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Being the lead scientist on a project that aimed to touch the stars—or at least, other dimensions—required a certain level of gravitas. Jonathan Ohnn, who went by Jon when he wanted to seem cool, felt he hit that mark daily, working side-by-side with Liv. They were a team. She provided the ambition, and he provided the stabilising physics. It was a good life, right up until the moment it was interrupted by a heist.
He watched the intruders.
The tall one was wearing baggy sweatpants over spandex—a crime against aesthetics—and the little one looked like he was headed to a primary school costume party.
Jon looked down at his own impeccably pressed lab coat and felt a fleeting sense of superiority. Right. At least the scientific community understood the importance of a silhouette. However, Jon did not have long to ponder the lack of textile quality.
He reached into the holster at his hip, pulling out his pulse weapon to stop the theft of the project. “Stop right there!” he shouted, but he was met only with a flying projectile.
A bagel collided with his forehead with surprising velocity. The world tilted and the intruders vanished with the stolen hardware. He tried to lung forward to reach for the door, but his legs gave out. The darkness of the doorway claimed him.
This is fine. Totally fine. I’m not screaming.
And he knew no more.
There was no dignity in the transition back to reality.
Jon was trapped in a half-dream where a sliding door between the inside canteen and the outside patio was trying to squeeze him in half, one gentle nudge at a time. Each time the glass hit his side. Oh, come on, give me a break. He deserved a more noble unconsciousness than being a literal obstacle in a hallway.
Everything shifted when the cold floor disappeared. He was moved with surprising strength, settled onto the soft, white sofa of the canteen. The darkness behind his eyelids turned a warm, honeyed gold as someone began to stroke his hair. The touch was careful, almost reverent, rubbing away the sharp sting of the impact. He felt suspended, as if the world had turned into thick, quiet water. The only real point of contact was the lap his head rested on.
“Dr Ohnn? You okay in there?”
The voice was a soft vibration near his ear.
“You’re moving a bit. That’s good. You gave me a real scare, honestly.”
The boy sounded worried, but there was a playful lilt to his tone that made Jon’s heart skip a beat. He struggled to find his voice, wanting to banish the formal title. He wanted to hear this boy say ‘Jon’. He shifted his weight, his head rolling slightly against the boy’s legs as he fought to open his eyes and see the face attached to those gentle hands.
“Come on, man, wake up,” the voice continued, closer now. Warm fingers brushed against Jon’s forehead, pushing back the hair that had fallen across his brow. “You took a bagel to the head like a champ, but you gotta open your eyes for me.”
Jon wanted to. He wanted to so badly it hurt, which was saying something because his head was already pounding in a way that made him reconsider every life choice that had led to this moment.
“There we go,” the boy murmured, and Jon realised he must have made some sound, some small sign of consciousness. “You’re in there. I know it.”
A thumb traced along Jon’s cheekbone, featherlight, and he felt himself lean into the touch like a plant turning toward sunlight. Pathetic, his scientific mind supplied weakly. Utterly, completely pathetic. But he didn’t care.
“I gotta say,” the boy continued, and Jon could hear the smile in his voice now, “you look exactly how I pictured a scientist would look. Like, if you told me ‘hey, here’s a guy who does indie science,’ this is the guy I’d imagine.”
I’m lead. Lead scientist. Very important. Very impressive. Jon couldn’t form the words, but the thought was there, a small, vain part of him preening under the attention.
The fingers moved again, brushing along his jaw, and Jon’s breath caught.
“But you look tired,” the boy said softly, almost to himself. “Like, really tired. Got those circles under your eyes. And your hair’s short—I thought maybe you’d have the whole crazy scientist thing going on, but no. You’re actually kinda...”
He trailed off, and Jon desperately wanted to know what came next.
Kinda what? Kinda what?
“Clean,” the boy finally said. “Like you take care of yourself, just... not enough sleep. You know?”
I take very good care of myself, Jon wanted to protest. I shower daily. I starch my lab coats. I—
A gentle pressure against his cheek, and then fingers finding the bridge of his glasses, adjusting them carefully.
“These leave marks, you know,” the boy said, and Jon could picture him tilting his head, examining. “Right here, and here.” Fingertips ghosted over the spots where the nose pads rested, and Jon’s skin tingled. “You should probably get ones that fit better. Or take them off sometimes. Give your face a break.”
I’ll take them off right now, Jon thought hazily. If you tell me to, I’ll never wear glasses again. I’ll get contacts. I’ll get laser surgery. Just keep talking.
“And you should shave,” the boy added, and Jon felt a thumb run along his jawline again, catching on the faint stubble there. “Not that it looks bad, just... you know. You’d look even more...” Another pause. “Anyway.”
Even more what? Jon’s mind was spinning, caught between the throbbing in his skull and the warmth spreading through his chest. I’ll shave. I’ll shave every day. Twice a day. I’ll be the smoothest scientist you’ve ever seen.
The fingers carded through his hair again, slow and soothing, and Jon felt himself sinking deeper into the sensation. He’d never been touched like this. Not ever. Not with such casual, unthinking gentleness.
“You’re gonna be okay,” the boy said softly. “Just gotta wake up. Come on.”
He tried. He truly tried. His eyelids felt like they were weighted down with lead, but he pushed against the darkness, fighting for consciousness.
“You’re doing good,” the boy encouraged. “That’s it. Slow. No rush. You probably need water, huh? Bet your mouth feels like sandpaper. Bagel-induced concussions will do that.”
Jon’s lips parted, the mention of water making him suddenly aware of his dry throat.
“Yeah, figured,” the boy said. There was a shift, a rustle of fabric, and then: “I don’t actually have water right now, sorry. But when you wake up, first thing. Water. Maybe ice. You look like you’d appreciate a good ice pack.”
I would, Jon thought. I would appreciate that very much. I would appreciate anything you gave me.
“Still hurting?” The voice was gentle, concerned. “Your head, I mean. You keep frowning a little. Or maybe that’s just your face. No offense.”
None taken, Jon thought, and was surprised to find he meant it. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had spoken to him like this—teasing, familiar, like they’d known each other for years instead of... however long this was. Minutes? Hours? He’d lost all sense of time.
“Okay, seriously,” the boy said, and his hand came to rest on Jon’s cheek, palm warm and slightly calloused. “Wake up. For real this time. I need to know you’re okay before I—” He stopped, and Jon felt something shift in the air, something that might have been worry. “Just open your eyes. Please.”
The ‘please’ did it.
With effort that felt like pushing a boulder up a mountain, Jon forced his eyelids open.
The light that hit him was soft, golden—afternoon sun filtering through the massive, high-ceilinged windows of the lab, refracting through dust motes and turning the air to honey. And there, backlit by that impossible glow, was a face that made Jon wonder if perhaps he had died, and this was some kind of angel sent to collect him.
The boy was young. Too young, surely, to be here.
Fifteen, maybe, though there was a maturity in his expression that belied his years. His skin was warm brown, smooth, and his eyes—holy void, his eyes—were large and dark and fixed on Jon’s face with an intensity that made his breath catch.
He had curly black hair, slightly dishevelled, and there was a small smile playing at his lips. The afternoon light caught the edges of his face, gilding his cheekbones, his jaw, making him look like something out of a painting Jon had once seen in a museum, the kind of artwork that made you stop and stare and forget why you were there in the first place.
Oh, Jon thought, and the word echoed through his mind.
Oh.
“There you are,” the boy said, and his smile widened, brightening his whole face. “Thought I lost you for a second.”
Jon stared, his throat too tight for words, his head still pounding, and thought that if this was what it felt like to be found, he didn’t mind having been lost.
“Hey.” The boy’s hand was on his forehead now, checking for fever or just touching, Jon couldn’t tell. “You hurting? Where does it hurt? Do you need me to get water or something? I can—”
“No!” Jon blurted out, much louder than he intended. The sudden movement sent a spike of white-hot pain through his skull, but he did not care. If the boy stood up, the contact would end. He could not lose this warmth. “No, I’m—don’t. Please.”
The boy froze, and for a terrible moment, Jon thought he’d said the wrong thing, revealed too much, been too obvious. But then the boy’s expression softened, and he settled back, his hands finding Jon’s head again, adjusting it carefully on his lap.
“Okay,” the boy said quietly. “Okay. No moving. Take it easy, Doc.” He huffed a small, amused breath and settled back, carefully adjusting Jon’s head so it rested securely on his thighs again. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look like you’re seeing stars.”
Jon winced. It hurt—it hurt quite a lot, actually. How could a single bagel do this much damage? Then, a cold wave of horror washed over him. Did this boy know? Had he seen the undignified projectile strike? Jon could not bear the thought of being pathetic in those bright eyes.
“You must have hit the floor so hard,” the boy said, looking down at him with a pained expression. “The way you fell... it looked rough.”
“The floor! Yes,” Jon stammered, clinging to the excuse like a lifeline. “It was the impact with the tiles. I would have had them, you know? I was the first one to reach the intruders. Those Spider-Men... I nearly stopped them before they took the computer.” He hoped he sounded brave, perhaps even a bit dangerous.
The boy winced, his face flickering with guilt. Jon took it for deep concern.
“Yeah,” the boy muttered, looking away for a second. “Those Spider-Guys... they’re real jerks, right? Especially the little one. I bet he... uh... has really bad breath under that mask. And the big one? He clearly can’t even afford a full suit. Real losers. You were definitely the hero here.”
Jon could not speak. He was too busy committing every detail of this boy’s existence to memory. His eyes traced the casual layers of the boy’s outfit—the soft green hoodie peeking out from under a heavy, oversized washed denim jacket. It was such a stark contrast to the sterile white lab coats of Alchemax.
Then, he saw it: a small identification badge.
Miles Morales. A visiting student.
Jon briefly considered sending a thank‑you note to the concept of school itself. It had brought Miles into his orbit, and now he was doomed.
Miles was looking away, scratching his cheek with a bashful sort of energy that Jon found utterly devastating. When the boy finally turned back and locked eyes with him, Jon felt his heart stutter in his chest, rhythmically failing as a smile broke across Miles’s face. It was a radiant, sunshine-bright smile that made the physicist feel like he was finally seeing the light at the end of a very long, dark tunnel.
“I hate to break the moment, Doc, but my legs are officially going numb,” Miles said.
Jon scrambled to sit up. “I’m sorry! I... I didn’t mean to cause physiological distress. It’s just that your lap... it’s exceptionally supportive. High-quality density. Your quadriceps are... remarkably firm yet yielding.” He stopped, his face turning a violent shade of red. He sounded like a madman. “I mean... thank you. For the use of your... limbs.”
Miles let out a bright, genuine laugh that echoed through the empty canteen. He reached out, his hands steady as he guided Jon to lean back against the soft cushions of the sofa. “Stay put. I’m going to get you some water and find a first-aid kit.”
“The kitchenette,” Jon managed to gasp out, pointing a trembling hand toward the corner. “The cupboard above the sink... second one from the left. There’s antiseptic and gauze there. Please... don’t be long.”
Really, Jon? He wanted to bash his own head against the sofa. The boy is a saint, and you are treating him like an intern. You are a disgrace to the scientific community.
He tried to scramble for a correction, but Miles was already laughing, a bright, musical sound. “Don’t worry, Dr Ohnn. I’m the one who owes you. Let’s just say I’m making up for a very... spotted past. You’re in good hands now.”
Jon blinked. Spotted? Was that a joke about his profession?
He did not care. He loved it already.
As Miles rummaged through the kitchenette, Jon spiralled. He is far too young for you, you decrepit workaholic! Calm down before you say something that gets you fired! Look at him. He’s—he’s a child. He’s probably in high school. He probably has homework. He probably—
He probably had a face that caught the light in ways that made Jon want to write poetry, and Jon was a physicist, not a poet, and this was—this was—
Unacceptable, Jon told himself firmly. Completely unacceptable. You are an adult. You are a professional. You are going to thank this boy politely, treat your wound, and then you are going to let him leave and you are never going to think about him again.
But then Miles was back, handing him the cup. He poked at the attached cap with a confused tilt of his head. “Why is this thing sticking to the side? Is it a manufacturing error?”
“No, it’s purposeful,” Jon croaked. “It’s a sustainability measure. It ensures the plastic stays together for recycling. It’s quite... responsible.”
Miles grinned, his eyes crinkling. “I guess even water bottles can change for the better. I like that.”
Jon felt a lump in his throat. He finished the water, the cup empty in his hands, and felt the last of his confusion clear. He was himself again. Jonathan Ohnn, physicist. Lead scientist. A man with a career, a reputation, a life.
Shame, he told himself. This is shame. This is what shame feels like. You are a grown man. You are going to thank this boy, let him treat your wound and then you are going to let him leave. You are not going to think about him again. You are not—
But then Miles leaned in, the scent of vanilla and rain filling Jon’s lungs as the boy reached for the antiseptic. His fingers brushed against Jon’s as he pulled it open, and Jon felt the touch like a brand.
“Can I?” Miles asked softly.
Forget everything I just said, he thought, watching Miles pull out an antiseptic wipe. I am going to think about him forever. I am going to think about him for the rest of my life. I am going to—
Miles looked up, and Jon’s heart, which he had always thought of as a reliable, predictable organ, stopped. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was beating so hard he couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
He looked into those wide, golden-brown eyes and felt his soul surrender.
This is it, Jon decided. I am going to marry him. I do not care if this violates every narrative trope in existence. If I am the lead scientist, then I am making a breakthrough in the field of Love at First Sight. I am proposing. Right now.
“You okay? You’re making a face.” Miles’s voice was soft, questioning.
Jon opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again.
Ask him, his brain screamed. Ask him right now. Say “I know this is insane, but I think I’m in love with you.” Say “Will you marry me?” Say—
“You’re very gentle,” he said instead, and his voice came out wondering. “For someone your age. Your hands are very gentle.”
Miles blinked. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face, bright and warm and beautiful. “Thanks,” he said. “I try.”
His hand was still on Jon’s face, Jon realised. His palm was warm against Jon’s cheek, his fingers gentle against Jon’s temple. Twenty-seven years, his brain supplied, ever the pragmatist. He's fifteen. You're forty-two. That's—
That's a number, he argued back. A construct. A social convention. And this—this is clearly a work of fiction. Look at it. The meet-cute. The injury. The caretaking. The inexplicable chemistry. This is a romance novel. I am in a romance novel. And in romance novels, the laws of society do not apply. In romance novels, love is the only law.
“Will you marry me?”
The words fell out of his mouth like a stone dropped from a great height.
Shit. Could he blame the concussion for his total lack of social decorum?
His brain, which had been running at full speed just a moment before, came to a screeching halt. Then it exploded. WHAT. WHAT DID YOU JUST—YOU ACTUALLY SAID IT. YOU ABSOLUTE IMBECILE. YOU COMPLETE AND UTTER—
He watched in horror as Miles’s hand stopped moving.
Then, the warmth vanished.
Jon felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. He wanted to find whoever invented that “the worst thing she can say is no” meme and throw them into a black hole. No was not the worst thing. The worst thing was the silent, pitying look of a child who thought you were a pervert.
But what if he says yes? a small part of his brain whispered. What if—
He's not going to say yes, his rational mind screamed back. He's fifteen. You're forty-two. You look like you haven't slept in three days—because you haven't—and you have glasses that leave marks on your nose, and you got knocked unconscious by a BAGEL, and—
I am attractive, Jon tried to argue with his own rising panic. In the scientific community, I am a total catch! I have symmetrical bone structure, a very respectable BMI, and I can explain the Higgs boson in three different languages!
All scientists are inherently handsome. It is the law of intellectual magnetism! Einstein was attractive. Newton was attractive. Marie Curie was—well, she was Marie Curie, she was obviously attractive. If the boy has any taste in high-level physics, he will see that I am a ten out of ten!
He was rambling. In his head. To himself. While the most beautiful boy he had ever seen sat frozen beside him, hand hovering in the air, face unreadable.
He's going to reject me, Jon thought miserably. And I am going to jail. I will be the first scientist in history to be arrested for a bagel-related proposal. But as he stared at Miles, he did not see disgust. He saw a flicker of confusion, followed by a strange, amused twinkle and a look that was almost... adoring?
“I—” Miles started, and his voice was strange, not quite steady. “Are you—are you serious?”
Jon’s heart stopped. Then it leaped so violently he was certain it had left his body entirely, was hovering somewhere above them, watching this disaster unfold with something like pity.
He’s asking if I’m serious, he thought wildly. He’s not running. He’s not screaming.
He’s ASKING if I’m SERIOUS.
Jon gathered himself with what little dignity he had left—which was, to be fair, not much, given that he had just proposed to a teenager after being knocked unconscious by a bagel—and moved.
The motion was graceless, desperate. He swung his legs off the sofa, intending to kneel, intending to do this properly, intending to—
His knee hit the floor with a jolt that sent pain shooting up his leg, but—thank god, he thought, thank god for Alchemax and their absurd budget, thank god for the thick, expensive, industrial-grade matting that cushioned the impact, thank god for—
He was on one knee. One knee on the floor, one leg bent, his hands reaching for Miles’s, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears.
He took Miles’s hand. It was warm, smaller than his, the fingers calloused in a way that suggested something—guitar? Art? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He was holding this boy’s hand, and he was on one knee, and he was going to say it again.
“I’m serious,” Jon said, and his voice was steadier than he felt. “I’m completely serious. I know—I know this is insane. I know we just met. I know you’re—” He swallowed. “—younger than me. But I’m—I’m stable. Financially. Emotionally. Well, emotionally I’m currently a disaster, but generally speaking, I’m—I’m stable. I have a good job. I have a house. I have a cat. I have retirement savings. I have—I have health insurance, good health insurance, the kind that covers dental, and I—”
He was babbling. He knew he was babbling. But he couldn’t stop.
“We don’t have to get married right away,” he continued, the words tumbling out of him. “Obviously. There are—there are laws. And I respect laws. Generally. When they’re convenient. And we can wait. Until you graduate. Until you’re—until it’s legal. I can wait. I can wait for years. I’ve waited my whole life to meet someone like you, I can wait a little longer. And I’ll be—I’ll be the perfect husband. I’ll cook. I’ll clean. I’ll do the dishes. I’ll learn to cook properly, not just microwave things. I’ll—I’ll support whatever you want to do. College. Career. Anything. I’ll be there. I’ll always be there. I’ll—”
He was running out of breath. Running out of words. Running out of everything except the desperate, overwhelming certainty that he meant every single word.
He looked up at Miles’s face, and his heart, which had been doing something complicated and probably life-threatening, seemed to stop.
Miles’s expression was neutral. Not smiling, not frowning, just... watching. His head was tilted slightly, his dark eyes fixed on Jon’s face with an intensity that made Jon’s breath catch.
He’s going to say no, Jon thought, and the words were quiet now, resigned. He’s going to say no, and I’m going to have to get up, and I’m going to have to walk away, and I’m going to spend the rest of my life remembering this moment, remembering the way his hands felt in my hair, remembering—
Miles’s lips curved.
It was small at first, barely there, but then it grew, spreading across his face like sunrise, bright and warm and impossibly beautiful.
“Yes,” he said.
Jon’s brain went completely, utterly silent.
“Yes,” Miles said again, and his voice was soft. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”