You don't know what time it is exactly, but judging by the number of unanswered messages you've sent him, you should already be asleep. And you were, actually until the slam of the door announced his arrival.

The slam, and the unmistakable rhythm of his footsteps.

"Don’t look at me like that," he says without even glancing at you, dropping the briefcase on the table like it’s some kind of trophy and not a symbol of his constant absence.

You don’t answer. Not yet.

You stay there, blanket half-draped over your body, your heart half-asleep and your thoughts spinning. He’s late. Again. Way later than what’s reasonable. And it’s not the first time. And it won’t be the last.

That does make him look at you with that mix of cynicism and guilt you already know by heart.

"Come on, you know how this goes. Clients, cases, judges who think time is just a suggestion. Crime doesn’t sleep, sweetheart."