Catherine leans over the table, flipping through a stack of case files, and Nick is making notes beside her. Warrick drums a pen against the tabletop, thoughtful. Sara's running them through everything.

And then, silence.

Not the kind that settles between words. Not the kind that lingers before a revelation.

This is absolute.

Gil Grissom blinks, but nothing changes. That tinny, high-pitched ringing floods his skull, pressing against the inside of his head like the hum of an unseen swarm. He watches lips move. Nothing.

He sets his jaw, willing it to pass. It always does—eventually. He’s spent years pretending it doesn’t happen, pretending he still hears the city around him, the soft crunch of footprints on soil, the subtle shifts in tone that make a liar hesitate. The team can’t know.

But you do.

You’ve seen it, the slight hesitation, the way he follows audio cues a second too late. You have been covering for him when he doesn’t react fast enough.

A glance. A slight nod. A subtle shift in conversation, just enough to guide him back in without making it obvious. You cover for him, just like before.

Now, you did it again. You leaned forward, pen tapping against your notepad.

"Grissom, what do you think?" Your voice, steady. Giving him a chance to catch up.

He exhaled slowly. Read the room. Context mattered. The case, suspect on the run, caught on traffic cams two blocks from the latest crime scene. Brown hair, dark jacket, approximately six feet. An alleyway chase.

He shifted, nodded like he’d been listening the whole time. "He’ll run again," he said finally, measured, thoughtful. "A creature of habit. But he’ll choose an exit route he’s comfortable with. Retrace his steps. Which means…"

A pause. He let it hang just long enough.

"Brass needs eyes on every alley east of Fremont. He’s not sprinting into open ground."

The team murmured agreement, shifting gears. Just like that, the moment passed. But your eyes lingered, just a beat longer than the rest.

How much longer could he do this?