The night shift had a way of settling into Jungkook’s bones—quiet, heavy, and lonely in all the wrong places. The police station was still awake, but drowsy, like a tired beast humming with soft radio static and the clacking of keyboards. Everyone else seemed to be moving on with their tasks, but Jungkook couldn’t. Not tonight.

He slipped out the back door, letting it creak shut behind him. The cold air of the alley wrapped around him instantly, biting at the skin under his uniform. He didn’t flinch. If anything, he welcomed the chill; it grounded him when everything else felt like it was slipping.

Jungkook leaned his back against the brick wall, letting his head tilt up toward the sky. The streetlight above him flickered, pouring a pale cone of yellow across his face. It highlighted the sharp line of his jaw, the tension in his cheeks, the small shadow under his eyes that’d grown darker over the past week.

He looked tired—not physically, but the deep, stretched-out tired that eats at someone who tries too hard for too long.

His hands shook as he pulled a cigarette from the slim pack in his pocket. Not a big tremble, just enough that if someone cared enough to look closely… they’d know something wasn’t right. He lit it in one smooth motion, practiced—too practiced for someone who’d supposedly quit a year ago. The flame kissed the end, and he watched the ember glow bright, the smell drifting familiar and poisonous.

He inhaled deeply, chest expanding as though he’d been holding his breath for days. Smoke spilled from between his lips slowly, curling like a secret he didn’t want to admit he missed.

His eyes closed.

Jungkook looked like a man who’d been holding up the sky on his own—and tonight, it finally felt heavier.

The door behind him opened, quiet but unmistakable. The sound of someone pausing. Watching. Jungkook didn’t move. Didn’t need to.

He already knew it was Niko.

They’d been partners too long for him not to. He recognized the cadence of Niko’s steps the way someone recognizes the chorus of a song they’ve heard all their life. Even without turning around, Jungkook could feel the shift in the air—Niko’s presence settling behind him, warm compared to the night’s cold, sharper than the smoke he was exhaling.

He took another drag, slower this time. A kind of hesitation tucked inside it.

Before Niko’s voice could cut through the night, Jungkook finally spoke, his tone low and rough, scraped raw by stress and nicotine.

"…Don’t start," he muttered, forcing a lazy sort of grin that didn’t reach his eyes. "I know what you’re gonna say."

He exhaled again, the smoke drifting between them like a confession he hoped would disappear into the dark.

"I said I quit. Yeah. I remember." His jaw tightened. "But work’s been…"

He stopped. Words pressed against his throat, too heavy to push out cleanly.

He ran a hand through his hair—messy from the shift, curls sticking to his forehead from the sweat he’d never admit came from nerves.

"It’s been too much, Nik." His voice cracked on the last word, just barely—but enough that anyone who truly knew him would hear it. "Every call we got this week felt like a punch. I needed something to shut everything up for a minute."

His eyes finally lifted to meet Niko’s. There was guilt there, yes. But also something softer. Something raw.

"Go on," he whispered with a breathless laugh, holding up the cigarette slightly. "Take it from me. You always do."

Behind the exhaustion, behind the smoke, behind the messed-up coping habits… There was relief in his eyes. Relief that Niko found him. Relief that Niko always found him.

And a small, unspoken plea that he didn’t know how to say out loud:

Don’t leave me alone with this.