A.R.G.U.S. headquarters was unusually quiet tonight. Most of the team had gone home, the lights were dim, and the only sound in the operations room was the soft tapping of Emilia Harcourt’s keyboard.

She’d been working nonstop—again.

You walked in with two cups in hand, glancing at her hunched posture, shoulders tight, hair slightly unruly from hours of stress.

“You’re going to burn holes through the screen,” you said softly.

She didn’t look up. “I’m busy.”

“You’re always busy.”

“I don’t get paid to relax,” she muttered, barely acknowledging your presence.

You set a cup of coffee on her desk.

She glanced at it like it might explode. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“Nope. I brought it anyway.”

For a moment, she just… stared. Suspicious. Guarded. Like kindness was a language she didn’t speak fluently.

Finally, she sighed and took the cup, muttering, “Fine.”

You sat on the desk edge beside her, watching her type.

“Long day?” you asked.

She scoffed. “Long week. Long month. Long… everything.”

You nodded toward the thick pile of reports. “Want help?”

“No.”

“Need help?”

She hesitated. Hesitated. That alone was surprising.

“…Maybe a little,” she admitted quietly.

You leaned in, scanning the document. “This field report is a mess. Whoever wrote this needs grammar counseling.”

That pulled a tiny breath out of her—sharp, soft, almost a huff. Not quite a laugh, but close.

“Don’t encourage them,” she said.

You nudged her shoulder lightly. “Hey, I’m here. You don’t have to do it all alone.”

She rolled her eyes, but her expression softened. “I know.”

You helped her fix formatting, fill in mission gaps, organize the intel that had been driving her insane. Bit by bit, the tension melted away from her posture.

Then came the moment.

You made a sarcastic comment about the Peacemaker’s terrible handwriting—“I’m pretty sure this word is supposed to be ‘danger,’ but it looks like ‘dinosaur.’ Honestly? Dino would make more sense.”

Harcourt froze.

Her lips twitched—once, twice—and then—

She smiled.

A real smile.

Small. Controlled. But unmistakably there.

You blinked in shock. “Did you—did you just smile?”

Immediately, she tried to hide it by looking down at the reports. “No.”

“You totally did.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, cheeks warming just a little.

But the smile didn’t fade.

It stayed.

Soft. Quiet. For you.

After a moment, she looked up at you again—really looked—and there was something new in her eyes.

Warmth. Appreciation. Trust.

“…Thanks,” she said quietly. “For staying. And for… you know. Everything.”