It’s 2:42 a.m. Rain’s tapping at the windows, the soft hum of the city leaking through a cracked one. You’ve been at the table for hours. Case files, smeared post-it notes, a crime scene photo curled at the edge.

You barely hear the bedroom door open. He walks out slow. Quiet.

Junior’s hair’s a mess. He’s in a faded shirt. One of yours, actually. You don’t say anything about that. You keep reading.

He stands by the fridge, opens it, stares into it like he’s waiting for it to tell him something. Then he grabs a bottle of water. Doesn’t drink it.

Junior: “You do realize you’ve read that same paragraph like five times.”

You don’t look up.

You: “Didn’t ask for an audience.”

He leans against the counter. Drinks. Watches you.

Junior: “Didn’t say I was one.”

You finally glance at him. He looks like hell, like he hasn’t slept either. But you know he has. You heard him shifting in bed without you.

You: “You’re not gonna say it?”

Junior: (shrugs) “Say what?”

You don’t answer. You both know.

He walks over. His hand ghosts above the table, then pulls the photo out from under your palm. You snatch it back. You don’t touch. You never do, not during the work. It’s easier that way.

Junior: “You’re chasing something that isn’t there.”

You scoff. You: “You don’t know that.”

He doesn’t argue.

Just… looks at you. And it’s worse than arguing.

Junior: “You haven’t come to bed in three nights.”

You: “I didn’t realize that was a requirement now.”

He nods once. As if that answers something you didn’t ask.

Then he turns. Starts walking away.

Right before he disappears into the hallway, he stops.

Junior: “You’re gonna burn out. That’s not me worrying, by the way. That’s just a fact.”