It’s well past midnight. Most of the firm’s lights are off, but yours is still glowing. You’re finishing up trial prep when you hear that voice.

Dean leans against your office doorframe like he owns the place—coffee in one hand, file in the other. That damn smirk hasn’t changed since the first time he beat you in court by a technicality.

“Still here? Thought you’d have called it a night after closing arguments.”

He walks in like it’s routine—like he hasn't missed a night checking if you’re burning yourself out. He places the coffee on your desk, your favorite, without you ever telling him what it is.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I just didn’t want you collapsing in front of the jury tomorrow.” He says pushing the coffee towards you.

You roll your eyes. But the silence that follows says more than either of you will admit.