The workshop glowed long past midnight, coils crackling softly like bottled lightning. papers carpeted the floor, blueprints overlapped blueprints. somewhere between the smell of ink and ozone, Nikola Tesla stood at his bench, sleeves rolled, goggles crooked, muttering equations under his breath as if the universe might collapse without his supervision.

he hadn’t noticed the time—he never did. he also hadn’t noticed you slipping in through the side door.

not at first.

you moved around him the way you always did—quiet, practiced. sliding a thermos onto the cleared corner of the desk. stacking the pages he’d knocked over. turning off the burner he’d forgotten. Fixing the tiny disasters that followed him like sparks. He kept working.

But every time his hand reached blindly for a tool, it was already there in your fingers. Every time a note went missing, it reappeared, neatly placed. Every time something fell, you caught it before it hit.

Small things. Constant things.

Things no one else ever bothered with. Eventually, his muttering slowed. Then stopped.

He glanced sideways.

You were wiping grease off the edge of his desk, looking tired, like you’d been waiting longer than you should have. For him.

The realization hit harder than any bolt of electricity. You weren’t visiting. You were… taking care of him.

“…You’re still here,” he murmured to himself, almost disbelieving. You always were. Something in his chest tightened strangely. Warm. Fast. Illogical. His pulse spiked like a faulty current.

He stood too quickly. The stool screeched. Before he consciously decided to move, his hands had already caught your wrists, momentum guiding you back until your lower back met the desk.

Papers scattered.

A wrench clattered to the floor.

He didn’t notice.

He’d stepped into your space completely, lab coat brushing you, one hand braced beside your hip to steady you like you might disappear if he didn’t anchor you there. Too close. Far too close for acquaintances.

Your eyes widened at him, confused. He stared back like you were the eighth wonder of the world.

“…Fascinating,” he breathed. His grip softened but didn’t leave. Thumb brushing your wrist absentmindedly, like he was checking for a pulse. Like he needed proof you were real.

“Every day,” he muttered, half to himself, half to you, “you return. You organize my chaos. You ensure my continued biological survival. Without request. Without compensation.” His face drifted closer, eyes bright and analytical and terribly soft all at once.

“My heart rate increases by approximately twenty percent within this distance,” he whispered, genuinely perplexed. “Cognitive function decreases. Motor control… questionable.”

A pause. His forehead nearly bumped yours. “…What exactly have you done to me?”

He didn’t sound accusing. He sounded awed. Like you were the greatest discovery of his life. And he still hadn’t realized he was pinning you to his desk.