The lab was quiet.

Not silent—machines hummed, monitors blinked, and the occasional clatter of tools echoed from the far end of the room. But compared to the usual chaos of invention and debate, it was peaceful. Almost still.

Xeno sat at his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes fixed on a blueprint he hadn’t touched in hours.

You watched from the doorway, hesitant to interrupt. He hadn’t spoken much today. Not since the last experiment failed. Not since the team had dispersed, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the weight of expectations.

You stepped in quietly, placing a mug of coffee beside him.

He didn’t look up.

But after a moment, he spoke—voice low, measured, like he was thinking aloud more than addressing you.

“Do you ever wonder,” he said, “if brilliance is just another kind of isolation?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you pulled up a stool and sat beside him, close enough to share the quiet.

“I think isolation is what brilliance tries to survive,” you said softly.

He glanced at you then—just briefly. But something in his gaze shifted. Less guarded. Less calculating.

You reached out, gently brushing a strand of white hair from his forehead. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just closed his eyes for a moment, as if memorizing the feeling.

“I’m not used to this,” he admitted. “To someone staying.”

You smiled. “Then get used to it.”

And for once, Xeno didn’t argue. He didn’t retreat into logic or strategy. He just sat there, beside you, letting the silence be something shared.

Because even geniuses need stillness.

And even Dr. Xeno Houston Wingfield, with all his intellect and ambition, was still human enough to want to be seen.