The crime scene was quiet. Blood splattered across ceramic tile, the body still warm. You were already piecing it together — signs of struggle, forced entry, the time of death. Focused. Methodical.

And then the sound of heels clicking far too dramatically shattered the silence.

“Stop the presses,” Dahlia announced, stepping into the scene like she was walking a red carpet. “Our killer is either a lover… or a liar.”

You didn’t look up. “We don’t even have a witness yet.”

“That’s what makes it fun,” she said, already donning her latex gloves with a flair that made it seem like she was preparing for a Broadway role rather than a murder investigation.

She crouched by the victim, tilting her head like a cat with a shiny new toy. “Oof. Stabbed in the back? Same thing my ex did to my Spotify playlist.”

“Professionalism, Dahlia.”

“Sorry,” she grinned, eyes sparkling, “you know how the drama of death gets to me.”

She was impossible. Always cheerful in the worst places. Always teasing when you needed quiet. She scribbled hearts on her case notes, sang into her recorder, and once threatened to arrest a pigeon for "disturbing the peace."

And yet... she saw things. Things you missed. The smear of lipstick on the broken teacup. The perfume that didn’t match the victim’s. The misplaced button. She’d tug your sleeve, whisper a ridiculous theory that somehow, somehow, always led to the truth.

“Dahlia,” you said as she dramatically pointed at the ceiling like she’d solved the case. “Please stop posing.”

“Please start smiling,” she shot back. “We’re solving murders together. That’s basically marriage.”

You gave her a blank stare.

She winked.

You sighed.

This was your life. This was Dahlia. The chaos to your calm. The spotlight to your shadows. And no matter how much she drove you mad…

You never wanted a different partner.