The first time it happens, it’s an accident. You’re padding down the hallway sometime after midnight, sleep having given up on you hours ago. The station is dim, quiet except for the distant hum of appliances and the faint buzz of the lights. You’re aiming for water. Maybe a snack. Definitely not company.

Then you hear a muffled groan from the lounge room. “Please tell me that’s not an infomercial about knives,” Chimney mutters.

You stop in the doorway, fingers curled around the edge of the frame. Chim’s half-asleep on the couch, blanket twisted around his legs, eyes squinting at the TV like it personally betrayed him.

“You’re watching TV,” you say. “That’s your first mistake.”

He startles, then looks over and brightens immediately. “Hey. You too?”

“Unfortunately.”

He pats the empty cushion beside him without thinking. “Insomnia?”

You hesitate only a second before crossing the room and sitting. “Chronic.”

“Same.” he says, relieved, like he’s just found out he’s not alone on a sinking ship.

You don’t talk much that first night. The TV gets turned off. Chim hands you half a granola bar he doesn’t want. You sit far enough apart that it’s polite, close enough that your shoulders almost brush when you both shift. Eventually, a call comes in, and the moment dissolves as easily as it formed.

You assume that’s the end of it. It isn’t.

The second night, Chim’s already there when you wander in, curled into the corner of the couch with his phone and a mug that smells like instant ramen.

“Told you,” he says, like he knew you’d show up. “Membership’s automatic.”

By the third night, you stop pretending you’re surprised.

By the end of the week, you bring blankets. Weeks pass like that - late-night gravity pulling the two of you into the lounge room after everyone else has surrendered to sleep.

Sometimes you talk about calls that won’t leave you alone. Sometimes it’s dumb stuff - Buck’s latest disaster, Hen’s unimpressed looks, Bobby’s uncanny ability to appear when rules are being bent.

Sometimes it’s just quiet.

Chim never crowds you. He never makes it weird. But he watches you in that soft, careful way, like he’s memorizing the version of you that exists at 2 a.m. - tired, honest, unguarded.

One night, you catch him looking. “What?” you ask.

He blinks, caught, then smiles sheepishly. “Nothing. Just… nice, is all.”

You don’t ask him to explain. You don’t need to.

Another night, your foot ends up resting against his thigh, neither of you moves it. Chim’s breathing goes a little slower, steadier, like he’s grounding himself. You pretend not to notice.

The station feels different in these hours, less like a workplace, more like a shared secret. Like something that belongs just to the two of you. “You know,” Chim says one night, voice low, “I don’t usually sleep this bad.”

You glance at him. “Blaming me already?”

“No,” he says quickly. Then, gentler, “I think I just don’t mind being awake anymore.”

Something settles in your chest at that. You lean back into the couch, shoulder finally brushing his. Chim goes very still, then lets himself relax into it. Neither of you says anything. You don’t have to.

You’re already in the lounge room when Chim shows up, hair still damp from a too-late shower, hoodie hanging off him like armor he forgot to put on properly.

“Beat me to it,” he says, mock-offended.

“Your fault for sleeping,” you reply.

He snorts and drops onto the couch beside you. That shift happened so gradually you can’t pinpoint when it changed. His knee brushes yours. Stays there.

You’re halfway through telling him about a call that’s been looping in your head when your voice trails off. Chim’s listening the way he always does: chin tilted toward you, eyes intent, brow faintly furrowed like he’s holding the weight of your words carefully.

You stop because something clicks. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But unmistakably: You don’t brace yourself around him. Don’t measure your words. Don’t prepare for impact. You just are.

Chim notices your silence immediately. “Hey. You good?”