Legal Affairs

9

"Duly noted," I reply, the corners of my mouth lifting in a small smile.

Oliver's eyes flick down to my feet, and his brows knit together in concern. "Just a sec," he says, standing abruptly and leaving the room. I lean back in my chair, confused and a bit annoyed at the sudden departure. The office door swings shut behind him, and I can hear the murmur of voices and the hum of the office air conditioning.

Moments later, he returns with a small first aid kit, a roll of gauze, antiseptic wipes, and some bandages. Without a word, he kneels down in front of me, suit coat and all, and gently takes my right foot in his hands.

"What are you doing?" I ask, curiosity piqued as I watch him work.

"You'll see," he replies with a small smile, focusing on the task at hand. He carefully removes my shoe, his fingers deftly unfastening the strap and easing it off my aching foot. The relief is immediate, though the raw skin and blisters from the Red Bottoms are not a pretty sight.

With the care of a medical professional, he wipes the blisters clean with antiseptic, the cool liquid stinging slightly. He then wraps my foot with gauze, each motion precise and practiced, as if he's done this a hundred times before.

I look at him curiously, unable to mask my surprise. He must feel my gaze because he glances up briefly, smiling. "Before I went to law school, I wanted to be a paramedic."

"That explains a lot," I say, my tone lighter than it's been all day.

He finishes wrapping my foot, securing the bandage with a small piece of medical tape. "There you go. That should feel a bit better."

"Thanks, Oliver," I say, genuinely touched by his unexpected kindness. We sit in a comfortable silence for a moment, the usual hustle and bustle of the office seeming to fade away.

"So," he starts, breaking the quiet, "how's your mom?"

I hesitate, my eyes drifting to the phone on my desk. "It's complicated," I finally say.

"That's something people say when they don't want to tell the truth," he remarks, his tone gentle but probing.

He's right. I think to myself. He's always right. "Yeah, well... it is the truth. After what happened three years ago, it's hard to even know where to start."

Oliver perches on the edge of the desk, his gaze softening with concern. "You ok?"

I hesitate, unsure how much I should share. "I'm fine. It's just...I don't want to talk about it. I turn my head.

"Ok."

"I'm sorry. Well," I stack my papers together. "You were gone. So, how's the domestic violence case coming along? You're seeing our client this afternoon, right?"

"Oh, right," Oliver nods, pulling a file out of his messenger bag. "Tremaine Johnson. Yup, meeting with him in an hour.

"Good, good," I reply, glancing over the files and making some notes.

The silence stretches between us, and for a moment, I wonder if Oliver senses the heaviness lingering in the room.