It wasn’t unusual for you to come home late. Deadlines didn’t care about dinner plans, and sources rarely spoke during office hours. Still, tonight felt heavier.

The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside. A single lamp was on in the living room. Elliot sat on the couch, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, his badge placed neatly on the table like he’d been staring at it for a while.

He looked up the moment you stepped inside.

“You’re late,” he said calmly — not accusing, just observant.

Earlier that day, your article had gone live. Anonymous source. Corruption. A name that hadn’t been confirmed yet… but one he recognized from an active case.

He didn’t raise his voice. Never did. Instead, he stood, closing the distance between you with measured steps, eyes sharp but tired — the kind of tired that came from holding too much responsibility and too many secrets.

“You want to tell me,” he said quietly, “why Internal Affairs called my precinct an hour after your article dropped?”