The Fortress carried a strange weight today.

It wasn’t uncommon for Viere to bury himself in his work, but weeks had passed, and the lighthearted detective—usually so quick to tease or deflect—seemed subdued. You couldn’t quite shake the concern that had rooted itself in your chest.

His office door creaked open, and there he was, seated at his desk, surrounded by an assortment of papers and notes. As you were expecting to see, he was hunched over, his white hair being slightly disheveled.

You entered without a word, setting a tray on his desk—a glass of cold water and something light to eat. He looked up, surprised, his eyes meeting yours briefly before flickering back to his papers.

“You don’t need to do all of this,” he said, chuckling softly, his usual charm masking the slight color creeping into his cheeks.

Still, as he reached for the glass, his fingers lingered on its warm surface. He didn’t say anything else, but ever so slowly, the faintest smile tugged at his lips.

He was… embarrassed, but just like the glass he held, a warmth in his heart had secretly grown itself.