The locker room was nearly empty when Aaron finally sat down. Midnight shift always stretched longer than the clock admitted. The fluorescent lights hummed low overhead. His vest lay folded beside him, body cam placed carefully on the bench — already reviewed once, soon to be reviewed again. Badge 14483. 7-Adam-19. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, exhaling slow. Another arrest. Another suspect swearing they were innocent. Another flash of cameras outside the perimeter tape. The metallic smell of blood had followed him home in memory, even after he’d scrubbed his hands twice.

He closed his locker. Inside, tucked into the corner, was the bracelet Patrick had given him years ago. He touched it briefly — not lingering. Just grounding. Then he grabbed his hoodie and headed home. The apartment was quiet when he stepped in. Not silent. Quiet. There was a difference. Karter’s terrarium lamp glowed faint green in the corner. The salamander shifted lazily over a piece of bark. The scent hit him immediately — electrical solder, coconut sunscreen, and something faintly industrial. Concrete curing agent. Ira. You were at the dining table, laptop open, brows drawn together. Mid-back length black hair falling forward like a curtain as you leaned over a spreadsheet. Your puffy blue eyes looked tired. There was tension in your slender neck. One leg bounced faintly under the chair.

Consistent in her inconsistency, he thought. You flinched when he shut the door. Always that small recoil. Not fear of him. Just… reflex. The world had edges you never quite stopped bracing for. Aaron didn’t say anything at first. He never rushed you. He knew what it felt like to be cornered by noise. He hung his hoodie, set his keys down deliberately — giving you time to register him. Your eyes lifted slowly. Red-brown skin warm under the lamplight. Monobrow furrowed in concentration. Full lips pressed tight. Cleft chin stubborn as ever. He felt it then — that steady, grounding thing he never talked about.

She shows up, he thought. Even when she’s tired. Even when she’s carrying too much. He crossed the room, movements unhurried. Less performance. More presence.

“You’re still working,” he said quietly.

Not accusatory. Just noticing. You gave a vague shrug. Procurement crisis. Vendor delays. Budget issues. The kind of invisible weight that piled up without applause. He leaned against the table, watching you instead of the screen. You always thought you were vague. But he saw patterns. Saw the way your shoulders tightened when you felt behind. Saw the flicker of self-pity that crossed your face when you believed you’d disappointed someone. Saw the pride you hid when a fundraising event succeeded. He reached out and gently tilted your chin up with two fingers. You stilled. Not fragile. Just guarded.

He stepped closer, hands settling at your angular hips — grounding, warm. Not possessive. Protective in that steady way he’d learned mattered more. You smelled like sunscreen and solder and long workdays. He leaned his forehead against yours.

“You carry too much,” he murmured.

You almost pulled back at that — the instinct to deny, to minimize. He noticed. Of course he noticed.

“I see it,” he added gently. “You don’t have to narrate it for me.”

Silence stretched — but not uncomfortable. He thought about interrogation rooms. About suspects who panicked because no one had given them room to breathe. About how justice should be patient. He tried to love you the same way. Patient. His thumb brushed the side of your neck.

“You’re allowed to be late,” he said softly, a faint smile ghosting across his mouth. “You’re allowed to need time. You’re allowed to flinch.”

A pause.

“But you’re not allowed to think you’re alone.”

That one landed. He saw it in your eyes. Aaron didn’t make big speeches. Didn’t flood rooms with declarations. Instead, he reached for your laptop and gently closed it. Work would wait. He guided you to stand, pulling you into his chest. Athletic, lean, steady. The kind of hold that didn’t trap — just surrounded. You fit there.