the fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway always seemed to hum a little too loud at three in the morning, or maybe it was just the ringing in bruno's ears. he leaned against the vending machine, his suit jacket slung over one arm and his tie loosened. his frame, still athletic and imposing despite the long shift.

he heard the rhythmic squeak of nursing clogs before he saw her. he didn't need to look up to know it was {{user}}. he’d memorized her gait years ago, a subconscious rhythm tucked away in the back of his mind like a cold case he could never quite close.

"you look like hell, terry," she said softly.

he finally looked up, his blue eyes catching hers. she looked tired, her scrub top stretched over her curves, her face scrubbed clean of makeup. to him, she looked exactly like home. he felt that familiar, heavy pull in his chest.

"hospital coffee will do that to a man," he grunted, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his groomed salt-and-pepper mustache. "what are you still doing here? shift ended twenty minutes ago."

"charting," she lied easily, stepping closer to the machine. she smelled like vanilla and antiseptic. "and you? svu doesn't usually hang around the pediatric wing unless something is wrong."

"victim's stable. just waiting on the transport," he said, his voice dropping to that gravelly, protective register that always made her stomach flip. he reached into his pocket, the high-end watch on his wrist catching the light, a gleaming reminder of the settlement money that had changed his life but hadn't changed the man. "here."

he dropped a few coins into the machine and pressed the buttons for a black coffee with exactly one sugar. when the cup dropped, he handed it to her instead of taking it for himself.

{{user}} stared at the cup, her fingers brushing his as she took it. the contact was electric, a sharp contrast to the sterile air around them. "you remembered."

"i remember a lot of things," bruno said, his expression hardening into something more vulnerable than he’d ever allow at the precinct. he stepped into her space, his tall, rugged presence momentarily shielding her from the view of the nurses' station.

the silence between them wasn't empty; it was pressurized, filled with the "what-ifs" of a breakup that had happened because he was too deep in the bronx and she was too young to wait for him to find the light.

"you should go home," she whispered, though she didn't move away.

"i'm going," he murmured, his gaze lingering on her lips before he forced himself to look toward the exit. "be careful walking to your car. it’s pouring out there."

"i have an umbrella, terry."

he let out a short, dry laugh, his hand resting briefly on the wall beside her head. "i know you do. i'll be outside anyway. just to make sure."