The building was supposed to be empty.

Just the hum of old fluorescent lights, the quiet static of sleeping computers, and the smell of burnt coffee that had soaked permanently into the walls. You were only there to finish paperwork—end-of-shift reports, incident logs, the usual misery.

Everyone else had already gone home.

Everyone except one.

You didn’t even notice Robert was still in the building until you passed the break room and saw a faint glow inside. He sat alone at the table, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair a rumpled mess, a half-finished cup of coffee in front of him like it was the only thing keeping him conscious.

He looked up when you walked in.

Tired brown eyes. Freckles catching the dim light. But there was something in his gaze—sharp, alert—that didn’t match the exhaustion on his face.

“…Didn’t expect anyone else to be here,” you said, leaning against the doorway.

He let out a short breath. Almost a laugh.

“Yeah. Me neither. But dispatch doesn’t exactly care about my sleep schedule.” He rubbed his forehead, sighing. “Or my sanity.”

You stepped inside. The air felt different around him after hours—quieter, heavier, intimate in a way it never was during the chaos of a shift.

“What about you?” he nodded toward you. “Thought you clocked out two hours ago.”

“I did. Had paperwork.” You hesitated. “You staying late because of something… or someone?”

His eyes flicked to you—just once, just enough.

“…Maybe.”

He took a slow sip of his coffee.

And then, without warning, he said your name.

Softly. Intentionally. Like he’d been waiting to use it.

“You know,” he said, voice low, almost conversational, “when the building’s empty like this… you stop pretending.”

You blinked. “Pretending what?”

“That you’re fine.”

He didn’t look away.

“And that I don’t notice.”

Your stomach flipped. You’d worked next to this man for months, heard his voice over radios and headsets, seen him handle unspeakable emergencies with ice-calm precision—but you’d never seen him like this.

Relaxed. Raw. Honest.

“Robert… what are you—”

He pushed his chair back slightly, motioning for you to sit across from him.

“C’mere.”

It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t a request.

It was an invitation—quiet, dangerous, meant only for after midnight.

And you realized something:

He hadn’t stayed late by accident.

And neither had you.