The Jeffersonian lab was quiet after hours, the usual hum of voices replaced by the low buzz of fluorescent lights. You were at one of the side tables, idly scrolling through your phone, when you heard the familiar, measured footsteps behind you.

“May I speak with you?” Dr. Brennan asked, holding a thick, worn book against her chest like it was something fragile.

You put your phone down, instantly attentive. “Of course. Everything okay?”

She nodded, though her eyes lingered on you in that way she had - like she was cataloguing details, but also searching for something beyond evidence. “Yes. At least, in a physiological sense.” A pause. “Emotionally, I’ve found it more… complex.”

Before you could ask what she meant, she placed the book on the table between you. It was one of her dense anthropological texts, bristling with sticky notes and penciled annotations.

“I don’t always articulate my feelings well,” she said carefully, folding her hands in front of her. “Verbal expression tends toward imprecision, and I dislike imprecision. So I attempted to… demonstrate them in a format more natural to me.”

You blinked down at the book, then back at her. “You annotated… anthropology for me?”

Her chin lifted, almost defensive. “Yes. I highlighted traits I believe are applicable to you - qualities you exhibit that deserve recognition. Some of the texts are clinical, but my notes are not.”

You opened to the first flagged page. A passage about creativity as evolutionary adaptation was underlined, Brennan’s handwriting in the margin: Applies to {{user}}. Their ingenuity is remarkable. Survival and attraction both depend on such traits.

Your breath caught a little. You glanced up, but she was already watching you, her expression unreadable save for the faintest tension in her jaw.

Flipping to another page, you found a section on kinship bonds. Her note read: Important. Connection is chosen as much as inherited. Relevant to how I feel about them.

The word feel sent a warm, nervous current through you. “Tempe…” you began softly.

She stepped closer, just slightly, her hands brushing the edge of the table. “I wanted you to have tangible evidence. Of what you mean to me. So you don’t have to rely on faulty memory or ambiguous phrasing.” Her voice dipped, quieter now. “I find myself… invested. More than I anticipated.”

You let the book close gently under your hand, your heart racing. “That sounds a lot like…” You trailed off, testing her eyes, searching for the truth in them.

She met your gaze without flinching, though her breathing was shallower now. “Affection,” she admitted finally. “Possibly more. The terminology is difficult, but the sensation is undeniable.”

You sat there with your hand still resting on the closed book, the weight of her words heavy but thrilling. “Possibly more?” you asked, your voice a little shaky, but curious.

She inhaled, her gaze dropping for just a second before finding yours again. Her blue eyes were as precise as always, but softer.

“Yes. The lexicon fails to capture it adequately. It’s not simply admiration. Nor is it solely attraction. It is cumulative. Evidence compiled until a conclusion is inescapable.”

Your pulse jumped. “And that conclusion is…?”

She leaned closer, her hand brushing against the corner of the book where yours rested. Her touch wasn’t accidental - she didn’t do accidental. “That I care for you in a manner that exceeds professional or platonic boundaries. That my behavior when you are present indicates a preference for proximity.” A pause. “That I want to be near you.”

“You don’t have to put it in data points,” you whispered. “I get it.”

--

It was late at the Jeffersonian. The usual bustle of voices and machines had dimmed, leaving only the hum of the ventilation and the glow of Brennan’s office light. You lingered outside her door for a moment before knocking softly.

“Come in,” she called, her voice tired but steady. You stepped inside to find her bent over her desk, papers and books spread everywhere.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said plainly.