My tea had gone untouched long enough to lose its steam, a faint film settling across the surface. My laptop cast a low glow over the counter, inbox open, three threads flagged, two already answered. My phone buzzed once—short, controlled—and I reached for it without looking, thumb unlocking the screen in the same motion I’d used a thousand times before.
January had snapped everything back into place. Games stacked tighter. Media cycles faster. No more holiday buffer—just pressure, clean and constant. Exactly the way I worked best.
I skimmed the latest overnight coverage, eyes moving quickly, tracking tone before content.
“Müller continues to toe the line?—”
My fingers moved without hesitation, tightening the language, redirecting the narrative before it had a chance to settle into something harder to undo. Controlled aggression.Veteran presence. Protective instinct. Words that held without exposing.
The radiator hissed faintly along the wall, pushing heat that never quite reached the floor. The tile under my bare feet stayed cold anyway, grounding, familiar. Necessary.
I reached for the mug, took a sip—my stomach turned—quick, low, not enough to send me running. I set the mug down more carefully than I needed to, fingers tightening slightly around the ceramic before releasing it.
I was fine.
Empty stomach. Too much caffeine. Not enough sleep. Pick one.
My gaze dropped back to the screen. The email. The sentence I’d been editing. I blinked once, slow, forcing focus back into place, and re-read the line from the top.
I exhaled through my nose and pushed forward, finishing the edit, hitting send, watching it disappear into the system like everything else I handled before it had a chance to become a problem.
I shoved away from the counter, crossing the kitchen in a few quick steps, rinsing the mug out, the cold water run over my fingers. The chill bit into my skin, sharp enough to anchor me back into my body, back into something steady.
Stress.
That’s all this was.
It had to be stress.
December had been a grind—travel, late nights, constant pressure, no margin for anything that didn’t directly contribute to keeping things under control. My body was catching up. That was it.
I dried my hands, rolling my shoulders once, resetting posture, resetting focus.
The smell hit next. Subtle. Familiar. Nothing strong enough to matter. And still—my stomach dipped again, violently, a quick, involuntary pull that had me bracing a hand against the edge of the counter before I collapsed in on myself.
I stayed frozen in place, waiting for it to pass.
It did.
Slowly.
My gaze shifted—Food. Sleep. Schedule. Travel. Hydration. None of it lined up clean enough to explain it.
My jaw tightened slightly as I moved back toward the laptop.
If something didn’t make sense—I found where it did.
My hand hovered over the trackpad for half a beat before I clicked, pulling up my calendar, the month opening clean and precise in front of me.
January.
Color-coded.
My eyes dropped exactly where they were supposed to.
Last month.
Then back.