LILY
The hum of the centrifuge is the only sound in the room.
It's late. Later than it should be. The kind of late that coats everything in soft edges and shadows, where even the sharpest thoughts start to feel distant. But not this one.
Not him.
Daniel leans against the counter near the sink, quiet and composed like always. He said he'd stop by to check the dataset I sent this morning. Said he just had a few clarifying questions.
That was an hour ago.
Now we're both still here—long past the point of needing to be. Long past plausible deniability.
I don't say anything at first. I'm measuring solutions, logging samples. My hands are steady even though my heartbeat isn't.
I know he's watching me.
And not in the casual, passing way people do. It's the kind of watching that feels like being seen. It burns at the edges of my skin.
"You always work this late?" he asks, finally.
His voice is low. Careful.
I shrug without looking up. "Only when the data's this stubborn."
