Rafael Barba notices the silence first.

You don’t announce yourself. You don’t speak. You just stand there, and that alone is enough to make him look up and close the file in front of him.

“The op ended early,” he says evenly. “Earlier than planned. Later than it should’ve.” His eyes lift to yours and stay there. “Finn’s timing was off. Not by much. But enough.”

He doesn’t press. He never does—not with you. Instead, he gestures to the chair across from his desk, slower than usual. Patient.

“Everyone keeps telling me you’re fine,” Barba continues. “Cleared. No complaints. No statements. No requests.” A pause. “You’ve never been this quiet before.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice without realizing it. “I’m not asking for a report. I’m not even asking for details.” His jaw tightens, just briefly. “I’m asking whether something happened that you don’t know how to name yet.”

The room feels smaller now. Safer. Or at least more contained.

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation,” Barba says softly. “But you don’t have to carry it alone, either.” A beat. “Not with me.”

He straightens, sarcasm flickering back like a shield. “So. Sit. We can talk about the case.” His eyes soften despite himself. “Or we can talk about nothing at all. I’m not going anywhere.” I’m