Breakfast with Emily might be the most normal thing I've done since waking up in the hospital, and yet something about it feels off. Like trying to write with your non-dominant hand, familiar actions made strange by subtle differences.
"These eggs are perfect," I say, taking another bite of the fluffy scramble we made together. The kitchen still smells like butter and coffee, sunlight streaming through the tall windows.
Emily beams at me from across the table, her hair pulled back in a messy bun that somehow makes her look even more gorgeous. She's wearing a silk robe that keeps slipping off one shoulder, revealing smooth skin I now know intimately.
"You did most of the work," she says, reaching across to squeeze my hand. "Your technique with the whisk was flawless."
I laugh, though something nags at the back of my mind. The whisk had felt strange in my hand this morning, like my muscles wanted to hold it differently. The fancy stainless steel pans, the professional-grade knife I used to dice peppers, all of them felt slightly wrong, as if my body expected different tools.
"Do we usually cook together?" I ask, taking a sip of coffee.
Emily pauses, fork halfway to her mouth. Her eyes flick upward briefly, like she's searching for something on the ceiling. The hesitation lasts only a second before she meets my gaze again.
"Sometimes," she says with a small shrug. "When our schedules align. You were always better at it than me."
I nod, accepting her answer even as I note the careful way she phrases things. Always past tense, always vague.
"It was fun," I say, meaning it. Despite the strange disconnect between what my hands expected and what they found, there was something soothing about the routine of cooking. "We should do it more often."
Emily's smile widens, her eyes lighting up with that now-familiar intensity. "I'd like that," she says, her voice soft. "I'd like that very much."
I glance at the digital clock on the microwave. It's Tuesday.
"Wait, it’s a weekday? Shouldn't you be at work?" I ask, setting my fork down. "Don't lawyers usually have, I don't know, court appearances and meetings and stuff?"
Emily takes a long sip of her coffee before answering. "I cleared my schedule for the week," she says simply, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "My husband's health comes first."
"That's really sweet, but I feel fine," I insist. "You don't need to put your career on hold for me."
Emily shakes her head, her expression suddenly serious. "What if your brain swells and you seize up? What if you drown in your own drool while I'm stuck in a deposition?" Her voice rises slightly with each horrifying scenario.
My stomach drops. "Did... did the doctor actually say that was possible?" I ask, my hand unconsciously moving to my throat as if to protect it from this newly imagined threat.
"No," Emily admits after a pause. "The doctor said you were healthy, just need rest."
I stare at her, bewildered. "Then why would you even say that?"
Emily's eyes soften as she stands up and walks around the table. Before I can react, she's behind me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders, her cheek pressed against the top of my head.
"Because I'm worried about you," she whispers, her breath warm against my ear. "You almost died, Charles. Do you understand that? I almost lost you."
There's a tremor in her voice that makes my chest tighten. Despite the strangeness of our situation, her fear feels real and raw.
"I just don't want you to fuss over me," I say, reaching up to squeeze her arm.
Emily laughs softly, the sound vibrating through both our bodies. "Just let your wife care for you a little, yeah?"
I nod, feeling oddly comforted by her closeness. Maybe I am being stubborn.
"Oh shoot," she says suddenly, straightening up. "While I remember, there's something I need you to sign."
She hurries over to her briefcase by the kitchen door and pulls out a thick stack of papers, all professional-looking documents with official seals and formal typesetting.
"What's all this?" I ask as she returns to the table.
"Just some routine paperwork," Emily says, her tone casual, though her posture has stiffened slightly. "Insurance forms, medical authorizations, things like that."
She holds the stack against her chest, angling the documents in a way that makes it impossible for me to see what's actually written on them. There must be at least fifty pages there, probably more.
"Shouldn't I look these over first?" I ask, reaching out my hand. "I mean, that's a lot of papers to sign without reading."
Emily's expression changes instantly. The warm, caring look hardens into something cold and clinical, her lawyer face sliding into place like a mask. Her posture straightens, making her seem even taller as she looks down at me.
"Baby," she says, her voice dropping to a tone that's both gentle and somehow threatening, "your brain is all muddled up right now. You can't even remember what movies you like, let alone understand complex legal documents."
She taps the papers with one perfectly manicured nail. "I'm a lawyer. And since I'm your wife, I'm basically your lawyer too." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "So you don't have to worry. I would never let you sign anything that wouldn't be in your best interest."
The way she says it makes my stomach tighten. Each word is precise, sharp like a scalpel. There's an unspoken challenge beneath her statement: I dare you to try not to sign these documents.
I hesitate, looking from the papers to her face. I should probably insist on reading them. That would be the smart thing to do. But the thought of arguing with Emily, of potentially making her angry when she's been nothing but supportive, makes me uncomfortable.
Plus, she's right about one thing, my brain does feel like a mess. The idea of parsing through pages of legal jargon sounds exhausting. And if it means getting to spend more time with this gorgeous woman who, for whatever reason, seems completely devoted to me...
"Alright," I say with a shrug. "Can I have a pen?"
Emily's expression softens immediately, her smile widening in a way that makes me think this was easier than she expected. There's a flicker of relief in her eyes.
"Of course," she purrs, producing a sleek fountain pen from her robe pocket. She places it in my hand, her fingers lingering on mine longer than necessary.
I take the pen, feeling its weight. It's expensive, heavy in my palm. As Emily places the first document in front of me, I notice the letterhead of what must be her law firm: "Adams & Associates."
"Just sign at the bottom," she instructs, her finger pointing to a line at the bottom of the page.
I scrawl what I assume is my signature onto the paper, feeling strangely disconnected from the action. Emily quickly slides that page away and presents another, then another, the stack diminishing as I sign without reading.
"What exactly am I signing away here?" I ask, trying to keep my tone light as I put my name on yet another document.
Emily tosses her hair back and laughs, the sound light and airy. "Just boilerplate stuff, Charles. Standard legal protection. You won't even notice."
I finish signing the last page and look up at her with a grin. "So does this mean I get more nights like last night?"
Emily's expression shifts to confusion, her perfect eyebrows drawing together as she processes my question. She seems genuinely thrown off, like I've asked something completely unexpected. For a moment, she just stares at me, those green eyes calculating something I can't quite read.
Then understanding dawns on her face, followed by a slow, seductive smile.
"Well," she says, her voice dropping to that husky tone that makes my stomach flip, "it certainly won't hurt your chances."
I cap the pen with a dramatic flourish and hand it back to her. "Done. All signed away to the beautiful lady."
I watch as she carefully gathers the papers, tapping them into a neat stack before sliding them back into a folder. There's something almost reverent in how she handles them, like they're precious artifacts rather than boring legal documents.
"So," I say, leaning back in my chair, "are you going to take my kidney now? Is that what all this was about?"
Emily freezes. The folder slips from her fingers, papers spilling across the table. Her face drains of color so quickly, I'm worried she might faint.
"Don't," she whispers, her voice suddenly hoarse. "Don't even joke about that."
I blink, startled by her intense reaction. "Wha…"
"I would never," she cuts me off, her voice trembling. She grabs my hands, squeezing them so tightly it almost hurts. "I'd never let you give away any of your organs, Charles. Not a single piece of you. You're perfect exactly as you are."
The vehemence in her voice catches me off guard. I stare at her, trying to understand why such an obvious joke provoked such a strong reaction.
"Okay," I say slowly.
Emily's grip on my hands loosens slightly, but her eyes remain intense, searching my face like she's looking for something specific. After a moment, she seems to find what she's looking for and relaxes.
"I'm sorry," she says, her voice returning to normal. "I just... I hate jokes about harm coming to you. Especially after the accident."
"I'm sorry," I say, reaching out to touch her arm. "I didn't mean to upset you. It was a stupid joke."
The doorbell chimes through the house, cutting through the tension between us like a knife. Emily's head snaps toward the sound, her expression morphing from vulnerability to irritation in an instant.
She sighs, the sound heavy with annoyance. "Perfect timing," she mutters, gathering the scattered papers with quick, precise movements.
"Who could that be?" I ask, glancing at the clock. It's barely 9 AM.
Emily's jaw tightens as she shoves the documents back into her briefcase. Her eyes meet mine, cold and calculating again, that warm vulnerability from seconds ago completely vanished.
"Your best friend," she says, each word dripping with barely concealed hostility. "Mark."