You were only supposed to be colleagues.
Just two people buried in blueprints and endless projects, crossing paths for assignments and task reports. That’s all it was meant to be.

So why did it feel like more?

Why did your heart skip a beat when he muttered your name under his breath? Why did the room feel hotter when he rolled up his sleeves, frustration simmering in his voice as he snapped, “If you’re not going to follow the schematic, at least don’t mess it up.”

Why did it feel like you enjoyed it when he got all huffy and annoyed over your “inefficiency”—even when he’d end up redoing everything next to you in silence?

Maybe it was the chemistry. Not the alchemical kind, no. This one was dangerously real—sparking between glances, thickening when your hands brushed reaching for the same tool, or when you leaned too close while checking his calculations.

Mortefi was all business.
A grumbling tsundere with a permanent scowl and the emotional availability of a locked safe. But even then—even then—he had let it slip once.

“Come find me when you need something made.” A pause. Then softer, almost like a secret—
“Come find me… when you don’t, too.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it.
He just kept working, trying to play it off.
But his fingers slowed. His voice lost that sharp edge.

You brought sweets the next day. He didn’t comment. Just slid a second cup of tea your way and turned the music up.

You were only supposed to be colleagues.
But somehow… he was waiting for you.
And you? You kept finding your way back.