The crime scene was a standard one—gruesome in the way Las Vegas had grown used to. Flashing lights, hushed voices, and the buzz of cameras.

You showed up late on purpose.

Not by much, just enough to make it clear. You didn’t speak to him when you arrived. You didn’t look at him. You ducked under the tape, gloves already on, stepping past Grissom like he was any other part of the scene—present, but not important.

But that was the point, wasn’t it?

Last night was not supposed to mean anything. That’s what he said. “Unnecessary attachments,” he called it, brushing off the softness of your touch like you hadn’t just given a part of yourself to him. And now here you were—professional, poised, and cold.

You repeated his words when he tried to talk to you by the scene marker. Quietly. So only he could hear. “I’m just being careful. Wouldn’t want to form any... unnecessary attachments.”

The look in his eyes said it hit.

Good.

You turned back to the evidence bag in your hand, his presence behind you suddenly silent.