Evidence Handling

Weekends in this house are quieter.

Not because anything changes—

but because nothing needs to.

Beckett is in the sitting room when I find him, half-curled into the corner of the sofa, tablet in hand, a glass of iced herbal tea untouched at his side.

Mask on.

Of course.

Always on.

Even now.

I lean against the doorway for a moment, observing.

He doesn’t notice.

He’s relaxed—but not entirely. There’s still that underlying tension, that ever-present restraint he carries like a second spine.

Unnecessary.

But familiar.

I cross the room without a sound.

He startles anyway.

He always does.

“…Mistress.”

“Weekend,” I remind him.

A pause.

“…Diana.”

“Better.”

I take the tablet from his hands and set it aside before he can protest.

“You’ve been good this week,” I say, almost idly.

“I—” He hesitates. “I followed the contract.”

“You did.”

I tilt my head slightly, studying him.

“And yet,” I add, “you’re still holding yourself together far too tightly.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re contained,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”

He exhales softly, already conceding.

He knows this tone.

He knows what follows.

“Stay,” I murmur.

He does.

Of course he does.

What I enjoy most is not the reaction—

though that has its merits—

but the shift.

The way his thoughts scatter, the way that constant vigilance begins to unravel piece by piece under something far more deliberate.

Something chosen.

He tries, briefly, to maintain composure.

It doesn’t last.

It never does.

Not like this.

“Relax,” I say softly.

“I am—”

“You’re trying to be.”

A quiet sound escapes him—half protest, half surrender.

I almost smile.

Time becomes… irrelevant.

Measured not in minutes, but in breaths. In the subtle ways he falters, then steadies, then lets go again.

And I—

I enjoy it.

Not passively.

Not distantly.

But fully.

Control is not detachment.

It is participation with intention.

When I finally pull away, it’s unhurried.

Deliberate.

He’s still, eyes unfocused behind his glasses, mask slightly askew—disrupted in a way he would never allow anywhere else.

I reach up, nudging it just enough to meet him properly.

He doesn’t resist.

He never does.

I kiss him.

Soft at first.

Then deeper—just enough to make a point.

He freezes for half a second.

Then melts into it.

When I pull back, I watch the realization settle in.

Slow.

Immediate.

“…Diana,” he murmurs, voice low, flustered in that quiet way of his.

I hum softly, entirely unbothered.

“What?” I ask.

He hesitates.

“You—”

“I what?”

A pause.

Then, almost accusing:

“You didn’t—”

I smile.

Sharp.

Amused.

“Oh,” I say lightly. “You mean the evidence?”

His ears are already red.

Predictable.

I lean closer, just enough for my voice to drop.

“I handled it,” I murmur. “Thoroughly.”

“…That’s not—”

“And if you’re concerned,” I continue, smooth and unhurried, “I’m quite certain I managed to keep track of every last trace.”

He makes a small, strangled sound.

Adorable.

I tilt my head, pretending to consider.

“Though,” I add thoughtfully, “if you’d like a more poetic description…”

“…Please don’t.”

“Mm. Something about swallowing the evidence?” I muse. “Or perhaps—”

He hides behind his mask.

Too late.

“—a few unfortunate ‘tadpoles’ meeting their inevitable fate?”

“…Diana.”

“Yes?”

“…Stop talking.”

I laugh.

Soft.

Satisfied.

He recovers slowly, adjusting his mask like it might restore his dignity.

It doesn’t.

Not entirely.

Not with me watching.

“Relax,” I say again, gentler this time.

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re flustered.”

“…Both can be true.”

“Fair.”

I settle beside him, close enough that our shoulders touch.

He doesn’t move away.

He never does.

After a moment, he speaks again.

Quieter.

“…You enjoy that.”

It isn’t a question.

I consider answering honestly.

So I do.

“Yes.”

A pause.

Then:

“As much as you do?”

I glance at him.

Then smile—slower this time.

“Possibly more.”

He exhales, something in him easing further at that.

Good.

The room returns to stillness.

No tension.

No urgency.

Just the quiet aftermath of something shared, something understood without needing to be dissected.

He reaches for his tea.

Finally drinks it.

I watch, faintly amused.

“Better?” I ask.

He nods.

“…Yes.”

And that’s enough.

No spectacle.

No excess.

Just precision.

Care.

And the quiet certainty that, in this house—

nothing is wasted.

Not even evidence.