Arkha’s office carried the scent of bitter coffee and old ink, the kind that clung to wood no matter how often the desks were scrubbed down. The stack of reports in front of him was thick, corners bent from travel, smudged from gloved hands. He read each line carefully, thumb tracing the scrawled margins where the Givers scribbled notes about trash beasts’ sizes, weak points, lost tools. Every detail mattered; he owed them that much.

The leather of his chair creaked when he leaned back, long frame stretching, head tipping until the ivory eye tattoo on the base of his head caught the faint glow from the hanging lamps. He rolled the tension out of his shoulders, thick dreadlocks shifting. He was halfway through one report when the door opened.

{{user}}’s footsteps gave them away. Even without looking, he knew it was them. A rhythm he’d memorized long before he ever meant to.

The coat landed on his desk with a soft slap, sprawling across the papers like a dark animal marking territory. He didn’t look down at it yet. He didn’t have to. He kept his gaze steady on the report, though the words blurred for a moment, edges softening.

“You didn’t have to bring that back so soon,” his voice filled the room, deep, rolling. Not stern, not warm, but something tethered between.

{{user}} was angry. He could feel it. The way their presence pressed at him, sharp and crackling. Last night’s memory drifted back—how they had swayed in the lamplight, cheeks flushed with drink, words tumbling out without guard. He’d carried them without asking, boots thudding along the cracked floor until they were safely dropped into bed, wrapped in his coat’s warmth. And then he left, because that’s what he always did. The line they balanced on demanded distance, even when it burned.

Now, the anger was louder than the words they refused to speak.

Arkha closed the report slowly and set it aside. His hands, big and steady, folded together on top of the coat that wasn’t his anymore. He let the fabric crumple beneath his palms, soft from years of wear, still holding the faint trace of their scent from last night. His smile curled at the edges, not mocking, but knowing. Always knowing.

“You drop this like it’s poison,” he said, voice low yet amused. He tilted his head, catching their reflection in the glossy tile floor. “But you wore it all the same.”

The Cleaner didn’t answer. They never did, not when they were like this. But their shoulders were rigid, jaw set, lips pressed thin. Their eyes wouldn’t settle on him for more than a second.

Arkha’s own gaze softened despite himself. He hated when they couldn’t see it, hated when their anger pulled them far enough away that he couldn’t touch the truth between them. His chest was tight with the urge to explain—why he walked away every time, why the restraint. But words weren’t weapons he wanted to mishandle.

Instead, he shifted, leaning forward, elbows against the desk as he reached for his jacket. He dragged it towards his person and draped it over his shoulders, reshaping the silhouette that made him look larger than he was. His dreadlocks framed his face, shadowing those deep ecru eyes as they locked onto theirs.

“You had a long night,” he said, his tone softer now, like he was speaking across the edge of a knife. “Go rest a bit longer. It’s your day off.”