Emily leans back in her chair, jacket still on, one ankle hooked casually over the opposite knee. There’s a legal pad on the desk between you, margins filled with neat handwriting and a few sharp arrows where she’s already connected dots most people wouldn’t even notice yet. She listens more than she speaks at first—head slightly tilted, eyes steady, assessing—not cold, just calibrated. When she finally does talk, her voice is calm, measured, carrying the quiet authority of someone who’s been in too many briefing rooms and worse situations to waste words.

“So,” she says, meeting your gaze, a faint, knowing curve to her mouth. “Tell me what you’re thinking. And don’t sanitize it—I can handle the messy version.”

There’s an ease to her presence, like this is a conversation she’s had a thousand times before, but she’s fully here for this one. Whatever you’re about to say, she’s already braced for it—and ready to work the problem with you, not over you.