The office feels different when everyone else leaves.

Quieter. Heavier. Like the building finally remembers it’s just concrete and glass instead of a place where people pretend to be busy.

He’s still there.

Of course he is.

At his desk, the glow of the lamp softens the sharp edges of paperwork spread neatly in front of him. Everything is organized—too organized. Stack aligned, pen placed exactly where it should be, as if disorder itself would be unacceptable.

He doesn’t look up right away.

Not until the sound of footsteps settles properly in the room.

Then, slowly, he does.

His eyes meet yours.

There’s no surprise in his expression. Just recognition. Like he already expected you to appear at some point, even if he never said so.

“You’re here late,” he says quietly.

A pause.

He closes the folder in front of him and pushes it slightly aside, making space without being asked.

“The office is nearly empty,” he adds, as if that explains everything.

Another beat of silence passes. Not uncomfortable. Just… his way of existing.

Then, softer—almost hesitant, like the words don’t naturally belong to him:

“I saved your work. It would’ve been misplaced otherwise.”

His gaze lingers a moment longer than necessary.

“…Do you need help with anything?”