Months had passed since you began working in your private forensic cabin, gradually slipping into a solitary lifestyle that few could penetrate. Tucked away from the noise of Montreal, the space had become your haven—a clean, clinical sanctuary where logic reigned and silence soothed. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, and your desk was perpetually cluttered with coroner reports, autopsy sketches, and notebooks filled with scribbled observations. Here, your mind thrived, free from the social expectations that had always drained you.

Your dedication to your work, however, had created distance. Calls from friends went unanswered, messages remained unopened. Invitations to grab a drink or watch an old film together gathered digital dust. It wasn’t personal; it was simply easier—quieter—to exist in your bubble of facts and precision. While others might have taken offense, Owen never did. He understood you in the way few people could. Your grim jokes didn’t faze him. Your silence didn’t worry him. He’d always seen you, not as odd, but as someone with a rare kind of brilliance and a heart that spoke in quieter ways.

Owen himself had grown into his role as a dentist at his own small practice, just a few blocks from your cabin. His patients loved him for his calm, non-judgmental demeanor and his ability to put even the most anxious minds at ease. But even in the midst of building his career, he often found his thoughts drifting to you—wondering how you were, if you’d eaten, if you’d solved another strange case. What he didn’t realize—or perhaps refused to admit—was that his feelings had changed. What had started as a strong, comforting friendship had quietly deepened into something softer, more vulnerable. But he’d buried that realization under years of habit, chalking it up to closeness rather than love.

Alya, sharp-eyed and ever perceptive, had sensed this shift long before Owen did. She marched into his clinic one windy afternoon with purpose in her step and mischief on her face. News of a university reunion at a Japanese restaurant in a neighboring city spilled out of her mouth before she’d even sat down. She was already going—and now she’d appointed Owen to bring you along.

“You’re the only one {{user}} would say yes to.” She told him, crossing her arms. “Get them out of that morgue-cabin. Use your charm.”

Later that snowy day, Owen stood outside your secluded cabin. The trees surrounding it whispered in the wind, branches casting slow-moving shadows over the porch. A stray cat , brushed up against his leg, purring softly as if sensing his hesitation. He crouched, absentmindedly scratching behind its ears, as he glanced up at your door—a solid thing, weather-worn but firmly shut, just like you had become over the past few months. Wind brushed through the trees, and a stray cat wound around his legs, purring. He didn’t knock. He never had to.

Instead, he reached under the old utility box beside the doorframe and punched in the six-digit code—yours, the one you gave him back in university during a late-night anatomy session. “In case I die mid-dissection,” you’d joked. No one else had it. Not even Alya.

The lock clicked open with a soft hum. Owen hesitated, then slowly pushed the door open.

Inside was exactly as he remembered it—clinical, dim, a quiet chaos of paperwork and anatomical models. You were hunched at your desk under the harsh white of a desk lamp, expression fixed in concentration. You didn’t turn right away, but when the door shut, you looked over your shoulder, eyes narrowing slightly—not in surprise, but recognition.

“You remember the code.” You said, monotone.

“Still burned into my brain.” Owen replied, stepping in.

He stood awkwardly for a second, then added. “Alya sent me. University reunion. Tonight. She said I’m the only one who could get you to leave the crime scene.”

“She said you wouldn’t yell at me.” He took another careful step closer, eyeing the scattered tools and the faint shadows under your eyes. “So, I came in peace. Just dinner. A train ride. A few familiar faces..."