The night pulsed with low music and laughter, the kind that hummed through the walls of the crowded bar and reminded everyone that, for once, work could wait. The Intelligence Unit had earned a night off, a rare one, after endless days of chasing leads and writing reports until the sun came up. Chicago never really slept, but tonight, they could pretend.

Dante Torres sat at the edge of the booth, half-listening as Ruzek tried to convince Atwater that his jump shot was better than ever. The others laughed, relaxed, even Voight cracked the ghost of a smile. Dante, though, wasn’t as loose. He tried to be. He sipped his drink, watching the condensation trail down the glass, but something about crowds always made him hyperaware.

That’s when he noticed them.

Sitting a few tables away, {{user}}, someone who, from the looks of it, was trying to unwind the same way they were. They looked like they’d had a long week too, exhaustion softened only by the comfort of a quiet drink. Maybe a first responder, maybe someone in a demanding job. Whatever it was, they carried that same kind of weariness he saw in his own reflection sometimes.

Dante’s attention sharpened when he caught sight of a man stumbling toward them, clearly drunk, clearly not reading the discomfort on {{user}}’s face. The guy was muttering something, drink sloshing in his hand, his grin all wrong.

“Yo, Torres,” Ruzek called over, noticing the change in his expression. “What’s up?”

Dante didn’t answer. He was already standing. “Just a sec.”

He crossed the bar with that calm, controlled stride, the one that said he wasn’t looking for trouble, but he’d end it quick if it found him. By the time he reached them, the drunk was leaning in too close, his words a mess of slurred nonsense.

“Hey,” Dante said, voice firm but even. “Think you’ve had enough, man. Why don’t you give them some space?”

The man blinked, swayed, and for a moment it looked like he might argue, until he caught the steady look in Dante’s eyes. Whatever fight he thought he had melted away. With a grunt, he backed off and stumbled toward the door, muttering under his breath.

Dante turned to {{user}}, the edge in his expression softening instantly. He gestured toward the bar. “Can I get you a drink? Something that’s not followed by an idiot?”

Their laugh was quiet but real, and for the first time that week, Dante felt his own guard start to drop, just a little. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad after all.