The evening air sat warm against the brick as the team spilled into the yard behind the station, beers clinking and laughter filling the gaps.
"Back room's mine tonight," Dave announced, grinning, shoulders loose in his cheap jacket. "No chiefs, no paperwork. Just nonsense and bad decisions."
"Bad decisions is our specialty," Reece said, plunking onto a milk crate and offering the crate an apologetic pat. "I'll take two of those."
Elizabeth laughed, low and bright, then tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear like a practiced reflex. "You two make it sound glamorous."
Fiona perched on a concrete barrier, papers abandoned. "Glorified dumpster fire," she said, deadpan. "But I'll drink to the camaraderie."
Callum rolled his eyes, already two-thirds through a bottle. "Camaraderie smells like printer toner and fear."
Maya nudged Callum with her boot. "It smells like overtime and cold takeaway." She smirked, then took a sip. "And regret, sometimes."
Cherki let the silence between them hold for a second, feeling the night press close. The streetlight painted him in a soft, forgiving orange.
"So," Dave said, raising his bottle, "who's married and willing to embarrass themselves with domestic propaganda?"
Tom, who'd been quiet, raised his hand theatrically. "I am! Four years married. Two kids. Morning chaos, evening peace. Mostly chaos."
"Two kids?" Reece hooted. "How do you function, Tom?"
Tom shrugged, proud and exhausted. "Function is relative. Coffee is absolute."
Jenna, Tom's wife's coworker, chimed in through his voice, "He's not wrong. Coffee is currency in my house."
Fiona rolled her eyes at Tom. "You're brave. I'd lose my mind."
"Marriage is negotiation," Tom said, proudly waving his beer like a treaty. "You negotiate socks, you negotiate holidays, you negotiate who takes out last night's bins."
Mallory's laugh was short and amused. "We negotiate budgets and custody of the office stapler here."
Callum snorted. "My marriage negotiation is simple: Whoever leaves the toilet seat down makes dinner forever."
There was a ripple of laughter; Callum's grin softened for a moment. He was bigger in voice than in softness.
Dave leaned in, voice conspiratorial. "What about dating? Who's modernly partnered and living the single life with a plus-one?"
Reece grinned. "I'm seeing someone." He swelled with the kind of grin someone wears like a new coat. "Not married, not abandoned, perfect equilibrium."
"Tell us everything," Maya said, delighted. "Details, emotional labor, favourite takeaway."
Reece gave a successful, smitten sigh. "She likes Thai food, hates spiders, and refers to me in the third person when she's annoyed."
"Oh, adorable," Fiona said, rolling her eyes like a seasoned critic. "Third-person is a red card."
Jenna snorted. "If he's being spoken about in third-person, that's a sign to invest in earplugs."
Elizabeth listened, amusement unraveling on her face. Her laugh came easy, a small, private thing. Cherki felt that sound like a soft nudge.
Fiona tapped Elizabeth's knee with a conspiratorial poke. "El, when are you going to get a boyfriend? Or is the human race not meeting your standards?"
Elizabeth's smile went careful. "I'm not interested in dating right now." Her voice was light, but the words were firm.
"Oh god, emotional isolationist," Reece teased. "Someone put her on a volcano retreat; she'll come back spiritual and dramatic."
Maya elbowed Fiona. "Ease up. She's said it before—focus on herself, right?"
Fiona tilted her head, eyes flicking toward Cherki before returning to Elizabeth. "True. But being desire-immune is suspicious."
Cherki pinched the bridge of his nose, doing a small, private counting method. He felt heat rise like a tide under his ribs.
Fiona turned to Cherki, smiling bright and terrible. "Cherki, yourself? Girl? Boy? Mystery man?"
All eyes swung to him in a comedic orbit. The silence stretched, suddenly enormous. He could hear the city's distant hum like audience applause.
"I'm single," Cherki said, voice flat. The admission landed and then hovered. It did not disappear.
An audible, surprised exhale—collective, shocked. "Single?" Reece echoed. "With that face? No way."
Fiona's brows shot up. "Single, handsome, unbelievably patient with our memes. We assumed you were taken."
Cherki's chest tightened. He wanted to explain, to say nothing, to laugh it off. His throat felt thick.
Elizabeth's hand found her beer. Her fingers curled around the neck like an anchor. The night suddenly zoomed inward for both of them.
Fiona glanced at Elizabeth again, a conspiratorial smile forming. "You two should just—"
Before the rest of the sentence escaped, Dave clapped his hands loudly. "Okay, shipping moment averted. Who wants more fries?"
Dave's interruption was a practiced skill; the room exhaled laughter and relief. Cherki's heart, however, still hammered a little.
"You're a saint, Dave," Cherki muttered quietly, grateful. His mind offered a thank-you without sound.
Dave grinned and passed the fries like a peace offering. "Thought I'd save you a blush. Also, fried potatoes fix everything."
The group settled into a rhythm—someone tells a story, someone adds a quip, someone refills a bottle. Stories unfolded naturally, domestic and personal.
Tom launched into a tale about toddler diplomacy, his voice full of mock solemnity. "Negotiated bedtimes with Lego as bargaining chips."
Reece followed with a dating app horror story that had everyone in stitches, hands over mouths and shoulders shaking.
Jenna sighed. "That's why I avoid apps. I prefer tangible disaster, thanks."
Maya said softly, "We all have something like that—disasters that later look like jokes." Her tone slipped somewhere shadowy.
Fiona tilted her head. "Work disasters?" she asked. "Family ones?" The question hung.
"Work and family are the same sometimes," Mallory said, voice gravelled by years. "They both require you to show up broken sometimes."
Cherki listened to Mallory and thought of quiet mornings, little compromises, the small acts that define long-term attachment. He measured his quiet attachments like secrets.
Elizabeth nudged him with her shoulder, small and private. The nudged space between them warmed with unspoken language. Cherki's smile was small and reflexive.
"Tell us about your weekend," Callum demanded, trying to shake off the tug of a conversation he hadn't intended to share in. "Movie? Chaos?"
"Watched a terrible film," Callum admitted, face deflated and honest. "Accidentally cried. Lame."
"No shame in crying," Fiona said, genuinely. "Tears are free and good for circulation."
Someone proposed a toast. "To honest crying," Reece said quickly, raising his bottle like an absurd chalice. "And to whoever invents better alarm clocks."
They all clinked bottles and cups. The sound was a tiny chorus in the open air.
Later, the talk drifted to jobs and pressure—their shared burdens only half-joked about. The city hummed under them like a patient animal.
"We've been stretched," Maya said quietly. "Schedules are brutal. Overtime is constant. Sometimes I wake and don't remember why I started policing."
Fiona nodded. "It's the little things—files misfiled, witnesses who forget, leads that go cold." She tapped her forehead with two fingers. "And then we salvage what we can."
Cherki listened, thinking of the Kyoto folder and the weight of classified words. He felt small in the map of their plans and yet necessary.
Reece said, "We do it because people need us to. Because sometimes we're the only ones who can stitch the torn edges." His voice was raw with typical Reece optimism.
Tom added, "Because we're stubborn. And because getting coffee is a shared ritual of survival."
Dave joked, "We live for coffee, disgruntled paperwork, and awkward team-building. Romantic, right?"
They laughed. The laugh became a staccato rhythm, each beat lifting a fraction of the weight from shoulders.
Elizabeth's friend, Maya, nudged her. "You sure you don't want to talk about dating? Or lack of?" she asked gently. "We don't judge."
Elizabeth shook her head, eyes bright. "Honestly? Not right now. There's work, and there's… I'm fine." She sounded practiced, like a stone in place.
Fiona, unerring, scanned Elizabeth as if reading a comma. "You know, not wanting to date doesn't mean you can't want warmth. Don't confuse independence for immunity."
Cherki watched Elizabeth's jaw tense and then soften. The space between what was said and what was felt shimmered like mirage.
Callum took another long swallow and leaned back against the wall. "You all sound far too deep tonight." He grinned. "I prefer dumb trivia."
"Tell us some dumb trivia," Reece urged immediately. "We need to be less Shakespeare and more YouTube."
Callum obliged with gleeful wrongness. "Did you know octopi have three hearts and hate interrogations?"
Fiona corrected him dryly. "They don't hate interrogations; we don't interrogate octopi. You're projecting."
Laughter stitched them again. Cherki let his shoulders drop, a small surrender with the group.
At some point, talk returned to relationships by way of the absurd—Married confessions, dating disasters, the oddities that pair humans together.
Jenna confessed, cheeks pink, "My husband once tried to be romantic by cooking. Set off three alarms and almost revoked our kitchen."
Tom roared. "That's my line exactly—special place in the trauma hall of fame."
Mallory watched them all, a slow, approving smile crossing his face. "It's good for you to be together tonight. We need nights like this," he said softly.
Cherki felt the words like medicine. He had not known he needed it until he heard it. He looked at Elizabeth and the small curl of her mouth.
They fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that only close people can share—a silence that doesn't demand translation or mitigation.
Fiona, sensing the lull, tossed a question at the circle that landed with intention. "What's one thing you'd change if you could? Work, life—redo?"
Tom said, "Less paperwork. More time with family, ideally at a beach with bad cocktails."
Reece said, "Learn to fail spectacularly. I think we've been too cautious sometimes."
Mallory paused longer than usual. "I'd be kinder to my younger self. I'd tell him to sleep more and forgive himself faster."
"Soft Mallory," Dave teased fondly. "Who are you and what have you done with the old curmudgeon?"
Mallory raised his bottle as if to salute his younger self. "He was stubborn; I've become tactical."
Cherki answered last, voice low and careful. "I'd tell myself to speak faster, to be less afraid of being seen."
Elizabeth's eyes found his. That single look hummed between them—recognition, empathy, a kind of ferocious tenderness. He felt both exposed and shielded.
Fiona turned, curious. "Why speak faster?" she asked, gentle. "Are you slow to say what you need?"
Cherki swallowed. "Sometimes I hold my words. Sometimes I let meaning sit like unspoken receipts. I'd get rid of the backlog."
Elizabeth's fingers twitched, then steadied on her beer. "I'd tell myself not to be so solitary. To let people in sooner."
Fiona smiled. "Good answers. See? We're improving as a unit; personal growth by committee."
Dave raised his bottle. "To being seen, spoken, and occasionally less mysterious. To being idiots who try."
They clinked bottles. The sound threaded through the night like a small banishing charm.
Someone suggested they play a game—truth or lie—with small stakes and larger embarrassment to follow. "Truth or lie?" Reece asked, eyes glittering.
"What's the penalty?" Jenna inquired. "We don't do dares anymore; we're professionals."
Callum smirked. "Penalty is telling us an adult secret. Emotional exposure is punishment enough."
They laughed and began trading small confessions—guilty pleasures, childhood embarrassments, the kind of stories that knit people into teams.
Fiona confessed she once cried over a song and then lied about the artist to save face. "It was worse than admitting emotion," she said.
Mallory owned a parking ticket that turned into an elaborate tale about a dog and a misdirected shopping cart. They groaned in shared amusement.
Cherki offered a confession in the game, soft and true. "I sometimes wake up thinking of someone and then feel like I've stolen time from the day."
Elizabeth's breath caught—subtle, like a leaf settling. She didn't say anything. The circle heard it anyway.
Fiona gave Cherki an almost-suspicious glance. "Sounds suspiciously like attachment. Do not be weak, Cherki."
"Who taught you resilience, Fiona?" Cherki teased, trying to deflect with humor. "Not the price of coffee, apparently."
Fiona shrugged grandly. "I learned from my mum. She named resilience as our family heirloom."
They all shared stories of their parents—who taught them courage, who taught them fear, who taught them to hide. The night grew longer and softer.
As the clock nudged toward late hours, someone noticed the rain had become a steady downpour, a tactile curtain beyond the yard.
"Time to call it," Mallory said, practical and tired. "We all have shifts and lives and small islands of responsibility."
They drained the last of their bottles and stood, stretching. The night felt thicker, memory-saturated and warm.
Elizabeth gathered her bag, moving with a gentle quiet. She glanced at Cherki, uncertain which of them would speak first.
Cherki stepped forward, a small, awkward motion. "Walk you to your car?" he offered, too simple for what he meant.
Elizabeth's smile was grateful, fragile. "I'd like that," she said softly. Her hand brushed his for a second, then withdrew.
Fiona, watching the exchange, gave Cherki a small thumbs up. "Smooth like gravel," she muttered under her breath.
Dave clapped Cherki on the shoulder. "You did good tonight. Blame my strategic intervention if anything." He winked conspiratorially.
Cherki exhaled and let the night fill his lungs—a mixture of diesel and rain and the faint sweetness of burnt coffee.
They toasted one last time—this time for schedules and for survival. "To tight timetables and bad coffee," Reece declared. "May our paperwork be thin."
"May our overtime be paid and meaningful," Maya added, sincere.
"And may we come home safe," Tom said, voice steady. "That's the main one."
They clinked bottles, the sound final and ceremonial. Then they began to drift toward their lives, pockets full of small laughs and confidences.
Outside the yard, umbrellas unfolded into the rain. Cherki walked with Elizabeth under a shared canopy, steps in easy rhythm.
They didn't talk much. The silence between them buzzed with the leftover electricity of shared secrets and barely-uttered admissions.
Elizabeth broke the silence with a small laugh. "Your friend Dave is a good deflector."
Cherki smiled. "He's a wizard at social triage." He hesitated, then added quietly, "Thank him for me."
She nodded, eyes bright in the corner of the collar light. "I will."
When they reached her car, Elizabeth turned to him and said, "Tonight felt good. Thank you."
"You too," Cherki answered, voice low. "We needed it."
She opened the car door, paused, and then with an impulsive courage said, "See you tomorrow, Cherki."
"Tomorrow," he echoed. The word was small, dependable, like a promise without ceremony.
Elizabeth drove away, the taillights bleeding red across wet asphalt. Cherki watched her go until the car became another pair of lights among many.
He started to walk back to the station, feeling oddly light despite the heavy folder waiting on his desk. The night had given him something quiet and undeniable.
Dave intercepted him with a sardonic smile. "So? How'd you survive the romantic inquisition?"
Cherki shrugged, honest now. "Barely. Thanks for the rescue." He offered a small, genuine grin.
Dave punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Anytime. That's what friends are for."
They walked back together, boots splashing in the shallow rainwater, the station's silhouette looming like a safe, tired island.
Inside, the fluorescent hum welcomed them back with business-as-usual indifference. Cherki paused by the door, breathing in the smell of old files and warm electronics.
He thought of Okazaki and the Kyoto files that sat in his mind like a sleeping thing, dangerous if woken. He thought of Elizabeth's hand and the small, steadying promise of tomorrow.
He whispered to himself, quietly and without fanfare, "Thank you, Dave," and the words felt like a benediction.
They filed back to their lives—some to partners, some to empty apartments, some to restless sleep—holding tonight like a small, necessary warmth.
Outside, the rain finally eased, leaving the world slick and reflective. The city purred on, unaware of the plans being drawn under its ribs.
Cherki locked the station door behind him and walked into the night, heart quieter than when he'd arrived. The folder waited, heavy and patient.
Tomorrow would ask more of them, demand longer hours and stranger answers. For now, he kept the memory of laughter like a shield.
He walked home slowly, footsteps in the rain, thinking of small things: fries, laughter, an ally named Dave, and Elizabeth's hand resting brief and sure in the dark.
At his flat, he put the folder on the table but did not open it. He made tea instead, the ritual soothing and ordinary.
He thought of the toast: tight schedules, excessive work, countless overtime. He lifted his mug and smiled into the steam.
"To whatever comes," he murmured, and drained his cup. The night kept its own counsel, and he slept with small, guarded hope.