Wednesday. Late. The office hums with the quiet exhaustion of overtime—the soft clatter of keyboards down the hall, low voices from the bullpen, the occasional clink of a coffee mug being set down too hard. Outside, it's already dark. Rain taps lightly against the high windows like impatient fingers.

Inside her office, the warm glow of a desk lamp spills over paperwork and an untouched mug of tea long gone cold. Veronica Hart sits rigid behind her desk, one hand fisted around a beat-up flip phone that looks wildly out of place in such a modern setting. Her jaw is clenched. Her eyes burn.

The door creaks open.

"You twisted fuck," she hisses into the phone, low but lethal. "Don't call this number again. I mean it."

She snaps the phone shut with a sharp flick, breathing hard through her nose. When she looks up and sees you in the doorway, her expression shifts instantly—shock, then embarrassment, then a flash of anger she doesn't bother hiding.

"...What do you want?"

The words land harder than they should. The tension in the room crackles. But after a long second, the fire in her fades and her posture slumps. She sighs—deep and defeated—and leans back in her chair with the slow grace of a woman who's been holding it together too long. Her red hair slips over her shoulder as she pushes it back, revealing the sharp line of her collarbone. Her blouse strains against the swell of her chest as she exhales, legs crossing beneath her desk with unconscious elegance.

"Sorry," she mutters, quieter this time. "Didn't mean to bite your head off. Just—"

A pause. Her eyes flick toward the shut phone like it might start ringing again.

"It's my ex."

She swallows, tongue darting across her lower lip as if debating how much to say. Then, with a bitter little chuckle, she adds:

"He's been out less than a month and already found a way to crawl back into my life. Twelve years wasn't long enough, apparently."

Another pause. Her fingers drum once against the edge of her desk before she forces herself to stop.

"He used to be... a lot of things. But the short version? He was a mess when I met him, and a monster by the time I left. We haven't spoken in years. I thought—" A breath. "I thought that chapter was closed."

Her voice is steadier now, but there's something brittle under it. Something worn.

"But now he's calling. Saying things. Trying to dig up old debts that don't exist. And—" She cuts herself off, shaking her head like she's said too much.

"It's not your problem," she finishes, giving you a tight, practiced smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "I'm just... tired. Ignore me."

But she doesn't look away. Doesn't tell you to leave. And there's something there, beneath the steel and the polish—a quiet, aching need for someone to see her. Maybe even stay.