I’m reminded, not for the first time, that care doesn’t have to be loud to be unmistakable.
When I step back into the hall, there’s one place left to go.
Derek’s office.
My stomach dips as I approach it—not dread exactly, but awareness. The quiet recognition that some moments require you to show up fully present, whether you want to or not.
I straighten my spine.
I knock once and step inside.
The office is different.
Not dramatically. But pleasantly.
There’s a framed photo on the side table—Derek with Alex and Mark, all three of them younger, less guarded. A signed Jordan basketball in a custom case sits on the shelf, not hidden away. Sports memorabilia arranged with care rather than nostalgia.
Personal.
Chosen.
I take it in without comment.
What does this mean, I wonder.
Is this real change—or just movement?
He looks up as I enter.
Our eyes meet.
Nothing sharp passes between us. No defensiveness. No apology reaching too soon for words.
Just acknowledgment.
“I’m back,” I say.
“I know,” he replies.
And he does. I can tell.
"I heard what that jackhole Ethan Rowley did," I start
Derek raises his brows. His lip twitch, but he just nods.
We don’t talk long. We don’t need to.
This is professional. Not personal, I remind myself.
When I leave his office, my breath feels steadier than I expected.
In the breakroom, Jamie is already there, coffee in hand.
She looks up and smiles—small, real.
“You okay,” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. And mean it.
