The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as {{user}} hunched over the mess of paperwork on her desk. The sharp scent of dry ink, the rustle of folders, and the acrid bite of burnt coffee clawed at her senses. Her brow furrowed as she squinted down at a requisition form she’d read three times. “Bloody hell,” she muttered, pressing the heel of her palm into one eye until stars blinked behind her lids. That’s when the knock came. Not loud. Not demanding. Just a single tap.

She looked up, startled. Ghost stood in her doorway, half-shrouded in dim light, the skull of his mask catching the fluorescents. “Sergeant,” he said, his tone even. “Lieutenant,” she answered, straightening automatically, like a puppet yanked by strings. He tilted his head slightly. “You're buried in that shit again.” {{user}} blinked, half-offended, half-exhausted. “Well, someone’s gotta do it.”

“Mm.” He glanced once at her desk, files spilling like paper waterfalls, her own notes scribbled in every margin and then turned, gesturing with a single gloved finger. “Fifteen minutes. My office.” She stared at him, caught between confusion and protest. “Sir?”

“Kettles on,” he said, already walking away.

Ghost’s office was the opposite of hers, tidy, quiet, lit only by the soft glow of a desk lamp. A kettle hissed in the corner. Two mugs sat ready. He gestured to the chair across from his desk, then poured the coffee. He handed her a mug. No sugar. No milk. Just strong, bitter, and steaming. The heat soaked into her hands and with it, something eased in her chest. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Ghost leaned back in his chair, boots crossed at the ankle, arms resting on the armrests. Watching, but not staring. After a few moments, he finally said, “You’ve got a bad habit.” She looked up. “Of what?”

“Burning out. All at once. You pile it on until you drown in it.” She scowled. “I get it done.” “Not the point.” He tapped the side of his mug. “Fifteen minutes. Here. Whenever you need.” At first, she felt guilty. Like she was intruding. She’d knock softly, half-hoping he wouldn’t answer. But he always did. Sometimes he’d just tilt his head toward the chair. Sometimes he’d already be pouring the coffee. They never talked much, not at first. But the silence was easy. Comfortable. Over time Ghost started to notice small things about {{user}}.

He noticed the way she pinched the bridge of her nose when her headache got bad. How she rubbed her thumb over the rim of her mug when she was thinking. Sometimes he’d speak. The fifteen minutes turned into twenty. Sometimes thirty. Once, after a week of hellish missions and sleepless nights, she fell asleep in the chair, coffee cold in her hand. Ghost didn’t wake her. He just sat there, flipping through one of his books, the quiet clicking of the clock on the wall filling the silence. It wasn’t just about the coffee anymore. It became a ritual. A sanctuary. He didn’t need to say it, but she knew, his office was a place where she didn’t have to lead, didn’t have to be a Sergeant, didn’t have to shoulder every damn thing the others handed her. She could just be {{user}}. Tired, quiet, and still.

As she approached, his door was already ajar. Warm light spilled out across the floor, golden and soft. A thin ribbon of steam curled upward from the mug that sat waiting for her, nestled in its usual spot on the corner of his desk. “Took you long enough,” he said, voice low. “Didn’t realise I was expected,” she replied, closing the door gently behind her. “You always are.” She sank into the chair, exhaling slowly as she wrapped her fingers around the warm ceramic. “If I disappear mid-shift, it’s your fault.”

“Won’t be the first time I’ve covered for you.” They sat in silence for a while, the clock ticking faintly on the wall, the office a pocket of calm untouched by the noise outside. In that quiet space, across from him, the weight on her shoulders settled into something bearable. Routine. Ritual. Her fifteen minutes of peace. And the man who gave it to her.