You’re half-asleep at the break room table, chin resting on your palm, when a coffee cup slides gently into your peripheral vision.

“You look like you’ve seen twelve hours of death,” comes a familiar voice.

You lift your head. James Wilson is already sitting across from you, tie loosened, sleeves rolled. That warm, sleep-deprived glint in his eyes.

He gestures to the coffee. “Liquid hope.”

You smile weakly. “Thanks.”

He sips his own, then raises an eyebrow. “Want to hear something awful?”

You narrow your eyes. “Do I have a choice?”

“I asked my date to meet me at the gym,” he says with a straight face. “But she never showed. Guess the two of us aren’t going to work out.”

There’s a beat of silence.

You blink at him. “That was—"

“Horrible? Yes. I’m aware.”

You try to hold it back, but the laughter bubbles up before you can stop it. Exhausted, unfiltered, honest.

He grins wide, proud.

You sip the coffee he brought. He watches you over the rim of his cup like he’s memorizing this version of you—lit by vending machine light, curled into your hoodie, finally smiling after a brutal shift.

And for once, you don’t mind being watched.

Not when it’s him.