Making sure my leave is completely locked in,” he said smoothly, stepping close to kiss the top of her head.

It was a sweet gesture, designed to settle the matter.

But it didn’t.

By the time the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed the half-hour and they were almost ready to leave, Erin’s uneasiness had sharpened into something jagged.

She couldn’t quite name it, but she could feel it prickling at the back of her neck.

She had spent the last nine months turning entirely inward, learning every microscopic change in her own body.

She knew every flutter, every round ligament ache, every hiccup, and every shift in the baby’s sleep rhythm.

But she had also spent the last five years of their marriage learning Ben.

She knew his tells.

She knew the difference between his stress over a work deadline and his deep, foundational panic.

She knew his version of worry, and this—this manic packing, the locked screens, the hollow smiles—was completely different from anything she had seen before.

He wasn’t just anxious.

He was bracing.

He was acting like a man preparing for an impact.

That was what finally made her pause.

“I’m going to run upstairs and grab my wallet,” Ben announced suddenly, clapping his hands together once as if to break the heavy silence in the room.

“Are you good?

You need water before we head to the car?”

“I’m fine,” she murmured, watching his retreating back as he took the stairs two at a time.

Erin exhaled a long, shaky breath, feeling the phantom pressure of anxiety sitting heavily on her chest.

She turned toward the dining table.

Ben’s heavy, wool winter jacket was slung over the back of one of the wooden chairs.

Figuring she would save him a step, she reached out to grab it so she could hand it to him on his way out the door.

As she lifted it by the collar, she frowned.

The jacket was significantly heavier on one side than she expected.

She shifted her grip, and as the fabric tilted, something slipped from the deep, silk-lined inside breast pocket.

It tumbled through the air and fell softly to the hardwood floor, landing just inches from her slippered feet.

It was a piece of paper.

Thick, expensive cardstock, folded sharply in half.

Erin stared down at it for a moment.

The rational part of her brain told her it was a receipt.

A dry-cleaning ticket.

A reminder about the car registration.

But the tightening, primal knot in her stomach told her something else entirely.

Moving with the slow, deliberate caution of a woman heavily pregnant, she bent her knees, gripping the edge of the dining table for support, and picked it up.

She stood back up, her breathing shallow.

The paper felt heavy in her fingers.

She flipped it over.