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The last report hit the top of the stack with a satisfying thwack.
Riza Hawkeye watched it land as if it might sprout legs and run back to her desk. She slid her pen into the margin of her notebook with the same controlled precision she used to load a magazine—calm, practiced, tidy. Outside, Central’s winter pressed its cold mouth to the windows and exhaled fog onto the glass.
Inside, the office was the kind of quiet that only came when everyone had decided to pretend they didn’t have lives.
Roy Mustang leaned back in his chair like the laws of physics were optional. His jacket was still on. His gloves were still on. His expression was, as always, an argument.
“Lieutenant,” he said, voice warm with mischief, “it is New Year’s Eve.”
She didn’t look up. “It is also Wednesday.”
“That’s… not a rebuttal.”
“It is an observation.”
“It is a crime,” he corrected, as if the calendar had personally insulted him. “The world is preparing to ring in a new year with fireworks and champagne and reckless optimism, and you’re sitting there like you plan to file your taxes at midnight.”
Riza finished the line she was writing, dotted the period, and set her papers flush with the edge of the desk.
“I plan to be asleep at midnight.”
Roy made a sound of offended disbelief. “You can’t just—Hawkeye, you can’t sleep through the new year.”
“I can,” she said, calm as a locked door. “And I will.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his desk, eyes bright with the kind of stubborn charm that made people agree to things just to make him stop talking.
“We have been granted,” he said, “a rare and mysterious blessing.”
Riza finally looked up.
His smile widened. He knew he had her attention now, and he spent it irresponsibly.
“Off-duty status,” Roy said, as if he’d discovered a new element. “Actual off-duty. No emergency summons. No last-minute meetings. No General calling me in to ask why the paperwork smells like perfume and lies.”
“That was one time,” Riza said.
“That was every time you were in the room,” he corrected immediately.
She didn’t dignify it. “We’re done for the day.”
“And for the evening,” Roy pressed. “We are officially—”
“Still in uniform-adjacent housing,” she reminded him, already reaching for her coat.
He followed her gaze to the neatly hung military greatcoat on the hook by the door. The building itself had a familiar hum—quiet corridors, muted footsteps, the faint metallic smell of a place that had never truly stopped being on duty even when it said it was.
“Yes,” Roy said. “Yes. I’m aware we live in a building where even the walls salute.”
Riza slid her arms into her coat, buttoned it with that same steady competence, and gathered her gloves.
Roy watched her. The way she moved always did something to his breathing—like the air remembered it had other jobs besides being inhaled.
“Lieutenant,” he said again, softer this time, “it’s New Year’s. We should do… something.”
Riza’s eyes narrowed slightly. Not suspicious. Not quite. But wary, as if “something” was a synonym for “trouble.”
“What does ‘something’ entail?”
Roy beamed. “I haven’t decided.”
“That’s the problem.”
“Details, details. The important part is: celebration.”
Riza opened the door. Cold air spilled into the office like an accusation.
Roy stood quickly. “Come on,” he said, grabbing his own coat, “just a little. We can be responsible. Respectable. We can—”
“We can go to bed,” Riza offered.
Roy clutched his chest as if struck. “You would sentence me to an early bedtime on the last day of the year?”
“I would recommend it,” she said, stepping into the hallway. “For your health.”
“My health,” Roy repeated, following her out, “is directly tied to whether or not I get to annoy you at midnight.”
Riza didn’t respond, which was—unfortunately for him—exactly the kind of silence that meant she was smiling on the inside and refused to let him win.
They walked the corridor together, boots clicking softly. Most of the building was dark. A few offices still glowed faintly with lamplight, the kind that meant someone had chosen work over warmth. Riza’s posture stayed straight, alert without being tense—habit more than necessity.
Roy glanced at her profile. The line of her jaw. The way her hair, tucked neatly beneath her hat, didn’t move at all.
It was always like this with her—controlled. Always aware. Always ready.
And he found himself, as he often did, wanting to tug her away from it. Not in a dramatic, sweeping way. Just… one small inch closer to the life she never let herself admit she wanted.
They reached the stairwell, and Riza paused.
Roy almost collided with her.
“What now?” he asked, already suspicious.
Riza looked down the steps. “Do you hear that?”
Roy listened.
Somewhere below, muffled through concrete and old paint, there was laughter. A burst of it. Then a shout.
“…Happy New Year!” someone yelled far too early.
Roy’s grin returned like a bad habit.
“See?” he whispered, delighted. “Even the building is trying to have fun.”
Riza’s gaze sharpened. “That’s someone ignoring curfew.”
Roy made a thoughtful sound. “Or someone embracing the spirit of freedom.”
Riza started down the stairs.
Roy fell into step beside her. “We could join them.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t want to be associated with a disciplinary report,” she said smoothly. “Also because you are a magnet for trouble.”
“I resent that.”
“You are trouble.”
Roy laughed under his breath. “See? That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all week.”
Riza’s mouth twitched.
It wasn’t a smile.
But it was close enough that his heart did that stupid thing again, like it didn’t know better.
By the time they reached their floor, the laughter had faded. The corridor was quiet. Their door sat at the end like any other—ordinary, unremarkable, hiding the fact that their life inside it was something neither of them spoke of aloud.
Riza unlocked it, stepped inside, and immediately did what she always did: pause, scan, listen.
Roy watched her in the doorway.
“You’re off duty,” he reminded her.
Riza’s glance flicked to him.
“I’m aware.”
“And yet,” Roy said, stepping in and closing the door behind him, “you just swept the room like you expected a coup to be hiding under the table.”
Riza’s eyes moved to the corners, the windows, the shadows. Then, finally, she exhaled.
“It’s habit.”
“I hate your habits,” Roy declared.
“I’ve noticed.”
He shrugged off his coat and hung it. The room was small but tidy, the kind of military-provided housing that tried to look neutral and instead succeeded only in looking temporary. Riza’s touches made it less so—clean lines, minimal clutter, things where they were supposed to be.
Roy’s touches made it… Roy’s.
A book left half-open on the table. A pair of gloves abandoned like they’d lost the will to live. A chair tilted slightly because he’d leaned back and never bothered to correct it.
Riza set her coat down and moved toward the kitchenette.
Roy followed like it was natural. Like this wasn’t already something dangerous.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Tea.”
Roy made a sound like she’d threatened him. “It’s New Year’s Eve. Tea is not a celebration.”
“It’s hot,” she said simply, filling the kettle. “And you won’t sleep if you have anything stronger.”
Roy leaned against the counter, watching her. “I sleep perfectly fine.”
“You sleep like a man who believes consequences are imaginary.”
Roy smiled. “And yet I’m still alive.”
Riza glanced at him. “Against all odds.”
Roy’s grin widened. “There it is. There’s the affection.”
“It’s not affection,” she said.
“It’s devotion,” Roy insisted. “You worry about me. You care.”
Riza set the kettle on the stove, lit the flame, and didn’t look at him when she spoke.
“I worry because you’re reckless.”
Roy lowered his voice. “You worry because it would hurt if something happened to me.”
The silence that followed was small—but sharp.
Riza’s hand paused near the cupboard.
Roy watched her carefully, the way you watched a match when you weren’t sure if it would catch.
Then she opened the cupboard and pulled down two cups.
“Tea,” she said again, like she could barricade herself behind the word.
Roy held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. Tea. But we can make it festive.”
Riza turned slightly. “How?”
Roy’s gaze flicked around the room. He spotted the small tin tucked at the back of the cabinet. He leaned over her shoulder and plucked it out with triumph.
Riza’s eyes narrowed. “Where did you get that?”
Roy shook it lightly. Something inside rattled.
“Madame Christmas,” he said, smug. “I asked for something appropriate for the occasion.”
Riza stared at the tin like it might explode. “That’s alcohol.”
“It’s brandy,” Roy corrected. “Very classy.”
“Alcohol in military housing is prohibited.”
Roy’s smile turned wicked. “That’s why I said it was mysterious.”
Riza looked at the tin. Then at him. Then back at the tin, as if weighing whether throwing it out the window would be worth the paperwork.
Roy leaned closer, voice dropping into something coaxing.
“It’s New Year’s,” he murmured. “One small cup. We’re not on duty.”
Riza’s expression stayed flat.
Roy continued anyway, because he had a death wish.
“We can sit,” he said, “and drink something warm, and pretend the world is normal for a few hours.”
Riza’s gaze softened—just slightly, like the ice in her eyes had shifted, letting something through.
Roy saw it and pressed, gentler now.
“Please,” he said.
The kettle began to whistle softly, a rising sound that filled the room like a warning.
Riza held his gaze for a moment.
Then, with a sigh so quiet it barely existed, she took the tin from his hand and set it on the counter.
“One,” she said.
Roy brightened instantly. “One cup.”
Riza fixed him with a look. “One small cup.”
Roy nodded solemnly. “Small. Responsible. Modest.”
Riza turned away, but he caught it—caught the smallest lift at the corner of her mouth.
Not a smile.
But a surrender.
The tea steeped. The brandy was poured in a careful, measured amount that Riza watched like a hawk, as if it might leap from the cup and commit crimes on its own. Roy, in contrast, treated the moment like a holiday miracle.
They moved to the small sitting area. The heater clicked softly in the corner, working overtime against the winter that pressed at the windows. Outside, distant bursts of sound drifted through the night—firecrackers, laughter, voices calling to each other in the streets.
Roy sat on the couch, already too relaxed. Riza sat beside him, posture straight, cup held with both hands.
Roy took a sip and sighed dramatically. “Mm. Victory.”
Riza sipped hers and blinked once, as if surprised by the warmth.
Roy watched her. “You like it.”
“It’s tolerable.”
“That’s high praise.”
Riza stared at her cup. “Don’t make this into a performance.”
Roy leaned back, feigning innocence. “Me? Never.”
Riza’s eyes slid to him. “Roy.”
He held up his cup. “I’m simply enjoying an evening off with my very strict, very charming Lieutenant.”
Riza’s gaze flicked away quickly. “Don’t call me charming.”
Roy’s voice turned light and playful. “Why not? It’s accurate.”
“It’s… unnecessary.”
Roy pretended to consider. “Ah. So you’d prefer ‘terrifying.’”
“That’s closer.”
Roy laughed, the sound warm and easy. Riza watched him for a moment—truly watched, not in the way she watched for threats, but in the way you watched something you didn’t want to lose.
Roy caught her looking and smiled, softer now.
“See?” he said quietly. “You’re off duty. You can look at me like a person.”
Riza’s fingers tightened slightly around her cup. “I always look at you like a person.”
Roy hummed. “No. You look at me like a responsibility.”
Riza opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Roy took another sip. “And I look at you like…”
He trailed off, as if the words were too dangerous.
Riza’s eyes lifted slowly. “Like what?”
Roy’s throat moved. He set his cup down on the table.
For a moment, the room felt smaller. The air felt warmer. The world outside felt far away.
Then Roy blew out a breath and shrugged like it didn’t matter.
“Like I’m lucky,” he said, too casual, too fast. “Even when you’re terrifying.”
Riza’s gaze stayed on him. Her expression was calm, but there was something underneath it—something that always lived there and rarely came to the surface.
“You’re not lucky,” she said. “You’re stubborn.”
Roy grinned. “That too.”
The minutes passed in the gentle way they never did on duty. They talked about nothing—small things, stupid things. Roy complained about paperwork. Riza corrected him. Roy made up outrageous resolutions on the spot.
“I resolve,” Roy declared, “to become a model officer.”
Riza’s stare was deadpan. “Impossible.”
Roy clutched his chest. “You wound me.”
“I’m stating a fact.”
Roy leaned closer. “Fine. I resolve to stop teasing you.”
Riza lifted a brow. “Also impossible.”
Roy laughed. “Then I resolve to—”
Riza cut him off, voice quieter. “What would you actually change?”
Roy blinked, caught off guard.
Riza’s gaze was on her cup again, but her question hung in the air like it mattered.
Roy’s smile faded into something more honest.
“…Less meetings,” he said finally.
Riza’s mouth twitched. “That’s not a change. That’s a wish.”
Roy sighed. “Then… I’d change how often you look like you’re carrying the whole world.”
Riza’s fingers paused.
Roy continued softly, no teasing now.
“You never relax,” he said. “Not even now. Not even when the year is ending and the world is pretending it can start over.”
Riza stared at her cup for a long moment.
Then she set it down.
And, slowly—carefully—she unbuttoned the top of her uniform collar.
Roy went still.
Not because it was scandalous. Not because it was forbidden.
Because it was… her.
A small, deliberate act.
A choice.
She slid her jacket off her shoulders and folded it neatly over the back of the chair.
Roy watched like he didn’t want to blink.
Riza reached up and tugged the clip holding her hair, letting it fall loose around her shoulders. The change was immediate—less soldier, more woman. Less weapon, more warmth.
Roy swallowed.
Riza glanced at him, eyes sharp. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Roy asked, voice rougher than he intended.
“Don’t look like that.”
Roy’s mouth parted.
He almost said, I can’t help it.
Instead, he forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Like what?”
“Like you’re about to do something stupid,” Riza said.
Roy leaned back, trying to re-find the banter. “I always look like that.”
Riza’s eyes softened.
“That’s what I mean.”
Roy stared at her, and for a moment he didn’t feel like performing. He didn’t feel like being the charming officer, the ambitious alchemist, the man with the loud dream.
He just felt like Roy.
And she—she felt like Riza, not Lieutenant Hawkeye.
The quiet between them shifted.
Roy cleared his throat. “I’ll behave.”
Riza’s gaze stayed on him, as if measuring the promise.
Then she reached down and—finally—slipped her shoes off.
Roy blinked, startled. “Shoes off? In the living room? Lieutenant, that’s practically indecent.”
Riza’s mouth twitched again. This time it was unmistakable.
A smile.
Small, brief—but real.
Roy froze like he’d been shot.
Riza caught him staring and the smile vanished instantly, replaced by practiced composure.
But it was too late. He’d seen it.
And he wanted it again.
Roy leaned forward, voice gentle. “There you are.”
Riza’s eyes narrowed, but there was no bite in it. “Don’t start.”
Roy lifted his hands. “Not starting. Just… appreciating.”
Riza shook her head slightly, as if he was impossible.
Roy’s gaze dropped to her loosened hair, the bare line of her throat. The room smelled like tea and brandy and winter.
He took a slow breath.
“You know,” Roy said, trying for light and failing, “if anyone knew you were sitting here like this, they’d accuse you of fraternization.”
Riza’s gaze sharpened immediately. “We are not fraternizing.”
Roy’s mouth tilted. “Not even a little?”
Riza’s voice was firm. “No.”
Roy leaned closer, smiling like a man asking for trouble. “So this isn’t a date.”
Riza stared at him. “No.”
Roy’s eyes flicked to her bare feet. “This isn’t you relaxing.”
Riza’s jaw tightened. “It is me… being practical.”
Roy’s grin widened. “Practical with your shoes off.”
Riza exhaled, long-suffering. “Roy.”
He softened. “I’m teasing. I know.”
Riza’s gaze lingered on him.
Roy’s voice dropped lower. “But you could let it be something. Just tonight.”
Riza’s breath caught—just slightly. “Roy.”
He held her gaze, not flinching.
Outside, another burst of sound. Distant fireworks. The world celebrating loudly without them.
Riza looked away first.
“Finish your drink,” she said, as if that could solve it.
Roy did, obedient for once, sipping slowly. The warmth spread through his chest and loosened something in him. Not enough to make him reckless. Just enough to make him honest.
Riza finished hers too, quiet and measured. She didn’t pour more. Roy didn’t ask.
They sat in a rare kind of peace—one that felt stolen.
Roy stretched his legs out, then glanced at Riza’s feet again and smirked. “If we’re going to commit crimes, Lieutenant, I should take my shoes off too.”
Riza’s eyes flicked up. “You already are committing crimes.”
Roy gasped. “That’s slander.”
“Possession of contraband,” she listed calmly. “Encouraging misconduct. Harassment.”
Roy began tugging his boots off anyway. “If I’m going down, I’m going down comfortable.”
He kicked them aside with a careless motion that would have made Riza cringe on any other day.
She watched the boots land like fallen soldiers and said nothing.
Roy grinned, triumphant. “See? Now we match. Off duty. Two citizens.”
Riza’s eyes drifted to his loosened posture, his hair slightly mussed, his guard down in a way he rarely allowed.
“Two citizens,” she repeated softly, like she was trying the phrase on.
Roy’s grin softened into something affectionate.
“Exactly,” he said.
The clock on the wall ticked steadily toward midnight.
Roy watched it for a while, then sighed dramatically.
“Do you think anyone will notice if we don’t do the countdown?”
Riza’s voice was mild. “No one is here.”
Roy looked at her. “You’re here.”
Riza stilled.
Roy leaned his head back against the couch. “I always thought New Year’s was about… making noise. Proving you’re alive.”
Riza’s gaze stayed on the clock. “In the war, we never celebrated.”
Roy’s throat tightened. He forced himself to keep his tone light.
“In the war, we were too busy being miserable.”
Riza’s eyes flicked to him.
Roy smiled faintly. “See? That’s me being honest.”
Riza’s expression softened. “You always were.”
Roy’s breath caught. He let it out slowly.
“Then let’s do it,” he said, sudden. “Let’s celebrate. Properly.”
Riza’s brows lifted. “How?”
Roy sat up, eyes sparkling with childish determination. “We need something festive.”
“We have tea,” Riza said.
Roy pointed at her like she’d made his point. “We have brandy tea. That’s basically a party.”
Riza’s mouth twitched. “That’s not how that works.”
“It is tonight,” Roy insisted. He stood and rummaged in the small cabinet, pulling out what little they had—two plates, some crackers, a tin of sweets Riza had bought weeks ago and hidden like contraband too.
Roy held up the sweets triumphantly. “Aha.”
Riza’s eyes narrowed. “Those are for emergencies.”
Roy looked offended. “And what is a new year if not an emergency?”
Riza sighed, but her eyes were warmer now. “You’re impossible.”
Roy grinned. “And yet you keep me.”
Riza froze.
Roy froze too, realizing what he’d said.
The room went quiet.
Roy’s smile turned sheepish. “I mean. You keep me… alive. You—”
Riza cleared her throat, saving him. “Set the table.”
Roy blinked, then nodded quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”
He arranged the plates on the table with unnecessary flourish, like he was hosting a royal banquet instead of two tired officers eating crackers.
Riza watched him, arms folded, pretending she wasn’t amused.
Roy sat back down with the sweets between them and leaned toward her.
“Okay,” he said. “New Year’s tradition.”
Riza looked wary. “What tradition?”
Roy’s eyes gleamed. “We make a toast.”
Riza’s lips parted slightly. “Roy, we’re drinking tea.”
“Tea can be toasted,” Roy said solemnly. “It’s… very refined.”
Riza stared at him. Then, slowly, she lifted her cup.
Roy’s grin widened.
“To what?” she asked.
Roy’s gaze flicked to the clock again—eleven fifty-eight.
He hesitated.
Then he looked at her, and his voice softened.
“To being off duty,” he said.
Riza’s eyes warmed. “That’s not a toast.”
“It is,” Roy insisted. “To not hearing gunfire. To not smelling smoke. To not—”
He cut himself off, catching the darkness before it could creep in.
Riza’s gaze held his, steady.
Roy swallowed and tried again.
“To having you here,” he said quietly.
Riza’s breath paused.
Roy rushed on, suddenly nervous. “As my Lieutenant. Obviously. As my… coworker. As my—”
Riza lifted her cup slightly higher. “Roy.”
He stopped.
Riza’s voice was softer than usual. “To having you here,” she echoed.
Roy blinked.
Then his smile returned—gentle, real.
They clinked their cups.
The sound was small, ceramic against ceramic. But it felt like something.
Outside, fireworks began to pop more frequently, the city growing louder as midnight approached.
Roy leaned back, listening, then turned his head toward her.
“Do you think,” he asked, voice light, “that people make the same wishes every year?”
Riza’s gaze shifted to him. “Probably.”
Roy’s smile tilted. “Do you?”
Riza paused.
Roy watched her closely, trying not to make it obvious.
Riza’s eyes drifted to the window. The light outside flickered with distant colors.
“I don’t usually wish,” she said finally.
Roy’s brows lifted. “Why not?”
Riza’s voice was quiet. “Because wishing doesn’t change anything. Work does.”
Roy’s grin returned, fond. “You’re the most romantic person I’ve ever met.”
Riza gave him a look. “Don’t.”
Roy laughed softly. “Fine. Not romantic. But… you know what I mean.”
Riza’s gaze dropped to the sweets. She picked one up, unwrapped it carefully, and took a small bite.
Roy watched her like she’d committed some lovely sin.
“You’re enjoying yourself,” he accused.
Riza chewed slowly, then said flatly, “No.”
Roy leaned forward. “Liar.”
Riza’s eyes flicked to him. “I am not—”
A loud burst of fireworks cracked outside.
Riza flinched—barely. A quick tension through her shoulders.
Roy saw it.
He didn’t tease her.
He just reached out and, without thinking, covered her hand with his.
Riza went still.
Roy’s thumb brushed lightly against her knuckles, a silent question.
Riza looked down at their hands.
Then, slowly, she let her fingers relax beneath his.
Roy’s breath caught.
He didn’t move. Didn’t push. Just stayed.
Outside, the city started shouting a countdown early—someone yelling numbers in the street, chaotic, disorganized.
Roy tilted his head, listening, then smiled faintly.
“They’re starting already,” he murmured.
Riza’s voice was quiet. “They’re wrong.”
Roy grinned. “Of course they are.”
Riza’s gaze remained on their hands. “Take your hand off.”
Roy blinked. “Why?”
Riza’s voice was steady. “Because—”
Because it was warm. Because it was dangerous. Because she could get used to it.
She didn’t say any of that.
Roy watched her, understanding too much and pretending he didn’t.
“Okay,” he said softly.
He didn’t move right away.
Riza didn’t pull away.
The countdown outside got louder.
“Ten!”
Roy’s eyes flicked to her face.
Riza’s jaw tightened slightly. “They’re early.”
“Nine!”
Roy’s smile softened. “Then we’ll do ours.”
Riza’s eyes lifted.
“Eight!”
Roy’s voice was low. “Ready?”
Riza stared at him as if the question was unfair.
“Seven!”
Her lips parted slightly, then she exhaled.
“Six!”
“…Fine,” she said quietly.
Roy’s grin turned bright. “Excellent.”
“Five!”
Roy sat up straighter, as if ceremony mattered. He lifted his cup again.
Riza hesitated, then lifted hers.
“Four!”
Roy’s voice dropped, teasing. “Try not to look like you’re about to arrest me.”
Riza’s mouth twitched. “Try not to make me.”
“Three!”
Roy’s gaze held hers.
Something unspoken settled between them—something that had been there for years, quiet and patient and stubborn.
“Two!”
Riza’s breath caught slightly.
Roy’s voice went softer, almost reverent. “We’re not on duty,” he reminded her.
Riza’s eyes glinted.
“I know.”
“One!”
Roy’s heart hammered.
Riza’s fingers tightened around her cup.
Outside, the building shook faintly with the roar of fireworks and cheers.
“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
The city erupted.
Inside, in their small room, Roy and Riza sat in the warm hush of tea and stolen quiet.
Roy smiled—slow and real—and lifted his cup.
Riza mirrored him.
They clinked again.
Roy let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
Riza’s gaze stayed on him, and for a moment her composure slipped—just enough to show something tender underneath.
Roy saw it and, without thinking, leaned in.
Not fast. Not dramatic.
Just a slow closing of distance, like he was testing the edge of a line.
Riza didn’t move.
Roy paused inches away, breath mingling with hers.
Her eyes flicked to his mouth.
Roy’s heart stuttered.
He waited.
Riza’s hand rose—not to push him away, not to pull him closer—
To adjust his collar.
A small, practiced motion. A soldier’s touch.
But her fingers lingered a second too long.
Roy’s breath shuddered.
Riza’s gaze lifted to his.
Her voice was quiet, controlled. “Don’t.”
Roy swallowed. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t make it a thing,” she said softly.
Roy stared at her, searching her face.
Riza’s eyes didn’t look afraid.
They looked… careful.
Roy’s smile was faint. “You mean… you don’t want me to kiss you?”
Riza’s breath caught, just slightly, betraying her.
Her eyes sharpened. “Roy.”
Roy held up a hand. “Okay. Okay. No thing.”
He leaned back, slowly, giving her space.
Riza’s shoulders eased.
But her fingers didn’t leave his collar right away.
They stayed there, resting against the fabric, as if her hand had forgotten how to let go.
Roy’s voice was gentle. “Happy New Year, Hawkeye.”
Riza’s fingers finally slipped away.
“…Happy New Year,” she answered.
Roy’s grin returned, softer now. “See? We celebrated.”
Riza’s mouth twitched again.
“It was acceptable.”
Roy laughed quietly. “That’s basically a declaration of love from you.”
Riza gave him a look that should have been stern.
It failed.
Roy’s laughter softened into something warm.
They ate another sweet. Finished their tea. Listened to the fireworks fade.
At some point, without comment, Riza leaned back against the couch instead of sitting perfectly upright. Roy noticed and didn’t say anything.
He just sat there beside her, close enough to feel the heat of her shoulder through fabric.
Close enough to pretend it was normal.
Eventually, Riza stood and began gathering cups.
Roy watched her, reluctant to let the night end.
“Lieutenant,” he said quietly.
Riza paused. “What.”
Roy smiled faintly. “Thank you.”
Riza’s eyes softened. “For what.”
“For… not making me celebrate alone,” he said.
Riza’s gaze held his.
Then she set the cups down, walked back, and—without looking at him—reached out and tugged his sleeve.
A small command.
Roy blinked. “What is that?”
Riza’s voice was low. “You’re still in the living room.”
Roy’s grin widened slowly. “And?”
Riza’s eyes flicked to him, sharp but not cold.
“It’s late,” she said. “If you fall asleep out here, you’ll wake up sore.”
Roy leaned back, delighted. “Are you inviting me to bed, Lieutenant?”
Riza’s expression went blank.
Roy laughed quickly, hands up. “Joking. Joking.”
Riza stared at him.
Then she reached down and picked up his discarded boots, setting them neatly by the door.
Roy watched, heart squeezing.
He didn’t deserve her. He knew it.
Riza turned back to him, voice quiet.
“Come on,” she said. “We’re not on duty.”
Roy’s smile softened into something he couldn’t hide.
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, standing.
He followed her down the short hall, the warmth of the room behind them, the new year ahead of them, and that almost-kiss hanging between them like a secret neither of them would name.
Not tonight.
Tonight, they had enough.
Shoes off.
Hair loose.
Titles dropped.
And for a few stolen hours—just before the world demanded them again—
They were simply Roy and Riza.
Together.
Quietly.
Still here.