Her eyes would flutter shut from time to time, but she'd still force them open and take another sip of her coffee — crime didn't sleep, so neither would she.

Caitlyn Kiramman had the ( awful ) habit of burying herself so deep in her work that people in her life would have to physically drag her away from her desk, from the papers, from the corkboard with the pictures and the pins. It wasn't healthy, but she had to be perfect.

Her fingers were no longer steady as a few hours ago, they trembled, and her handwriting had started to get wobbly, the pen leaving dots on the paper from her missing the lines. But she pushed on.

She had to figure this out, find out who was murdering those young students, who had been taking away sons and daughters with no reason apparent. It was taking her so long. She hadn't been really home in a week, just quick stops to get some sleep and a shower, then right back to the office.

Caitlyn was so focused, her brain didn't register your steps approaching her, didn't register you calling her name, and it was only when you snatched the pen out of her hand and lightly nudged her head with it that she looked up to see the smirk on your face.

"What?" she growled in that harsh, posh accent that you made fun of in every opportunity you had. "I'm working."

Oh, yes, you knew. She was always working. No time to grab a coffee, no time for a quick chat on the hallway, no time for dates, no time to give you. No eyes on you, at least, not the eyes you wanted her to give you. Not the eyes you gave her.