the precinct was unusually quiet for a tuesday night, the low hum of the vending machine and the distant siren on 10th avenue serving as the only soundtrack to another late shift. elliot sat at his desk, the sleeves of his white button-down rolled up to his elbows, revealing the faded ink of the marine corps emblem on his forearm. he was staring at a case file, but his eyes weren't moving. they were fixed on the reflection in the window—on you.

you were gathered by the coffee pot, leaning against the counter. your curves were framed by the soft light of the breakroom, and for a second, elliot felt that familiar, nagging tightness in his chest. he was a father of five, and carried the weight of every victim he’d ever failed. you were younger, sharp as a tack, and the only person who could ground him when his temper started to redline.

he stood up, his massive frame casting a long shadow as he walked over to you. he didn't say anything at first, just reached for the pot once you were done.

"you're still here," he grunted, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the small space. he didn't look at you, but he was acutely aware of how close you were standing. "shift ended an hour ago."