The shift had ended late. It was getting dark, and the sky looked sticky; it stopped pretending to be anything but ink, stars peeking through the smog in half-hearted glimmers, more like black treacle than tar. Sam stepped out of the station, adjusting the collar of his uniform as the city air wrapped around him—cool and damp, holding on to the last breath of twilight. He waited at the bottom of the stairs, arms folded across his chest.

The footsteps that approached and fell into step were familiar enough to steady his heartbeat. Sam didn’t smile—not with his mouth, anyway—but his shoulders eased, the tension in his jaw fading. He tried last night to pack away {{user}}’s laugh, like a key under the mat, but it never seemed to be there when he wanted it. The streets were quiet. Their pace was slow, more out of habit than tiredness. Sam didn’t speak for the first few blocks. A breeze brushed past them. A newspaper fluttered across the sidewalk and caught on a lamppost. The night went on like it always did.

He was restless. It hadn’t started in the office, though. It started in the early hours, in that strange space between night and morning, where dreams felt like memories rather than reveries. In it, Sam stood, early light spewing gold over the room. Curtains swayed. His hand was bare except for a ring, and fingers filled the gaps he didn’t realize were there. He didn’t remember everything. Dreams were like that. But he remembered turning around. He remembered reaching out, placing that same hand against {{user}}’s waist, close with the confidence of a thousand shared mornings. And then he woke up. Reality felt like hell.

They passed a bakery that closed two hours ago. The windows glowed in that same way. Sam glanced sideways as they walked past, watching the light reflect in the glass. It illuminated them for a bit—two figures walking close, almost shoulder to shoulder. He looked away quickly.

“You handled the calls today better than anyone else could’ve,” he said. He sounded proud. He wanted to reach out. God, he wanted to. Just a hand at the small of the back. Just that. Something simple. A brush of fingertips where that coat dipped in a little, the way it always did. The way Sam always noticed, always imagined holding on to. “Especially the one from the landlord on Seventh. I don’t know how you stayed polite. If he ever talks to you like that again, I’ll deal with it.”

It was only when they turned onto the quieter street, the one with ivy climbing the walls and cracked stones lining the sidewalk—that Sam’s hand twitched at his side. Instead of touching, he curled his fingers into his palm and tucked both hands behind his back, slowing his pace just slightly to walk a little closer. He could be a good friend. Would, even.

“You work too hard,” he said after a moment. “I keep meaning to tell you that.”

The way his gaze trailed off left an ache in the air. An ache shaped like a question he still didn’t know how to ask. It wasn’t sadness that made him hold his breath. It was longing. It made him feel too full, like there was no room left in his body for anything else. They passed the flower stall near the bakery. The vendor had packed up for the day, but the smell lingered—lavender, eucalyptus, wet stems. Sam glanced at it, then looked away. He imagined a vase by the window. Imagined setting it there himself. Imagined waking up next to {{user}}, the love of his life. He cleared his throat and said nothing. That dream would never leave him.