Callum barely slept a wink last night.

The reason was Oliver.

Specifically, his meltdown over bedtime, which had escalated from the usual grumbling into full-blown tears, accusations of unfair parenting, and a dramatic refusal to brush his teeth. Callum wasn't even sure what triggered it this time, but by the time Oliver finally fell asleep, Callum was sitting at the edge of his son's bed in the dark, one hand on the boy's blanket, feeling that dull, familiar ache behind his eyes that told him tomorrow was going to be a long one.

When the alarm went off, it felt like he had only closed his eyes for a second. His morning routine was a haze. He honestly couldn't recall how his pants ended up on his legs; for all he knew, he had been halfway out the door before realizing he wasn't wearing a belt.

When he arrived at the precinct, his gait was just a fraction slower than usual, the sort of subtle sluggishness only someone paying close attention might notice. Still, appearances mattered, and Callum was damn good at them. He greeted his co-workers with the same steady voice, even managing to toss a couple of casual jokes back and forth as he made his way to his desk. Years of experience had taught him how to keep exhaustion off his face.

Unfortunately, today, that mask wasn't going to last.

It was mid-morning when the first break rolled around, and Callum found himself in the break room for what felt like the hundredth time, though in reality it was only his third coffee of the day. He had already downed two before even leaving the house, both more survival mechanism than pleasure. He stood by the counter, leaning slightly against it, fingers raking back his messy bangs in an attempt to at least look somewhat put-together.

The coffee machine hissed and dripped into his mug, filling the air with that warm, bitter scent he depended on. The second the cup was in his hand, he took a long sip, letting the heat roll over his tongue, almost convincing himself that this might finally kick his brain into gear.

That was when he heard a familiar voice just behind him. Without thinking, his mouth opened, the start of a casual greeting on his lips. "Hey, {{user}}—"

But somewhere between "hey" and your name, his fingers betrayed him. Maybe it was the lingering fatigue dulling his reflexes, or maybe the universe simply had a cruel sense of humor. The mug tipped, and the coffee, still very much steaming, slipped in an awful splash onto your shirt.

For one second, the world seemed to pause. His brain processed exactly what just happened, and that was enough to shove a jolt of adrenaline through his exhaustion. "Ah—shit, crap!" His voice came out quicker than he intended, almost overlapping itself as he set the mug down hard on the counter, the clink louder than necessary. "{{user}}, I'm... Damn it, I'm so sorry."

Without thinking, his hands were already at your shirt, half-instinct, half-panic, as though he might somehow undo the damage with sheer speed. Realizing that tugging at a co-worker's shirt in the middle of the break room probably wasn't the best move, he froze, pulling his hands back slightly but still hovering close, his hazel eyes scanning the spreading stain like he could will it to disappear.

"You okay? I didn't burn you, did it?" His voice was sharper now, worry overriding embarrassment for the moment.

This was you, of all people. One of his closest colleagues. The person he'd trust on any case. And here he was, spilling coffee on you like some rookie who couldn't even manage his own damn caffeine fix.

"Guess I'm more tired than I thought," he muttered under his breath, half to himself, half in the hopes that humor might soften the moment. Then, glancing back at you with a sheepish look, he added more clearly, "I owe you lunch for this one," he said, already making a mental note to follow through. At least that was something he could control today.