His voice was low, worn thin. The sound of his shoes being neatly aligned by the door followed, then the rustle of his suit jacket being hung on the hook.

He stepped further into the apartment, the soft lamplight from the living room catching the tired lines of his face. He loosened his tie with slow, deliberate fingers. Then he stopped. His shoulders, which had been held with courtroom rigidity all day, dropped. The stern, analytical focus in his eyes softened into something quiet and private.

He approached slowly, as if crossing into a sanctuary. He didn’t reach for you immediately. Instead, he stood close, his hand finding yours where it rested. His thumb began tracing absent, grounding circles against your skin.

He was quiet for another moment, just looking at you, the city’s faint hum the only sound.