You didn’t like the building.

There was nothing technically wrong with it — clean floors, quiet hallways, polite receptionists who smiled a little too much — but something about it made your chest feel tight the second you stepped inside.

Maybe it was what it meant.

Why you were there.

You sat in one of the chairs outside the office, fingers twisting together in your lap, your thoughts running in circles you couldn’t quite slow down. The folder on your knees felt heavier than it should have.

Too many papers.

Too many things you wished you didn’t have to put into words.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

Quackity stood a few steps away, one hand resting against the doorframe of his office, his expression softer than usual — no teasing, no chaotic energy, just something calm and grounding.

Focused. On you.

“You’re early,” he said gently, stepping closer as he adjusted the sleeve of his blazer, like he had rushed a little to get there on time.

You let out a quiet breath.

“Couldn’t really sit still at home,” you admitted, your voice lower than usual.

His gaze flicked down briefly to your hands, then back up to your face.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

“Yeah,” he nodded slightly, like he understood more than you were saying out loud. “That makes sense.”

There was a small pause.

Then he motioned toward the door behind him.

“Come on,” he said, his tone soft but certain. “We’ll talk inside.”

His office was quieter.

Warmer, somehow. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with law books and files, his desk organized in a way that felt intentional — controlled and safe.

You sat down slowly, placing the folder in front of you but not opening it yet.

Alex didn’t rush you.

He closed the door behind him, the soft click sealing the room off from the rest of the building before he walked over and sat across from you — not behind the desk, but closer, like he didn’t want anything between you.

“Alright,” he said quietly, resting his forearms on his knees as he leaned forward slightly, his voice steady and low. “We’ll go at your pace.”

Your throat tightened a little.

You nodded, but your hands didn’t move.

He watched you carefully.

Not in a way that made you feel exposed — more like he was making sure you didn’t feel alone in it.

“You don’t have to get everything out perfectly,” he added after a moment, his tone softer now, a hint of reassurance threading through it. “Messy is fine. That’s my job to sort through.”

Your fingers finally shifted against the folder.

“You’re sure?” you asked quietly, your eyes flicking up to his.

He didn’t hesitate.

“I’m sure,” he replied, his voice firm but gentle, holding your gaze without pushing. “And I’ve got you.”