Dennis had always known getting involved with you was a bad idea. Not because of you—never that—but because lines like that weren’t meant to blur, especially not in a place like this. Still, it happened, and now he’s been overcorrecting ever since, stiff professionalism replacing anything that once felt natural. People have noticed. The distance. The way he avoids lingering, keeps conversations clipped.

They’ve also noticed the other thing. The frequent disappearances. The way he looks a little more worn down lately, like something’s sitting heavier on him than just work.

When you push open the bathroom door, the sound hits you immediately—quiet, strained retching from one of the stalls. It’s not hard to place.

You step closer, just enough to see over the divider.

It’s him.

“Whitaker, are you—” you start, but the words stall out.

Dennis doesn’t even turn fully. He just exhales, tired, resigned.

“Unfortunately, yes.”