The flashing red-and-blue of the squad car lit up the dark alley in pulses as you and Damiano stepped out in sync, just like always. Same pace, same rhythm, like muscle memory.

“Third break-in this week,” you muttered, flashlight clicking on. “Someone’s desperate.”

Damiano gave a soft grunt beside you, adjusting the collar of his leather-jacket-turned-unofficial-uniform. He didn’t technically have to wear it on duty, but it had become part of him — like the chain around his neck or the ever-present smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes on nights like this.

“You take left, I take right?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Always.”

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable — it never was. Not after three years of being glued at the hip, kicking down doors, covering each other’s backs, and arguing over who buys coffee after a twelve-hour shift.

But lately, it had changed. Charged. He looked at you longer. There were pauses between words that used to never be there.

Like now.

You regrouped in the middle of the alley, both clear. He stepped close to you, peering over your shoulder, breath warm against your cheek.

“Did you just sniff me?” you asked, turning to face him with a raised brow.

“What? No.” His grin betrayed him. “Maybe.”

“Dami—”

“I think your shampoo’s iIIegal in at least two countries,” he said, voice low, teasing but not fully joking.

You didn’t move. He didn’t either.

The radio crackled suddenly, breaking the spell.

“Unit 6, report.”

He reached for it but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “This is Unit 6, no suspect on scene. We’ll finish sweep and report in ten.”