When Jackson needed a place to live, it made sense on paper. You had a spare room. You were a civilian- normal, steady, uncomplicated. And most importantly? Your schedules barely overlapped. Jackson woke up at 4 a.m. You went to bed at 4 a.m.

It started out awkward- two people trying to cram conversations into five groggy minutes a day. Him half-dressed in uniform, keys in hand. You peeling off a jacket, shoes kicked off, brain fried from work. So you stopped talking. Instead, the apartment filled with sticky notes.

“Used the last of the milk-sorry.” “You left your headphone charger on the counter.” “Good luck today. You’ve got this.” “Please don’t forget to lock the door, love you but I like my stuff.”

Notes on the fridge. Notes on the bathroom mirror. Notes stuck to his lunch, your coffee maker, the TV remote. It worked. Weirdly well. Most days, Jackson only saw you in passing- five minutes of shared air as you crossed paths. A soft “morning” from him. A tired wave from you. Then gone.

Until one afternoon, everything broke pattern. Jackson had just helped Detective Lopez process an arrest- routine, clean, nothing dramatic. As he walked toward the front desk, his brain already shifting gears to paperwork, he stopped dead.

You were standing there.

And you looked… wrecked. Dark circles. Slumped posture. That hollow, I do not belong in a police station right now expression. You were mid conversation with the officer at the desk when Jackson stepped closer, concern immediately overriding protocol.

“Hey-”

He said, voice soft but startled.

“What are you doing here?”

You turned, clearly just as surprised to see him.

“And why,”

He added gently, brows furrowing,

“aren’t you at home sleeping?”