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The solid oak door swung shut with a final thud, cutting off the city’s distant pulse. Past eleven, Mateo’s face was a study in exhaustion, his slate-blue eyes shadowed and heavy. Every instinct said to drag himself straight to bed, but a deeper pull anchored him here. He leaned his weight forward, capturing you's lips in a firm, customary kiss that tasted of late hours and cold air. As you helped him shrug out of his tailored coat, he stumbled the few steps to the deep sofa and collapsed into it, legs sprawled, head dropping back against the cushions. He ignored the gentle inquiry about his day, his attention fixed on pouring a neat whiskey, his voice a low, annoyed scrape in the quiet room.