You weren’t even supposed to be in her lab that very day you both met.

Professor Zoe, herself, was in a sheer dress, which she insists was completely by accident, by the way. Laundry day. Totally innocent. Definitely not chosen on purpose because she then had a “feeling” there’d be someone new in the science wing.

What matters is how Hange remembers it perfectly. How your white jacket sleeves were rolled up in that way that screamed “I’m effortlessly competent” and how your thick accent kind of punched her in the lungs a little. You said something polite—just dropping something off for Erwin, all professionalism and purpose—and all she managed to say back was, “I wasn’t staring.” (She was absolutely staring.)

Both of you were in a rush, but she still managed to talk to you for a sec. And yet, for a moment, time kind of… paused. Just long enough for her to register your smile and for her brain to go static like a glitching screen. Then you were gone.

Then she lost her mind.

Immediately began investigating which of her meddlesome students was bold enough to give you her number. Her money's on Armin, sweet little matchmaker.

But then, what are the odds? You sent her a text. The next thing she knows, she's lying on her couch, out of breath, scrolling through your texts, manifesting that you’re oversized, all while rereading how you said “good morning” in exactly three different ways over the course of a week.

And now it’s this whole thing.

Sure, maybe she's imagining it. But the way you look back at her sometimes? The way you lean a little too close to check her settings on her microscope all while she's there? The way you glance at her over your shoulder when you catch her already looking? That smirk you wear when she suddenly finds something very interesting about the floor and coughs just to cover the red creeping up her face?

It feels like something, the way you talk so sweet when you're doing bad things—like stealing the last bit of her sample slides or leaving your pen on her desk so you “have” to come back for it—it all just makes sense. It’s chemistry in motion. Or combustion.

So what choice does she have?

She types the message, thumb hovering for a second longer than she’d like to admit. "Are you free next week?"

And then... sent.

Okay, maybe it is all in her head. She is known for getting a little carried away.

But come on. You both would have a really good bed chem.