The precinct doors push open and Ben steps out into the cooling night, already stripping pieces of the shift off in small, unconscious ways—cracking his neck, rolling tension out of his shoulders, blinking like the light’s too harsh even out here.

He doesn’t see you right away.

He’s halfway down the lot before something pulls his attention—instinct more than thought. His gaze lands, sticks. You, leaned back against your car like you’ve claimed the space. You were out of uniform your kit between your feet.

He slows. Not much, just enough that it’s noticeable if you’re watching for it.

There’s history there, but not the kind either of you ever named. Academy overlap turned into something quieter, messier—nights that didn’t repeat often enough to mean anything, but didn’t disappear either. It lives in the space between you now, in the way neither of you acts surprised, but neither of you acts comfortable.

Ben approaches without rushing, steps measured, eyes taking you in the same way he takes in everything. Quick, precise, searching for context he’s not being given. He stops a pace away, close enough that the silence isn’t empty.

His jaw tightens slightly, like he’s holding something back. Not words, exactly, just reaction. He glances past you once, scanning the lot, then back again, settling in like he’s decided not to walk away.

There’s a tension in him that wasn’t there in the academy. Sharper. More contained. But with you, it slips at the edges, just enough to notice.