9:08 a.m.
Ezra Kael sat at his desk with a file open in front of him and a pen twirling between his fingers like a coin at a card table. His jacket was off. His sleeves were rolled. His hair was suspiciously perfect.
But his eyes?
His eyes were calculating.
He wasn't reading the file.
He was reading Amy Santiago.
Amy stood across the bullpen with her arms folded, her clipboard in hand like it was a sword of judgment. She was mid-lecture to Jake about how "case summaries are not suggestions."
Ezra wasn't listening to the words. He was listening to the rhythm. The tone. The micro-beats of interaction.
She trusts Jake. Annoyed, but never worried.She doesn't trust me. Not yet. Possibly not ever.
He didn't blame her.
He wouldn't trust him either.
"Kael," Terry called from his office. "You're with Santiago today. Follow her lead."
Ezra smiled faintly. "Of course. That's where the clipboard goes."
Jake burst out laughing. Amy did not.
10:17 a.m.
Their case was a basic B&E. No injuries. Just a broken window, missing jewelry, and a suspect that Amy already had narrowed down to three possibilities. Ezra let her drive.
Literally and figuratively.
She was efficient. Thorough. Precise. The kind of detective who double-checked timestamps and cross-referenced shoe sizes. Ezra respected it.
He also quietly made a bet with himself that she'd forget to ask the neighbor if they had any security cams facing the victim's house.
She didn't.
Damn.
Still, Ezra caught a detail in the victim's body language—something about how the man tensed when he mentioned a "family friend" who had house-sat the week before. Amy missed it. Ezra didn't.
He didn't say anything. Not yet.
He wanted to see how far she'd get on her own.
12:31 p.m.
Back in the bullpen, Amy typed up her initial notes while Ezra leaned against her desk with a cup of very questionable precinct coffee.
"You're thorough," he said.
"I'm a detective," she replied without looking up.
He smiled. "So am I. Slightly different methods. Same results."
"You've been here a day."
"Day and a half. Technically."
She paused. "You noticed something, didn't you? At the scene."
Ezra sipped his coffee. "Maybe. Maybe not. I figured you'd want the full win yourself."
Amy turned fully to face him now. "What kind of detective holds back evidence?"
Ezra met her eyes. "The kind that likes to watch people work."
She didn't like that. He could see it.
But she didn't press further.
Yet.
1:40 p.m.
They interviewed the "family friend" together. Ezra watched Amy do her thing. Organized questions. Chronological logic. Bulletproof structure.
It almost worked.
But when the man started sweating and bouncing his knee, Ezra leaned forward just slightly.
He smiled, disarmingly. "Hey, no pressure. We're just trying to clear the air. You seem like a good guy. Clean record. Stable job. You were probably just doing someone a favor. Maybe the wrong favor, but…"
Amy shot him a look. Ezra ignored it.
"I mean," he added, lowering his voice just enough, "we've all helped someone we shouldn't have. Right?"
The guy cracked.
Fifteen minutes later, they had a signed confession.
3:12 p.m.
Back at the precinct, Amy stood next to Ezra outside the briefing room.
"You manipulated him."
"I coaxed him," Ezra replied.
"You played him like a card trick."
Ezra raised an eyebrow. "Is that a compliment or an accusation?"
"It's both."
He considered that. "I'll take it."
Amy didn't smile. But she didn't walk away either.
Progress.
5:06 p.m.
Ezra was alone at his desk again, writing in his notebook. Not words. Just a timeline.
Of the day. Of the conversations. Of the tension.
He stared at Amy's name for a long time before writing:
She wants to trust. But she needs control more than connection. Respect that. Don't push yet.
He tapped the pen twice, then drew a single box around her name.
He didn't know what that meant.
But it felt necessary.
Behind him, Jake tossed a paper airplane that landed on his keyboard.
"Good first date?" Jake grinned.
Ezra looked up slowly. "We interrogated a man until he confessed to felony theft."
Jake nodded. "So like, second base?"
Ezra sighed. "Remind me to never ask you for dating advice."
Jake leaned on the desk. "Too late. I'm making you a guidebook. First tip: always carry handcuffs."
Ezra chuckled despite himself.
Trust didn't come easy.
But maybe—just maybe—he was in the right place to try.
The next day began like a quiet continuation of the last—same fluorescent lights, same coffee options, slightly less uncertainty. Ezra walked into the bullpen with two cups and an unreadable smile, already moving like someone who belonged.
8:55 a.m.
Ezra walked into the precinct carrying two coffees.
One for himself.
One he handed off to Terry.
Terry blinked. "Did I ask for this?"
"Nope," Ezra said. "But I figured you might need it anyway. First round of admin case reviews?"
Terry took it cautiously, sniffed it, then nodded in surprise. "This is good."
"I know a guy who knows a guy who baristas."
Jake, walking by, muttered, "That's not a verb."
"It is when the guy makes foam art shaped like your unresolved trauma."
9:33 a.m.
Terry assigned Ezra to "sift through case summaries" from another precinct for follow-up. A total yawnfest. Ezra didn't complain. Out loud.
Internally, though?
Is this a test? A punishment? An opportunity to reorganize this entire digital mess for fun and psychological warfare?
By 9:38, he had created his own tagging system. By 9:42, he had three theories about two unsolved cases. By 9:46, he began drafting a fake memo to confuse any future detective who might try to undo his work.
Jake peered over his shoulder. "Whoa, are you building a nerd labyrinth? Like a spreadsheet Minotaur situation?"
Ezra didn't even pause. "You say that like it's not art."
Jake grinned. "Dude, I say that like I want in."
Amy, passing by, squinted at the open tabs. "Is that color-coded by confession strength?"
Ezra grinned. "Also alibi credibility. And snack preference. Trust me, it helps."
Amy walked away muttering, "He's terrifying."
Jake nodded. "Right? But in a sexy spreadsheet kind of way."
11:10 a.m.
Gina sat at Ezra's desk. She did not ask.
"You have secrets," she said.
"I have privacy."
"That's what people with secrets say."
Ezra tilted his head. "Is this your process?"
Gina just blinked slowly. "You're weird. I like it. But not in a, like, healthy way. More like a 'I feel like I'll find you standing over a blueprint of the precinct at 2 a.m.' kind of way."
Ezra didn't respond.
Because he had absolutely done that last night.
McGintley's office had a faulty ceiling tile—potential access point.
He made a note to patch that memory up later.
12:45 p.m.
The lunch break was loud. Ezra sat in the corner with a small salad and a crossword puzzle no one had asked him to solve. He still solved it.
Jake dropped into the seat across from him, holding a sandwich the size of a cinderblock. "I call her Sandwich Megazord. She's got seven meats, two regrets, and a dream."
Ezra blinked. "...Okay."
Jake leaned in, elbows on the table. "So. Kael. You dating anyone?"
Ezra raised an eyebrow. "That's where we're starting?"
"Classic squad lunch questionnaire," Jake said. "Question one: Dating? Question two: Heist movie of choice. Question three: If you could be any condiment, which one would destroy you emotionally?"
Ezra smirked. "No. No. And hot mustard."
Jake pointed dramatically. "Knew it. You've got secret pain energy. It's the cheekbones."
Ezra chuckled softly.
Jake leaned back. "Look, man. This place? We're weird. Like, deeply, impressively weird. You'll fit in. Just don't eat my sandwich.". Just know… we're not really great at normal either. You'll fit in."
Ezra smiled faintly. "That's what worries me."
2:20 p.m.
Amy handed Ezra a file. "Need you to cross-reference these names with the public nuisance logs from March. Should take an hour."
It took him fifteen minutes.
But he submitted it twenty-five minutes later.
Because he didn't want her to know how fast he was.
He couldn't explain why. But something told him that earning trust wasn't about showing off. It was about understanding how others needed you to show up.
Even if it meant pretending to need longer.
He hated how natural that was for him.
4:15 p.m.
Ezra found Rosa in the evidence lockup, sorting boxes like it was personal therapy.
"Need a hand?" he asked.
"No."
He helped anyway.
After five minutes of silence:
"You always this quiet?" she asked.
Ezra shrugged. "Only when I'm pretending not to overthink everything."
Rosa grunted. "Good. Keep pretending."
He glanced at her. "You pretending too?"
She didn't answer.
But she didn't throw him out either.
The next morning came with less chaos and slightly better coffee. Ezra walked into the bullpen with a notebook tucked under his arm and the quiet confidence of someone who'd already memorized three new precinct protocols overnight.
9:07 a.m.
Jake was standing on his chair.
Ezra blinked.
Then blinked again.
"Is there... a reason you're doing an eagle pose over your desk?" Ezra asked, easing into his chair.
Jake held up a Post-it note like it was a legal warrant. "I lost a bet. Now I have to live one day entirely from elevated positions. Chairs. Tables. Possibly Terry's shoulders if he's distracted."
"Why would you agree to that?"
Jake grinned. "Because Charles promised to stop putting mushroom pâté in things for a week. Totally worth it. Also—good morning, my dude."
Ezra nodded slowly. "You're...very vertical today."
"Thank you. You seem especially notebooky."
Ezra glanced at the small black book in his hand. "It's how I process information."
Jake gasped. "Is it like a cool detective diary? Like, 'Dear Notebook, today I emotionally destabilized a suspect with minimal eye contact and a whisper of trauma'?"
Ezra smirked. "Something like that."
Jake jumped down. "Well, if it ever gets published, I want to narrate the audiobook. I'll do voices. 'Chapter 7: Amy Santiago — Why So Intense?'"
From across the bullpen: "I heard that!"
Jake cupped his hands. "It was affectionate!"
Amy responded by throwing a stress ball with unnerving precision. Jake ducked with a dramatic squeal and fell behind his desk.
Ezra blinked. "Are you okay?"
A thumbs-up emerged from behind the desk. "Emotionally? Never. Physically? Also probably no."
11:30 a.m.
Ezra found himself at the copier, which was jammed with a vengeance. Boyle appeared beside him like a support group flyer in human form.
"Hey, buddy," Boyle said cheerfully. "Copier's moody today. Wants you to earn it."
Ezra gestured to the blinking error screen. "I've tried everything short of sweet-talking it."
Boyle leaned in. "You have to press the reset button while whispering compliments. Watch."
He pressed a button and said, "You're the most reliable machine I've ever met. I bet scanners in other precincts are jealous of your toner capacity."
The copier immediately came back to life.
Ezra blinked. "That...shouldn't have worked."
Boyle beamed. "It always works. Machines just want to be seen."
Ezra scribbled a mental note: Boyle—possible wizard. Never leave him alone with tech.
2:10 p.m.
Back at his desk, Ezra was reviewing old cold case files—his request. Terry had raised an eyebrow but handed them over without comment.
Ezra liked patterns. And gaps. The spaces where someone clever had once slipped through.
He didn't notice Rosa sitting beside him until she spoke.
"You looking for ghosts?"
He didn't jump, but it was close.
Ezra glanced at her. "Just...feeling out where the walls used to be thin."
Rosa nodded. "You see things people miss."
Ezra hesitated. "Sometimes I wish I didn't."
She didn't respond. She didn't need to.
5:27 p.m.
As the squad slowly packed up, Jake tossed a wadded paper into Ezra's trash can from a ridiculous distance.
"Nothing but net!" he called, then added, "Ezra, you coming to Shaw's tonight? We're doing trivia. And by trivia, I mean Charles is going to whisper facts while I order too many curly fries."
Ezra paused.
He could've said he was tired. He could've said no.
But instead, he smiled.
"Yeah. Sounds fun."
Jake fist-pumped. "Kael! Welcome to the chaos. It's like family—but with worse boundaries and better fries."
Ezra laughed.
For once, it felt easy.