Carlton Lassiter wasn’t the kind of man who pried into people’s personal lives. He valued professionalism, boundaries. But there were exceptions. And you had just become one.

It started as a gut feeling, something small. But Lassiter never ignored gut feelings. They kept him alive in this job.

You were a hard worker—dedicated, sharp. You held your own in a precinct full of seasoned detectives. But lately, something was off. Your energy spiked and crashed unpredictably. Some days you were hyper-focused, restless; others, you seemed drained, distant. And then there were the meals. Or rather, the lack of them.

Lassiter was observant. He noticed how you picked at food but never ate much. How you disappeared after team lunches with casual excuses. How your knuckles looked raw sometimes, as if scrubbed too hard. And then he noticed the breath mints.

You always had them. Constantly popping one in after coming back from the bathroom. That was what finally clicked everything into place. Lassiter had spent years in law enforcement. He knew what that meant. Still, he needed more than just a hunch.

So he waited. And watched. And when the opportunity came, he followed.

It was late—close to midnight. Most of the station had cleared out, except for the few unlucky souls stuck on paperwork duty. Lassiter, sitting at his desk, caught sight of you pushing away from yours.

“Bathroom,” you said casually to Juliet, who barely looked up from her files.

Lassiter didn’t move right away. He let a few minutes pass. Then, with the quiet patience of a seasoned detective, he stood and followed.

The women’s restroom was empty except for one stall, door closed. Lassiter leaned against the wall, listening. At first, nothing. Then, muffled coughing. A sharp inhale. A sound he couldn’t mistake.

His stomach twisted. He wasn’t surprised. The signs had been there for weeks. But hearing it—knowing it—was different.