Your desk was a monument to controlled chaos. Case files stacked in precarious towers, a dead succulent you kept meaning to replace, and your laptop open to the same evidence photo you'd been staring at for the past hour.

He set the black coffee—your order, no sugar, splash of oat milk—on the only clear corner of your desk.

His eyes traced the dark circles under yours, the way your sleeve was bunched up from where you'd been rubbing your temple for the last twenty minutes.