Micah snorted. It was true, despite her threats on Monday, she hadn’t nagged him about the man once since then. In fact, Tessa had been helping him with Nico’s case. “I’m truly blown away by your selflessness,” he deadpanned.

“As you should be,” she said, faux-haughtily. Then… “Seriously, Micah, go home, or I’ll call your dad.”

Micah glowered, even though he knew Tessa couldn’t see it. She just had to go and pull that card, didn’t she?

“Fine,” he said, probably more curtly than Tessa deserved. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ending the call before she could scold him for his tone, Micah pocketed his phone. He glared at his computer screen – probably doing a convincing impression of a sullen teenager – before reluctantly shutting down his computer. He cleared his desk and locked up his files before standing. Ignoring the way his back popped like he was an octogenarian instead of a young, generally fit twenty-three-year-old, Micah shouldered on his coat.

Muttering his good-byes to the handful of personnel working the evening shift at the precinct, he made his way out the door.

It was snowing.

Micah shouldn’t have been surprised. It was the first of December, and snow was hardly a foreign concept in New York. If he was in a better mood, he might have even been able to appreciate the beauty of the glistening, white flakes. But there was already an impressive layer of the stuff on the ground. And Micah was tired, with a headache, and now, he was bound to be cold and wet by the time he got home.

His apartment was within walking distance of the station – one of the reasons he put up with his horrible landlord and the complete lack of maintenance. (That, and it was one of the few places he could actually afford on his salary.)

Regardless, Micah was sorely tempted to hail a cab. It wasn’t like he’d been getting paid overtime to stay late the past few nights, however, so his internal debate didn’t last long before he was sighing, and burying his face as deeply as he could into the neck of his jacket, he began his trek home.

Micah’s hair was damp, and he was shivering by the time he was stomping up the stairs to his third-floor apartment. There was a note taped to his door from Mrs. Gregory, the old woman down the hall who owned half a dozen cats despite the strict “no pets” policy of their landlord, and who always cooked for an army and took great pleasure in fostering off her leftovers on Micah.

Sure enough, the note claimed she’d made too much lasagna yesterday and that she had a Tupperware container’s worth of it waiting for him in her fridge. Micah’s stomach growled in anticipation.

Safe to say, Micah adored the woman.