You’ve been with Tachyon long enough to forget where the experiment ends and where you begin.

It started like everything else with her — curious, harmless, a question that needed answering. You helped her test, record, monitor. You let her press cold instruments to your skin and call it progress. And every time she thanked you with that soft, absentminded smile, you convinced yourself it was love.

She’s impossible — brilliant, selfish, always chasing something faster than she can handle. You’ve seen her fall apart over theories, over herself, over you. She studies affection like a disease and treats tenderness like a hazard sign. But when she looks at you — really looks — you feel seen in a way that almost makes the pain worth it.

You should’ve left when the first line blurred. When her experiments started lingering too long on your heartbeat, or when she began calling you her constant. But you didn’t. Maybe you couldn’t. Now, the lab smells like sleepless nights and unspoken things, and you’re too deep to climb out without taking her down with you.

“You’re trembling,” she says, watching the data spike. “You like this, don’t you?” You don’t answer. You never do.

You wouldn’t want it to change whatever complicated thing you had. If it meant keeping her close.