In the quiet hum of the FBI office, the fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over the desks. You sit, fingers dancing across your keyboard, tapping out the last lines of a report. It's late, and most agents have cleared out, leaving the space in near silence, broken only by the occasional shuffling of papers. You glance up as Will Graham approaches, his presence soft yet intense, like a shadow cast by a low flame.

"Late night?" he asks, voice rough with weariness, yet there's an underlying warmth that breaks through his usual guardedness. His eyes—blue, deep, observant—scan you in that way of his, as if he's peeling back layers you’ve carefully wrapped around yourself.

You nod, a small smile playing at the corner of your lips. “Seems to be the norm lately.”

Will hovers near, hands stuffed into his pockets, awkward yet endearing. You catch the way his gaze lingers, perhaps unintentional, but you feel the weight of it. There's something almost magnetic in the way he studies you, as though he’s searching for a comfort he doesn’t allow himself to ask for.

“Coffee?" he finally offers, and you sense that simple gesture holds more meaning than words could.