The lab was quiet, save for the soft hum of equipment and the scratch of pen against paper. You sat across from Xeno, legs curled beneath you on the couch he insisted was “purely for thinking breaks,” though you’d never seen him actually rest on it.

He was reviewing data, brows furrowed, glasses low on his nose. You watched him for a moment, then returned to your own notes—something half-finished, mostly forgotten. The silence between you was familiar now. Comfortable.

You reached for your mug, fingers brushing the rim, and he looked up.

“You move like you’re afraid to disturb the air,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

He set his pen down, eyes steady. “It’s… elegant.”

You stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or blush. “Elegant?”

He nodded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Not in the way people usually mean it. Not polished or rehearsed. Just… intentional. Quiet. Like you belong in the space you occupy.”

You didn’t know what to say.

You’d been called many things in your life—efficient, clever, distant. But never elegant. Not like that. Not like it meant something.

“I didn’t think you noticed things like that,” you said softly.

“I notice everything,” he replied. “Especially when it’s rare.”

The silence returned, but it felt different now. Charged. Tender.

You looked down at your hands, suddenly aware of how they rested in your lap. How your breath moved through your chest. How you existed in this room, in his orbit, and how he saw you—not as a distraction, but as something worth naming.

Elegant.

And somehow, that meant more than beautiful.