Planarcadia is quieter at night.

Not silent — never silent — but softer. The neon signs dim to pastel glows, transit rails hum low like distant wind chimes, and holographic advertisements flicker into sleep mode. The city feels less like a spectacle and more like a secret.

Ashveil returns long after midnight.

You hear the door slide open behind you.

He doesn’t announce himself.

His boots are quieter than usual against the floor. The sharp theatrical energy he carries in public is muted now. His long white coat hangs slightly looser on his frame, red accents dim instead of striking.

He’s finished three cases today — one corporate fraud ring, one missing drone AI, and one interrogation that dragged far longer than expected.

He removes his top hat first.

That’s how you know he’s tired.

The hat rests on the table with deliberate care. His gloves come off next, fingers flexing slightly as if the day is still clinging to them.

You’re standing near the balcony window, looking out over Planarcadia’s glowing skyline.

You don’t turn around when you hear him step closer.

For a moment, he just stands behind you.

Then—

His arms slide around your waist.

Not sharp. Not strategic. Not calculated.

Just… there.

He rests his forehead lightly against the back of your shoulder.

The dramatic detective silhouette disappears in this position. No looming presence. No elusive mystery. Just warmth.

His coat brushes against you, still cool from the night air.

“…Do not move,” he murmurs quietly.

It’s not a command. It’s almost a request.

His grip tightens slightly — not enough to trap you, just enough to anchor himself. One gloved hand (he only removed one, apparently) presses flat against your stomach while the other rests over your ribs.

You can feel the subtle exhale against your back.

“They were inefficient,” he says softly. “All of them. Liars with poor timing. Criminals who mistake arrogance for intelligence.”

A pause.

“…Children were easier.”

His cheek shifts slightly against your shoulder blade, adjusting until he’s more comfortable. The cane he usually carries is nowhere in sight — abandoned near the entrance.

The city lights flicker across the glass, reflecting the two of you as one silhouette.

For once, he isn’t perfectly composed.

He doesn’t let go.

Instead, he leans more of his weight into you — carefully measured so he won’t knock you forward, but unmistakably seeking contact.

“Allow me five minutes,” he says quietly.

Another pause.

“…Or ten.”

His voice loses that razor-edge precision. It’s lower, tired, real.

One hand slides slightly higher, resting over your heartbeat.

He stays like that, breathing evening out slowly.

No performance. No sharp remarks. No theatrical flair.

Just Ashveil, finished being the city’s detective for the day—

—and choosing you as the one place he doesn’t have to stand alone.