It was late, the bullpen nearly empty. You were still at your desk, files open, eyes burning from staring too long.

Rossi stopped behind you, hands in his pockets. He’d noticed the long hours, the way you kept pushing even when you were clearly worn down.

“You remind me of my daughter,” he said quietly. “Strong. Sharp. But when she got overwhelmed, she never asked for help either.”

You glanced up, jaw tight.

“You’ve been carrying a lot on your own,” Rossi continued. “But you’re not alone anymore. It’s alright to ask for help. This team looks out for its own. We care about you.”