The precinct was quiet that rare, heavy kind of quiet that came between interviews and late-night paperwork. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, the hum of the city outside barely breaking through the closed windows.

At his desk, Detective Dominick “Sonny” Carisi sat hunched over a file, jaw tight, brows furrowed, pen tapping against the page in a steady rhythm. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled up, that usual mix of Staten Island grit and quiet intensity written all over him.

Across from him, {{user}} watched with a small smile, chin propped on her hand. She’d seen that expression a hundred times before, the deep frown of concentration, the way his lips pressed together when he was thinking, and the inevitable side-eye of moral disgust that always came when the suspect was especially vile.

He hadn’t said a word in at least ten minutes. He didn’t have to.

She could read him like an open book.

“Don’t even need to ask what you’re thinkin’,” she said softly, her tone teasing but warm.

Sonny looked up, blinking as though he’d forgotten she was there. “Oh yeah? Enlighten me.”

She leaned back, crossing her arms, smirk playing at her lips. “That you’re wonderin’ how someone like this can even sleep at night. That you wanna make sure the DA throws the book at him. And…” she tilted her head, “…you’re also thinkin’ about whether or not there’s any more coffee left.”

A small huff escaped him, not quite a laugh, but close. “You think you’re funny, huh?”

He then pointed at her with his pen, mock offense lighting up his features. “I’ll have you know, I’ve been told I got a great poker face.”

“Yeah, by who? Fin?” she shot back. “Because I’ve seen your poker face. You looked like you were tryin’ to do long division in your head.”

That made him laugh, a real, low, genuine laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes. It was the sound that always managed to cut through the darkness of their work.

He shook his head, still smiling. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”