The lab falls quiet except for the low hum of equipment and ventilation. She sets the frame back in its exact position—muscle memory.
"He would have hated this social media circus." A ghost of a smile crosses her face. "Dad believed in letting work speak for itself. Never understood why anyone would want attention for just doing their job."
I watch her reorganize already-perfect stacks of files—a nervous habit, processing emotions through familiar routines. The competence runs deeper than I'd imagined. The dedication to integrity makes our fake relationship feel less like an inconvenience and more like asking her to betray her core values.
"The department's lucky to have you." The words come out more sincere than I intend. "This level of expertise... most people have no idea what goes into this work."
She glances up, less guarded than usual. "Most people think investigation means sifting through ash and making educated guesses. They don't realize every sample, every measurement, every analysis has to stand up in court under cross-examination."
"Building a case one molecule at a time."
"Exactly." Genuine surprise in her voice—like she's not used to colleagues understanding. "Onemistake in protocol can destroy an entire prosecution. Every piece of evidence has to be defensible, reproducible, absolutely accurate."
She's not just good at her job. She's building something—honoring her dad while carving out her own space. That takes guts.
Hazel's coaching about authentic chemistry suddenly seems irrelevant compared to this glimpse of who she actually is without the professional armor.
"So." She clears her throat, and the vulnerability disappears behind her usual composure. "We should probably practice the... proximity thing. Before this weekend."
Right. The reason we're here.
"Hazel mentioned casual touches." I move a step closer, watching her posture stiffen. "Maybe we start with something simple. Standing near each other without looking like we're about to commit mutual homicide."
Her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "That might be ambitious."
"I'm an optimist."
We stand there, maybe two feet apart, both of us clearly uncomfortable. The fluorescentlights hum overhead. A centrifuge whirs in the corner. Romance is definitely not in the air.
"This is ridiculous," she mutters.
"Completely ridiculous."
"We're two professionals who can't figure out how to stand next to each other."
"To be fair, yesterday we were screaming about Instagram angles. Personal growth takes time."
That gets an actual laugh—short, surprised, like it escaped against her will. The sound does something inconvenient to my chest.
"Okay." She squares her shoulders like she's approaching a difficult evidence sample. "Casual touch. Where would you normally...?" She gestures vaguely.
"Maybe here?" My hand hovers near the small of her back. "Tell me if this is weird."
"It's already weird." But she doesn't move away, so my palm settles against her lower back. The fabric of her blazer is smooth, professional, and my hand absolutely does not want to stay there longer than necessary for practice purposes.
Her breath catches. Just slightly. Probably discomfort.
"See?" My voice comes out rougher than I intended. "Not so bad."
"It's fine." She's facing the evidence lockers, jaw tight. Not looking at me. "Totally fine. Very... casual."
We stand there for approximately four seconds before she steps away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Good. That's... we can do that. Probably." She's already moving back toward her desk, putting distance between us. "We should review Hazel's schedule. Figure out talking points for this weekend."
The shift back to business is so fast I almost get whiplash. But that flush creeping up her neck tells a different story.
Maybe the chemistry isn't as fake as we thought.
