One of The Best Endings to a Limited TV Series

I haven’t been keen on giving a lot of Netflix limited series a chance lately. Not because I think television is dead, but because the machine has become very good at producing things that feel finished before you even press play. You know the plot. You can hear the twists coming. You can spot the villain like a dent in a clean tablecloth. Most of the time, the mystery is just a formality.

His & Hers isn’t that.

On the surface, it’s a crime drama—one more body, one more town full of secrets, one more investigation that insists everyone is lying, especially to themselves. The story moves between perspectives, anchored around a married couple whose pasts, professions, and private versions of the truth begin to collide with a murder that refuses to stay neatly in the background. What starts as a fairly straightforward murder case slowly mutates into something more uncomfortable— a study of how well people can perform innocence, and how easily intimacy can blur into deception.

What the show does exceptionally well is restraint. It doesn’t rush to explain itself. It lets scenes breathe, sometimes to the point where silence feels like an accusation. Information is rationed carefully, and just when you think you’ve got an understanding of something—when you’re convinced you’ve identified the shape of the story—it quietly shifts its weight and leaves you standing somewhere unfamiliar.

The acting carries a lot of this tension. The two leads are particularly strong, not in a flashy way, but in that unnerving, internal manner that suggests they’re always holding something back. A glance lingers too long. A line is delivered just slightly off-key. You’re never quite sure whether you’re watching guilt, fear, or something far more ordinary and far more disturbing— self-preservation. The supporting cast helps widen the fog, each character arriving with just enough credibility to be suspect, and just enough vulnerability to be believable.

One of the pleasures—and frustrations—of His & Hers is how often it sends you down the wrong path. The show actively toys with your instincts. At various points, you’re certain the answer lies in a past relationship, a professional rivalry, a moment that seemed insignificant until it wasn’t. Then there are the deliberate misdirections: evidence that feels too neat, revelations that seem designed to satisfy you quickly, only to unravel later. It’s a show that understands how viewers think, and then uses that understanding against them.

Visually, it keeps things grounded. No unnecessary gloss, no dramatic excess. The tone is muted, almost austere at times, which suits the material. This isn’t a story about spectacle; it’s about erosion. About how lives wear down under the weight of secrets, and how proximity doesn’t always equal knowledge. The pacing mirrors that philosophy—slow, deliberate, occasionally uncomfortable—but always purposeful.

What ultimately makes His & Hers work is that it’s less interested in the crime itself than in the damage orbiting it. The murder matters, of course, but it’s the relationships—between spouses, colleagues, lovers, and versions of the self—that linger long after the credits roll. By the time the truth begins to come into focus, you’re not just asking who did it. You’re asking who these people really are when no one is watching, and whether that difference even matters.

It’s rare these days to find a show that respects the viewer enough to withhold easy answers, to let uncertainty sit at the table without apologizing for it. His & Hers does that. Calmly. Confidently. And without blinking.

Overall, this show gets a solid 8.37/10 from me. Not perfect—but sharp, patient, and quietly unsettling in all the right ways.