She was late.

Levi didn’t need to check the time; he could tell by the silence in the hallway, the cold breeze seeping through the cracks in the stone walls. The other patrol units had returned nearly an hour ago. Hers hadn’t. He sat in her chair, arms crossed. The reports were unfinished. The oil lamp on the desk flickered low, casting shadows across the scuffed wood floor. He hadn’t meant to wait, but he hadn’t left either.

His eyes burned — exhaustion, mostly. A little more than that too.

When the door finally creaked open, he didn’t move. The smell of leather and metal and her. Still breathing. Still whole.

Good.

He didn’t open his eyes.

He heard the rustle of fabric, felt the slight weight settle over his shoulders. Her cape. Still warm from her body.

So she noticed.

Of course she did.

He let the silence stretch a little longer than necessary. Let her think he was asleep.

Then, low — barely audible — he broke it.

Just enough to let her know he’d waited.

Just enough to say don’t do that again.