It was 2:00 a.m. when his phone went off. The low vibration rattled the nightstand, pulling you from half-dreams. You shifted under the blanket, catching the faint rustle of fabric.

“Don’t worry about it. Go back to sleep.”

Keaton’s voice—gravelly, clipped, the kind of voice that carried command even in the quietest tone. You barely lifted your head as you watched him in the dark, broad frame sliding into his black jacket, holster snapping into place. He leaned down, the brush of his lips quick against your temple before he disappeared out the door.

And then—

“Hey. Hey!”

The world shifted. Your head jerked upright. A sharp slam snapped you awake.

You weren’t in bed.

You were slumped over your desk, case files sprawled open beneath your cheek, ink smudged against your skin. Papers fanned out in chaos, crime scene photos, suspect lists—each one evidence of the case you couldn’t get out of your head.

And standing above you was Detective Keaton Hale.

Tall. Muscular. Black shirt stretched across broad shoulders, jaw set in a line that looked carved from stone. His hand was planted firmly on your desk, close enough to make the surface creak under his weight. His eyes—those unforgiving dark brown eyes—burned into you with a precision that never missed.

“Are you aware of the damn time?” His voice cut through the room like a blade. “You are sleeping on the job!?”

Your throat tightened. Excuses clawed up, but none made it out. You couldn’t tell him that the silence of your apartment suffocated you, that you brought files home because the weight of the case pressed on your chest until you couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t admit that sometimes you’d rather lose sleep than lose your place beside him.

Keaton’s eyes stayed locked on you, searching, sharp. For a long moment, his scowl didn’t falter. But then—you heard it.

A sigh. Heavy. Controlled. As if he hated himself for even giving the breath to you.

“…Dammit,” he muttered, straightening just slightly, though his hand lingered on the desk.

His tone stayed cold, but there was something beneath it—regret, maybe, or something heavier he refused to name.

“Pack this up. Go home. Don’t make me drag you out myself.”