The scene is louder than it should be for this time of night.

Police lights flash against the windows of the office building while agents move through the perimeter in controlled patterns. Radios crackle. Someone shouts coordinates near the command van while negotiators set up across the street.

Morgan stands beside me studying the tactical board.

“Alright,” he mutters. “Explain something to me.”

I glance up from the map. “What?”

Morgan nods toward the row of vans parked along the curb.

“Why is Cyber Division here?”

I follow his line of sight automatically.

At first nothing seems unusual.

Then Clarke steps out of one of the vans.

He’s easy to recognize—slightly rumpled suit, oversized glasses, the unmistakable posture of someone who spends most of his life behind a computer instead of in the field.

Morgan squints.

“That guy’s been orbiting your wife all night.”

I blink. “…What?”

Morgan gestures again.

“Cyber Division doesn’t usually show up to barricade scenes unless there’s a digital angle.”

I look back toward the command area.

Clarke is standing beside Cynthia now.

She’s in full tactical gear, vest secured over her shoulders, rifle slung across her back while she studies the operational layout on the table. The floodlights catch the pale strands of her hair escaping the tight knot at the back of her head.

For a moment I just watch her.

It occurs to me suddenly that I don’t remember the last time I actually looked at her.

Not in passing while leaving the house. Not across the room between case files and phone calls.

Actually looked.

Clarke says something to her.

She shifts slightly so she can hear him over the helicopter noise.

Morgan crosses his arms.

“You notice the way he’s looking at her?”

I hesitate.

Because now that Morgan’s pointed it out—

I do.

Clarke is watching her with a kind of open admiration that’s difficult to mistake for anything else.

Morgan glances sideways at me.

“You good?”

“I’m fine.”

But my attention stays on them.

Clarke is talking animatedly now, pointing at something on a tablet screen while Cynthia listens. The gesture is enthusiastic, almost excited, like he’s explaining something he finds fascinating.

Morgan leans closer.

“Pretty boy… that man is sniffing.”

I adjust my glasses automatically.

“That’s an assumption.”

Morgan snorts. “No it ain’t.”

Across the command table Clarke laughs at something she says. The sound carries faintly through the staging area.

For a moment something tightens in my chest.

Morgan watches my face carefully.

“That’s your wife, man.”

I swallow slowly. “I know.”

And yet the thought lands strangely.

Because he’s right.

She is my wife.

Legally. Technically.

She goes home to the same house I do. Her boots sit by the same front door. Her coffee mug is still on the same kitchen counter.

And yet as I watch Clarke look at her like she’s the most impressive person on the scene, another thought creeps in behind it.

When was the last time I looked at her like that?

My mind searches automatically.

A memory surfaces—late night light in the kitchen, her leaning against the counter while I explained something about geographic profiling models.

Another—her sitting across from me at the table months ago while I read case notes.

But the images feel distant.

Unfocused.

Morgan speaks again, quieter now.

“You gonna say something to him?”

I don’t answer.

Because another realization settles heavily in my chest.

Clarke might be looking at my wife like she hung the moon.

But when was the last time I even noticed she was standing there?

Across the command table Cynthia shifts slightly while reviewing the map.

And suddenly the thought lands with uncomfortable clarity.

She comes home to me.

Every night.

Or at least… she used to.

I stare across the staging area, watching the way Clarke leans closer while she speaks, completely focused on her like the rest of the operation has faded into the background.

And something inside my chest twists.

What am I doing?

That’s my Wife.

The realization is immediate.

That’s my Wife.