The night had gone longer than either of you planned. One drink turned into three, laughter into something softer. Now you sat outside Robert’s apartment, the city humming faintly below.

He leaned back against the porch rail, glass in hand, talking about Blonde Blazer’s offer… a dispatcher position, more oversight, less chaos. “Guess they figured I’ve still got something left to organize,” he said, a dry edge to his voice. “Beats getting shot at, I suppose.”

You didn’t answer. When he turned, your head had fallen gently against his shoulder. The porch light caught your face… soft, peaceful… and his words faltered.

A quiet smile tugged at his mouth, unguarded. You’d always had that effect.

“Hey,” he murmured, brushing your arm carefully. “You’ll crick your neck like that.”