I worked at the coffee shop in the lobby of the hospital, and from what I gathered, he was on the fifth floor working as a psychiatrist (I assume because he studied psychology, and he worked on the fifth floor where the psych ward was).
I did not know anything then. We were strictly barista and customer then, but it never failed. He was in at 8 AM for his first cup of black coffee. And he would return at 3 PM for his afternoon cup. We exchanged pleasantries.
12:30 PM was our smoke break. We always made it out around the same time, and we smoked together; just smoked, just cigarettes.
I saw him looking at a letter one day. I had gotten the same letter, so we joined the force together and made a pact to quit smoking. I had liked him enough as a stranger. He was consistent and seemed reliable enough.
We trained together in the force, and we got to know each other. We were assigned partners, and we talked morals and things like that.
On our first case, he put a hand on my shoulder, and I didn’t mind it, but I turned to him wondering what he wanted.
“Don’t kill anyone,” he said seriously. Then he allowed himself to laugh.
And I smiled, too. That’s when I knew I loved him. He would keep me sane.