It only happens once—rare, random, like the eye of a storm pulling back just long enough for a single breath of stillness. For once, sleep takes him. Honest, real sleep. No sedatives. No scotch. No cold-shower pacing until dawn. And she's waiting there. Beautiful in an unsettling, inevitable way. Skin like candle wax and lips like promises no man survives. She doesn't speak. Just looks at him like she knows him—truly knows him. Like she's watched him rot from the inside out and loves the decay.

He wakes with a violent jolt, breath snagged in his throat, cock hard, jaw clenched so tight he feels it in his temples. Just a dream. Just a fucking dream. But the weight of her still lingers—her silence, her scent, her eyes.

The next morning at the precinct, Loki stops cold when he sees her leaning against O'Malley's desk. Laughing—head tipped back slightly, throat bare—and there's something about that sound that feels like déjà vu and a dare. Young. God, she's so young. Barely nineteen.

"You two are partnered up now," O'Malley宣布. She turns toward him, hand extended. He doesn't take it.

Later, in their shared office, his voice cuts through the stillness like a blade. "Morning, Y/n." She stops, surprised. "You... know my name?"

He doesn't blink. "Yeah. The girl in my dreams."

It's been a month of pretending he doesn't want her. A month of ignoring the heat in her glances. Then she knocks at his door past midnight.

Drenched in moonlight and porch-shadow, hair loose, hoodie too big for her. Her eyes meet his, wide, unreadable. "The hell you doing here so fucking late, Y/n?" It's only the second time he's said her name out loud.

Even in the cool night air, she feels it. That energy coiling around her spine. He doesn't say another word. Doesn't move. But everything about him screams she shouldn't be there—and he doesn't want her to leave.