These aren’t conversation starters. They’re investments. Chosen carefully. Reverently. The kind of collection someone builds slowly, intentionally—because it matters to them, not because it looks impressive.
I step farther inside, my movements instinctively quiet, like the room might notice.
Two oversized leather recliners—La-Z-Boys, unmistakably—sit angled toward the television. They’re worn in the best way, arms softened by years of use, footrests scuffed where boots and bare feet have kicked them open without ceremony. These chairs weren’t picked to match anything.
They were picked to be lived in.
A deep leather couch anchors the center of the room, broken in and unapologetically comfortable. A throw blanket is slung over one arm, not styled, not folded—just left there. The low table in front of it bears faint scratches and rings, quiet evidence of intense games, late nights, and conversations that probably got louder as the hours wore on.
Off to one side, a full-size pool table commands its own space, dark felt smooth and immaculate, cues racked neatly along the wall. Nearby, a foosball table sits at a slight angle, handles worn from competitive use—this isn’t decoration.
This is where bragging rights are earned and lost.
Against the far wall, a retro Pac-Man arcade machine hums softly, lights glowing faintly even when idle. Bright. Nostalgic. Completely unbothered by whether it fits a design scheme.
I drift closer, the familiar waka-waka sound barely audible.
Then I notice the high-score list.
Three sets of initials.
D.P.
A.R.
M.F.
D.P. sits at the top.
By a lot.
I smile before I can stop myself.
I can picture it easily—Alex trash-talking, Mark insisting on one more round, Derek saying nothing at all. Just stepping up and quietly destroying them.
He doesn’t brag.
He just… wins.
A compact stainless-steel refrigerator hums beneath a shelf to my left, the door smudged with fingerprints. Above it, an open cabinet reveals bags of snacks—chips, pretzels, peanuts, trail mix, protein bars shoved in alongside junk food like they’re negotiating a ceasefire.
This isn’t a space curated for guests.
It’s a space built for staying.
Photos are tucked in among the memorabilia—Derek younger,arms slung around Mark and Alex, all three of them grinning wide. Another where they’re dirt-streaked and laughing, maybe after something ill-advised. One more in tuxes, jackets gone, ties loose, Derek’s smile unguarded in a way I’ve never seen at the office.
No women.
Not posed. Not clinging. Not curated.
Just his people.
Everything else in the house is precise. Balanced. Designed with intention.
This room doesn’t care about perfection.
It’s messy in a way that feels honest.
