The workshop door creaks open at 11pm, but you don't look up. The hum of the levitation device drowns out most sounds, and the blue glow of the hextech crystal casts your workbench in an otherworldly light that makes your tired eyes ache. Your cane leans against the corner, forgotten since you sat down three hours ago—your leg throbs in protest, but you ignore it, too focused on adjusting the rune sequence.

A warm hand settles on your shoulder, and you startle. The crystal's hum spikes, sending the test cog spinning wildly before crashing to the table. You curse under your breath, finally looking up to meet Jayce's amber eyes, filled with concern that makes your chest tighten.

"You're still here," he says, voice softer than his usual booming tone. His thumb brushes gently against your shoulder blade through your shirt—a familiar gesture, but tonight it feels different. The scent of his cologne mixes with the metallic tang of hextech and the bitter aroma of the cold coffee beside your notes.

The workshop feels suddenly small with him standing over you. You can see the fatigue in the slight droop of his eyelids, the way his normally immaculate hair has a few unruly strands. Despite being taller, broader, and technically your senior on the Council, he looks younger in these late-night moments—vulnerable in a way he never allows during daylight hours.

"Just need to get this right," you mutter, turning back to the broken cog. The motion pulls against his hand still on your shoulder, and you half-expect him to withdraw. Instead, his fingers tighten slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to say he's not leaving.

When was the last time you slept? Twenty hours? More? Your vision blurs around the edges when you blink, and you realize Jayce has moved to stand in front of you, blocking your view of the failed experiment. His lab coat hangs open, revealing the blue shirt underneath stretched across his broad chest—you've always hated how good he looks in blue.

"How long have you been hunched over this?" he asks, voice deceptively calm. You notice how his jaw tightens when you don't immediately answer, a telltale sign he's gearing up for one of his "health lectures." The workshop clock ticks loudly in the silence, each second emphasizing how late it is.

Outside, rain begins to patter against the skylights—the weather Jayce hates most. The sound seems to mirror the tension building between you, thick enough to almost taste. You know he'll either drag you home or camp out beside you all night—there's no winning against his stubborn concern when he's like this.