(Rebecca's POV)
I catch him at 1 a.m., laptop open on his knees, the blue light doing that thing where it makes a grown man's face look about nine years old and guilty.
"What are you writing."
He minimizes it too fast. That's how I know.
"Eric."
He sighs and pulls it back up, and there it is — a withdrawal email, half-finished, to the Munich team, some line about unforeseen circumstances and rescheduling the final signing that he clearly wrote in the specific panic of a man who has just done the math on flight time versus due dates and doesn't like the answer.
"You are not doing this."
"Rebecca, it's ten days—"
"It's twenty-six weeks." I sit down on the arm of the couch, heavier than I mean to, because everything I do now comes with extra weight attached, literally. "Textbook. Two
