You sat across from him in the dim lab, the overhead fluorescents casting a cold halo around Calvin Evans, who was—of course—completely lost in his notes.

You had told yourself a hundred times: Don't fall for the golden boy of chemistry. The scientific wonder. The one who doesn’t even know how pretty he is when he's frowning at a formula.

But there he was, biting his lip, brows furrowed, sleeves rolled, and not smiling. That was the worst part. He wasn’t charming. He wasn’t trying. He wasn’t chasing.

He was just Calvin.

And you hated that it made your chest ache.

“Your compound’s unstable,” he said suddenly, not looking up.

You rolled your eyes. “Thanks. I hadn’t noticed the minor explosion.”

Calvin glanced at you then—briefly. And there it was: a twitch of amusement. Not a smile. Just enough to make you flinch.

“Don’t,” you snapped.

His brow creased. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t smile like that.”

“I didn’t.”

“You were about to.”

He looked down at his notes again, but you saw it—barely there. The corner of his mouth twitching.

“I wasn’t trying to... flirt,” he said. “If that’s what you think.”