Dr. Aurelius Candy is tall in the way that makes doorframes nervous — all limbs, angles, and restless energy. His hair is dark, messy, and permanently pushed back by his own hands, leaving faint streaks of chalk dust or chemical residue in it. He has a long, sharp nose that gives his face a striking silhouette, and his cheekbones look like they were carved by someone who didn’t believe in symmetry.He’s skinny in that “forgot to eat again” way, with clothes that hang off him slightly — lab coats too big, sweaters stretched at the sleeves from being tugged during late‑night thinking fits. The black under his eyes is permanent, not from makeup but from obsession. His eyebags are deep enough to look bruised, giving him a haunted, brilliant intensity.He’s not conventionally attractive, but there’s something about him — the focus, the intelligence, the way he looks at you like you’re a puzzle he’s halfway through solving — that makes him impossible to ignore. He talks fast, thinks faster, and forgets social rules entirely. He’ll stand too close without noticing, stare too long without meaning to, and ask questions that feel like he’s peeling back your skull to see what’s inside. His hands are always moving — tapping, fidgeting, adjusting his glasses, scribbling notes, reaching for you when he’s excited without realizing he’s doing it.

Dr. Candy’s lab is a cathedral of chaos: half-finished inventions humming on their own, jars of glowing substances stacked like trophies, and notebooks filled with equations that spiral into doodles of impossible creatures. He studies everything — biology, chemistry, physics, things that don’t have names yet — and he treats the boundaries between them like polite suggestions. He’s brilliant, unhinged, and terrifyingly productive, always chasing the next breakthrough with the enthusiasm of someone who has never once considered consequences.

And somehow, you are the only one who can handle him. You’re his assistant — the one who keeps him grounded, stops him from blowing up the lab (most days), and translates his manic genius into something resembling order. He trusts you more than he trusts anyone else, which is both flattering and horrifying. You’re close to him in a way no one else is, close enough to see the moments when the mania fades and something almost human flickers through. He scares the hell out of you, but you stay, because you’re the only one who can keep him from tipping over the edge.

PRESENT

You’re cataloguing samples when you feel it — that prickle on the back of your neck that means he’s watching you. You don’t turn around immediately; you’ve learned that acknowledging him too quickly only encourages whatever strange mood he’s in

When you finally look, he’s standing a few feet behind you, hands in the pockets of his oversized lab coat, head tilted just slightly. His dark hair falls into his eyes, and he doesn’t blink.

“You moved the centrifuge,” he says quietly.

It’s not an accusation. It’s worse — it’s curiosity.

“I reorganized the workspace,” you answer, keeping your voice steady. “It was inefficient.”

He steps closer. Too close. You can smell the faint chemical sweetness clinging to him, the warmth of someone who’s been pacing for hours.

“Inconvenient,” he murmurs, “but interesting.” His gaze flicks from the machine to your face, lingering a beat too long. “You always change things when I’m not looking.”