The chemistry lab still smelled faintly of acetone and chalk: the scent of long hours and quiet work.

The afternoon light came through the narrow windows in angled gold stripes, catching dust motes that drifted aimlessly like lazy snow. Old vents rattled overhead, a steady hum behind the clatter of glassware being arranged on the counters by the technicians.

Walter was meticulous about preparation. Every beaker had its place, every burner adjusted accurately at their side.

He stood at the far bench, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a faded button-down tucked into khaki slacks that hung a little too loosely now. His tie was the same shade of beige as the walls.

He seemed an invisible man in an invisible job.

The students had long gone, but he lingered, as always. Home offered little comfort these days. Skyler’s worried silences pressed on him more than words could.

The diagnosis had stripped him of more than health—it had taken away the illusion of time.

He adjusted a hot plate, distracted by the memory of a different kind of heat. The desert sun, the hiss of propane, Jesse’s nervous voice asking if it would really work.

It had worked. God help him, it had worked.

A sharp sound broke his reverie.

The sharp intake of breath behind him, a small cry.

He turned and saw you clutching your hand, the reddened skin already raging from contact with the metal plate.

Walter crossed the room in an instant. “Let me see,” he commanded.

He guided you to the sink, turned on the faucet, and held your hand under the cold stream.

The water splashed against porcelain. He adjusted the flow with care, his rough fingers brushing against your palm as he examined the burn.

The skin was pink but not blistered—small mercy.

“You need to be more careful,” he murmured, a sensible scolding. “These things stay hotter than they look.”

His thumb steadied your wrist as he leaned closer. Up close, the fine lines around his eyes showed how deeply the months had worn him.

Once, those blue eyes had been bright once, those of a man who believed in predictable reactions, neat equations, order.

Now there was something different there: calculation, yes, but also a strange alertness, as though part of him was already elsewhere, perhaps in a trailer, in the desert, chasing something he couldn’t yet name.

He adjusted the angle of your hand, the chill water running over both of you.

“There,” he lightly caressed your sensitive wound. “That should keep it from swellin’ a bit.”

The room was quiet except for the faucet. The air felt charged, the way static builds before lightning.

He cleared his throat, gaze still fixed on your skin. “I used to do this sort of thing all the time in the lab at the university. Before teachin’. Before—” He stopped, shaking his head.

“Well. Before.”

He reached for a clean towel, blotting the water away with deliberate care.

“You’ve gotta respect heat, {{user}},” Walter warned. “Most of the time, you can’t see what it’s doin’ ‘til it’s already done.”

For a moment, he didn’t move.

His grip lingered at your wrist, warm, almost protective.

Those cerulean eyes met yours, the hint of something unguarded breaking through the practiced calm. Guilt, maybe?

Or the innate human need to be seen, just once, before vanishing back into ordinary integrated life.