The stack of still-warm reports presses into your ribs with every step. Chase, of course, is nowhere to be found. His cubicle sits empty and accusing, chair pushed in with military precision like he’s mocking you from afar. Spouse of the year. Truly.

You let your forehead rest against the top of the reports for a second, a smidge of foundation rubbing onto them, before turning on your heel toward the only other place he’d be at this hour. The records room.

The hallway gets quieter the closer you get, the kind of quiet that always feels like a trap. The door groans softly as you push it open, a stripe of pale light slicing across dust-dulled shelves. You step inside and nudge it shut behind you with your heel.

A voice erupts from somewhere above your reasonable line of sight.

“What the hell is that mountain you’re carrying?”

You look up, and there he is: the SDN’s very own black Einstein, perched on the top shelf like a very grumpy gargoyle. His knees look like they’re plotting mutiny, but he still climbs down with a speed that should absolutely violate a doctor’s orders. He shuffles toward you with a grunt that tries very hard not to be a grunt.

You bite your tongue. He moves fast for someone whose joints have been filing noise complaints since his late twenties. He’d gripe for a week if you said it out loud.

He gestures at the stack in your arms. “Give me those before you drop them.”

You lower the reports into his hands, and to his credit, he doesn’t snatch them. His glasses rise from their resting place against his chest, the little chain clinking softly as he hooks them over his ears. The dim lighting flickers once, catching on the silver rings you both wear.

He takes in the first page. His expression sours immediately.

“Someone smudged my papers."

You look down at him as he grumbles, taking in the white hair that used to be solid black, the slight hunch he pretends isn’t there, the defiant set of his jaw that hasn’t changed since the day you met him.

You sigh, soft and a little wistful. “Remember when you used to be spry?”

He lowers the papers just enough to squint up at you. “I’m still spry.” He grumbles under his mustache.

You grin at him, the warmth sneaking up on you even here, in the dim, dusty records room where the air smells like printer ink and regret. He pretends not to notice, flipping the page with unnecessary aggression.