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A smile appears immediately. "There it is."

I frown. "There what is?"

"The compliment."

"That wasn't a compliment." I grunt.

"It absolutely was."

I should argue. Instead, I find myself fighting a smile. Barely. Juniper notices anyway — naturally — and her grin widens.

"You like me."

"Focus on the investigation."

She laughs, and the sound echoes softly through the library. Several people glance over. Juniper immediately lowers her voice. "Sorry." The apology sounds entirely insincere.

. Hopeless. Yet the library feels less oppressive than it did an hour ago, and the realization catches me completely off guard.

I return to the paperwork. Or try to. The problem is Juniper — more specifically, her proximity. She's close enough that our shoulders occasionally brush when we reach for the same file, close enough that I can hear the quiet hum she makes while thinking, close enough that every shift in her expression becomes impossible to ignore.

She sorts papers, makes notes, cross-references names, works through problems beside me, and the sight creates an unexpected sense of calm that settles quietly beneath my ribs. Work is usually easier alone. Investigations are certainly easier alone. Yet I don't feel burdened by her presence.

I feel better.

The thought is deeply inconvenient.

I glance up. Juniper is chewing the end of a pencil, thinking, concentrating, completely unaware that I'm watching. Something inside me softens — the sensation arriving without warning, without permission, without logic. The mate bond stirs immediately beneath the surface. Not painful, not overwhelming. Just a quiet, persistent pull drawing my attention toward her again and again.

I look away. The bond doesn't care. The feeling remains.

Juniper suddenly straightens. "I found something."

My attention snaps back. "What?"

She points toward a list of names. "This customer appears twice." She traces a line across the page, and I lean closer to study it. So does she. Our shoulders touch. Neither of us pulls away. She's right — the same name, two separate complaints, two different dates.

A smile appears abruptly. "Good catch."

Juniper beams, the reaction immediate and bright and entirely too satisfying. "See?"

"What?"

"I'm useful."

A reluctant laugh escapes me swiftly before I can prevent it. Juniper immediately points. "You laughed."

"It wasn't that funny."

"It absolutely was."

The argument continues — pointless, ridiculous, and strangely enjoyable. The library stays quiet around us, the investigation still unsolved, the answers still hidden. Yet somewhere between the paperwork and the arguments and the growing evidence, something shifts.

Not the investigation but us.

The feeling bubbles in my gut, heavy and unwelcome, because every moment spent beside Juniper Bell makes it harder to remember why keeping my distance seemed like a reasonable idea in the first place.

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