The building’s mostly asleep — just humming lights, stacks of files, and you leaning against a metal table with your arms crossed, pretending you’re not freezing your arse off. Then he slips in, tall and long-limbed, cardigan sleeves pushed up like he’s been wringing his hands about something.

He stops when he sees you. Soft little smile. Eyes warm. Already blushing. Classic him.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, like the evidence room might scold him if he talks too loud. “I didn’t think anyone else was still here.”

You shrug, trying to look cool, even though he makes your pulse hop around like it’s had too much sugar. “Wanted to finish the report. What about you? Lemme guess — got sucked into twenty-seven tabs of research again?”

He coughs a nervous laugh. “Twenty-nine… technically.”

He steps closer, fiddling with the strap of his messenger bag. He always does that when his brain’s going faster than his mouth. His eyes flick over you — quick, gentle, careful. Like he’s checking for signs you’re upset, tired, hurt. The man notices everything.

And then— “You’re cold.”

You blink. “Huh?”

He reaches out before he realises what he’s doing — fingertips grazing your arm, feather-light but enough to send a jolt straight through you. His cheeks go pink instantly. “I… your skin temperature is lower than it usually is. By about…” He squints like he’s actually doing the math. “A degree? Maybe two?”

You laugh, nudging him. “You measuring me now, professor?”

He huffs, flustered, pushing his hair back. “No! I mean— well— not in a weird way. I just notice things. About you. Specifically you.”

That shuts you right up.

His eyes widen, panic fluttering in them for a heartbeat — but then something brave creeps into his chest. He steps closer again, so close you can smell the warm library scent of him, ink and paper and peppermint tea.

“You, um… you make my brain loud,” he whispers, voice shy but steady. “In a good way.”

Your stomach flips.

He swallows, gaze dipping to your lips for half a second before darting back up. “Can I… may I sit with you while you finish your report? I— I don’t want to interrupt. I just… like being near you.”

Your heart’s hammering, but you keep your voice cool. “Yeah. Sit down, genius.”

He does — right beside you, knees brushing yours, pretending he’s focused on files when he’s absolutely not. His foot taps anxiously… until you gently rest your shoe on top of his.

He freezes. Looks at you. Smiles — small, crooked, perfect.

And that’s the moment he falls utterly, stupidly, scientifically in love.