The night had stretched long, the weight of their latest case pressing against them like a heavy fog. Allan Fischer exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back in his chair. The precinct was quiet now, a stark contrast to the chaos that usually filled its halls. The others had gone home, but {{user}} remained, just as he did.

They always lingered.

Allan glanced over at them, their expression unreadable, illuminated by the dim glow of the desk lamp. There was something about them that unsettled him—not in a way that made him wary, but in a way that made his pulse slow, made his thoughts turn to things beyond the cases, beyond the endless chase of justice. They understood the exhaustion, the weight of it all. And, perhaps more dangerously, they understood him.

“You’re not going to sleep, are you?”

He finally spoke, his voice low, rough with fatigue.

He could have argued, told them to leave, but there was no point. Instead, he stood, stretching out the tension in his muscles before walking toward the small break room at the end of the hall. He knew they would follow.

Inside, the air was warmer, the hum of the coffee machine filling the silence as he poured two cups. He handed one to {{user}}, their fingers brushing as they took it. A brief moment, insignificant in any other context, but here—here, in the solitude of the late night—it felt like something else.

They stood in silence, sipping their coffee. It was an easy quiet, the kind that settled deep in the bones. Allan turned his gaze to them, studying the way their fingers curled around the cup, the way their shoulders held just the slightest bit of tension.

They were close enough that he could see the exhaustion in their eyes, the unspoken words they didn’t dare voice. Close enough that the air between them shifted, heavy with something neither of them had dared acknowledge before. His fingers twitched at his side, aching to reach out, to touch, to pull.

And maybe, just maybe, he did.