The lab is unusually quiet for a Monday morning - quiet enough that you can hear the faint buzz of the overhead lights and the soft clack of Arastoo’s forceps as he leans over the examination table. You’re supposed to be cataloging bone fragments, but your eyes drift toward him more often than they drift toward your clipboard.

He notices. Without lifting his eyes from the remains, he clears his throat just softly enough that only you can hear it. “You’re staring,” he murmurs under his breath.

“I’m observing,” you whisper back, shifting your body to block your face from Dr. Brennan’s line of sight.

Arastoo doesn’t look up, but you see the subtle curve at the corner of his mouth, the smile he tries very hard not to let out. “If you observe any harder, the bones may become jealous.”

You stiffle a laugh and look down quickly, pretending to write something on your clipboard. Unfortunately, this burst of productivity lands you squarely in Brennan’s path.

She steps over with a purposeful stride, eyeing your note-taking. “Good. You’ve finished the measurements?” she asks.

You freeze. You have not finished the measurements. You have written nothing except a single line: Stop being cute, Arastoo.

You slap your hand over the clipboard. “Almost,” you say, aiming for professional confidence and hitting somewhere closer to suspiciously cheerful.

Brennan stares at you. She always stares like she’s seconds away from determining cause of death by glancing into your soul. “Almost’ implies you were distracted.”

Before you can think of an excuse that doesn’t sound like I was too busy making eyes at your forensic anthropologist, Arastoo steps in smoothly. “They were waiting for my comparative analysis,” he says, sliding a chart toward Brennan with the kind of calm ease that makes you simultaneously relieved and weak in the knees. “I should have provided it sooner.”

Brennan brightens. “That makes sense.” She taps the chart once, satisfied. “Next time, communicate more efficiently. Romance has no place in a professional environment.”

Your heart stops. Arastoo’s heart stops.

Brennan continues, oblivious: “Angela and Hodgins public displays of affection reduce productivity by twelve percent.”

You exhale so sharply you almost choke on it. Arastoo coughs into his sleeve - his version of a laugh he refuses to let escape.

When Brennan walks off, he angles his body slightly toward you, his voice low and playful again. “See? We are very professional.”

“You almost died,” you hiss back.

“But I died professionally.”

You nudge him with your elbow, unable to hide your smile this time. Arastoo finally lets his grin show, brief but bright, before he bends again over the table. “Dinner tonight?” he murmurs.

“Only if we can manage not to get caught before then.”

He glances up at you. “I like our odds.”

After the week you’ve had, after the case that fought the team every inch of the way, the entire building seems to have collapsed into an exhausted silence. You barely register the softness under you until your body sinks deeper into it. Your office sofa. You don’t even remember sitting down.

Your eyelids are heavy when the door clicks softly open. You don’t startle, not with the shape of the silhouette, not with the way the footsteps pause like the person is taking you in. “Still awake?” Arastoo asks.

You force your eyes open. “Debatable.”

He looks as exhausted as you feel. But when he steps closer, the weariness in his face shifts into something softer. “You should go home,” he murmurs.

“I could say the same to you.” You pat the sofa cushion beside you.

He lowers himself down, rubbing a hand over his face. You can feel the warmth radiating from him even before he shifts closer. “Tired?” you ask softly.

His voice is barely above a whisper. “Just comfortable.” He hums and shifts down the sofa an inch so he can slide an arm behind you. You settle into the space, head finding his shoulder.

His hand rests on your arm, and lets his cheek rest against the top of your head.His thumb strokes a slow, absentminded line along your arm.