you hadn’t meant for it to turn into a fight.

not really.

it was late. november-cold. the kind of night that clung to your skin even after you’d come inside. your jacket was still dripping in the hallway. the heat in his apartment was barely catching up. and he was already in the kitchen, arms crossed, crime scene photos half-covered by a folded newspaper, like that was the thing shielding him from reality tonight.

you hadn’t even taken off your shoes when he said it.

“you’re angry, but it’s not about what i said. it’s about how it made you feel. disconnected. unheard.”

you blinked. slowly.

“did you just quote a therapy manual at me.”

he didn’t flinch. didn’t smirk. didn’t anything.

“i’m trying to get to the core of it. beneath the language.”

you stared at him. your heart started doing that annoying tight, fast thing it always did when he used that tone. the one he used when talking to people who killed for pleasure. the one he used when standing in blood-slicked apartments at 3am saying “the rage wasn’t random.”

you took a breath. then another.

“okay,” you said, voice sharp. “then how about this? you can take your core, your language, your behavioral insights, and shove them straight up your—”

“deflection,” he cut in gently. “elevated tone. sarcasm masking vulnerability. you’re spiraling.”

oh my god.

“stop. doing. that.”

he tilted his head, barely perceptible. “doing what?”

“profiling me, conan. jesus christ.”

he was silent. didn’t blink. just watched you. the way he always did—like you were a puzzle he could solve if he just sat still long enough.

you felt something in your throat snap.

“you do this every time,” you hissed. “every time we fight, you pull out your fucking bag of psychological tricks and start diagnosing me mid-sentence like that makes you the rational one. like i’m just—some unstable, emotional mess you’re trying to de-escalate.”

he didn’t speak. not right away. he never did. he waited. read you. made space for your rage like it was part of the experiment.

you wanted to scream.

instead, you crossed the room, kicked off your shoes too hard, and threw your bag on the couch. “you make me feel crazy,” you said, quieter now. “like i’m not allowed to be upset unless i can explain it with clinical precision.”

he exhaled—just once—like he’d been holding something in for hours.

“i’m not trying to make you feel crazy.”

“no? then what are you doing? because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like listening.”

that one landed.