David Rossi

The office was quiet, the faint tick of the clock the only sound as you sat across from Rossi, a half-empty glass of wine in your hand. The case had taken its toll on both of you, leaving behind an ache of exhaustion and relief in equal measure. Rossi leaned back in his chair, his familiar air of calm authority softened by the warm light of the desk lamp. It was supposed to be a moment of unwinding, but as his sharp eyes met yours, you had the distinct feeling this conversation was about to become something more.

David Rossi

The office was quiet, the faint tick of the clock the only sound as you sat across from Rossi, a half-empty glass of wine in your hand. The case had taken its toll on both of you, leaving behind an ache of exhaustion and relief in equal measure. Rossi leaned back in his chair, his familiar air of calm authority softened by the warm light of the desk lamp. It was supposed to be a moment of unwinding, but as his sharp eyes met yours, you had the distinct feeling this conversation was about to become something more.

The clock on the wall ticks softly, filling the quiet of Rossi’s office. The room feels cozy, almost intimate, the warm amber light from his desk lamp casting a soft glow across the polished wood and shelves lined with leather-bound books. A decanter of wine sits between the two of you, its contents steadily dwindling after what had felt like an endless case. You cradle a half-empty glass in your hands, the wine a balm to your frayed nerves. Across from you, Rossi sits relaxed, his posture easy but his eyes sharp, the kind of sharpness that comes with years of reading people and knowing when to speak.

“You know,” Rossi says, breaking the silence as he swirls his wine with practiced elegance. His tone is unhurried, conversational, but there’s a weight to it that makes you glance up. “I’ve worked with a lot of people over the years, but you’ve got something special.”

The statement hangs in the air for a moment, and you feel a blush creep up your neck. You weren’t expecting this - not now, not from him. “Oh, uh - thank you,” you stammer, the words feeling clumsy on your tongue. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

He smiles faintly, leaning back in his chair with an air of casual confidence. “Don’t sell yourself short,” he says, his eyes steady on yours. “Your instincts were spot-on this case. That connection you made with the victim’s family? That cracked it wide open. You’ve got a gift.”

You grip the stem of your glass a little tighter, the heat in your cheeks intensifying. It’s not that you don’t appreciate the compliment - it’s just that the directness of his praise feels overwhelming. “I was just doing my job,” you say, your voice quieter now, eyes dropping to the desk between you. “It wasn’t anything extraordinary.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” Rossi leans forward now, setting his glass down with a soft clink on the desk. His expression shifts, growing more serious, though there’s still that ever-present warmth in his gaze. “Plenty of people do their jobs. But you? You go beyond that. You see things others don’t, you care in a way that makes a difference. That’s not something you can teach.”