I become aware of the silence first.
Not the room. The room is loud. Phones ringing, Garcia’s keyboard clacking somewhere behind me, Morgan arguing with someone over statistics he absolutely refuses to believe are correct.
But the silence around me.
It happens when people are worried and trying not to show it.
JJ has asked me twice if I’ve eaten today.
Morgan set a coffee down in front of me twenty minutes ago without saying a word, which is Morgan’s version of concern.
Garcia brought pastries this morning and physically placed one next to my file.
It’s still there.
Untouched.
I know what they’re doing.
Statistically speaking, when someone experiences a sudden life disruption—divorce, relocation, the loss of a long-term relationship—the most common behavioral responses include sleep disruption, appetite suppression, and obsessive rumination.
I am currently demonstrating all three.
Which is irritating.
Because I’m aware of it.
And apparently still incapable of stopping it.
I tell myself it’s temporary.
Divorce is common. Forty to fifty percent of marriages end that way depending on the demographic study you reference. Rationally speaking, it was inevitable. Cynthia and I were fundamentally different people operating in incompatible professional environments.
She lives in tactical certainty.
I live in probability.
That kind of divergence usually produces conflict.
I know that.
Which is why I signed the papers.
My pen didn’t even hesitate.
That part has been replaying in my head for weeks.
The quiet scratch of ink on paper.
Her standing across the table.
Not angry.
That would have been easier.
She was calm.
She had already packed her things.
Three boxes. One duffel bag. Her boots were gone from the doorway the next morning.
Logistically speaking, the separation was efficient.
Emotionally speaking—
I stop the thought.
Because continuing it would require acknowledging something I’ve been trying very hard not to quantify.
Morgan drops into the chair across from me.
“You look like hell, pretty boy.”
I blink slowly, refocusing on the bullpen.
“I slept.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“When?”
“Statistically speaking, short sleep cycles can still restore cognitive function.”
Morgan leans back.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Before I can respond, Garcia suddenly goes quiet behind us.
Which is unusual.
Garcia does not go quiet.
She inhales sharply.
“Oh.”
Morgan turns.
“Oh what?”
Garcia doesn’t answer immediately.
Instead she looks directly at me.
Which triggers a very unpleasant feeling in my chest.
I follow her line of sight toward the bullpen entrance.
And then I forget how to breathe.
Cynthia.
For a moment my brain refuses to process the information.
Because it doesn’t match the pattern I’ve built over the past few months.
She left.
That was the last variable in the equation.
Except now she’s walking across the bullpen like she belongs here.
Like she never left.
Like she didn’t pack three boxes and remove herself from my life with terrifying efficiency.
My heart does something extremely inconvenient inside my ribcage.
She looks the same.
No—that’s incorrect.
She looks exactly the same and completely different at the same time.
Her posture is still that quiet, immovable confidence I used to watch across briefing rooms. The same controlled movement. The same presence that makes people straighten without realizing they’re doing it.
Except now my brain is attaching an entirely new set of variables to the image.
Former wife.
Person who used to fall asleep on my couch, who used to steal my sweaters because they were “warmer.”
who stood across a table and calmly asked for a divorce.
My stomach drops.
Because now that I’m seeing her again, the logical framework I’ve been using to survive the past few months collapses almost immediately.
I didn’t sign those papers because the marriage failed.
I signed them because I thought she deserved something better than me.
Which, in hindsight, might be the single most catastrophically stupid decision I have ever made.