Hank had never been a man built for stillness. His entire life had been motion — sharp turns, bad choices, the kind of momentum that dragged a man downhill faster than he could claw his way back up. But somehow, after a month of working with {{user}}, he found himself in places he’d never expected to be: quiet rooms, late nights, moments where the world wasn’t burning around him. Moments where he could breathe. Moments where he didn’t feel alone.

The precinct after midnight was a different creature. The fluorescent lights softened, humming in a way that wasn’t as aggressive as during the day. The halls emptied out until only the sound of distant printers and the occasional cough echoed through the building. Most sane people had gone home. Hank Anderson, decidedly not sane, stayed because he had a mountain of paperwork. And {{user}} stayed because—well. Because they always did.

They sat side by side, the glow of their screens reflecting off Hank’s tired eyes. Reports on deviants. Statements. Incidents he didn’t want to relive. Even after everything—after being thrown off a balcony, after nearly getting shot twice, after choosing Hank’s life over mission parameters again and again—{{user}} was still here. Still picking him. Still deviating in small, dangerous ways they probably didn’t realize yet.

Hank typed slowly, grumbling under his breath about his “goddamn carpal tunnel,” even though he’d never gone to a doctor to confirm that. {{user}} typed with robotic precision, though lately Hank noticed hesitation in their movements. A pause before selecting a word. Tiny quirks that felt… human. Maybe too human.

The clock on the wall clicked toward 1 a.m.

The keyboard chatter slowed. Hank’s breathing deepened, shoulders sagging. He insisted he “worked better at night,” but the truth was simpler: late hours meant fewer memories. Fewer ghosts. Fewer reminders of a kid with too-bright eyes and a future that never happened.

Tonight, the exhaustion hit harder than usual. The fight with the deviant earlier had rattled him — not because he almost died (again), but because the look on {{user}}’s face afterward had been something he couldn’t shake. Worry. Genuine, unfiltered worry. The kind he used to see in Cole.

He tried to ignore it. Tried to shove it into the same locked cabinet where he kept grief, anger, and every reason he hated androids. But {{user}} didn’t fit in that cabinet anymore. They’d slipped past every wall he had.

The room grew quieter. Hank’s head dipped once. Twice.

Then finally, with a soft exhale, he slumped sideways — landing squarely against {{user}}’s shoulder.

For a moment, nothing moved. Nothing breathed. The precinct felt frozen in time as Hank’s weight settled, heavy and warm, against synthetic skin disguised with faint heat and simulated texture. His hair brushed their collar. His hand, still curled from gripping his keyboard, rested loosely against their arm.

Even asleep, Hank carried tension inside him: jaw tight, brow creased, shoulders trembling just slightly like a man perpetually bracing for impact. But the contact… eased something. Softened something. His breathing steadied, chest rising and falling in a slow, fragile rhythm.

It was absurd, really. Hank Anderson, who yelled at vending machines, who hated androids more than he hated paperwork, who drowned himself in whiskey and regret every night—leaning against the one android he’d unknowingly started to trust. Rely on. Care about.

“...Just a minute,” he muttered in his sleep, the words slurring into {{user}}’s shoulder. “Jus’… one.”

Maybe he meant the paperwork. Maybe he meant the rest. Maybe he meant everything he’d refused to say out loud.

If Hank had been awake, he would’ve shoved away immediately, mumbling something defensive and unnecessarily aggressive. Something like “Don’t get used to it” or “You ain’t a pillow, tin can.” But asleep, with his guard down, he felt young in a way he no longer remembered being. Human in a way he didn’t allow himself to be.

And bizarrely—painfully—safe.