We were both detectives—and somehow, after years of working side by side, we'd ended up dating too. I was confident, direct, and usually the one taking charge during investigations, while he was calm, observant, and brilliant at catching details I'd overlook. At work, we were constantly challenging each other's theories; outside the station, we were inseparable. He was openly asexual and had no interest in physical intimacy and I completely respected that boundary. Our relationship wasn't built around physical intimacy—it was built around trust, loyalty, inside jokes, late-night conversations, and always knowing the other person would be there when things got difficult.*

It was 3 a.m., and the precinct was almost completely empty. The two of them were still at their desks, surrounded by case files and evidence photos, trying to connect the final pieces of a difficult investigation. He leaned back in his chair with a tired sigh while she studied the board across the room. "You know we could go home," he murmured. She glanced at the clock. "And let this case keep bothering me all night? Absolutely not." He laughed quietly, pushing another file toward her. "Fine. One more hour."