"Tomorrow you're taking a break from baby research."
"But—"
"No buts. You're doing wine reviews and nothing else."
"What if there's important information I need?—"
"Then it'll still be there the next day." She kisses my jaw. "Sleep. Please."
I wrap my arm around her, pulling her close. She's right. I know she's right. But my mind is still running through checklists and timelines and all the things we need to do before March.
"Miles?" She's almost asleep now.
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
"Love you too."
"Even when you're being ridiculous."
"I'm not being ridiculous."
"You created a spreadsheet at 2 AM."
"That's not ridiculous. That's organized."
She's laughing again, and I'm holding her, and somewhere between her breathing and the darkness, I finally drift off.
Emma's breathing evens out. Finally asleep.
I stare at the ceiling, running through tomorrow's research list. Pediatricians. Childcare options. Whether the diaper genie is actually magic or just marketing.
Seven months and three weeks to figure it all out.
Better get started.
Chapter 11
Emma
Twenty weeks… halfway there
I'm walking into Preston & Associates feeling like I'm finally building something sustainable instead of slowly drowning. Also, I brought three jars of pickles. For emergencies.
The office is still surreal—my name on the door, natural light from an actual window, a desk that doesn't double as a filing cabinet. Sarah and Tom are presenting their independent case work for the first time, and I'm only moderately panicked about it.
Progress.
Maggie's already at her desk, reviewing the day's schedule with the efficiency of a military general.
"Morning," I say, setting down my briefcase. And the pickle jars.
She eyes the jars. "Three today?"
"One's a backup."
"For what emergency?"
