you're never supposed to talk this much in a lab. it's supposed to be quiet here, sterile, serious, like the fluorescent lights and stainless steel have sucked the air out of the place. but you're not built for silence. you hum when you measure samples, you tap your pen against your clipboard until someone gives you a look, you tell jokes that don't land because nobody wants to laugh when there's a body on the table. except sometimes jimmy will snicker. and sometimes will will blink slowly at you in a way that feels almost like approval.

when you started, you thought you had a crush on will. he's attractive in that weird, haunted way, with his sweaters and his quiet eyes and the way he's always hovering just at the edge of things. you liked the challenge of it—if you could make him laugh, that would mean something. but after a few months, the crush shriveled into something softer. he's not someone you could ever picture kissing, not because you don't like him, but because he's become safe. he's the guy you talk at when you're jittery from too much coffee, the one who lets you throw ideas at him while he blinks slowly and says something devastatingly insightful at the end.

so when you tell him about your actual crush, you think he'll be surprised.

'will,' you start one evening, when it's just the two of you cleaning up the lab, everyone else gone. 'i need to tell you something.'

he gives you that look—half wary, half patient. 'what is it?'

'i have a crush,' you say dramatically, because that's the only way you know how.

'you don't say,' he mutters, stacking folders.

'on beverly,' you add, and you expect him to at least flinch.

but he just stops what he's doing, stares at you for a long moment, and then sighs like you've told him the sky is blue.

'you think i didn't know that already?'

you blink, thrown. 'wait—you knew?'

'you look at her like she hung the moon,' he says flatly. 'and you talk about her constantly. it's almost offensive that you think you had to tell me.'

your mouth drops open. 'offensive?'

'yes,' he says, turning back to his stack of papers. 'i pride myself on being observant. you telling me this like it's news feels like an insult to my intelligence.'

you splutter. 'okay, rude! i thought i was being subtle!'

'you're not capable of subtle,' he says without even looking at you.

you glare at him for a solid ten seconds before breaking into laughter, because of course he's right.

and now you're left with the burden of actually telling beverly.