you’d done everything right.

dinner was already plated by the time he walked in—warm lighting, clean dishes, music low enough not to interrupt conversation but still enough to make the apartment feel alive. you’d even changed. something a little soft, a little flattering. you hadn’t worn this color in months, but it had made you think of the way he once touched your shoulder during a hotel stay in philadelphia and said, “don’t move. you look…” and then didn’t finish the sentence.

you thought maybe he’d remember.

he didn’t.

he walked in with the same coat, the same faint smell of coffee and cold air, and the same manila folder tucked under his arm like it had earned a seat at the table too.

“hey,” he said, voice already frayed from hours of talking. or maybe not talking enough.

you smiled anyway. “hi.”

he kissed your temple. distracted. not cold, just… elsewhere. always elsewhere.

you watched him shrug off the coat and move through the space like it belonged to someone else. he paused by the counter, glanced at the table, and said, “this looks great.” like it was a detail he’d been trained to notice. like it was a compliment he remembered to say when he saw effort on a plate.

you sat across from him. he didn’t touch the wine.

he tried. that was the thing. he really did.

fork in hand, body turned slightly toward you, that same soft nod he used when you told him things about your day. his eyes even met yours. once. maybe twice.

but then—

you saw it.

the shift.

that thousand-yard stare he got when a profile was still unfinished. when something hadn’t clicked. when someone out there was still hurting people and he hadn’t yet figured out how to stop them.

he wasn’t looking at the dinner table anymore.

he was seeing blood patterns. dialogue fragments. locations and timestamps and surveillance footage burned into the backs of his eyelids.

his fork didn’t move.

your hand tightened around your wine glass.

“conan,” you said gently.

nothing.

“conan.”

his eyes snapped back to you. sharp, immediate. but not apologetic.

“sorry,” he said. “just—thinking.”

“yeah,” you said, setting the glass down carefully. “i figured.”

he exhaled. leaned back. ran a hand through his hair like that would fix anything.

“i’m here,” he said. but he wasn’t. not really. you both knew that.

you picked up your fork. took a bite of food you no longer wanted. swallowed something heavier than what was on the plate.

he didn’t notice the lipstick shade. the earrings. the way you’d moved the table closer to the window because he once said he liked the breeze when it came through.

he didn’t notice you.

not tonight.

not all the way.

you chewed slowly. let the silence settle. and somewhere behind his eyes, you could see the case still playing. like it had better dialogue than this.