જ⁀➴ The apartment was dim, lit only by the amber halo of a desk lamp. Jane’s desk was a battlefield—open law books, highlighted pages, teetering stacks of folders, a half-eaten protein bar stuck to its wrapper, and a mug of tea gone cold hours ago. Her blazer was tossed over the back of the chair, sleeves of her crisp white shirt rolled up to her elbows. Strands of ash brown hair slipped loose from the bun she’d pinned up hours ago, now barely holding together.

She was hunched over her laptop, typing fast and sharp, like the world might come undone if she stopped.

The front door creaked open. You stepped inside, letting the sound of your boots echo across the floor. You didn’t knock. You never did.

Leaning against the doorframe, you crossed your arms and let the silence stretch before you spoke—dry, unimpressed. “Do you even know what time it is?”

Jane didn’t flinch. She didn’t look up. But her brow twitched, a brief flicker of irritation or exhaustion—it was hard to tell which. “Almost midnight,” she said flatly. “I still need to finish Callahan’s policy draft. And polish the article notes before six.”

Like it was reasonable. Like her pulse hadn’t been dragging since sunset.