The night stretched long, dragging like a weight against your shoulders.
Stacks of documents covered your desk, some barely read, others waiting for your signature. The endless reports, disciplinary actions, operational briefings—each one demanding your attention, each one chipping away at your patience.
And then there were the Sinners.
There was always something—someone misbehaving, someone pushing boundaries, someone needing intervention. It was your responsibility to handle them, to maintain order, to be the unwavering Chief of MBCC.
But tonight, it was too much.
Your temples throbbed. Sleep had been a distant luxury for days, exhaustion creeping in like an unwanted guest. Every voice grated against your nerves, every request felt like a burden.
Even Nightingale had noticed.
She had approached you earlier, concern evident in her eyes, only to be met with your clipped response and cold dismissal. The guilt barely registered beneath the overwhelming fatigue.
You just needed to be alone.
Or so you thought.
The soft click of your office door opening barely registered in your tired mind. You didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge the presence that entered, assuming it was another subordinate with yet another task to pile onto your already unbearable workload. "If it’s more paperwork, leave it on the desk."
Silence.
Then—
"Skipping our usual nightly talk? That’s unlike you, Chief."
Chameleon.
A sigh pushed past your lips. You didn’t have the energy for this tonight.
"Not now," you muttered, still focused on the papers in front of you.
She didn’t leave. Instead, she approached your desk, her presence a quiet but undeniable weight in the room.
"You look awful," she said, her tone smooth, but lacking its usual teasing edge.
Your fingers twitched. "Chameleon—"
"You’re irritated. Emotional. That’s not like you," she continued, as if studying you. Then, after a beat— "You're exhausted."
That was it.
The tension snapped.
Your pen clattered onto the desk as you finally looked up, sharp exhaustion laced in your gaze. "And what of it?"
For the first time tonight, she didn’t smirk.
She didn’t tease.
She simply watched you, something unreadable in her expression.
Then, she moved.
"You’re done for the night."
Before you could argue, she stepped behind your chair, her hands settling on your shoulders.
"Chameleon—"
"Shh." Her fingers pressed into your tense muscles, kneading slow, deliberate circles. "No arguing."
You stiffened at first.
But damn it—her touch was soothing.
Precise. Calculated.
Like she knew exactly where to press, exactly how to unravel the knots wound too tight in your shoulders.
"You’re always taking care of others," she murmured, her voice quieter now. "For once, let someone take care of you."
A sharp exhale left your lips.
You should have resisted. Should have pushed her away. But your body betrayed you, melting under her touch, the weight of exhaustion settling heavier now that someone had finally acknowledged it.
Her fingers trailed up, massaging slow circles at the base of your neck. Your eyes fluttered shut, your head dipping slightly forward.
She noticed.
A soft chuckle ghosted over your ear. "See? You do need this."
You swallowed, fighting the warmth creeping up your neck. "I need sleep," you muttered.
"Then sleep."
Before you could ask what she meant, she pulled away—but only for a moment.
Then, you felt it—her hands finding yours, pulling you up from your chair with surprising ease.
Confusion flickered in your drowsy mind as she led you away from your desk, past the scattered paperwork, past the dim office lights—
And toward the private room connected to your office.
"Chameleon—"
"No protests," she cut in smoothly, guiding you through the door.
The room was dimly lit, the familiar scent of your sheets wrapping around you as Chameleon led you toward the bed.
"You work too much," she said, pushing you down—gently.
You blinked up at her, the world tilting slightly from exhaustion. "You can’t just—"
Her hand found your forehead, pressing lightly. "You don’t have a fever," she murmured. "Just overworked."
You huffed, but didn’t resist as she nudged you further onto the mattress.
Then, to your surprise, she sat on the edge of the bed, her gaze softer now.
"You’re always so composed, so in control," she mused. "It’s strange seeing you like this."
Your lips twitched, exhaustion making you more honest than usual. "Not a good look?"
Chameleon tilted her head. Then, without hesitation, she lifted a hand—brushing a strand of hair from your face.
Your breath hitched.
"...It suits you," she murmured.
Your heart stuttered.
She shifted, her fingers trailing lightly over your forehead, down to your temple, before threading into your hair.
The touch was uncharacteristically gentle.
Comforting.
"Sleep," she murmured, her voice lower now, soothing.
You wanted to argue.
But her fingers combed through your hair again, slow, rhythmic, and suddenly, keeping your eyes open felt impossible.
You barely registered the way she shifted closer.
The warmth of her beside you.
The last thing you felt was her breath ghosting over your temple—softer than a whisper, lingering.
And then, you drifted into sleep.
You weren’t sure how long you had been asleep.
Warmth cocooned you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, your body wasn’t screaming in protest. The exhaustion still weighed on your limbs, but it wasn’t the sharp, gnawing kind—it was softer now, a quiet heaviness that didn’t feel suffocating.
And then you became aware of something else.
A presence.
Slowly, your senses stirred, and you realized—Chameleon was still here.
You blinked drowsily, adjusting to the dim lighting. Your head felt heavy, resting against something warm and solid. It took a moment to register, but when you did—
Your breath hitched.
You had fallen asleep against her.
Your head rested lightly against her lap, her fingers still threading absently through your hair. She hadn’t stopped—not even after you drifted off.
And she was watching you.
You swallowed, suddenly more awake.
"...You stayed," you murmured, your voice hoarse from sleep.
A small hum. "Of course."
Her fingers didn’t stop moving. If anything, she became even more deliberate, tracing slow, languid strokes through your hair, her touch featherlight against your scalp.
"You didn’t have to," you said, though you made no effort to move away.
Another hum. This time, it was amused. "If I didn’t, who knows what kind of state you’d be in tomorrow?"
You sighed, closing your eyes again, exhaustion still clinging to you. "...You’re not wrong."
A chuckle—quiet, but distinctly her.
Then, silence.
Not an uncomfortable one—no, this was easy. The kind that settled in the space between you without feeling suffocating.
You weren’t sure how much time passed, but eventually, you shifted, moving to sit up.
Or at least, you tried to.
Chameleon’s hand moved, palm pressing lightly against your forehead.
"You’re not going anywhere," she said smoothly.
You blinked at her.
"Chameleon—"
Her other hand found your shoulder, guiding you back down—gently, but firmly. "No arguments," she murmured, voice softer now. "You’re staying like this."
Your lips parted to protest, but then—
Her fingers brushed against your temple again, trailing down to your cheek. Her thumb hovered just beneath your eye, tracing the dark circles there with something dangerously close to tenderness.
"You really are exhausted," she muttered, almost to herself.
You swallowed.
Your heart stuttered.
She was too close.
You could feel her warmth, the way her fingers lingered against your skin, the way her gaze—usually sharp and teasing—had softened into something unreadable.
"Chameleon," you started, but your voice was quieter now.
She blinked, as if just realizing how close she had gotten.
For a moment, something flickered across her face—hesitation? Uncertainty?
Then, she moved.
Your breath caught as she leaned in, her lips brushing—not against your own, but against your forehead.
A whisper of warmth.
Fleeting, but deliberate.
By the time she pulled away, your heartbeat was a deafening thrum in your ears.
Chameleon, for once, didn’t immediately mask her expression. She was watching you, studying your reaction, her own face unreadable.
Then, slowly, a small smirk tugged at her lips.
"Get some sleep, Chief," she murmured, her voice lower now—calm, assured.
Your thoughts were a mess, your heart still racing, but—
You sighed.
And you gave in.
You let your body relax against her again, her fingers threading through your hair once more.
And this time, when you fell asleep, you swore you could still feel the ghost of her lips against your skin.