DEREK
The press conference had only been two days ago, but it felt like a lifetime.
I still hadn’t slept. Not really. Not in any way that counted.
I’d crashed for a few hours on the couch in my office the night after—boots still on, half-dressed, a mostly full glass of whiskey sweating rings into my desk.
It was still there. Same glass. Same whiskey. Still untouched.
The quiet was heavier than usual tonight. The kind that made a man feel like the walls were closing in, like the fire in the hearth was burning just to keep the shadows from swallowing the room whole.
I leaned forward on the couch, elbows braced on my knees, hands clasped tight enough to crack bone. My eyes fixed on the dying flames. I didn’t move.
Not when the embers popped.
Not when the clock ticked past midnight.
