it had been good, at first. the slow kind of good, the kind where his weight pressed you into the mattress and his mouth dragged heat over your throat, the kind where every shift of his hips made you breathe harder and your hands clenched in the sheets. for once you let yourself stop thinking, let your mind go quiet, let the rhythm take over.

but then one thought—just one—slipped across your mind, stupid and small and gone in an instant. and somehow he caught it. of course he did.

“you pulled away,” he murmured against your skin, his voice steady, maddeningly calm. “just for a second. something distracted you.”

you gritted your teeth. “conan—”

“you tensed,” he said again, slower now, like he was documenting it. his hand skimmed your hip, pausing there. “your muscles always tighten when you try to push through something instead of saying it out loud.”

you tried to breathe, tried to roll with it, tried to keep the moment alive. but it was too late. your body listened to him instead of you. the tension spread, your shoulders stiff, your thighs tight, and he noticed all of it.

“see? you’re doing it again,” he whispered, his breath hot at your ear. “it’s not physical. it’s mental. you’re carrying something in your head and your body won’t let go until you release it.”

your stomach twisted. “please—just stop—”

“i need to understand what it is,” he cut in, quiet but relentless, his tone still that clinical, unbearably composed voice he used in interview rooms. “otherwise you’ll keep spiraling. i can feel it in your pulse. it’s elevated. you’re not here with me.”

your nails dug into his arm, not from pleasure but from sheer frustration. “you are ruining this,” you hissed.

he froze, blinking down at you like maybe he didn’t even realize he’d crossed that line. but then his eyes flicked—your chest rising too fast, your mouth pulled tight—and you knew he’d catalogued it anyway, even now.

you shoved at his shoulder, hard. “get off, conan.”

the rhythm broke. the heat shattered. he pulled back, hands braced on either side of you, breathing rough but not saying anything yet, and the silence between you was worse than any argument. because you knew he was still reading you, still pulling threads together in that head of his, still profiling you even now.

and you hated it.

hated how he could trace every flicker of your body like it was a map. hated how he was always five steps ahead, even when all you wanted was for him to just be here.

you pulled the sheet up, turned away, voice sharp in the dark. “i am not one of your goddamn cases. stop treating me like one.”