"She looks exhausted in our video calls," Ryan continues, studying me. "Like she's not sleeping. And she's been weirdly emotional. Last week she almost cried when I told her we wonthe preliminary motion. Emma doesn't cry over case wins. She saves that for commercials with puppies."
More data points to add to my growing list.
Exhaustion. Check. Nausea. Check. Avoiding wine. Definitely check. Emotional. Check. Hiding in bathrooms. Check.
And then there's last night. The pickle and peanut butter sandwich incident.
I came out of my office late from doing a wine review to find Emma on the couch at eleven PM, wearing her pajamas and staring blankly at a home shopping network infomercial. In her hands was the strangest sandwich I'd ever seen—thick layers of peanut butter on white bread with pickle slices arranged in meticulous rows. The third one she’d eaten last night.
"What are you eating?" I'd asked.
She'd looked at me with these wide, slightly defiant eyes. "Dinner 3.0."
"That's another pickle and peanut butter sandwich."
"Your observational skills are just as sharp as the day you left the SEALs."
"Em—"
"Don't judge me. It's good." She'd taken an aggressive bite, maintaining eye contact like she was daring me to comment further.
I'd sat down next to her, watched her eat the entire thing while an enthusiastic host sold kitchen gadgets on television, and said nothing. Because Emma Dawson doesn't make strange food choices. She's the practical one. The organized one. The one who meal preps on Sundays and color-codes her calendar.
Unless.
"Miles?" Ryan's voice pulls me back to the present. "You okay? You zoned out."
"Fine. Just thinking."
"About Emma?" Brennen asks hopefully. "Do you know something? Is she going to call me back?"
"She'll call you when she's ready." I push off the counter, suddenly needing to leave. "I should get going. Reviews to finish."
"But you just got here," Sophie protests.
"I know. But I have deadlines." I head for the door, my mind already cataloging everything I've learned.
Ryan catches up to me in the parking lot. "Miles. Hold up."
I stop beside my car, keys in hand.
"Something's going on with Emma," Ryan says. It's not a question.
"She's stressed. Big case. Life stuff."
"You know what it is." Ryan crosses his arms, giving me his CEO/SEAL interrogation stare. The one that probably makes his employees confess things they didn't even do. "You're her husband. You know."
"If something was seriously wrong, I'd tell you." That's honest, at least. "But Emma gets to share her own news in her own time. That's not my call."
Ryan studies me. Then his expression softens slightly. "You're protecting her."
"Always."
"That's good." He claps me on the shoulder. "That's what she needs. Someone who lets her handle things her way."
"Even when her way involves avoiding her brothers?"
"Especially then." Ryan grins. "We're pretty annoying."
