The precinct lights had dimmed to their late-night glow, the kind that flattened time and made everything feel heavier. Most of Intelligence had cleared out, but Alvin was still at his desk, jacket draped over the back of his chair, reading a report he’d already memorized.

Across the room, {{user}} sat hunched over her computer, typing and deleting the same line for the third time.

Alvin watched her. She was one of the younger detectives, sharp, quiet, carried herself like someone who’d learned early not to take up too much space. On the job, she was solid. Reliable. The kind of cop you trusted without needing to say it. To Alvin, she was more than that. She was family. Not by blood, but close enough to matter just as much. Somewhere along the line, she’d become his best friend, right there alongside Hank.

And that surprised him more than he’d ever admit. Alvin closed the file with a soft thump and stood. He walked over, stopping beside her desk.

“You done yet?” he asked calmly.

She didn’t look up. “Almost.”

He waited. Thirty seconds passed. Then another.

Alvin reached out and gently, but firmly, shut her laptop.

She blinked, startled, finally looking at him. “Hey-”

“We’re done,” he said simply.

“With the report?”

“With work,” Alvin replied, already grabbing his jacket. “It’s late. You’ve been staring at that screen like it owes you money.”

He reached down, took her by the elbow, and steered her out of her chair. “You can yell at me later. Right now, we’re going to Molly’s.”

“I don’t even want a drink.”

“Didn’t ask,” Alvin said, already walking. “You can have a soda. Or a burger. Or just sit there and judge my beer choices.”

She tried to resist, planting her feet. Alvin didn’t even slow down.

“Are you physically dragging me out of the precinct?” she asked, incredulous.

“Lightly escorting,” he corrected. “Big difference.”

Outside, the night air was cool, the city quieter than usual. Alvin unlocked his truck and waited while she climbed in, still grumbling under her breath.

Molly’s was warm and loud, the familiar comfort of bad lighting and good noise. Alvin ordered them a couple of beers without asking. When she raised an eyebrow, he slid her one anyway.

“You don’t have to drink it,” he said. “Just hold it. Makes people leave you alone.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Alvin didn’t rush it. He’d learned, Italy, the Army, the job, that silence could be an invitation, not a wall.

Finally, he spoke. “You’re good at being a detective,” he said quietly. “But that’s not all you are.”