It was late. The city had already gone quiet, and Neal’s loft was bathed in a bluish glow from the window. You sat at the edge of the couch, a glass of wine in your hand and your mind racing. He was in the studio, back turned, painting.

Silence. Just the sound of brushes.

You weren’t sure what triggered it tonight — maybe a comment at the FBI, a memory, an unavoidable comparison. Sara, Alex, even Kate. They all seemed to have something you… weren’t sure you did.

"Neal," your voice came out low, almost fragile.

He paused, but didn’t turn around. "Hm?"

"Why did you... choose me?"

The question lingered in the air for a little too long.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, now slowly turning. His brow furrowed, eyes sharp and focused.

You hesitated, eyes dropping. "You could be with anyone. Someone more sophisticated, more confident, more… perfect."

Neal walked toward you, slowly, like he didn’t want to scare you off. He crouched in front of you, and with a gentle touch, took the glass from your hand and set it on the table.

"You want to know what I see when I look at you?" he asked softly but with that firm, unmistakable tone.

You didn’t answer. You just looked into those blue eyes that always seemed to see too much.