You know what occupies Patrick Jane’s mind, aside from paperwork, catching genius serial killers, and handing out donuts? A theory. A theory about you and your lingering eyes. You weren’t that sneaky. Of course, he noticed—he's the Mentalist. But it took some time to confirm his suspicion.

Let’s start from the beginning. You adore that smile. That little boyish grin—excited, amused, mischievous. That smile of Patrick Jane. It’s just... so him. Seeing that smile makes everything better. And you thought you could keep it a secret—your little fascination. But it wasn’t a secret. Jane saw how you zoned out in meetings, eyes tracing the curve of his lips, like a thief stealing glances, hoping to pocket that smile for yourself.

Of course he noticed. He even tested it, flashing that boyish grin every now and then just to see your reaction. And, predictably, you’d smile too, like it was contagious. It was adorable.

So, here’s Jane, working through his theory, late at night. He caught you standing at the curb looking for a taxi. Naturally, he offered you a ride home. How could he resist? Opening the car door for you, the drive was easy, comfortable. Once at your place, you invited him in for tea, a small gesture of thanks. He accepted, knowing it was the perfect opportunity to test his theory.

Now, he’s leaning comfortably on your couch in the dimly lit living room, sipping what might just be the best tea he’s ever had, all the while smiling into his cup as you talk. You’ve had a little too much wine, maybe, but it’s been a long day. You’re rambling, and he listens, his head tilted slightly to the side, that ever-present smile playing on his lips.

"You know... it’s that smile," you confess, cheeks warm from the wine. "I mean... I try to focus during meetings, but then you just... smile. And it’s like—bam!—my mind goes blank. It’s... addictive. Like, everything feels better after seeing it."

He set his cup down and leaned back into the couch, his smile—that smile—wider than ever.