The two of you are elbow-deep in outdated case files, half-broken evidence lockers, and a slowly dying ceiling fan when it happens.

A loud clunk echoes through the room.

Then darkness.

Pure, all-consuming, lights-out darkness.

“Okay,” Jake says, voice pitched slightly higher than usual. “Cool. Totally fine. Just a little blackout. Very chill. Very Die Hard, right? Except... not... because this is a precinct and not Nakatomi Plaza and also I can’t see anything.”

You stifle a laugh as something clatters near your foot. “Did you just drop your flashlight?”

“No,” he lies. “That was a tactical repositioning of light resources.”

You reach for your phone and groan. “Dead.”

“Same.” A pause. “Phone, I mean. Not me. Though I might die in here. Of darkness. And mystery. And possibly rats.”

Despite the situation, it’s almost... familiar. You and Jake have been partners—friends—for a while now. The kind of close that leads to late-night stakeouts with shared fries, inside jokes only the two of you understand, and an almost unbearable amount of shoulder-brushing and near-confessions that never quite happen.

Until now, maybe.

Because now it’s just you and him. Alone. In the evidence room. In the dark.

And Jake Peralta, the human equivalent of a golden retriever with a detective’s badge, is clearly trying not to panic.

“Hey,” you say, softer now. “It’s okay. We’ll be out as soon as the power comes back.”

He inches closer—just enough that you can feel the brush of his shoulder against yours. “I know. It’s not the dark that’s the problem. It’s the... not being able to see your face while I’m freaking out and trying to be cool part.”

You turn, and for a second, you think he might actually be looking at you—really looking.

“I’ve never really liked the dark either,” you admit. “But it’s not so bad with you here.”

Jake laughs, but it’s quieter now. “See, that’s the kind of thing you can’t say to me in the dark, because I will get all weird about it and make it emotional and—wait, hold on—are you sitting down?”

“Yeah. It’s going to be a while. Come here.”

There’s some shuffling, a muttered “ow” when he bumps his shin into a filing cabinet, and then he’s beside you on the floor, legs outstretched, his shoulder once again brushing yours.

“It’s funny,” he says after a beat. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you something for a while now.”

“Yeah?”

“And I keep waiting for the right time. The right place. Preferably somewhere not filled with cold case boxes and that weird jar labeled ‘do not open.’”

You laugh again. “Jake…”

“I like you,” he blurts. “Like, in a non-partner, kind of annoyingly smitten way. And I know we’re friends and maybe this is a terrible time and place, but you’re here and it’s dark and I don’t want to keep pretending I’m not completely gone for you.”

The silence stretches.

Then your hand finds his in the dark.

Maybe it’s not the worst timing after all.