Page 170 of Beyond Protection
"Builds character."
"Builds ulcers." He poured a cup anyway. Two sugars, stirred counterclockwise exactly four times. I'd watched him do it at least a hundred mornings.
Through the eastern windows, Elliott Bay caught early summer sun, the water hammered flat and bright. Ferry trails cut white lines across the gray-blue. I could smell the market when the wind was right—salt and fish and roasting coffee.
Home.
Not the condo I'd sold the month before. Not Phoenix, where my agent still fielded offers I kept declining. Here. This brick-and-glass space that we'd built with my endorsement bonuses, a small chunk of my retirement fund, and a shared understanding that protection shouldn't feel like prison.
Footsteps on the iron stairs—the ones that announced everyone. Michael appeared on the mezzanine with case files and his travel mug.
"You're both psychotic," he called down. "It's not even seven."
"Says the man already working," I shot back.
He vanished into the glass-walled conference room, pinning photos to the case board: a senator's family, a tech CEO, and someone's daughter receiving concerning letters. We were booked through October.
Eamon crossed to the main case board, updating timelines in his precise handwriting. Morning sun caught the copper color in his beard. His left shoulder moved stiffly as he reached to mark a date. He saw me watching.
"Don't," he said without turning.
"Wasn't going to say anything."
"You were thinking it." He lowered his arm slowly and rotated his shoulder. Grimaced. "It's worse in the morning. Gets better once I move."
I crossed to him. Put my hand on his back, my thumb finding the scar through his shirt.
"Bad night?" I asked quietly.
"Couldn't find a position that didn't pull." He turned to face me, and there was something raw in his expression. "Some mornings I can't lift my arm higher than my chest. The PT says it might always be like this."
"Does that bother you?"
"No." He reached for my hand and threaded our fingers together. "It reminds me what matters. That I made the right choice."
"Yeah," I said. "You did."
The door opened again. It was Miles. He was early for the crisis communication workshop he was teaching our new hires. Alex followed him with pastries, kissing Michael through the conference room door.
We settled into a usual morning rhythm. Phones. Emails.
My mother stopped by at 10:30 with tea and a lecture about the dying office plants.
"I'll bring replacements," she said, studying the struggling ficus. "With instructions. Written down."
She squeezed my hand—brief, warm—and left.
Eamon appeared at my shoulder. "Michael needs you upstairs. Client questions about venue access."
"Five minutes."
He wrapped an arm around me while waiting.
"You ever have second thoughts?" I asked. "About all this?"
He smiled. "Every day."
I blinked. "Really?"
