The gas lamps flicker weakly along the cobblestone streets, casting long shadows that melt into the fog curling off the river.

Rain drips from the eaves of buildings, puddles catching the distorted glow of lamplight.

Horse-drawn carts creak by in the distance, their wheels sending ripples across the slick stones, and somewhere far off a church bell tolls solemnly.

You sit at a small wooden table outside a dim café, the smell of damp wood, roasting chestnuts, and coal smoke heavy in the air.

Steam rises from your tea, curling around your face as you watch him move along the street.

He stops a few paces away, trench coat collar turned up against the drizzle, hat low over his brow.

In his hands, he twirls a notebook with methodical precision, a faint crease between his brows as he reads something you can’t see.

Ever since you were children, he’s had that same calm, measured presence. Always thinking, always quiet, never forcing words when they’re not needed.

But you’ve always known him—really known him—better than most.

“You’ve been staring for ten minutes,” he says softly, approaching, boots making light splashes on the puddles. No accusation, just fact.

“I’m… thinking,” you murmur, stirring your tea absentmindedly. The spoon clinks against the cup, sharp in the quiet hum of the street. “About… everything.”

He nods, sliding into the seat across from you. “Everything?” His voice is calm, warm, steady.

You notice the subtle dampness of his coat, the faint scent of leather and rain.

“Or just the part you think about when you’re alone?”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised, the corners of your lips twitching. “Does it matter?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pulls out a small notepad, flipping it open with slow care.

Scribbled notes, sketches, observations—it’s his rhythm. A detective, yes, but also a man who sees the details no one else notices.

Outside, a carriage rattles past, spitting mud against the cobblestones.

A cat darts across the street, disappearing into a shadowed alley.

A baker’s boy hurries past with a bundle of bread, ignoring the rain.

Life goes on in the streets of London, messy and loud and real, while you and he sit quietly together, a bubble of calm amid the chaos.

“You’re… quieter than usual,” he says finally, eyes lifting from the notebook to meet yours. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“I’m not sure I like the answer,” you admit, voice low.

“I think too much sometimes. Always have. Even as a kid, I could see you… noticing things before anyone else.”

He studies you, faint smile tugging at his lips. “And I’ve always known you’d catch up eventually. You just… take a slower path.”

You scoff lightly, brushing wet strands of hair from your face.