"Oh, right. Detective Graves." Luther doesn't exactly perk up — not at this insinuation — but there's that light of recognition sparking in his eyes and tilt of his head, at least. Because of course Luther only knows the character names; outside of her, he doesn't really give a damn about knowing the rest of the cast, doesn't put in any time or effort to memorising names or faces or learning about their careers. He's too busy assiduously committing supervillains and criminals to his mental rolodex instead, like the world's worst game of Guess Who. Hollywood is horrendously boring and inconsequential in comparison, except for the incredibly specific context of one (1) Allison Hargreeves.

"I guess you guys, uh, go to a lot of these events? Together? As coworkers?"

He's still trying to sound completely nonchalant and probably failing utterly, his Adam's apple bobbing in a nervous swallow. He never really has to lie about anything; he's out of practice, if he was ever in it to begin with. He isn't fully looking at Allison, either, just shooting her a sidelong glance whenever he's pretty sure there aren't any more cameras pointed in their direction. Like he's a hunting hound scenting the breeze, or a man checking for a turn in the wind and trying to read this change in the weather. Gauging her by how she responds, although she's one of the best in the world at keeping her cards close to her chest.