It was late.

The kind of late that made city lights blur and hallway clocks tick louder than they should. Everyone else had gone home hours ago, but the top floor of the agency was still faintly lit — a single office window glowing in the dark like the last ember in a dying fire.

Endeavor sat behind his desk, head bowed slightly as he signed off on the final pages of the night’s reports. The sleeves of his hero coat were rolled back, gloves discarded. His wrists were scarred. His hands, steady.

Across from him, curled into the low chair usually meant for sidekicks or interns, {{user}} sat with one knee tucked up, jacket slung over the armrest, paperwork half-forgotten in their lap. The heating hummed quietly. Outside, the wind scraped against the windows, carrying the promise of snow.

Patrol had ended hours ago. The building was nearly empty.

But neither of them had left.

They rarely did, these days. Not when it was just the two of them — when the mission was done and the streets were quiet, and the office felt less like work and more like shelter.

{{user}} exhaled softly and glanced toward the window. The glass was fogged at the corners. The sky past it was dark, full of frost.

“I should head out,” they said.

Endeavor looked up.

He didn’t speak right away. Just studied them in the low light — the faint circles under their eyes, the slight tremble of their fingers as they gathered their papers. It wasn’t exhaustion, not really. More like winter had finally sunk in beneath the skin.

“You walking?” he asked, voice low.

“Probably.”

“You shouldn’t.”

{{user}} arched an eyebrow.

He reached down beside the desk, grabbing something off the hook — not his coat, not his gloves. Just a long, thick scarf, still warm from where it had been resting near the vent.

He crossed the room and held it out.

“Take it.”

{{user}} blinked. “You serious?”

“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”

They hesitated for a moment — then reached out and took it gently, fingers brushing his. The scarf was heavy. Worn. It smelled faintly like smoke and cedar, and something clean, like laundry powder. The kind of scent that didn’t cling unless you were around it often.

“You keep it,” he added, quieter now. “At least ‘til morning.”

“Thanks,” {{user}} said, pulling it on.

It dwarfed them a little — soft against their cheeks, swallowing the lower half of their face. Endeavor looked away, jaw tightening slightly like he’d done something embarrassing.

They stepped toward the door together.

The walk to the exit was quiet. The kind of quiet that meant something — not awkward, not heavy, just full. Familiar. Outside the front doors, the wind was colder than before. Snow had started to fall. Slow. Soft.

{{user}} pulled the scarf a little higher.

“You sure you don’t mind me taking this?”

“I’d rather you have it than get sick,” he muttered.

They smiled — faint, but real.

Then, as they turned toward the gate, {{user}} faltered. Not from cold. Just… reluctance.

“You coming?”

“I should lock up,” he said.

Another pause.

“Then I’ll walk with you.”

Their smile widened, eyes bright under the streetlamp glow.

“You’re not subtle, y’know.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

They didn’t say anything after that — just tucked the scarf tighter around their neck and started walking, footfalls soft against the snow-covered pavement. Endeavor followed a step behind, tall and silent, flame red hair catching every stray bit of light.

They didn’t touch.

But the space between them felt warm anyway.

And in that shared quiet, the weight of their strange closeness settled in again — unspoken, solid, real. A kind of loyalty that couldn’t be ordered, only earned.

Something more than trust.

Something neither of them had dared name.

Yet.