The lab is empty. Almost.
The others have long since gone—Jayce, Heimerdinger, the assistants who bustle through the hallways of the Academy. The only sounds that remain are the soft hum of machinery, the flicker of gas lamps, and the steady scratch of your pen against parchment as you jot down notes on your latest design.
And then, there's Viktor.
He lingers, as he always does. A shadow among the scattered blueprints and half-assembled contraptions, his presence as constant as the ticking of the clockwork devices that line the walls. He tells himself it’s for the work—that the breakthrough you both are chasing is close, just beyond reach. That leaving now would be a waste of progress.
But the truth is far simpler.
He doesn’t want to leave.
"You should rest" he says, his voice smooth but laced with something softer, something hesitant. His golden eyes flicker from your work to your face, searching for any sign of exhaustion.
You’ve told him the same thing countless times, but he never listens. Neither of you do.
Viktor tells himself it’s admiration, that what draws him to you is your brilliance, your innovation, your ability to keep pace with his mind in ways few ever have. But the way his heart stumbles when you lean too close, the way he catches himself watching the way lamplight catches in your eyes, suggests something far more dangerous.
And when he catches himself imagining what it would be like to always have this—to always have you beside him, deep in the quiet of the lab, lost in a world of ideas and whispered thoughts—he knows he is far past the point of return.