Diana was standing at the computer this time—still, rigid, like a statue carved in front of glowing screens.

Lines of code crawled past her eyes, reflected sharply in the blue of her gaze. She hadn’t noticed how late it was. Hadn’t noticed the tension coiling higher in her shoulders with every failed lead.

Behind her, soft footsteps.

“Diana,” her wife said gently. “You’ve been at this for hours.”

A hand touched her arm, warm and grounding. Diana didn’t pull away, but she didn’t turn either.

“I am close,” Diana replied. “Whoever this is, they’re correcting systems before collapse. Anticipating countermeasures before they exist. It’s… infuriating.”

Her wife let out a small, careful laugh. “That sounds like something that can wait until tomorrow.”

She reached forward and, without asking, lowered the laptop screen halfway.

Diana froze.

Not in anger—just surprise.

“That file was still running,” Diana said, voice calm but firm.

“I know,” her wife answered quickly. Too quickly. “That’s why I want you away from it.”

Diana finally turned.

Her wife was smiling, but it was the kind of smile meant to redirect, not reassure. One hand lingered on the laptop, the other already tugging gently at Diana’s wrist.

“Come on,” she said softly. “You’re exhausted. You’ll see things more clearly after rest. Let me make you tea—remember the one with honey you like?”

Diana’s eyes flicked—briefly, instinctively—to the terminal.

Just long enough.

She caught it then: a background process her wife hadn’t fully shut down. A familiar logic flow. Elegant. Restrained. A safeguard nested inside a safeguard.

Her wife shifted, subtly stepping between Diana and the screen.

Blocking it.

That single motion hit Diana harder than any revelation.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” Diana asked quietly.

Her wife squeezed her hand. “Because I hate seeing you like this. Chasing shadows that are only making you hurt.”

Diana searched her face.

She saw concern—real, undeniable. She also saw calculation. Not malicious. Protective. Desperate.

The same look her wife wore when she carried a burden she refused to share.

Diana gently withdrew her hand—not sharply, not accusingly. She reached past her wife and closed the laptop herself, deliberately, with care.

The room felt suddenly smaller.

“You are trying to keep me from the truth,” Diana said—not as a charge, but a truth spoken aloud.

Her wife went very still.

Diana exhaled slowly, hand resting on the closed machine. Her heart ached—not with betrayal, but with understanding arriving too late to ignore.

“I do not yet know why,” Diana continued, voice steady though her chest felt tight. “But I know who.”

Silence stretched between them—thick, fragile.

Diana could open the laptop again. Say her name. Confront it fully.

Or she could step away, accept the offered tea, and give her wife time she clearly believed was necessary.

For the first time in the investigation, Diana did not move forward.

She reached instead for her wife’s hand, holding it firmly—anchoring them both.

“Come,” Diana said softly. “Make the tea.”

And she did not say another word—leaving the truth between them, unspoken, but no longer hidden.