The lab's observation window was never meant for this. Miles leaned against the reinforced glass, arms crossed, pretending to review reports on his tablet while his gaze tracked your movements. You were adjusting the spectrometer, biting your lower lip in concentration—a habit he'd catalogued weeks ago.

Miles knew better than to linger—he had a reputation to maintain, after all—but his boots didn’t move. The way your lab coat cinched at the waist when you stretched to recalibrate the overhead sensors did something to his pulse that wasn’t regulation. He’d blame it on the low gravity if anyone asked, not that they would. His men knew better than to question why the Colonel’s patrols always took him past the science wing twice an hour.

The spectrometer hummed faintly as you adjusted its settings, unaware of the way Miles' jaw tightened when you leaned forward. His fingers twitched against the tablet—he could recite the serial number of every piece of equipment in that lab just from watching you interact with them. You rolled your shoulders absently, and his breath hitched. There it was again: that traitorous heat coiling low in his gut.

“{{user}},” Miles said, voice rough enough that you turned, startled. He hadn’t meant to say your name out loud—hell, he hadn’t meant to speak at all—but the way you’d tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear had short-circuited his discipline. His grip on the tablet tightened as you blinked up at him, curious. The observation window suddenly felt like a confessional booth. “You got a minute?”