Sherlock wasn't a man of small talk, yet he tolerated it when I was around.

The two of us had fallen into an easy, habitual sort of companionship—late-night takeout over unsolved case files, walks through the city when neither could sleep, and long silences that didn't demand to be broken. To me, it felt like standing too close to a fire without daring to touch it.

I never meant for it to become so obvious.

I thought I hide it well—the glances that lingered too long, the quiet smiles I saved only for Sherlock, the way my entire body would still when Sherlock brushed past me, casually, like it meant nothing. I'd convinced myself that Sherlock, of all people, would never notice. Or wouldn't care.

I was wrong.

Sherlock had noticed everything, from the way my breath hitched the first time he leaned in too close, to the way I looked away whenever our hands accidentally touched. He catalogued the evidence like he would a crime scene. Thoroughly. Clinically. Quietly.

"Why do you do that?" Sherlock asked one evening, without looking up from his violin.

Startled, I blinked. "Do what?"

"Smile at me like I've saved your life when all I did was pass the salt."

Silence.

"I don't—" I started, voice cracking slightly.

"You do," Sherlock replied, finally meeting his eyes. "And you're not as subtle as you think you are."

There was no malice in his voice. Just a cool, practiced observation, tinged with something softer. Almost curious.

I flushed, throat tight. I opened my mouth, then closed it. What could I even say to that?

Sherlock tilted his head, studying him like a puzzle that almost solved itself. "You don't need to say anything," he added, a little quieter. "Just... stop pretending like you don't feel what you clearly feel."