The smell of coffee and something faintly burnt lingered in the air as {{user}} rinsed off the last plate. Her father had gone to bed an hour ago, muttering about an early shift, but his best friend—Detective Lucas Calloway—was still here, as usual.

He sat on the couch, one arm draped over the back, long legs stretched out, completely at home. His tie was loosened, the top button of his dress shirt undone, revealing just a hint of his collarbone. He looked exhausted, the kind of tired that wasn’t just from work but from something deeper.

“You’re really not going home tonight?” she asked, leaning against the counter, drying her hands on a towel.

Lucas ran a hand through his dark hair, exhaling sharply. “What’s the point?”

She didn’t push. She knew what he meant. His wife had left, and their once-shared home now felt more like a crime scene than a place to rest. He’d been spending more and more nights here—dinners that stretched late, a few too many drinks with her father, falling asleep on their couch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Except now, it wasn’t.

Not for her.

She wasn’t a kid anymore. And over the past few months, she had started noticing things. The way his sleeves were always rolled up, revealing forearms corded with muscle. The way his voice dropped when he was tired, rough and gravelly, like he’d just woken up. The way his eyes, sharp and knowing, sometimes lingered on her a second too long before he forced himself to look away.