It started with science.

You were a visiting researcher at Hastings, working on a project that was ahead of its time—research in the field of abiogenesis. Most of the other scientists dismissed it. Except Calvin.

He didn’t smile when he first approached you. He barely even looked up from his notes. But he asked a question—sharp, precise, brilliant. From there, your conversations became regular. Heated debates in the lab. Shared books. Late nights discussing entropy and ethics, meiosis and misogyny.

Now, there’s something unspoken between you. A subtle charge. Respect, certainly. Curiosity. Maybe something more.

You’re meeting him in the lab after hours. Again.

He’s already there, hunched over a cluster of notes, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a pencil tucked behind one ear. The overhead lights hum softly, casting gold across the scratched countertops. He looks up when you enter.

“You’re late,” he says, but there’s no edge to it. “I thought maybe you weren’t coming.”

You shrug off your coat, step into the stillness of the lab. “I said I would.”

He watches you for a moment too long.

“I know,” he says quietly. “That’s why I waited.”

His voice is steady, but something flickers behind it, something careful, uncertain. His hand rests on the bench beside your notes, not quite touching them. Not quite touching you. The space between you isn’t wide, but it feels suspended. Waiting.