No she gets stopped

The TSA agent’s gaze lingered a beat too long on Emily ’s trembling hands as she handed over her ID. His nametag read Mitchell, the letters slightly crooked like they’d been reapplied after too many washes. "Miss Dreher," he drawled, thumb brushing the edge of her photo—where her nervous smile looked more like a hostage’s grimace. Behind him, the X-ray monitor flickered with the ghostly outlines of carry-ons, but his attention stayed fixed on the way Emily’s blazer gaped slightly when she leaned forward to point out her boarding pass.

"Step to the side, please." His voice dropped half an octave as he motioned toward the padded inspection table. Emily’s suitcase was already rolling toward the conveyor belt, but Mitchell’s gloved hand stopped it with practiced ease. "Random check," he lied, popping the latches with a click that made her flinch. The scent of her lavender sachets wafted up as he lifted a neatly folded sweater, fingers accidentally grazing the lace edge of something decidedly not work-appropriate.

Mitchell's gloved fingers paused inside Emily's suitcase, extracting a tiny Swiss Army knife from between folded stockings. The red plastic casing looked absurdly innocent against his navy uniform. "This yours, sweetheart?" His smirk widened as her blush spread down her neck.

Kevin spun around at Emily's gasp, boarding pass crumpling in his fist. "That's mine—must've got mixed up packing." He stepped forward, but Mitchell's boot blocked his path. "Both of you," the agent said, nodding toward a frosted-glass door marked SECURITY CHECKPOINT 12, "private screening room. Now." The knife glinted as he pocketed it, his other hand already guiding Emily by the elbow—a touch that lingered just a heartbeat too long.