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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.