You didn’t expect him to find out so soon.

It was just a small sample. Just enough to test a hypothesis you hadn’t quite worked out yet. And honestly, you thought he wouldn’t notice — or at least not until you had something to show him. Something brilliant.

But Calvin always noticed.

The door to your lab swung open with that careful, deliberate force that always preceded him. He didn’t slam things. He didn’t yell. But the silence he brought with him was sharp as a scalpel.

You didn’t turn around right away. You were still standing over the glassware, your notes half-scribbled, the vial of ribose now empty beside your flask.

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t use it,” Calvin said quietly.

His voice wasn’t cold. But it was steady in a way that told you exactly how disappointed he was.

You swallowed. “I needed it. Just a little. For the glycolysis inhibition series. I was close to something, and—”

“And you didn’t ask me.”

Now you turned.

He was standing just inside the door, hands in his pockets, like he had to physically stop himself from walking closer. His eyes weren’t angry. They were searching.

“Because I knew you’d say no,” you said.

“Then maybe you should’ve asked yourself why.”

That stung — not because it was cruel, but because it was true.

You exhaled. “You’re protective of your work. I get it. But I’m not trying to take credit, Calvin. I’m trying to contribute.”

“You already contribute. Everything you do contributes.” His voice cracked a little on that. “But if we start going behind each other’s backs—what’s the point of being in this together?”