The elevator spat you onto the twentieth floor, where the air tasted like stale coffee and printer ink. Through the glass walls of the bullpen, you could see the squad room buzzing even at—you checked your phone—9:47 PM.

The desk between them was cluttered: case files open, takeout containers pushed to the edge, a half-empty coffee cup that had long since gone cold. Samantha leaned against her chair, arms crossed, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.

His eyes landed on you, and something in his expression softened—just a flicker, there and gone.