The crime scene was already clearned, the sun beginning to dip behind the Miami skyline. You lingered by the shattered window, gloved hands brushing dust off a broken frame, as if the evidence might still whisper something useful.

Behind you, Eric was silent, unusually so. He’d been watching you more than he’d been collecting anything. You felt it like static—his gaze, the way it lingered a beat too long, the way he didn’t step away when the space between you narrowed.

You didn’t speak. There was nothing that needed saying. The day had been long, the case exhausting, and yet here he was. Still close. Still patient.

He crouched beside you without a word, picking up a fragment of glass, turning it in his hand. His shoulder brushed yours—intentional or not, you didn’t know—and the contact was enough to make your breath hitch just slightly.

Time slowed. Not in a dramatic way, but in the quiet realization that this—whatever this was—had been building for a while. Underneath the sharp banter, the sidelong glances, the endless arguments over procedure… it had always been there.

Eric’s voice broke the silence, low and careful:

“You never let anyone in. But I think you want to"