She glanced up. “Let me guess. You’re here to check up on me?”
“No,” I said, then paused. “Yes. And also, the fundraiser follow-up.”
Remi pointed toward the whiteboard behind her, covered in chaotic scrawl.
“I already started a list.”
I squinted. “That’s a list?”
“It’s a system.”
“It looks like a murder wall.”
She grinned. “You love it.”
I walked around the counter, leaning against the edge, arms crossed. “You know you didn’t have to organize a second fundraiser before the first one’s even tallied.”
“I didn’t have to, and it's been months...” she murmured. “But momentum matters. You want to repair a broken relationship with the public? You can’t just show up once in a cowboy hat and think you’ve solved civic mistrust.”
“I wore a tie, too.”
“You wore it under the cowboy hat, Chief. That’s not as impressive as you think it is.”
I chuckled despite myself. “You’re ruthless.”
“I’m efficient.”
“You’re both.”
“Besides,” she added, tapping the board, “this one will be for the clinic. We can show a united front.”
Her voice softened, almost against her will. It was a glimpse of the weight she carried, the way she always turned pain into motion.
I watched her for a beat. “You ever take a break?”
She didn’t answer right away. Just kept typing, fingers fast, jaw set.
“I’m serious,” I pressed.
Remi sighed and pushed her glasses to her head. “I’ll rest when things stop falling apart.”
“That’s never going to happen.”
“Exactly.”
There it was again. That gravity she carried, like the ground could open under her feet, and she’d still plant herself like a tree, telling everyone else to climb up and hang on.
“Remi,” I said, softer this time. “You know you’re allowed to breathe, right? To let someone else carry it for a while. To live a life for you.”
Her jaw twitched. “You sound like Jack.”
I tilted my head. “Is that a bad thing?”
“No,” she said quickly. Then, quieter: “But it’s complicated.”
“How so?”
She closed her laptop with a quiet click, finally lifting her gaze to me.
