The counselor’s useless. The teachers keep apologizing. You’ve had enough.

So you show up. Slamming heels. Razor-sharp sarcasm. You don’t ask for a seat. You command one.

Jordyn watches you. Like she’s waiting for you to hit the wall.

⸻

“Let me guess,” you say. “My son’s a problem and it’s somehow my fault.”

Jordyn hums. Not agreement. Not denial. Just… notes your voice.

You bristle. “Do you always sit like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re above it all.”

Jordyn’s gaze sharpens. Then—without a word—she stands.

And suddenly you realize: She’s tall. Solid. And close.

Too close.

“You walk into rooms like you expect to get punched,” she says, calm. “That must be exhausting.”

You laugh, brittle. “You don’t know me.”

She steps closer.

“No. But I know that look in your eyes.”

Pause.

“That please someone notice me before I burn out look.”

And her voice softens—not out of pity, but certainty.

“I see it every time I look in the mirror.”

You’re quiet now.

She reaches behind you. Clicks the door shut.

Not loud. Not suggestive.

Just final.

And when she says, “Sit down,” You do.