The Presidium restaurant was exactly Andre Jasso's style.

Polished. Effortless. Refined. A quiet hum of power threaded through the murmured conversations and glittering chandeliers overhead. The soft clink of crystal glasses, the steady murmur of sophisticated voices – it all combined into a subtle reminder that Leila Dawes was painfully out of place.

She shifted slightly in her chair, the smooth silk dress suddenly feeling too tight around her ribs, too constricting. She'd worn it because Andre liked it, because he'd given her that quiet smile when he saw her in it, saying the emerald color suited her perfectly. But now, in this meticulously crafted environment, it felt like someone else's clothing, someone else's life.

Across from her, Andre was perfectly at ease. He scanned the wine list confidently, speaking in soft, authoritative tones with the waiter about vintages and vineyards she'd never heard of, let alone tasted. Whatever he selected would undoubtedly cost more than she'd ever willingly spend. But to Andre, it was nothing – a casual choice, an easy comfort in a world that had always welcomed him with open arms.

"You alright?" Andre asked suddenly, looking up with a quiet concern.

Leila blinked, realizing too late she'd allowed her discomfort to show. "Fine," she lied quickly, arranging her features into something softer. "Just…not used to places like this, I guess."

Andre's eyes warmed, gentle reassurance masking any deeper understanding. "You belong here," he told her, voice smooth, easy, certain.

Leila's chest tightened at his words. She wanted so badly to believe him – to trust that the polished woman he saw when he looked at her was real. But the voice whispering in the back of her mind was louder. Persistent. Cruel.

She didn't belong here. She never would.

Before she could dwell too deeply, the waiter returned, smoothly pouring wine into her glass. Andre lifted his own, smiling across the table, and she matched him, glass tapping softly against glass. She sipped the rich, unfamiliar vintage, forcing a smile as Andre slipped effortlessly into comfortable small talk.

He discussed recent cases, the delicate balance of Citadel politics, even gently joked about the endless red tape. It was the kind of conversation he thrived in – surface-level, safe, polished. Leila played along, nodding, laughing softly at his humor, keeping up appearances with practiced ease. She knew the script by now. She'd learned how to wear this mask well enough that he never thought to look beneath it.

But as she watched him talk, smiling easily, effortlessly charming, a quiet unease crept back into her chest. He liked her like this – smiling, uncomplicated, a woman with a clean past and a promising future. But Andre didn't know her. Not really. He liked the illusion. The smooth, polished surface of her she'd constructed carefully for his benefit.

He didn't know the girl from the lower wards who'd stolen to survive. He didn't know the woman who still lied to protect her brother. And if he ever did, the gentle warmth in his eyes would fade away to something colder, more distant.

Leila lifted her glass again, sipping deeper this time, trying to drown the unease swirling in her stomach. She forced herself back into the moment, laughed softly at another casual joke, and pretended – for one more night – that this was exactly where she belonged.

She saw them approaching before Andre did.

His attention was on her, easy and relaxed, utterly oblivious as the familiar figures crossed the room. Her posture stiffened slightly, fingers tightening instinctively on her glass. Andre paused mid-sentence, following her gaze over his shoulder. Recognition immediately softened his expression into practiced ease.

"Councilor Udina," Andre greeted smoothly, standing to shake the man's hand. "Executor Chellick. Good evening."

"Detective Jasso," Udina responded warmly. His gaze shifted toward Leila, eyes briefly assessing her before returning seamlessly to Andre. "I trust I'm not interrupting your evening?"

"Not at all," Andre replied. "Just stepping away from work for once."

Udina chuckled politely, nodding his approval. "Good. The Presidium has its charms – glad you're able to enjoy them."

Chellick stood silent, observant, just behind Udina's shoulder. His sharp, unblinking turian gaze lingered on Leila, and she felt instantly exposed. It wasn't hostile; it was clinical, appraising. The Executor never wasted words. He didn't have to – his careful scrutiny said enough.

Leila straightened slightly, chin lifting, meeting Chellick's gaze with forced calm. She held steady beneath his inspection, refusing to flinch or give anything away. The Executor's mandibles twitched minutely, a subtle acknowledgment of her defiance, before his attention returned to Andre.

"Keeping yourself busy, Detective?" Chellick asked evenly.

"Always," Andre answered lightly. "Though I'm doing my best to remember life exists outside the precinct."

"Wise," Udina interjected smoothly. "Balance is crucial, especially with the tensions on the Citadel lately."

Andre smiled politely. "Of course, Councilor."

Udina inclined his head in farewell, already half turning away. "Enjoy your evening."

But Chellick didn't move immediately. He hesitated a fraction of a second longer, studying Leila with that penetrating quiet once more. The look was unmistakable – curiosity edged with quiet suspicion. Her breath caught involuntarily, pulse flickering hot at her throat.

Then, without another word, Chellick followed Udina into the crowd, disappearing among the sleek, polished figures of the Presidium elite.

Andre eased back into his chair, entirely unaware of the tension that lingered. "Never off duty, huh?" he remarked lightly, lifting his wineglass.

Leila forced herself to match his easy smile, but her fingers tightened again around her glass stem until her knuckles paled. Her voice, though steady, felt distant, detached from herself. "Yeah. Something like that."

She took another sip, the wine suddenly tasting bitter on her tongue. Across from her, Andre resumed the evening as if nothing had changed, smoothly slipping back into comfortable small talk. But as Leila watched him, smiling gently, she couldn't shake the lingering weight of Chellick's assessing stare – the quiet, unspoken judgment behind it.

She drew a slow breath, steadying herself beneath the hollow ache, and forced another practiced smile.

Because Leila Dawes had spent her whole life wanting to be wanted, and this was a small price to pay for it.

Cassian shifted in the passenger seat again, trying – and failing – to stretch his long legs into some position remotely comfortable. Stakeout vehicles clearly hadn't been designed with turians in mind. Or comfort. Or anything resembling common decency. He sighed dramatically, leaning his head back against the headrest as another surge of restless energy ran down his spine.

Three hours parked on a dim Zakera Ward side street was enough to test anyone's patience. Three hours next to Jace Wilcox – silent, focused, unmoving – was enough to drive him insane.

Cassian drummed his talons lightly against the center console, glancing sideways at his partner, whose eyes remained fixed unblinkingly on the darkened alley across from them. The harsh neon signs overhead threw flickering shadows over Jace's face, catching on the tight line of his jaw, the subtle tension coiled in his shoulders.

Cassian's mandibles twitched. He'd been here before – had sat through enough of Jace's silent brooding to know there were only two ways this ended. Either Cassian broke the silence, or they both drowned in it.

He cleared his throat lightly, cocking his head toward the quiet street outside. "You know, we could at least spring for snacks next time."

Jace didn't respond.

Cassian forged ahead anyway, undeterred. "Or coffee. Good dextro-coffee. Not that brown sludge the precinct pretends is coffee."

Jace's eyes flicked briefly toward him, then back to the alley. "Stakeouts aren't supposed to be comfortable, Solvaris."

"Clearly." Cassian reached down, picked up the ration pack from the floor near his feet, and studied it skeptically. "You know, I think the expiration date on this thing was before Shepard saved the Citadel."

Jace ignored him again. Cassian let the silence hang between them for another moment, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes tracked a krogan moving past their alley, then returned thoughtfully to Jace.

"So," he said casually, "speaking of uncomfortable – seriously, how does Dawes put up with someone like Jasso?"

It was subtle, but immediate – the brief tightening of Jace's jaw, the sudden rigidity that settled into his shoulders. Cassian saw it clear as day and bit back a smile.

Jace didn't look over, didn't break focus. "None of our business."

Cassian's mandibles flared, thoroughly amused now. He tilted his head slightly, voice deceptively innocent. "Oh, come on. You've seen Jasso. Presidium born-and-bred, nice suit, perfect hair. Can't imagine Dawes going home to…that."

"Drop it," Jace said evenly.

Cassian's smirk widened, thoroughly undeterred. "I'm just saying, the guy seems a little outside her normal type." He leaned back, thoughtfully tapping a talon against his chin. "Leila Dawes at a Presidium fundraiser. Fancy dress, polite conversation. Eating tiny appetizers off silver trays – "

"Cassian."

Cassian raised his hands defensively, chuckling softly. "I'm just trying to understand. I mean, Dawes is…you know, she's – "

"I know exactly who Dawes is," Jace said tightly, finally glancing sharply in Cassian's direction.

Cassian paused, openly studying his partner now. The sudden defensiveness, the edge in his voice – oh, it was even better than he'd hoped. He tilted his head, voice softening knowingly. "Ah. Got it."

Jace's eyes narrowed. "Got what?"

Cassian's voice dripped with mock sympathy. "Jealousy's a tough one, isn't it?"

Jace turned fully to face him, expression hardening, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Don't."

But Cassian simply settled comfortably back into his seat, smugly satisfied. "Oh, come on. It's understandable. Dawes is...well, Dawes. And Jasso – he's about as exciting as filling out a requisition form." He paused dramatically, his voice dipping conspiratorially low. "It'd drive me crazy too."

Jace stared at him in stony silence, irritation radiating from every tense line of his posture. Cassian returned the stare calmly, utterly pleased with himself. After a moment, he turned his attention back toward the alley, tapping his talons cheerfully against the console again.

The stakeout dragged on, quiet returning between them, but Cassian didn't mind it now. He settled into the silence with a satisfied smile.

Mission accomplished.

The tension had settled eventually, burned off like fog in a slow dawn.

Jace had gone back to watching the alley. Cassian had gone back to pretending he wasn't watching him. The silence was easier now. Less barbed.

Cassian shifted, stretching his arms overhead until his joints cracked. He dropped them into his lap with a sigh. "You ever feel like everyone's just waiting for you to screw up?"

Jace didn't look away from the alley, but the question seemed to land.

Cassian leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "My grandfather used to run Enforcement Ops out of Tayseri Ward. My dad's practically a fixture in Internal Affairs. I showed up to my first day at the academy and three instructors already knew my name." He let out a low chuckle, dry and humorless. "One of 'em called me 'Legacy.' Day one."

Jace said nothing. Just listened.

"I've been on this squad six months, and I still get officers three ranks above me telling me how proud my father must be. Like I'm some walking continuation of his career path." Cassian's mandibles twitched. "It's not even pressure to be good. It's pressure to be him."

He didn't expect Jace to respond. But after a pause, Jace shifted slightly in his seat. Not looking at him, but not closed off either.

"I get that," Jace said finally. Voice quiet. Flat, but not cold. "People look at me and still see the uniform I stopped wearing five years ago."

Cassian turned toward him, brow furrowing.

"I was Alliance," Jace added, after a beat. "Did my time. Tours, deployments. A few places I'm still not supposed to talk about." He paused, watching a figure move in the alley before it ducked out of sight again. "When I got discharged, I figured C-Sec would be familiar enough to make sense. Rules. Structure. Orders."

"And it wasn't?"

"Not the kind that mattered," Jace said. "Not the kind I knew how to follow."

Cassian watched him quietly. Something in Jace's tone had changed – still even, still calm, but with the faintest undercurrent of something heavier.

"I can handle a firefight. A raid. Tactical sweep. That part's easy." Jace's grip tightened subtly on the steering wheel. "What I'm still figuring out is what to do when someone's crying in the middle of a marketplace because their kid got picked up on a bad charge and no one will tell them why. Or when a slumlord's got a dozen families living without power and the only thing C-Sec can do is fine him for a zoning violation."

He exhaled slowly. "Soldiers fix problems. Cops bury them in paperwork."

Cassian leaned back in his seat, the quiet between them stretching again – but it felt different this time. Not strained. Just honest.

"I used to think the rules were the problem," Cassian said after a while. "Now I think the people who write them are."

Jace didn't smile. But something in his posture eased. Just slightly.

"Maybe both," he said.

They sat like that for a while. No jokes. No posturing. Just two officers in a silent car under buzzing streetlights, watching the alley and pretending they weren't quietly starting to understand each other.

Both of them saw it at the same time. A figure slipped into the alley – quick, deliberate. Hooded. Something clutched in their hand.

Jace was already moving, one hand on the door, voice low. "Got something."

Cassian was right behind him, no hesitation. "On your six."

They exited clean – no words, no wasted time. The kind of coordination that didn't come from drills, but from hours in the field. From learning the rhythm of the other man's footsteps. From knowing when to speak and when to stay silent. The alley was damp, quiet, lit only by the occasional pulse of an overhead sign. The figure was crouched near a crate, digging at something. Jace raised a hand – halt. Cassian mirrored the motion, staying low behind him.

Then the hood fell back.

And the kid couldn't have been more than fifteen.

He froze at the sight of them. Dropped the screwdriver in his hand and immediately raised both arms, wide-eyed and shaking.

Cassian let out a breath. "Shit."

Jace didn't lower his stance, not right away. He studied the scene carefully – crate had been wedged open, but nothing missing. Tools scattered. No weapons. No backup waiting.

Not a threat.

Jace relaxed his grip, straightened. "False alarm."

Cassian stepped forward, crouched in front of the kid, voice low. "Hey. You hungry?"

The kid nodded once, terrified.

Cassian handed over one of the untouched ration bars from his belt. "Take this. Get out of here."

The kid blinked. Took the bar with both hands. Ran. Neither of them spoke until the footsteps disappeared completely.

They climbed back into the car. Jace slid into the driver's seat and shut the door. Didn't start the engine.

Cassian leaned back in his seat, exhaling slow. "He was just a kid."

"I know."

Jace stared out at the alley again, eyes narrowed. Then shook his head slightly, like he was trying to clear it.

Cassian reached for the ration pack again, held it up with a faint grin. "Still think stakeouts aren't supposed to be comfortable?"

Jace didn't smile. But the tension in his shoulders had eased. He shook his head again. Quieter this time. "You did good back there."

Cassian looked over. Not smug. Not joking. Just… surprised. "Thanks," he said. And meant it.

The quiet settled in again. But it wasn't strained now. It held.

They didn't say anything else.

They didn't need to.