A shadow fell across his desk. “Hey.”
Harry.
His roommate hovered there, brow knitted as he waited for Luke to speak.
Luke’s chest tightened. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I heard the blowup with Linda.” He rubbed his jaw. “You okay?”
Luke let out a humorless breath. “Define okay.”
Harry’s gaze softened. “You’re one of the best reporters at this paper. And this . . . all of this”—he gestured at the half-packed box—“doesn’t erase that.”
Luke stared at the box anyway.
Harry lowered his voice. “Don’t let one story—or one editor—convince you you’re done. Journalists don’t quit. They pivot.” A beat. “And you’ve always been better at that than you think.”
A lump rose in Luke’s throat. “Thanks.”
Harry stood, palms pressed against his knees. “Didn’t say it for thanks. Said it so you don’t walk out of here believing the wrong story.” He paused, eyes steady. “Especially not one about yourself.”
Then he squeezed Luke’s shoulder—brief, firm—and headed back toward his workspace.
Luke watched him go, blinking hard.
Harry, for all his glibness, was wise when it mattered.
For the first time all day, the ache in his chest shifted—painful still, but not quite as hollow.
He took a slow breath.
And started packing again.
There was only one place left to go when he left here.
Amayah’s house.
He needed to talk to her face-to-face.
Talk to the woman whose quiet faith he’d entered under false pretenses. The home where he’d stood beside childrenwho carried too much and hope that pulsed stubbornly beneath broken wood and tired bones.
She deserved the truth.
All of it.
The story. The assignment. The lies. The damage.
Even if it shattered whatever light had started to grow between them.
Especially if it did.
Luke glanced back at the city skyline, frost rimming the edges of glass and steel.
Then he turned toward accountability.
Toward consequences.
Toward the door he no longer had any right to knock on—and yet would anyway.
