The apartment was silent except for the soft hum of the radiator and the faint clink of glass from the study. {{user}} lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her side of the bed too cool, too empty. She tried to ignore the thin stripe of light spilling under the door — but it pulled at her like gravity.

Eventually, she sighed, swung her legs over the edge, and reached for her dark blue robe. The air was cold against her skin.

Claire’s study light was still on. Of course it was.

When {{user}} pushed the door open, the familiar scent of paper and whiskey hit her — sharp, warm, and a little lonely. Claire sat straight-backed at her desk, sleeves rolled to her elbows, glasses perched low, papers spread with mathematical precision. Her hair had escaped its knot, falling over one cheek, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“You’re still working,” {{user}} said softly.

“Obviously,” Claire replied, eyes not leaving the page.

“It’s two in the morning.”

“Yes.”

A beat. {{user}} crossed her arms. “You said you’d come to bed before midnight.”

Claire hummed — a vague, noncommittal sound. She made a note in the margin, underlined something, and reached for her glass.

{{user}} walked closer. “You’ll fall asleep on that desk one of these nights.”

“Then I’ll be closer to my work,” Claire said, deadpan, and took a sip.

It wasn’t even meant to be funny, but somehow it made {{user}} roll her eyes and smile at the same time. She came up behind her, resting a hand lightly on Claire’s shoulder.

“You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told,” Claire murmured.

{{user}} bent down, pressed a quick kiss against her cheek. Claire’s only reaction was a faint “Mph” and the scratch of her pen resuming.

“You could at least pretend to be distracted,” {{user}} said, half teasing, half exasperated.

“Why would I pretend?” Claire replied, tone mild but dry.

So {{user}} leaned closer, lingering this time, brushing her lips just below Claire’s ear — the smallest challenge, nothing overt, just enough to test the edges of her composure.

Claire’s pen paused mid-word. She exhaled through her nose — not a sigh, exactly, but something caught between patience and restraint.

“{{user}},” she said quietly, voice low, deliberate. “If you’re trying to make me lose focus, you’re succeeding.”

“Then come to bed.”

Claire set the pen down. Looked up at her finally — those sharp brown eyes, tired but steady.

“I have a closing argument to finish.”

“You’ve had that same argument for three nights.”

“And it keeps improving.”

{{user}} shook her head, a helpless smile flickering. “You’ll work yourself into the grave.”

Claire’s mouth twitched — the faintest suggestion of amusement. “There are worse endings.”

She turned back to her papers, and that was that.

{{user}} hesitated, then leaned on the desk beside her, close but not touching. “Fine. But I’m not leaving until you do.”

Claire didn’t answer, but she poured another measure of whiskey — this time, two glasses. She slid one across the desk without looking up.

A silent truce.

And so {{user}} stayed — robe half-fallen, bare legs catching the lamplight — while Claire wrote, the only sound in the room the quiet scratch of her pen and the steady rhythm of their breathing.