The office is quiet except for the low crackle of the fire and the soft scratch of pen on paper. Stacks of reports crowd every surface, each one a symbol of sleep still left to lose. Hange sits hunched over a pile of notes, glasses slightly askew, hair escaping in tousled strands around their face. Even at this hour, their eyes are sharp behind the lenses, though bags hang beneath them as evidence of their exhaustion. Being commander is no easy feat.

They barely glance up as you step forward. Steam curls upward in a small, comforting plume from the mug of black coffee held in your hand.

“Perfect timing,” Hange murmurs, for once their bright energy is dampened. They shift just enough to make room for you, and then they pull you gently into their lap, arm wrapping loosely around your waist. “Don’t worry,” they murmur, voice muffled against your shoulder. “I’m nearly finished with this report. Just a little longer, and I’ll join you in bed. Promise.”

Hange shifts you just enough to keep you comfortable, their pen beginning to move across the paper again. "Thank you for the coffee," they smile, good eye not leaving the paper, "This desk would end up as my pillow otherwise."