The night passed in tense, separate silences. Derek refused to share the bed and shut himself in the study instead, burying himself in emails and spreadsheets until exhaustion finally dragged him under around midnight. When he woke, the sky outside the window was still the soft charcoal of pre-dawn. The clock on the wall read 6:04 a.m.
He stretched, joints popping, and scrubbed a hand over his face. His fingertips brushed the small sticking plaster on his forehead. The memory of Kira's face hovering over him, and the way she gently blew at the wound, looking genuinely sorry, flashed in his memory. He blinked it away. Then his gaze drifted to the top of his laptop.
A yellow Post-it note was stuck there, slightly crooked. 'Smile. It's not a funeral.'
