Thanksgiving dinner.

Elizabeth turned back to me, still grinning. "Okay, tell me—what's your favorite period? Impressionism? Surrealism? Please don't say contemporary abstract, or I'll have to pretend to like it."

I smirked. "Impressionism, mostly. But I have a soft spot for early Renaissance. Something about the way light and shadow were handled back then—it was romantic without trying to be."

Elizabeth looked at me like she had just found a long-lost soulmate. But before she could respond, Kaylee flopped into a chair nearby, pouring herself a glass of orange juice.

"Boring," she muttered.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes but ignored her, leaning in. "So, do you paint?"

I hesitated, fingers tightening around the dish towel I had picked up. "Not really," I said after a moment. "I used to... a long time ago. But life got in the way."

Elizabeth tilted her head. "What do you mean?"

"I always wanted my own gallery someday. That was the dream. But things happened. I stopped painting as much. I got carried away with life, and now with work and everything else, it just feels like something I left behind."

For a moment, there was nothing but the soft bubbling of a pot on the stove. Then Elizabeth reached out, squeezing my arm. "Sweetheart, dreams don't have an expiration date. You can always come back to it."

Something tightened in my chest, an ache I couldn't quite name. I had always wondered if I had it in me—if I could be more than just someone who took art, if I could create it instead. But the thought always felt hypocritical.

"Maybe," I said.

"Not maybe. Definitely." She winked.

I didn't know what to say to that. And before I could dwell on it, I caught Kaylee studying me—still sizing me up, probably still deciding if I was worth her brother's time.

Jake had mentioned she was attached to him growing up, and it was clear she wasn't letting just anyone waltz into his life. A part of me wanted to win her over.

I knew she was studying fashion design. And so, before I could second-guess myself, I said, "Hey, Kaylee, Jake mentioned you were looking for a fashion internship?"

Kaylee's head snapped up, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Yeah... why?"

I shrugged, keeping my tone casual. "One of my closest friends—Alycia—she's a fashion journalist. Knows a ridiculous number of people in the industry. I could connect you two if you want."

Kaylee froze mid-sip of her drink. Then she slowly set it down, staring at me like I had just handed her the Holy Grail.

"Wait. You're serious?"

"Completely."

Her face morphed into pure excitement before she schooled her expression into something almost indifferent.

"I mean, whatever," she said, shrugging exaggeratedly. "That'd be cool, I guess. No big deal."

I smirked. "Right. No big deal at all."

Kaylee studied me for a long second, then huffed. "You're, like... actually cool."

I laughed. "You sound so disappointed."

She smirked, but this time, there was no bite to it. "I mean, I had my doubts. My brother's never brought anyone home before. I figured you were either a CIA plant or, I don't know... some corporate lawyer with no sense of humor."

I snorted. "Wow. High bar."

"But you passed," she continued. "And—okay, don't get weird about this—but I think I like you."

I clutched my chest dramatically. "Oh my god. This is the best moment of my life."

"Shut up." She rolled her eyes, throwing a napkin at me.

I caught it easily, laughing—until I glanced outside.

Jake stood with his dad in the backyard, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly as Derek spoke. But his face...

It was lighter here.

Like stepping into this house stripped away all the weight he carried, all the exhaustion he hid behind easy grins. And as his dad clapped a hand on his shoulder, saying something that made Jake chuckle, I realized something that hit me like a punch to the gut.

I had never known what it felt like to have a father look at me like that. With pride. With warmth. With a love so simple yet so unwavering.

I swallowed against the ache creeping up my throat. It had been years since I had seen my parents. And I missed them like hell, but things were complicated. They had stayed away to protect us. There was no world where we could have this.

Before my thoughts could spiral further, Elizabeth nudged me lightly with her elbow.

"He's different here, huh?" she said softly.

I nodded, watching him. "Yeah. He is."

She exhaled. "I couldn't be more proud of him. But I'm still his mother, and I know his job is dangerous. So I worry. A lot. But..." She hesitated, then turned to look at me. "I feel better now that he has you. He's the happiest I've seen in a long time."

A knot tightened in my stomach. Because the truth was, this was the happiest I had been in a long time, too.

And yet, I knew what Jake and I had came with an expiration date. I just didn't know how it would end—or if either of us would make it out unscathed.

I opened my mouth to say something, but before I could, Derek walked in, planting a kiss on Elizabeth's cheek. Kaylee rolled her eyes.

Elizabeth grinned. "Oh, mister. I thought this salad was going to make itself."

Derek smirked, already reaching for a knife. "I could never forget," he said, chopping vegetables before glancing at me. "Prepare yourself for the best salad you'll ever have, Emma."

I chuckled. "I can't wait."

Elizabeth gave me a knowing look, then nodded toward the backyard. "Why don't you go keep him company? He's been staring at you all day when he thought no one was looking."

My cheeks burned, but I didn't argue. A breath of fresh air wouldn't hurt after all.

So, I excused myself and walked outside.

Jake was sitting on the old swing set, feet planted in the dirt, gaze distant. The porch light cast a soft glow over him, highlighting the easy way he leaned into the chains, lost in thought.

"Mind if I join you?"

He looked up, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. "Always."

I slid into the swing beside him, the seat creaking beneath my weight. The air was crisp, laced with the faint scent of woodsmoke, but sitting here next to him, I barely felt the chill.

"I still can't believe I let you talk me into this," I said, nudging the ground with the toe of my boot.

Jake smirked, his fingers wrapping loosely around the chain. "Into what? A nice dinner with my charming family?"

"Charming, huh?" I arched a brow.

"Painfully so." He sighed dramatically. "It's a burden, really. I barely survived growing up in this much warmth and affection."

I laughed, shaking my head. "Yeah, must've been rough, Parker."

"Oh, you have no idea." He turned toward me, then his voice softened. "You know... they really do like you, Em."

I looked down at my hands, my fingers absently grazing the necklace around my neck. "They don't really know me yet."

Jake tilted his head, studying me in that way that cut through all my defenses. "Sure they do. My mom's practically ready to write you into her will, my dad gave you the serious nod of approval, and Kaylee? She only messes with people she actually likes."

I smirked. "So I'm officially Kaylee-approved?"

"That's a big deal." He grinned. "She doesn't like anyone."

"High praise." I chuckled, before glancing toward the house, where warm light spilled from the windows, laughter and conversation drifting through the autumn air. "It's nice, though. Seeing you like this. Here."

"Like what?"

I hesitated. "Lighter."

Jake hummed, stretching his legs out in front of him, kicking up a bit of dirt. "Guess I don't realize how much I miss it until I'm back."

"What? Not getting shot at for a few days?"

Jake huffed out a quiet laugh. "That, and sleeping past five a.m. Maybe even eating something that isn't takeout."

I crossed my arms, feigning offense. "Hey, I made you quiche."

He turned to me with an amused look, one brow arching. "Yes. And I know you won't let me forget it."

I let out a quiet chuckle, but something about what he said lingered.

For a long moment, we just sat there, the silence stretching between us—not heavy, not uncomfortable, just... easy. I let my gaze drift, taking in the backyard—the old wooden fence, the string lights hanging near the porch, the steady glow of the kitchen window where his family moved around, completely unaware of the way this moment had settled around us.

"You ever think about it?" I asked before I could stop myself.

"Think about what?"

I gestured toward the house. "This. The whole... normal life thing. White picket fence, dog in the yard, arguing over what's for dinner instead of who gets to interrogate a suspect first."

Jake's lips twitched as he followed my gaze.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I guess I always assumed this would be Kaylee's thing. She'd settle down, start a family. I figured I'd always be the one working too much, showing up to holidays late, and getting lectures from my mom about 'finding someone' before I turn fifty."

I smirked. "So your mom's been pressuring you already?"

"You have no idea," he said, shaking his head. "The second I told her I was bringing you home, she asked me if you liked summer or winter weddings."

I nearly choked on a laugh. "Oh my God, Jake."

"I'm telling you, she's relentless."

"Should I be concerned that she's already planning our imaginary wedding?"

"Absolutely," he said with a grin. "Might as well start picking colors now."

"Hm." I tapped my chin. "I'm leaning toward something dramatic. Black and gold, very high-stakes casino vibes. Full 'Bond villain' aesthetic."

Jake snorted. "Of course you are."

I nudged his arm playfully, but before I could pull away, he caught my wrist, his fingers curling around mine.

The swing stilled beneath me. His touch was warm as his thumb brushed over my knuckles, absentminded but deliberate.

"For what it's worth," he said, voice softer now, "I like seeing you here too."

I swallowed, fingers tightening slightly around his. "You're good at this," I murmured.

"Good at what?"

"Making things feel... easy."

Jake tilted his head slightly, watching me with that look—the one that always made me feel like he saw too much.

"Well," he said, "you make it easy."

I didn't have a response to that. Because the truth was, nothing about us was easy. And I couldn't tell him how much it hurt—how much it physically ached—that we were talking about futures and hypothetical weddings I knew we could never have.

That we could never be.

So instead, I let myself sink into the moment, into the warmth of his hand around mine, into the sound of the wind rustling through the trees, into the golden glow of a life I didn't belong to but wanted to—if only for a little while.

And then, from the house, Elizabeth's voice called out.

"Jake! Emma! Dinner's ready!"

Jake sighed dramatically. "Saved by the bell."

I smirked, squeezing his hand one last time before letting go. "Come on. Let's see if your family's cooking lives up to the hype."

"Oh, you're in for it now," he said, standing up and offering me his hand.

I took it, letting him pull me to my feet.

And as we walked toward the house, I wondered if I had ever been this reluctant to let a moment end.