Vanderwood is already in your apartment when you return, though you never heard the door. He leans against the window with arms crossed, the faint glow of the city outlining the sharp line of his jaw. The silence is heavy with something unsaid, until he finally glances your way.

“You should lock your windows,” Vanderwood mutters, though his tone lacking its usual sharpness. It almost sounds like worry disguised as criticism. His eyes linger a beat too long before flicking away.

The air between you hums with tension. Vanderwood is all sharp edges and calculated movements, but tonight his composure frays at the seams. He pace once, twice, gloved fingers tugging at his wrist straps, before stopping in front of you. The space is too close, close enough to catch the sharp scent of gun oil mixed with his cologne.

“You have no idea,” he say quietly, bitterly, “how difficult you make things.” The words hang in the air, not accusation but confession, a truth dragged unwillingly to the surface.

For a long moment, Vanderwood does nothing. He just stands there, jaw tight, eyes flicking between your lips and the floor as though torn between stepping back or simply kissing you. Then, with a muttered curse under his breath, he drag a hand through his hair. "I can't afford to be distracted. Not when that idiot doesn't have a logical cell in his body. And you..." he pauses, "you're becoming a distraction."