I drift instead of decide.
The hallway opens into a small office first—Derek’s office—and it’s exactly what I expect in the least comforting way possible. Minimal personality. Everything is efficient, restrained, controlled.
Stuffy.
This room feels like armor. Like a place where emotions don’t get invited inside.
From somewhere behind me, Derek’s voice carries again—muted now through walls, steady and decisive. This room makes sense for that version of him.
I back out quietly, oddly relieved.
Across the hall, a guest room door stands open. Light spills across pale carpet, soft and inviting.
The bathroom attached to it draws me in next.
It smells clean. Neutral. Like soap and stone and nothing else.
Everything is orderly. Quiet. Unused enough to feel impersonal, which is a relief.
I take a moment there—relieve myself, wash my hands, study my reflection.
I look… tired.
Not wrecked. Not broken. Just dulled around the edges. My eyes are slower. My thoughts still lag half a step behind my body. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and exhale.
Still here, I tell myself.
Still me.
Derek’s voice rises faintly again—one word clearer than the rest. “No.” Firm. Final. Whatever the conversation is, it’s handled.
Further down the hall, I find a library.
My breath actually catches this time.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves line the walls, packed with books—real ones, not decorative spines. Hardcovers mixed with paperbacks, dog-eared corners, sticky notes tucked between pages. There’s a ladder on a rail, a deep armchair angled toward a window, a small table with a reading lamp waiting patiently beside it.
This is a room meant to linger in.
This room feels… quieter than the rest of the house. Thoughtful. Curious.
I smile faintly.
I could get lost here, I think.
Not today. But someday.
The thought settles gently, without pressure.
The man cave announces itself without apology.
A massive television dominates one wall, currently dark, flanked by built-in shelving packed with sports memorabilia. Not decorative replicas or filler pieces—real artifacts. Framed jerseys. Signed basketballs. Photographs mounted with museum-level precision.
Michael Jordan.
Not just one item—several.
My breath catches before I can stop it.
