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“Where? I know this place like the back of my hand.”

“Fourth floor admin,” I said in a non-specific way. He nodded and put a hand to my elbow, guiding me back the way I came to the closest stairs.

“It's quickest this way.”

“Thank you,” I said as we climbed, and finally, the mist of panic began to ease.

I can do this.

“Are you a baseball fan?” Cam asked. “Because I gotta be honest, I don’t watch a lot of hockey. I always watch out for what you guys are doing, but y’know, the season is manic, and then I have downtime just when you’re playing…” He threw me a wry smile.

“I’m a fan of baseball the same way,” I said, glad I had something to add to the conversation. “But I root for the Phoenix Sunriders.”

He hissed and made the sign of a cross, and then huffed a laugh. “Well, we’re not all perfect.”

We walked the last flight together, Cam matching my pace as though he wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere. He asked easy questions—nothing sharp, nothing invasive.

“You settling in okay?” he asked.

“I… yeah. Trying to.” I tugged at my bracelet, hoping he didn’t notice.

“You’ll get there. First week’s always chaos.” He grinned, and god, it hit stupidly hard. “Hockey guys and baseball guys share the same building, but we barely cross paths unless someone steals our parking spots.”

“I don’t have a car here yet,” I muttered.

“Good. Then it’s not you.”

Somehow, he made me smile. We reached the top floor—quiet, carpeted, nothing like the echoing sports levels below. A huge 4 was painted beside the admin wing doors.

He stopped, nodding toward it. “You know what room you’re looking for?”

Panic punched straight through my ribs. My mind blanked. “I’ll find it,” I said too fast.

Something in my voice must’ve hit him because he backed off gently, hands raised. “Cool.” He took a step back, smile softening. “Nice to meet you again, Jari. See you soon.”

“‘Soon’?”

He frowned. “For the charity planning.”

“Yeah, sure, of course.” I swallowed, nodded, and reached for the door, but my pulse tripped. “I don't think I'd be a good fit,” I blurted, imagining the damage my participation could do to a charity focusing on mental freaking health. One glance at my last name and it would tarnish the entire thing.

“Why’s that?” The way Cam held my gaze made it hard to walk away. I had to, though, because Cap didn't know what he was doing when he asked me to be part of a charity focused on mental health.

“Nothing. Ignore me,” I said, and after a pause, he nodded. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

All too soon, I was on the other side of the door, pulling out the slip of paper with Dr. Hale's room number. I followed the corridor until I reached a door with a brushed-steel plate reading 417. My stomach dropped. I knocked before I could think better of it.

“Come in,” a male voice called—steady, low, nothing as I’d expected.

The room surprised me. Expansive windows stretched across the far wall, looking out over the baseball field below. The roof was closed today, a curved shell of steel and glass filtering the light, so everything seemed muted and distant. From up here, the diamond appeared almost unreal—perfect lines, untouched dirt, the entire stadium quiet.

The office was warm. Plants. Soft lighting. Bookshelf. No cold chrome medical bullshit. Just a desk, two comfortable chairs, and framed prints of abstract art that didn’t demand anything from me.

And behind the desk—Dr. Hale.

A man.