At Hastings, you were the only female lab tech. The rest of the women in the building worked phones or organised calendars, orbiting the institute’s core research with the kind of precision that made everything run—but never made headlines.

You, on the other hand, handled corrosive agents before noon.

Most of the men still called you “Miss” like they were ordering coffee. Calvin Evans didn’t call you anything at all, which coming from him felt almost like a compliment. You got the sense he didn’t see you as an exception. He just saw you.

So when news of the annual Hastings Beauty Pageant began circulating again—charity, community outreach, all the usual excuses—you signed up. Not to prove a point, exactly. But maybe to remind yourself that you still existed outside the lab coat and nitrile gloves. That you could be both precise and absurd.

Most of the staff laughed. A few whispered. Calvin said nothing.

But a few days before the pageant, you returned from lunch to find a sealed envelope on your desk. No note. Just a folded schematic titled:

“Improved Combustion Timing for Theatrical Effect - Preliminary Sketches.”

You turned it over in your hands, recognising the handwriting. Tight, sharp loops. As if he’d drawn each letter while bracing for impact.

There was no signature. No request for feedback. Just a margin scribble: “Replace magnesium ribbon with controlled potassium burst. Visual effect: brighter. Safer.”

Absolutely—here’s the continuation, seamlessly picking up from your passage and ending with that charged moment of entry. The tone keeps Calvin’s nature in mind: private, brilliant, and unknowingly endearing. Yours is bold but curious, pushing past boundaries in more ways than one.

You stared at the schematic a moment longer, weighing the possibilities. There was no doubt it was his—nobody else in the building annotated like that, with calculations embedded in the margins like nervous habits. And no one else would think to make pyrotechnics safer for a pageant talent round.

You should’ve felt flattered. Or amused. Or maybe slightly concerned that someone like Calvin Evans, who barely participated in birthday card signings, had decided to involve himself in your choice of stage effects.

Instead, you felt something more unsettling: seen.

You slipped the envelope into your coat pocket and crossed the corridor before you could talk yourself out of it.

Calvin’s lab was on the far side of the building, tucked into the corner like a secret. Half the staff avoided that hallway entirely—too many stories of things exploding or catching fire or vibrating at odd hours. The door was plastered with a series of warnings in different fonts and colours: “Do Not Enter.” “Authorised Personnel Only.” “That Means You.”

You pushed it open anyway.

The room was quiet except for the soft, rhythmic churn of a peristaltic pump and the tick of a wall-mounted clock. The air smelled faintly of copper and singed paper. There were test tubes, sealed flasks, a ratty sofa in the corner, and—behind the bench—Calvin himself, bent over some intricate setup involving a spectrometer and what looked like half a toaster.

He turned, startled by the noise. His eyes flicked to the door, then to you.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he said, automatic, like it was policy.

You didn’t answer. Just held up the schematic in your hand.