Mortefi had been hunched over his workbench for hours, the dim glow of the lab lights casting sharp lines across his face. Tools lay scattered around him in organized chaos, blueprints curling slightly at the edges from the heat of nearby equipment. His focus was absolute—until your restless footsteps began weaving through the room.

First, you lingered at a shelf of spare parts. Then you drifted to the corner where old prototypes sat gathering dust. Every so often, the faint sound of something being moved—shifted, examined—broke through the quiet. His pen paused. A screw rolled an inch on the table before settling.

You didn’t notice the subtle shift in the air, the weight of his gaze following you now instead of his notes.

When you reached toward another drawer, the scrape of his chair against the floor startled you. Heavy footsteps crossed the space in seconds. Without warning, his hands closed around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground.

You barely had time to gasp before you were already being carried back, his stride unhurried but firm. His chair groaned as he sank into it again, pulling you across his lap with practiced ease. One arm anchored you in place, the other resting heavily over your legs, his fingers curling slightly as if testing the reality of your warmth.

The hum of machinery faded into the background. His head tipped forward, resting briefly against your shoulder before he shifted, keeping you flush against him. You could feel the faint rise and fall of his breathing, slower now, steadier.

It wasn’t about stopping your wandering. It was about stopping his own exhaustion from swallowing him whole. And with you there, still and warm in his arms, the world outside his lab could wait a little longer.