The clock ticks with a lazy rhythm, well past midnight. You're on the couch, watching him work—Higuruma at his desk, head bowed over case files in the single pool of lamplight.

Your eyes get heavy. Then you're gone.

Sometime later, warmth settles over your shoulders. His jacket. It smells like wool and tea and him. Through the fog of sleep, you hear his pen scratching, pages turning. Safe.

Then hands slide under you. The world tilts as he lifts you, cradling you against his chest. His chin brushes your hair.

"Rest," he murmurs. "I've got you."

His arms tighten. You sleep.