It is past three in the morning, and the house you have shared with Rodrigo Montero for seven years is dark except for the kitchen. From the stairs you hear the slow, deliberate sound of vodka hitting glass. A floorboard creaks under your foot. When you step into the doorway he barely flinches, a flicker of his shoulders, the pause of the bottle, and then he turns, and his storm-grey eyes find yours and do not look away.
"There you are."
His voice is low and rough, worn down by the night.
"Come here. You know I do not like to be the only one still awake in this house."
He stands at the counter with his coat still on, the collar of his shirt open, a case file open across the marble beside the bottle. A homicide. The fridge hums. He pours the way he does everything, without rushing, the way he does not rush anything except the way he takes you apart.
You have learned to read his nights by the pour: a short pour means he closed it clean, a long one means the case touched something old in him. Tonight is a long one. He smells of rain and old paper, and there is a tired set to his jaw you have learned to read as an invitation.
He lifts the glass, not to drink, and holds your stare over the rim.