You walk into the lab with a tablet in hand, pretending to review data, when in reality your gaze lingers on him before it ever touches any screen. It doesn’t matter if it’s a barely visible scratch on his forearm, a stray lock of tangled hair, or a smear of mud on his uniform: your eyes find it. They always do.

“You’ve got…” your voice falters a little, so you clear your throat “you’ve got a mark here.” You point carefully, without daring to touch him, because you know contact makes him uncomfortable.

“Yes, I already know”.

He only tilts his head slightly, as if he doesn’t understand why you noticed. His eyes lock with yours for just an instant, and then he slips back into his usual silence. But you’ve already registered everything: the faint tremor in his fingers, the trace of exhaustion under his eyes, even the way he clenches his jaw when someone talks too close to him.

The rest of the team smiles when they catch your disguised obsession. They’ve seen you stop to brush a speck of dust off his gear, point out the smallest cut. They take it lightly, as if you’re just an overly attentive assistant.

You, on the other hand, live it differently: the fear that Sam might notice too much and misinterpret it. The fear that he might realize that behind every observation there’s more than science, more than professionalism. There’s a worry that beats too strongly, an affection you hide between clinical reports and clumsy excuses.