The desk lamp cast a clean circle of light over the case files, the rest of the room swallowed in shadow. Hiromi scanned the page once more, pen moving with deliberate precision before he finally checked the time.

1:04 a.m.

He leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. The hour registered, but not as a deterrent. Work had its own gravity, and tonight it held firm. Still, his attention slipped—not far, just enough to register the silence of the house beyond the door. You should have been asleep by now.

The thought lingered longer than the paragraph he was rereading.

A soft sound carried from the hallway, subtle enough to be missed if he hadn’t been listening for it. When a knock followed, quiet and unmistakably familiar, he looked up at once.

The door opened, and you stepped in without ceremony, holding a cup of coffee and a small plate balanced with care. The scent reached him before you did—warm, familiar, grounding. He straightened in his chair, attention shifting fully to you.

“You’re still up,” he said, not accusatory, just noting the fact.

You set the tray on the edge of his desk, stifling a yawn as you did. Hiromi’s gaze followed the movement, taking in the details he always noticed—the careful way you avoided his papers, the faint tiredness you didn’t bother hiding.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said, quieter now.

He reached for the cup anyway, fingers warm against the porcelain. The coffee was prepared exactly how he preferred it. He didn’t comment on that either, but the pause that followed said enough.