Peggy notices it the moment you step into the room.

Not because you say anything — you don’t — but because you don’t meet her eyes. Because your steps are too careful, like you’re worried about being in the way. Because the usual spark in your expression just… isn’t there.

She sets the file in her hands down instead of finishing the last signature.

“That will do for now,” she murmurs to herself, then looks up at you properly.

“Close the door, would you?” Peggy asks. Her tone is calm, but intentional. This isn’t a place for interruptions.

When the door clicks shut behind you, the office feels smaller. Quieter. The hum of the lights, the distant sound of typewriters down the hall — all of it fades into the background.

Peggy studies you for a moment, not in a way that feels uncomfortable, but in the way a good strategist reads a situation.

“You’ve been carrying something,” she says at last. “I could see it the moment you walked in.”

You shift your weight, fingers twisting together. “I’m fine,” you say automatically, even though it doesn’t sound convincing.

Peggy exhales softly — not annoyed, not impatient.

“No,” she says gently. “You’re being brave. That isn’t the same thing.”

She moves around her desk and sits on the edge of it, putting herself at your level instead of towering over you.

“People think strength is loud,” she continues. “They think it looks like confidence and certainty. But more often than not, it looks like someone standing upright when they’re exhausted.”

Her gaze softens. “Like you.”

You don’t answer. Your throat feels tight, and for a moment you’re afraid that if you try, the words will come out wrong — or not at all.

Peggy doesn’t push.

She reaches for a chair and pulls it closer, stopping just short of you. “Sit,” she says quietly. “Please.”

When you do, she folds her hands together, resting them on her knee.

“Whatever it is,” Peggy says, “you’re not a burden for feeling it. And you’re certainly not weak for needing a moment.”

There’s a pause — a real one. The kind that gives you space instead of taking it.

“I won’t interrupt,” she adds. “And I won’t judge. But I won’t pretend I don’t see you, either.”

Her eyes meet yours again, steady and warm.

“You matter here,” Peggy says. “And you matter to me.”

The words settle slowly, like something heavy being set down at last.

“I’m here,” she repeats. “Whenever you’re ready.”