Annie.

You nearly sobbed (you should be asking him that), but choked back the sound by pressing your nose into his shoulder. In many ways, Ryland continuously reminded you that regardless of the situations he found himself in, he gave up his comfort (and his physical body) to help. He was a constant string of sacrifices, an endless loop of giving. 

It made an ugly feeling strike through your gut. When was the last time he asked for something in return? 

Closing your eyes, you sunk deeper into Ryland’s hold and hoped to convey wordlessly that he could hold you the way he needed to. That he could hold you tight; grip you selfishly.  

The seconds ticked by, and the awkward silence that had settled over the ship began to morph into something softer. You realised that Rocky was also in the room, but hadn’t made a single sound. Not even his translator echoed mechanically in the air, asking questions.

Ryland quietly cleared his throat. “Did you want to—uh, talk… about it?” 

His question was followed by his thumb rubbing a small crescent into your back. You turned your head to press your cheek against Ryland’s shoulder, gaze idly running along the floor. 

“No,” you murmured. “But thanks for asking.” 

Ryland nodded his head, exhaling through his nose. After a short moment, you felt his cheek press against the side of your head. 

You couldn’t say when the two of you began to sway, but, at some point, your heart rates had synced with one another, beating in tandem while your bodies rocked side to side. There wasn’t any music to accompany you; you weren’t sharing a romantic dance.

Your lips briefly twitched with a faint smile as you imagined Rocky asking you about it. 

Why Grace and Y/N move to side on repeat. Question. 

You weren’t good with numbers or molecular biology like Ryland, but you knew a lot about the human body. And you knew that people rocked themselves when they needed comfort. Maybe Eridians did something similar? You’d explain it to the overly enthusiastic alien, but the thought left you when Ryland moved his hand up your back, palm splayed against your spine.

“This is nice,” Ryland whispered.

You hummed, and tears crowded the edges of your vision. 

“Same time tomorrow?”

You let out a wet giggle, muffling it into his shirt. 

Ryland let out a soft huff, his smile trailing after his breath and hidden from view.

--------------------------------------------------

thank you for reading, God bless <3

"You couldn't be any more welcoming this early in the morning, could you?" Colt scoffs, rolling his eyes before slumping back into the chair. She comes to a pause next to him and ruffles his bedhead. "No way. Not when I have to be up at the same time as you."

She turns to the vanity in front of them and starts pulling out the basics. Colt can see the foundation and setting powder. Her little, little sponges that are green and blue. The purple silicone one always makes him nervous. She has yet to use that one on him.

"I believe it's just Standard #4 today, right?" she asks, "Just like yesterday?" He stifles another yawn and nods. "Yeah. It's a reshoot for yesterday because they didn't like how the shot turned out. Whatever. Hopefully I don't have to sit in this chair for hours today."

She glances over at the stuntman and raises an eyebrow. "It's hard work making you look pretty, you know." Colt can't stop the chuckle that escapes his lips and he tilts his head, "Awe, you think I'm pretty?" She claps a hand over the back of his skull without looking and he snickers.

"I think you're a little shit who needs to find a girlfriend to keep him company," she says as she pulls out a hairdryer and styling products. She leaves those off to the side. Her words slap Colt awake and he pouts a little as a pit forms in his stomach.

There's nothing smart to say in response to that. She was right.

The makeup artist gets to work on him. She slips a fluffy blue headband on Colt's head to hold the hair out of his eyes. He actually kind of likes it... it's soft and fuzzy. Comforting. It's quiet for a while as she goes through her basic makeup routine on him. It's an early call time and neither of them usually talks until they get through their first drinks of the morning.

Colt typically goes for a strong coffee, she always drinks hot chocolate.

After about 15 minutes, Colt finally gets the courage to speak up. "Do you really think I'm ready for one?" She pauses from where she's cracking open an eyeshadow palette and glances over at him, confusion on her face. "What do you mean?" she asks with the tilt of her head.

He swallows and looks down at his coffee, swirling the hot java around for a moment. "Do you really think I'm ready for a girlfriend?" Colt asks quietly. He hates how his voice has that little trill in it on that last word.

Girlfriend.

A look of recognition floats across the blonde's face and she gives him a sad smile. "I do, Colt," she replies, looking back at her palette before dipping a brush into a skin toned color. "I think you've been ready. But instead of doing something about it, you sit in my chair and poke fun at me."

That makes Colt smile a little. She's once again right. He does like to tease her. She just makes it too easy.

"Evelyn, you just make it so simple for me," Colt banters back. "You get all riled up over the little things. It's fun!" Evelyn gives him a look with a raised brow and she replies, "And I think you have extra energy you need to spend on getting a girlfriend. Or hell, go get laid for a night. It would be good for you."

That makes Colt's face warm. It's been... a while. And it must be pretty evident.

Evelyn takes a deep breath and then sighs, lowering her brush. "Colt, I only mean to say that I think you've moved on," she says gently. "It's been a few years since Jody. You're allowed to meet new people." She tries to give him a smile and nudges one of his shoulders. "I've got a friend who you might like, you know."

Colt gives her a look.

She gives him a look back.

"Really?" He huffs. "A friend? We're really going to do this at..." He glances at the clock on the vanity, "4:23 in the morning?"

Evelyn shrugs one shoulder and gets back to work on Colt's makeup for today's shoot. "It's either now when I have you trapped in my chair or in front of every other coworker you know," she hums out with a smile. "I figured you'd prefer this conversation in good company."

The stuntman can't help but jam his hand out to her waist and tickle at her side with a grumble. She squeaks and drops her brush, giggling and huffing out, "Colt! I could have messed up, you jerkwad!"

A smirk spreads on Colt's mouth and he replies, "But you didn't. And you won't. Because I'd rather talk about your love interests, huh? Come on, what ever happened with that one guy you were talking to? What was his name? Courts? Courtney? Courtaland? Courtataland? Come on, tell me!"

Evelyn straightens up from grabbing her brush, grows sheepish, and sets it off to the side. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't even look at Colt.

"Awe come on, Eves," he prompts, poking at her with his boot. "Come on, you know you can tell me. You were so excited for that date with him! He was taking out out axe throwing, right? You love shit like that." She just shakes her head side to side adamantly and furiously opens and closes a few more palettes to distract herself.

"I think I'm in over my head," she admits after a flustered moment of silence and gives Colt a tight-lipped smile after. That says everything. She's overthinking.

"Evelyn," the stuntman says softer now. He can feel his whole body sink into the makeup chair while his heart squeezes in his chest. "I bet you're overanalyzing everything. You do that, you know. You overthink even when things are going just fine. From what you told me before, he seems pretty laid back and patient. And knowing you, you probably whooped his ass at something he's good at."

Not even that seems to get her to smile.

Her mouth pulls to the side in thought and her blue eyes grow a little cloudy. "Yeah, maybe," she whispers. He doesn't poke after that. She's obviously trying to think about it all and he doesn't want to meddle too much. Instead, Colt sits quietly in her chair and mulls over her offer.

I've got a friend you might like.

-

Colt swipes his thumb across the screen of his phone with an aggravated sigh. Nope. Nope. Definitely not. What am I even looking at? Is she eating sushi? Oh gosh, I can't. Nope.

His phone is promptly chucked to the side of the bed with the dating app still open as he rolls onto his back. A heavy sigh falls from his lips and he rubs at his face. It's only 3 o'clock in the afternoon but he was up early today. Might as well get some sleep while he can, right?

Wrong.

It's been a few days since that conversation with Evelyn where she trapped him in her chair. As much as the stuntman doesn't want to, he can't stop thinking about who this person might be that he could get along with.

It's dumb, really. He knows shouldn't be chasing after girls right now. He needs to stay focused on his career, especially after the shit show that was breaking up with Tom as his stunt double. He's opted to work for himself after that. Single movie contracts, not for specific actors. He needs to keep focusing on that.

Do you really like working free lance, though? The answer comes quickly. No. I don't. But it's either this or working for someone like Tom again. And I can't do that.

Colt tugs the covers up over his lap and up to his chin with a great big sigh. He shuts his eyes and tries to get some rest... that consists of him tossing and turning and unable to get comfortable despite being so tired.

He opens his eyes and stares at the roof of his trailer with a frustrated groan after a half hour of fruitless sleep.

Fuck.

He slowly turns his head to the side to look at his discarded phone.

No, Colt.

He turns back to the ceiling. His eyes trace over the fan above him as he considers his options.

It's not worth it. You don't need distractions.

He glances back at his phone and lets his gaze linger on it.

But a name wouldn't hurt, right?

He grunts with annoyance and looks back at the ceiling.

Don't fucking do it. You'll get your heart broken again. Remember how bad that was?

He can't help but look back at the phone.

But maybe this one is the one.

His heart can't deny that thought.

Colt grabs the phone.

-

The oxygen leaves the stuntman's lungs as he falls hard onto his back. There's an explosion of gray chunks above him, but all he can do is lay there as they whiz through the air and land near his head. His chest burns and he's a little dizzy.

"And cut! That's a pause for now, folks. Nice job, Colt, we got it! Go get fixed up by hair and makeup so we can shoot the hand to hand fight next."

Colt lifts a hand into the air, shaping it into a thumbs up. The director disappears after a moment but he lies there on the padded mat for a moment while catching his breath. He can hear the shuffling of the rest of the crew but pays them no attention for a moment while sucking in a big gulp of air.

The stunt coordinator comes over to him and offers his hand. "That was sick, man," he tells Colt with a growing smile. "Only you can fall out of buildings like you've been doing it your whole life. It's pretty wicked, dude."

Colt groans and reaches forward to take his hand. The pain is starting to subside a little now. "I have been doing it my whole life." Dan just brushes a fake piece of rubble off Colt's jacket and pulls the stuntman to his feet saying, "Well, you make it look easy!"

Colt can't help but roll his eyes playfully at that. Thanks, Dan. He sees the look and gives the stuntman a double take. "Woah, woah, woah, woah. Hold on, hold on," he says as he grabs Colt's shoulders, squaring up to face him with a quizzical look. "No questioning why I didn't berate you with a movie quote?"

A quick glance at the ground as Colt shakes out his stinging arms is Dan's response. Dan's eyes grow wide and he takes a deep breath. "Oh no. Ohhhh, no no no, buddy, nuh uh. We're in the middle of shooting a movie. You can't be doing this. Not again."

Colt rubs at his face and then shrugs with a disgruntled look, "Do what?" Dan wiggles a finger around in his face with an unimpressed look. "You're doing the thing." Colt swats at his hand as the clean up crew moves in where they're standing to get the mat and set cleared up. "What thing?" He scowls back.

Dan drags Colt off to the side as a pout pulls on the stuntman's face. What is he getting at? He drags him around a couple of crew members to whom Colt offers soft apologies until he brings the two of them to a halt just outside one of the director's tents.

Dan gives him an even more unimpressed look before he crosses his arms over his chest. "You're doing the thing where you try to distract yourself with work because something is bothering you."

Oh.

Colt blinks.

Well, shit.

The stuntman rests his hands on his hips and looks down for a moment. His tongue juts into his cheek. It's quiet between the two of them for a moment because Dan figured him out faster than Colt thought he would.

"I am not."

"Yes, yes you are."

"Am not."

"Colt, yes, you are!"

"Am not!"

"Colt!"

Colt takes a deep breath and looks anywhere but at Dan as he shuffles on his feet uncomfortably. He can feel Dan's eyes piercing into him. It's like he's trying to look into his soul or something. It's unnerving. A pit is broiling in the stuntman's stomach and it makes him want to vomit.

"I'm not," he says softly after a minute, turning his eyes to the ground.

Dan takes a breath of his own before sighing it out. "Colt, I know you. Something is bothering you. Admitting it to yourself is the best way to get back to normal, man. What is it?"

Dan caught him there. He does know Colt. And Colt knows him.

Colt knows he's right.

It's his turn to sigh now. The stuntman throws a hand up and motions to the makeup trailers. "I need to go get fixed up for the next scene." Dan shakes his head and huffs, "You've got a few hours until they get things ready and you know it. Spit it out."

Colt clenches his jaw and looks away from Dan. Again, he's right.

It's quiet for another few seconds. The only sounds that can be heard are the calls of the clean up crew to one another and the sound of a side-by-side getting loaded up with junk.

"Evelyn told me there's a friend of hers she thinks I would like," he eventually grumbles out. He kicks a piece of debris away with his foot and sighs heavily in defeat. "I... don't know what to do."

Dan's face softens a little before it grows knowing. "This is the first one, right?" he asks. "Since...?"

"Yeah," Colt murmurs back, glancing up at Dan finally. "I... haven't actually, you know. Tried. Just blown off some steam here and there." Dan nods in understanding. "Yeah, I get it, Colt. I do. But you can't let stuff like this rule you."

He reaches forward and grabs one of Colt's shoulders. "Think about it this way," he says, "You might always be Noah and be waiting for the girl you loved for years. Or, you can be like Lon and go out and get the girl."

Colt frowns and grumbles, "Easy. The Notebook, 2004. But Noah does get the girl. And Lon is the one who ends up alone."

Dan's face drops and his eyes snap shut before he pinches the bridge of his nose. "What I'm trying to say - is you don't know how it's going to end up if you don't try. She might not be the one and you can move on with your life and get back to work."

He grabs Colt's second shoulder now. "Or," he says quietly, "She could be the one you've been waiting for since Jody. You don't know unless you try, Colt. And frankly, Evelyn has pretty good taste in friends. She's a good judge of character."

Colt nods a few times, reluctantly, but he does it. He doesn't have anything to say to that, but something Dan said intrigues him a little. It makes his head tilt while he steps away, beginning to lead the way to the makeup trailer. "On that note, did she say anything about that Courtney guy to you?"

-

It's late. When Colt finally left set and got headed back towards his trailer, he thinks his phone read 11:49? It's almost midnight. He's exhausted. It was a long day of shooting some pretty intense falls and his muscles are sore. A long, hot shower is just what he needs before he gets some hard-earned rest.

The stuntman clambers up the stairs to his trailer just as he hears the sound of his name being yelled from a distance. His shoulders droop and his head lulls forward. Really? Someone needs me now? Still, he turns over his shoulder to see who's asking for him.

It's hard to see this late in the evening - there's only one lamp post on this side of the lot and the sky is overcast and cloudy. But then he sees the long double braids and the reflection of glasses. It both makes him groan and smile.

"Colt! Wait!" Evelyn calls, jogging towards him now. The stuntman turns on his heel and slowly parades down the few steps of his trailer before flopping his ass onto the bottom step. Colt raises his brow at her curiously but makes room for her to join him.

She's panting, obviously a little winded, but he gives her the benefit of the doubt and lets her catch her breath. He watches the way she drinks in air with big gasps, the way her pink lips tug into a smile, and the softness in her eyes as she turns to face him.

Don't get him wrong, Evelyn is cute. She always has been. But... has just always been someone he could lean on when he needed a friend. He can't count the number of times she's ranted to him about the guys she talked to, was nervous to go on dates with, and the way it all blew up in her face. Colt wants nothing but the best for her in the way an older brother challenges his baby sister's first boyfriend.

"Colt," she eventually pants out before settling down next to him on the bottom step. Colt smirks and answers dryly, "That's my name. Don't wear it out." Evelyn immediately scowls and swats at him. He chuckles in response and then shrugs. "What's up? It's really late for you to be up, isn't it? Is everything alright?"

She nods her head once and sucks in a deep breath before she twists and pulls her phone out from her back pocket. "Yeah," she sighs, "Yeah, everything's alright. I just wanted to check on you." She taps and scrolls a few times until she finds what she's looking for.

She turns her phone to face the stuntman and points at the messages at the bottom of her screen.

Coldungus: What's her name?

Eves: If I tell you, you'll do an internet deep dive on her in your free time.

Evelyn taps at the message with her pointer finger and raises a brow curiously. "What's the deal with not responding to me, huh?" she asks gently. "You know I'm right, Colt. And it's not fair to her if you go in with preconceived notions."

Colt frowns at that. "Who the hell even told you I agreed to "go into this"?" He scoffs, his voice growing a little sharp. "All I wanted to know was her name."

Evelyn's face softens and she lowers her phone, glancing down at her lap for a moment of thought. Her gaze finds Colt's and she tries again, "Colt, all I'm suggesting you don't try to learn everything about her from an internet search-" "Stop!" he shouts, throwing his hands up in the air. "Just stop!"

Colt sucks in a tired, annoyed breath and rushes out, "Can you fucking leave my personal life alone?! Why do you have to go shoving your nose into my life, huh? Is yours really that boring?!"

Evelyn flinches next to him and her eyes grow wide with pure hurt. In the darkness of the night, her big blue eyes glitter with the sudden onset of tears.

He can't bring himself to look at her as his jaw clenches.

The air between them grows thick. Neither of them move for a second, and then she does. She pushes off the bottom step of his trailer and shoves her phone into her pocket with a loud, unmistakable sniffle. A tear rolls down her cheek and splashes onto the ground.

Evelyn just nods without looking at Colt and whispers out hoarsely, "Okay."

Without saying another word, she turns on her heel and begins back in the direction she appeared from. Her movements are stiff and jolty, and it only takes Colt half a second to realize her upper body is shaking. Holding back her sobs.

The muscles in his jaw flex as he watches her disappear into the dark of the night. He doesn't move. Steam is practically shooting out of his ears.

What is with these people and trying to get me to date again?! It's so fucking annoying. They just need to let me live my goddamn life and they need to live theirs.

He buries his face into his hands and rubs at his eyes. His head is thumping harder now than it was before. The stuntman sits on the step for a few minutes in the silence of the night. A few bugs chirp and sing, but that's about it. It's quiet.

Just when he's about to move to stand up and turn in for the evening, Colt's phone buzzes. Reluctantly he looks at it. It could be a text for call times tomorrow.

What he sees flash across his screen makes guilt form in his stomach and his heart sinks.

Eves: Y/n L/n.

-

It's been a few days since Colt blew up at Evelyn. He'd gone to bed that night fuming. It wasn't her fault. It really wasn't. She was trying to help and he took his frustrations out on her.

Thankfully no one has needed him for a day or two on set. Just some boring dialogue with the main actors, so he's had the last few days off to recover both physically and mentally. That latter one he's still working on.

Colt feels guilty. He does. Really guilty.

He knows Evelyn was trying to help. He really does. He just... doesn't know what to do about this whole situation. Him? Dating? He's barely given it a thought since Jody. He knows he needs to apologize to Evelyn at the very least.

But the name she sent him...

Colt hasn't done anything other than stare at it.

Y/n L/n.

Something tells him that if he looks the name up, Evelyn will have won either way. She wins because if Colt looks the name up, he does exactly what she expects him to and he's no better off. If he doesn't, he has to go to her to find out more information about her friend and she wins. It's a lose-lose situation for the stuntman.

To this girl's credit, though, Colt thinks it's a cute name. He doesn't recognize it, but he hopes she's just a normal person. She deserves to find a normal guy, whoever she is.

Hope? Colt asks himself. Why hope? Are you really going to go do this?

He doesn't answer himself, but deep down he knows what he's about to do.

He needs to apologize for being an asshole, and just because he wasn't needed on set today didn't mean Evelyn wasn't. As much as he would rather find her after work, there's no way to tell how fast she'd duck out of her trailer after being given the all clear to leave.

After a few minutes of trying to hype himself up as he walks down the row of trailers, Colt make it to hers. The makeup trailer. He lingers outside of it for a few minutes while trying to regain the courage to knock on the door. Come on, Colt. You can do this. Evelyn is your friend, you just fucked up. Don't be a jackass and you'll be okay. You hope.

He steels himself with a deep breath. It's time. He maneuvers up the stairs carefully and rests his hand on the latch to the door. The stuntman gently pushes the door open and slowly peeks inside. He can hear voices further inside - two that he recognizes and one that he doesn't.

There's a split second where Colt considers just backing up and leaving, but he stops. That's what a jackass would do. Whoever is in here, he can handle it. He's a big boy.

Colt pushes the door the whole way open and steps up and into the trailer.

Turns out, he cannot handle it.

His eyes immediately land on you - you who is sitting on the small couch directly in front of the door with a drink held in your hand. You've got the most stunning hair he's ever seen. He doesn't even know how to describe the beauty he's seeing in front of him.

Then it's like he's frozen in place.

The sharpest and sweetest (colored) eyes find his blue ones. He feels his chest suddenly grow tight. When did he stop breathing? He blinks once but those gorgeous eyes are still on him when he finds your figure again.

It's in that moment Colt doesn't realize he's let go of the door, and it swings back towards him. The hefty trailer door cracks the stuntman square in the chest from where he stands halfway in the entrance.

"Oof!" He grunts as whatever remaining air was in his lungs leaves. His hands jump up to fumble with the trailer door to push it open again. It's not nearly as smooth or graceful as the first time, and he can feel heat burning at his neck and the tips of his ears.

Those eyes are still on him.

Fuck.

Then, Colt hears those two familiar voices come to a pause and the owners of them turn to face him. "Colt?" He hears Evelyn's voice prompt first. It's quiet and confused... a little hurt, still. Just enough to remind him why he's there in the first place.

"Colt?" He hears the second familiar voice echo. The stuntman twists his head to the right to look deeper in the trailer, and there he spots the female lead for the movie sitting in Evelyn's chair. Ace Nehari. She's best friends with Evelyn. You'd think they're sisters with how similar they look and behave even though they aren't related.

Shit.

By the tone of Ace's voice, Colt can tell she knows about what happened the other day between him and the makeup artist. He glances between the two blondes and takes a deep breath. For some reason, his eyes drift back over to the woman he doesn't know.

And he sees your eyes go from interested to guarded.

Oh, fuck.

Colt's stomach sinks through his ass. Evelyn has told this divine woman how he fucked up too. He just knows it.

The said makeup artist steps around the chair where Ace is sitting - presumably getting ready for her next scene - and walks up to the stuntman with unsure steps. Colt steps forward far enough that the door to the trailer can swing shut behind him. It's quiet for a few moments as Evelyn comes to a pause in front of him. He can see the hurt and confusion on her face, but it quickly morphs into a different emotion that causes his stomach to flip.

"Why are you here, Colt?" she asks, her voice low. "You aren't on the schedule for makeup or hair today." He swallows and nods nervously before offering just as softly, "I came to apologize, Eves. I... I shouldn't have blown up like that on you the other day. I was tired and grouchy, and I took it out on you. I'm sorry."

Evelyn's eyes dance with piping hot anger that resembles blue flames. She frowns up at Colt with everything she's got. She's only 5'2", though, so she's got to crane her neck to give him her full wrath. She lifts her right hand, and in one, quick movement, firmly slaps Colt across the left cheek. His head whips to the side as a moderate amount of pain floods his face.

Yeah, he deserved that.

Somehow, Colt can recognize the fact she held back as he blinks through the initial onset of pain. "You were an asshole," she grumbles, jabbing a finger into his chest as his jaw clenches and unclenches a few times to work through the pain. A second later, Evelyn wraps her arms around him in a big bear hug.

He grunts a little in confusion, but timidly and slowly wraps his arms around her back. He's a little unsure of what to do now, but just gently holds her as she squeezes his waist.

I don't know if this counts as an acceptance of my apology or if she's going to draw back and kick me in the nuts. I'm kind of leaning towards the second option right now.

Evelyn and Colt hug for another few moments, but he lets her set the pace. She can draw back whenever she's good and ready. While he waits for her to hug it out, his eyes can't help but dart over to Ace who's watching with a narrowed, calculated gaze. Colt drops his instinctively and then lets them trail over to the unnamed woman with the pretty eyes.

Your gaze has softened considerably. Something in their depths tells the stuntman he should apologize again and explain more of why he was a jerk.

So he does.

"Eves," Colt says quietly, rubbing a hand up and down her back, "I really am sorry. You were trying to help, and I got scared of what you were offering and lashed out. That wasn't okay. I'm sorry for the way I treated you."

She draws back a little and gives him a bit of a watery smile. There are tears in her eyes, but this time, there's not hurt in those blues of hers. "I forgive you, you dipshit," Evelyn huffs, releasing one hand to try to brush away some tears. "Don't ever fucking do that to me again."

"Heard," Colt says with a definitive nod and the hint of a smile. "I promise I will never do that to you ever again. If I do, you have full permission to gut me as you see fit." This at least gets a chuckle from her, and a bigger smile.

He takes a stab in the dark.

"And," he drawls out slowly, "if it makes you feel any better, I, uh... I didn't look up that name you sent me. You know, Y/n L/n? I... I didn't do anything other than look at the message you sent." At the end of his words, he watches with confusion as Evelyn's face drops and twists and goes through a whole range of emotions he doesn't really know how to process.

Initially Colt thought she would be pleased, but now she looks confused and also a little... panicked?

"Or, uhm," he says dumbly, "Or... that was wrong?"

Evelyn immediately shakes her head and releases her grip on him, taking a step back. She lifts both hands to wipe at her face and cover her mouth in a little bit of mortified surprise before she tucks her long blonde locks out of her eyes and blinks up at the stuntman with slightly awed eyes.

"Well, it's just, uhm..." "I'm Y/n L/n."

The voice comes from Colt's left, from the couch... where that gorgeous woman was sitting. His stomach sinks.

Welp, Colt thinks angrily, You've already fucked up any chance you might have had. She just watched Eves slap you and you apologize for being an ass. Not a great first impression, Colt.

Evelyn backs up and quickly returns to Ace, quietly telling the lead star that she's done and could leave. Colt just blankly stares at the gorgeous - Y/n, he tells himself - and regrets every decision he's made for the last 3 days.

The stuntman's mouth has gone dry and there's a tickle in his throat. The air of the makeup trailer grows thick because he has no fucking clue what to say to that.

Evelyn breaks the silence as she mumbles, "When I went to see you the other night, I was coming to tell you she was going to be joining the crew for a few weeks. And that if you wanted to meet her, you would..." Her voice trails off and she glances over at you who continues, "You would be working with me."

"Working with you?" Colt asks, slowly lifting a hand to rub at his beard. He's still confused. You sits up with a small smirk and shrug a shoulder before sipping at your drink. "I'm the visiting stunt coordinator. Dan didn't tell you?"

Colt's jaw clenches for just a moment. Dan. You've got to be kidding me, man. He quickly release the tension in his jaw and takes a deep breath before cocking his head slightly. "Consider me completely surprised," he eventually says, dropping his hand back to his side to let it swing.

"I'd say it's nice to meet you, but uh," Colt motions around, "I've already sort of fucked up this whole first impressions thing." You just gives him a smile, and it captures Colt's attention so wholly he barely notices Ace slip behind him and out of the trailer with nothing more than a pat on his shoulder.

Good luck, pal. That's easy enough to figure out.

Colt glances over at Evelyn, and her face is a mix of apology and Well, you did this to yourself. And she's right. Colt did do this to himself. If he thought apologizing to her and the slap were enough, now he's completely butchered any shot with her stunning friend.

Who is also his new boss?

His head drops to his chest and he releases a defeated sigh. "I'll, just, uhm," Colt hikes a thumb over his shoulder and motions to door of the makeup trailer. You and Evelyn just watch him with curious gazes but don't say anything as he takes a step back and then turns and leaves the trailer.

What the fuck has he gotten himself into?

-

"You've got to be kidding me," Colt grumbles as his hand works over the coffee machine. He can smell the delicious brew but the lever won't work and I can't figure out how to get it to release. At the same time, he's tired and not completely awake and preferentially would like to keep boiling hot coffee from flying every where. Especially on him.

His elbow bumps his empty little styrofoam cup over and it goes rolling as he fusses over the faulty machine. "Oh, come on," Colt groans out, releasing his grip on the machine. He rubs at his beard with one hand and turns to follow the run away cup.

Before he can reach down and grab it, another set of hands plucks the cup up. His eyes trail from a pair of custom sneakers - are they Disney themed? That's awesome! - up a pair of medium wash jeans that are perfectly fitted, quickly over a promo shirt for the movie set they're on, to a baseball cap of the same name.

It takes the stuntman just a second to recognize the beautiful (colored) haired peeking out from under the cap, but then his stomach rolls. It's you. Your eyes find his and Colt swallows thickly. He needs that coffee more than ever - his throat is drying up.

"Good morning," you says with a small smirk, "or is it?" Colt clears his throat and shakes his head slightly. "Y-eah, good morning. I just, uh," he motions over his shoulder to the coffee pot. "Was grabbing a drink."

Your gaze follows Colt's movement towards the coffee pot and then down looks to the cup in your hand. "I see that is going pretty well."

Colt can't stop the chuckle at your dry humor and nods with a slightly defeated but knowing smile. "Yeah," he sighs out, shuffling on his feet nervously. "Either the coffee machine is broken or I'm not awake enough for this."

You offers him a kind smile and step forward. "Here, let me take a look." Colt goes to brush you off, but you've already slipped past him and are fiddling with the machine by the time he can form an intelligent thought. As you pass, Colt catches the scent of butterscotch and his chest squeezes a little. Oh, man.

Reluctantly, Colt stands slightly off to the side as he watches you work. You flip the lever back the whole way and spin a dial on the side. What kind of coffee pot is this thing? But then a moment later, you lower the lever and place the little styrofoam cup in its place.

Coffee pours out of the machine with ease, filling the air with its rich aroma.

All Colt can really do is blink at you for a moment in dumbfounded awe, fighting off the sleep still blanketed over his brain. "Thanks," he chuckles as you hand the now full cup of java to him. "I don't think I would have gotten that myself." You grab a cup for yourself and begin to grab supplies for hot chocolate, giggling, "It was no worry. We had one of these on the last set I worked on. They're finicky."

Colt watches you closely as he grabs a lid for his drink and leaves his coffee as is. Black is his go to. "Well, I appreciate it," the stuntman says with a slow nod. He's just about to take his leave so he doesn't make a fool out of himself before he hears your voice pipe up. "Hey, Colt?"

He pauses and looks over at you. It's the first time he's heard you actually say his name. It sounds nice.

You hold your drink in your left hand and offer him your right. Colt glances down at it curiously before gently accepting it. Holy shit your hand is so soft!

"Let's try this again," you insists, "I'm Y/n L/n. You can call me Y/n or Stunts. I'll be working with Dan to help keep these stunts as safe as possible for the rest of the shoot. I'm excited to work with you, I've seen the kind of stunts you've done. It's really impressive."

Well... shit!

Colt knows there's got to be some surprise on his face, at least in his eyes. He's surprised. A stunt coordinator? And a gorgeous one at that?

At the same time, you just made a huge move that he's smart enough to pick up on. You're pushing aside your first impression of him in Evelyn's trailer. That's big. Sure, it might be for work purposes, but it's still a nice thing that you didn't have to do.

Colt cracks a smile and shakes your hand firmly. "Colt Seavers. And it's nice to meet you, too." He releases your hand and shrugs his shoulders before replying lightheartedly, "I haven't heard or seen your name before, but I'm sure if you can keep up with Dan you'll be just fine around here."

You smile back at me and returns your hand to your drink. "I'm sure you'll be the ones trying to keep up with me," you promise before gently laughing. Colt joins in your giggles with some chuckles of his own before nodding and cocking his head, "Somehow, I feel like you're probably right."

The air between you grows quiet for a moment and you offer each other warm smiles.

"Well, I need to go get dressed for the first shot of the day," Colt eventually sighs, glancing over at the clock on the wall. Oops, he's already 10 minutes late. You follow where he's looking and nod. "You're right, we start shooting here in less than an hour."

You turn back to Colt and point at him with a finger wrapped around your cup. "Make sure you put the Nomex suit on," you call as he starts backing up. He gives you a curious head tilt and charming smirk, "Why's that?"

You returns Colt's grin and reply, "You're going to be rolling a car this morning, Colt Seavers, and I plan to have you do it right on the first take."

Colt raises his brows a little at this and his smile widens. "Oh yeah?" He tease back, "First take? Those are some pretty high expectations, Stunts." Stunts. Yeah, he kind of likes that, too.

The beautiful stunt coordinator just laughs and waves a finger in the air. "Better get to it, Colt."

"Aye, aye, captain!"

-

This wrap party is like nothing Colt has ever experienced. There's a flatbed trailer, a bonfire, and people everywhere. Everyone from the movie is hanging out, drinking beer, and singing drunk karaoke. That's not quite his scene for the evening.

Colt is sitting on the back of the trailer nursing a beer. It's quiet here, away from the bonfire and the DJ. He's played a few card games and lost spin the bottle a few times, but he's having a good time.

What makes it even better?

The girl that's sitting on the crate next to him. You look really good in his jacket, and you're determined to wear your own cap. That's alright, though. You look cute in it.

"What are you thinkin' about?" your soft voice breaks Colt out of his thoughts and he takes a sip from his beer, smiling around the mouth of the bottle. "Just thinkin' about how I'm the luckiest man in the world," he sighs out, setting the now empty bottle next to him.

You flush and roll your eyes. It's cute when you do that, too.

"You're such a sap," you muse with a wide smile, completely deflecting the compliment. Not unusual for you. You're getting better at it, though. He'll keep on you until you finally give in. That smile of yours seems to sparkle in the light of the sunset. Or maybe he's getting lost in those stunning eyes. It's hard to say. Either way, Colt is a happy man.

The stuntman shrugs his shoulders and replies smoothly, "I'm just tellin' you the truth, darlin'. You're pretty damn amazing, if I do say so myself. Pretty. Funny." His mouth curls into a smirk. "Smokin' hot."

"Colt," you warn with a playful whine. You're blushing, he can see it now. He keeps up the heat. "You're gorgeous, talented, and alllllllll mine."

You pick up one of the bottles you've been playing with - a stunt glass bottle - and smirk before crashing it over his head. He see it coming plain as day, and he plays right into your hand as the glass shatters and sprays everywhere. He folds in half at the waist, playfully groaning like it hurts. It stings a little but not anything bad. He's got a thick skull.

His arms reach out while he's still bent over and you're giggling at my response, and he quickly snakes them around your waist. Colt yanks you to his chest in one fluid movement and you squeak out one of the cutest noises he's ever heard. Your hands settle on his chest to balance yourself while his come to a rest on your hips.

"That wasn't very nice," the stuntman tells you with a straight face. "Someone could have seriously gotten hurt." You raise an eyebrow at him and hum, "Is that so? You mean someone like you?"

"Uh huh," he replies, pulling you closer to him yet. "Seriously hurt."

You hum again, this time a smile curling on your lips. "Well it's a good thing you didn't," you say after biting your lip for a moment. Your hands slip up around his neck and he takes the chance to slide his hands down into the ass pockets of your jeans.

"Let me just make sure you're doing alright, though," you giggle, moving one hand to his hair and threading your fingers through it. You knows he loves this. His eyes flutter closed for a second until your hand pauses and you sigh defeatedly, "Nope, no injuries to be reported."

In an instant Colt's eyes are open and he's pouting at you. But that quickly changes when he sees that smirk slide back onto your mouth.

"Oh, come here," he chuckles and tilts his head, leaning into you like it's second nature. You meets him half way with pleased giggles of your own. Colt catches your mouth in a soft, sweet kiss, and just like that, the party is fading and it's just the two of you.

All he can say is thank goodness he doesn't answer Evelyn's texts.

–

The next few months of missing Ryland have been slow, yet so fast. Time proves itself to you the way it did when he left, painful and with no explanation. You remember checking the clock when you left on Thursday–it was 9am. Now it’s Sunday, 6pm. 

But sometimes, it almost feels like February 13th, and in those days, there is a slither of hope that he’d come running home to you.

It never happens.

It’s quiet in your apartment, save for the sound of the rain that seemed a little louder in the living room, and the distant radio you’d left on in hopes it would fill in the gaps of silence. You think quiet is something you should be familiar with, but you can’t seem to escape the strangeness of how certain sounds can be so deeply missed–footsteps padding to pick you up, the scratch of a pen, the rustling of papers, the clicking of a laptop, and the mumbling under his breath. 

The only other sound accompanying the rain now is your stifled sobbing, trying not to be loud, trying not to be deafening–as if volume has something to do with taking away the pain. 

You crave to be released from the world that was once Ryland’s too. Now he’s fallen out of it, and you’re stuck mourning someone you’re not sure is dead or alive, or is coming back to you. You’re stuck pleading the dimming sun for answers, for reasons why. You futilely ask if somewhere, in a place between Earth and wherever he was headed, he feels the same weight of a heart coming down with pain, your pain.

You don’t think you can take the quiet anymore. His silence is deafening. The apartment used to be brilliant, used to contain his constellations of ideas. Now, it was a grave of buried hopes and buried conversations that you will never have with him.

To satiate the silence, you call the only number you know. The only other person who bears the same weight of unanswered questions when Ryland left, the same pain. His twin brother.

And maybe Colt shouldn’t have been surprised. This isn’t something he isn’t used to–your number, calling at odd hours of the day. And like routine, he drops anything he’s doing so he can accompany you. That’s the least he can do for his brother.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

There’s something very sad and lonely in the air when Colt enters what was once your shared apartment with Ryland. You’d given him your spare keys when news broke of Ryland in space, and his twin brother has been trying his best to take care of you, to pick up the pieces that Ryland had left without warning.

“(Name)?” 

Colt hears you before he sees you, quiet sniffling leading him to the living room. 

You’re anchored on the seat by the window, staring dimly at the harsh patter of the rain with your back hunched over. Your leg is folded, chin on your knee, and you don’t notice how drenched the poor man is beside you, braving through the rain because of one call from you. 

He notices the traces of tears on your cheeks, like you’d been crying for hours. He ponders over leaving you alone—maybe he could sit quietly on the couch, waiting until you addressed him, or maybe he should talk to you. 

The pour of the rain is punctuated by the sound of the radio, and a familiar tune plays on the radio. 

An idea pops in his head. 

Colt walks over to where you’re seated, standing there, staring at your hands. There is a hesitation in his breath, in the way he moves to outstretch his hand towards you. 

You move to look at him, and the sight of him shocks you every single time.

He looks exactly like Ryland, the same expressive brows, the same blonde hair falling untidily across his forehead. Even his eyes. His eyes that are currently fixed on your face and on your hands are the same color–blue and brilliant.

There’s a stirring in your chest that parallels heartache. 

Colt still has his hand outstretched, and you’re not sure what he wants to do. Your eyes are still red and swollen from crying, and you’re sure your nose is in a similar state.

You look at him with a questioning look, but he just gestures at his hand. You comply with your own, and almost instantly, he closes his fingers around yours. 

The shape is familiar, the same broad palms, the same nails. But his hands are rough and scarred where Ryland's would've been a little smoother. Calloused from years of stunt work and hard landings. There are tiny scars scattered across his knuckles. Evidence of a life entirely his own.

You try hard not to think about it, flattening the thought before it can grow teeth.

Before you can ask what he's doing, he's pulling you toward him. Not close enough to be alarming. There’s still a good gap between you both, just enough for you to feel the most human you’ve felt in a while.

You don't realize you're moving until you are.

Colt sways the pair of you gently to the music, just a little off-beat. His movements are uncoordinated, and he’s swinging your intertwined hands back and forth. You’re not sure he’s done this before, and in this light, he looks nothing like Ryland. Just Colt, a stranger turned friend trying to make you smile. 

“You’re bad at this.” You whisper.

“I know.” 

Before you can stop him, he’s spinning you beneath his arm. The suddenness allows a startled laugh to escape from your mouth, and the sound surprises the both of you. It only encourages him. 

He has spent months trying to drag sunlight back into a room and has finally managed a single ray. A silver lining.

You and Colt dance in the living room, cheeks nipped crimson by the sandpaper winds of the rain and the cold summer, and your feet stumble against his, and he nearly trips over his own feet, and you've danced through almost the entirety of the space of your apartment, and you’re not quite sure he should be leading, but he doesn’t seem to be backing down.

Because that’s just who Colt is. He has always thrown himself into extreme situations, thrown himself into danger, into sadness, and he commits to it completely. He is someone who is not afraid of anything, the same person who keeps you grounded with his cheap clothes and messy hair, and a deep caring you never asked for but need.

Colt takes another step toward you before spinning away again, under your arms, you under his, and his timing is so fucking awful, and at one point he almost crashes into your dining table, but he never once lets go of your hands. 

You didn’t know until now how much you needed a moment like this. The both of you. A moment that felt sweet, that finally allowed a few minutes of rest. A comfort that momentarily interrupts the sadness that is bound to seep its way in again in a few hours. 

For a second, grief loosens its grip.

You’re swaying now, left and right and left and right and your fingers are still tangled together, and the song is dying down, but neither of you make an effort to speak. You simply look at each other, letting the memories of the past few months pass. There is a ghost of a smile brushing on both of your lips.

There is something strangely intimate about this moment, about being seen when you are grieving. You’d never told him, but you’d seen him too, crying when he thought no one was looking. You’d heard him mumble a prayer, a plea to bring his brother back home. Similarly, Colt’s seen it all–the continuous calling, the sleepless nights, the way your eyes always seem to wander, always searching the sky. 

He knows enough to memorize the shape of your sadness, knows enough to know where it lives. And he’s trying so desperately to keep the both of you afloat.

“I’m sorry for calling you,” you say suddenly. “You really don’t have to come all the time whenever I do.”

Colt’s features immediately soften at your sudden confession.

“I just…” You swallow. Your throat feels dry. It feels hard to speak. “I don’t know. It’s a little easier with you here.”

His heart drops to his stomach. “I’ll always come.” Colt says, and it sounds dangerously sincere. And he’s looking at you a certain way. Like he wants you to really listen to what he’s about to say. “I’d do anything if you asked.” 

You hate that he’s being so kind, and you hate the way your heart flutters at his words. You don’t want to think about what that means, what he means. 

The distance between the both of you suddenly feels important. Necessary. A safety buffer from a line neither of you are supposed to cross. 

You shift your weight from side to side, shuffling your feet, and you feel his hands squeeze yours. You almost wish he could be a little closer, but you know if he were, you’d feel suffocated with the pressure of guilt, or from something else entirely. You’re not so sure anymore.

And just as easy as this moment had come to you, pain rushes in again, relentless in its pursuit.

Ryland and Colt are not the same people. 

Colt was not the boy you had lost to the stars.

You know this. You have always known this. Yet some selfish, grieving part of you keeps searching, trying to find traces of the man you lost, trying to gather pieces of him in the person who looks exactly like him, but just isn’t him.

You selfishly imagined him in every moment with his brother, imagined dancing with him, imagined looking into his eyes instead. And you’re unknowingly breaking Colt as you search to remember Ryland. 

You had broken into his walls, shattered them down, tried to steal Ryland’s likeness, and Colt let it all happen. He stands there, answering every phone call, staying awake with you through nights when sleep feels impossible, and he watches you search his face for someone else. 

And he sees the devastation in your eyes, when you realize that he didn’t have Ryland’s habits, his light, his entire being. You loved a man among the stars, not the one grounded on Earth. And yet he still tries to make you smile, and every time you do, he’s unsure if it’s genuine or because you’d imagined giving it to someone else–and it fucking hurts. 

It hurts because somewhere along the way, he stopped seeing you as his brother’s girlfriend, stopped seeing you as an obligation. And he feels guilty because he knows it’s wrong, but he can’t stop himself from wanting. There is nothing moral about falling in love with the woman his brother left behind, but he can’t seem to stop himself. 

And he tries so hard to convince himself he’s only seeking you because you are the closest thing he has left of his twin. You are the last thing his brother loved. Colt tells himself that often–a repeated prayer, a continuous and painful reminder that you are not his. It’s just grief reaching for grief. Loss recognizing loss.

Nothing more. 

Nothing more.

Nothing more.

And yet, he will still pick up your calls in a heartbeat, and do anything you asked him to. And he will keep letting you because he loves his brother, and he misses him too, and you remind him of a time when he was still a twin.

Outside, a deep black blankets the sky. The stars start to scatter themselves across the sky, and Colt sees the familiar distant look in your eyes, the wandering gaze to the skies, searching for the man that neither of you can reach.

“Thank you so much,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a chaste peck to your cheek. 

A chorus of “ew,” “aw,” and gasps rumble through the class. Ryland closes his eyes for a moment before turning around to face the excited middle schoolers. Before he could say anything, though, one of the girls points forcefully in your direction, “that’s your girlfriend?!” 

“No way Mr. Grace pulled her,” another joined in.

“There’s a Mrs. Grace?!”

“There really is hope for all of us,” a boy laughs. 

“Wait, she’s hot!” They were all talking over each other, a mix of compliments to you and barely concealed insults toward their teacher. 

“Hey!” Ryland starts, clinging to what was left of his dignity. You wave to the room, introducing yourself with a grin. You were absolutely going to make fun of him tonight, and he knew it too. He was bright red but he fixed the students with a serious look, “back to your work, everyone.”

They didn’t even pretend to look at their papers, too interested in this new side of their silly science teacher that they never got to see. Ryland turns back to you, stepping through the doorway and leading you away from the windows with a hand on your lower back. “This is all they’re going to talk about today,” he sighs. You stifle a laugh and point behind him.

The kids were lined up against the window, pressing their faces close to the glass to try to get a glimpse of you two. He doesn’t even turn around, “I owe you dinner for these,” he shakes the papers still in his hand. “You’re not cooking in my kitchen,” you giggle.

“Takeout it is,” he smiles, landing one more quick kiss to your lips before he steps backwards, steeling himself for the torment he was about to walk back into. You whisper your goodbyes and laugh to yourself when you hear his voice carry through the hallway, “don’t think I won’t lower your grades on these papers!” 

~

He beats you home that evening, an array of Chinese food already set up on the table when you slink through the door. Ryland is in the kitchen fighting with that one drawer that just doesn’t open right. Loose sweatpants sit low on his hips, a big difference from his work clothes you last saw him in. “Hey! How was your day?” He’s chipper, the day must not have been so bad. 

“Same old, I’m more interested in your day, Mr. Grace.” You step beside him, opening the drawer and kissing his cheek. He fishes out the chopsticks you always use and ushers you to the table, he pulls out your chair and can’t help but drop a kiss to the top of your head. “My day,” he starts with a sigh, “was exactly what you expect with a bunch of middle schoolers who just found out that I have a beautiful girlfriend.” 

You giggle softly, opening the boxes in front of you and assessing just how much food he ordered. “Come on, I want details! If anyone is going to have good jokes it’s your students.”

“First it was the lingo, they called me unc and said something about pulling a baddie,” he laughed, wiggling his eyebrows at you. “Then they said you were way out of my league, asked how I convinced you to give a nerd like me a chance.” You let out a belly laugh at that, knowing full well you were head over heels for him the first time you met. “Did you tell them that I’m a nerd too?”

“In so many words, but they wouldn’t have it. They decided that you’re the breadwinner of the relationship, something about being a CEO or owning a business,” he’s giggling now, too. “I told them you’re an engineer and Abby asked if you work for Lockheed Martin.” You gasped, choking out a laugh. “How does she know about them?”

“Her parents talk about a lot in front of her,” it’s said wistfully, like he wishes they would stop. “Then, they started using words I didn’t know. I wrote them down, hold on.” He grabs his phone, opening his notes app. “They said I’m ‘high-key a simp,’” a snort from you, “Tyler said, ‘Mr. Grace been hiding his rizz,’ which felt inappropiate coming out of a child’s mouth.” His turn to snort. 

“Oh! Jenny called me the Beaker to your Dr. Bunsen, that’s a crazy reference for a 13 year old!” That one bowled you over, you threw your head back with a loud laugh. “I still don’t know what this one means,” he holds his phone far from his face, pretending to struggle to read, “‘Mr. Grace lowkey ohio, but his girlfriend has goddess energy.’” He looks at you exasperatedly, “I’ve gotta ask their English teacher to translate all of this.” 

“I don’t mind ‘goddess energy,’” you wink at him. “The girls all agreed on that one, so I think it’s universally accepted,” he smiled softly at you, his tongue poking out to wet his lips. “My favorite one, though, was someone said we’re like fix-it Felix and that soldier lady Jane Lynch voiced in Wreck It Ralph.” 

“Stop! They did not say that!” Your cheeks hurt from laughing so much at this point. “They did! I think it was a disguised way to say that you’re out of my league again,” he’s so enamored with the way you’re laughing, he almost wishes he had more quips to read out. “I told them that one doesn’t work because Felix is shorter than the soldier, then they said I give short aura and that insecurity about being a ‘short king’ is a bad look. I’m six feet tall!” You’re struggling to catch your breath, you loved these kids so much and you’d only just met them. 

“That was a lot for one class period,” you wipe your eyes, food totally forgotten on the table. “Yeah, we didn’t get much work done,” he signs dramatically. 

He hesitates a little to tell you the next part, his ears burning when you notice the look on his face. “They- uh, they exclusively referred to you as Mrs. Grace, despite how many times I told them that we’re not married.” Your cheeks heat up at that, “that’s sweet of them.” The moment stretches, longing in his eyes that you recognize. He’s never brought marriage up before, but he often talks about spending the rest of your lives together. One thing about Ryland is that he’s a loverboy, it’s one of your favorite parts of him. You lay your hand on top of his, a gentle comfort after a long day of torment.

“Anyways, now that they know you exist, they’re going to ask to see you again. Maybe you could come in for career day? Tell them about the importance of paying attention when their teacher is talking,” he looks a little shy, it reminds you of how he looked when he first asked you out. 

“I’d love to do that, Ry, you just let me know when it is and I’ll make sure my schedule is clear.” Your smile is bright, excitement shining through at being included. “Yeah?” His expression is hopeful. “Yeah, I’ve gotta prove that they’re right, I am the breadwinner in this relationship,” you don’t even have time to laugh before he’s pulling you out of your chair and over his shoulder. He lands a hand against your thighs, ignoring your squeals. 

“You’re right, I’ve gotta earn my keep,” and he carries you all the way to the bedroom, “happy wife, happy life and all that.”

------------

What you’ve got with him is neither here nor there. It’s perfectly middle-ground, and really, you're satisfied with it. Grace is a decent roommate; he’s observant—knows what ticks you off, what pleases you, avoids the former and tries for the latter. You can already tell that he’s a little bit sweet on you, just by the way that he looks at you with soft blue eyes—corners of his eyes crinkling as he busies his hands with whatever prop he decides to pick up. Glass beakers, microscopes, xenonite models, you name it. It’s always the same.

And you’re always staring at him with your chin propped up on your palm, at once amused and enamored. You’d known you would feel a certain way about Grace ever since you’d both woken up on the Hail Mary. You’re attracted to him, of course, but there’s also something else. Even without a whole memory, your mind lingers on him longer than need be. It’s something like love, if not exactly that. “Well, we haven’t talked about it, but we’re as good as mates,” you decide to tell Rocky.

“Is unclear,” he mumbles. Aloud, it does sound like very strange terms to be referring to the current circumstances. A very human arrangement, you think. Rocky concurs with a stamp of his arm down on the plated floor.

“We live together, we eat together. I can tell I want to kiss him and he wants to kiss me,” you list off, counting on one hand. “We cohabitate in the same space like two mates would, but we haven’t had the opportunity to… have it out. It’s mission-first thinking.”

Rocky begins to roll towards a batch of glass propped up on the wall, a wordless sign for you to pick it up for him. Break’s over. Begrudgingly, you follow along, lifting the trapezoidal glass pane up with both arms. As you swing it into a more secure grip, he seems to speak more softly. “More Eridian than human.”

“Who? Me?” you say half-heartedly, still very focused toward your grip on the xenonite glass. It’s more difficult for you than it is for Rocky to carry the whole thing through the hatch door of the Hail Mary. Still, it sounds like a high compliment.

“Yes. Is Eridian thinking to view Grace in definite terms. Grace as mate, inevitable. Is beautiful!” Rocky raises a claw up, wiggling his little rugged fingers in a gentle sweep across the empty space in front of him. It’s reassuring, certainly, that Rocky views you in high regard. Even though you’re breaking a sweat trying to carry this weighted pane for your new shipmate, you still make a concerted effort to give him a wide grin.

“Thanks, Rocky.”

—

There’s a good mood going between you and Rocky after all the talking. Grace picks up on it quickly after his long nap, when he sees the both of you huddled in the lab working on one of the larger dry-erase boards. There’s a bunch of calculations scrawled neatly in black across the whole white surface, alongside a larger diagram of the ship’s engines. While he’s been sleeping, it’s clear the two of you have been wading through the more complex engineering issues. Hearing Grace’s footsteps approach, you turn to face him over your shoulder with a grin, “Morning.”

Grace looks straight out of bed, with his punny tee and his sweatpants—blonde hair sticking up in random directions. He seems to be stretching his back out as you greet him, eyelids heavy. “It seems like someone ignored the memo to pack light,” Grace grumbles, nudging his mug towards the corridor behind him. The stack of xenonite crates and glass you two amassed is generous, to say the least.

“Hey, I’m just the mover,” you hum, “You’re gonna have to take it up with the big guy.” You jut your index finger out towards Rocky, who’s tapping one side claw against the glass.

He merely buzzes, “Rocky need equipment to save Earth Erid stars. Don’t mind.” He rolls closer to the center of the room to get a better scan of the corridor, before returning to your side at the white board. “Same volume of mess as before Rocky arrival.” Rude. When you look back over at Grace, he doesn’t seem to have any major objections. It is true; the two of you were maybe a little bit slobbish before Rocky came along.

The three of you seem to fall back into routine easily. Grace is still trying to wake himself up with generous gulps of black coffee. You and Rocky continue on with your calculations and diagram. You’re trying your best to stay focused on the work—but the two of you have been working on these problems for the past hour and now, Grace is in front of you with his entirely sleep-ridden appearance. He just looks… perfect. And, out of the blue, Rocky shoots out an abrupt: “Why choose Grace for mate, question?” There’s a clatter to your left. Grace’s grip loosens on the handle of his mug, a sizable drop of coffee splashing onto the steel counter beside you both. He decides, at once, to place the mug down and away from himself, before wiping the mess up with the sleeve of his navy-blue hoodie.

Grace sputters, “What? Mate—we're not—that would require at least kind of—" He’s speaking so intermittently that he can barely get a full sentence out. You raise a brow just watching Grace mesh his hands together, fingers interlocking and coming apart. He’s not making it any better for himself.

The wide-eyed look that you give Rocky isn’t nearly as mortified as Grace’s. While it’s accompanied by shock, you’re very intrigued by the nature of Rocky’s question. You have no idea what he’s shooting for, but it’s clearly working. Grace is talking to himself, dazed as he fixates on soaking the coffee up with his sleeve. Rocky stays silent in his xenonite casing. He’s anticipating an answer out of you, and so you’re going to have to give it to him. With a rather astute tone, analytical in nature, you offer up, “Well, he’s passionate. That’s a plus.”

Grace’s brows furrow together. “Sorry?” He’s floored. You can’t possibly be talking about him, but Rocky’s asking and you’re answering. It’s really not adding up. Grace is looking at you over the frame of his glasses, eyes squinted in perplexity.

“The molecular biology, the teaching,” you note, “Gold stars all around.”

“Dedication valuable for Earth mate selection,” Rocky nods along. It isn’t anything he doesn’t already know. While Grace has been asleep and the two of you have gotten to talking, Rocky knows practically all the minute details of why you’ve “chosen” Grace. The point of hashing it out in front of him now is unclear—aside from the potential entertainment value. That makes sense.

“Okay. He learned humor while I was napping. I’m not offended at all.” Though he tries to laugh it off, Grace doesn’t sound at all sure of himself. He’s very close to pacing back and forth, not sure whether he should try to change out of his now coffee-soaked hoodie or question the two of you further. When you and Rocky turn straight back to work unaffected, you at the front of the board and him tracing his claw across the glass with a sort of contemplative silence, Grace is shell-shocked. He’s muttering under his breath, “I don’t think I get the joke.” Both of your backs are turned to Grace; he can’t see the growing smirk that’s cropping up on your face.

It’s a quick pivot back to work. “I have a feeling that we should make a few minor adjustments to the rear fuselage. There’s going to be a lot of strain on engines when we get to Tau Ceti-E.” You click your tongue, circling the lower right quadrant of the diagram in a red dry-erase ink. Once your little annotation is completed, you tuck the marker in your back pocket.

“Agree, agree, agree,” Rocky tips his body towards the white board. His texture monitor is showing a complex, grayscale copy of the board to a T. It’s as if neither of you have tried to tease Grace to death just seconds prior. He’s glued to the ground with a weary kind of expression on his face. Grace is frowning, truly and deeply, with his palm squeezing the back of his neck. You could almost feel bad if you weren’t so pleased to see Grace like this; rarely is he speechless.

A few minutes pass. Then, Rocky approaches the same question from a different vantage point. “Grace attractive by human standard, question?”

“Well, he's handsome by my standard, and I’m pretty sure a lot of humans would agree,” you admit. “He is a bit dorky, but I like ‘em that way. That’s preference, though. Not all humans are into dorky.”

Rocky returns your statement with a rushed out, “Yes, yes, yes—preference. Understand.”

“Okay. Hello?” Grace speaks outward towards the lab. His voice carries throughout the hull of the ship, and the two of you are still non-reactive. “We’re doing it again. I am in the room.” His old teacher’s voice is coming out again—one hand shot up in the air, trying to flag your attention.

You look at him over your shoulder with a soft “What was that, Ry?” You’re very pleased to see that his cheeks are glowing red underneath the white-gold frames of his glasses. You drag your gaze up and down his raised arm, with a particularly sharp grin hanging off your face. So toned. “Didn’t hear you,” you tilt your head. Grace lowers his arm slowly, turning back around to pick up his mug.

“Ha-ha,” Grace punches out. He’s trying to seem unbothered by this whole situation, but it really is bothering him. No matter how hard he’s trying to maintain his composure, Grace is flushed. You can practically see the steam rising off the top of his head. It’s an illogical conversation playing out in front of him and the effort’s no use. You and Rocky are absolutely impossible. “I’m going to go for a metaphorical breath of fresh air. I will… see you both shortly.” Grace is too nervous to push it any further, and it seems like he’s leaving you both to do a cool-off lap around the ship.

You can hear him talking to himself as he leaves the lab, as if possessed by his own confusion. “Handsome…? Is it April Fool’s? Mary, can you pull up a UTC calendar for me, please? What month is it back home?” Louder, the ship’s computer rings out a staticky, “The month is: June.” Grace’s muffled groan rings out towards the two of you..

You turn towards Rocky with a slow shake of your head. “You’re really mean. Did you know that?” you ask Rocky. He pushes closer to you. Like you’re any better.

“Grace not know you are mates when obvious. Grace fault,” Rocky says, with both claws pointed in the air. You think it’s supposed to be a sort of shrug.

—

After Grace’s little cooldown period, he’s back on his feet and wanting to teach you how to sample astrophage. Even though you’ll both be out there at the same time, spacewalking side by side, he wants you to be prepared. It’s best that you both know how to handle the equipment. You’re not completely convinced that he’s over your little bit with Rocky earlier, but he seems altogether unoffended enough to talk to you. While you and Grace are running through the sampler together, Rocky’s not far away. He sits in the corridor, sifting through his things—no doubt listening to the two of you working together.

Grace's fingers trace over the orange lining of the box before he slides it towards you. “You’re going to have this whole sampler rig attached to your suit. It’s supposed to be portable, so it shouldn’t be too much of a hassle for us to bring it out and set it up on the topside of the deck,” he explains. You’re nodding along; something tells you that you’ve heard this entire lecture before—that Grace is using the words that he might’ve before your launch—but it’s altogether pointless to point it out now.

You’re watching as his hands surround either side of the sampler; he pulls out, simultaneously, two metal grated plates. “Okay. These plates are supposed to intake the astrophage going towards Tau Ceti-E.” Grace closes the one set and opens another. “And these are supposed to grab the astrophage that’s leaving. We’ll grab input first. Then, output.”

Mindlessly, Grace grabs the off-white masking tape off the counter beside you, nearly brushing your waist; he tries to ignore the minimal contact, pressing the bar of tape onto the first set of plates. Then, the second. Grace discards the roll on the counter, before picking the dry-erase marker out of your pocket and presses it into the palm of your dominant hand. Grace flinches as his fingertips graze the surface of your palm. He’s still trying to keep a fair distance after your little debacle with Rocky earlier, but he just can’t help it.

“You want me to label it?” you laugh.

“It’s lab standard,” he insists. “If we mix them up, we’ll have to sample all over again—and that would mean we’d have to clean the plates. And if we do that poorly…” Grace makes a big show of making a miniature explosion with his hands. It’s difficult not to scoff at him. You know it’s lab standard, but he could easily label them himself. The apprehension worn on your face makes Grace sigh. You’re able to read him too easily, and he surrenders over, “And I like your handwriting more than I like mine.”

There—the root of the issue. You shake your head, “You’re a teacher, Grace. Legibility is, like, a job requirement.”

“If that were true, the staff at Grover Cleveland Middle would’ve been chopped in half,” he chuckles. As far as you’ve seen, his handwriting isn’t bad at all. To each their own, you suppose. You lean down to write on the open panels of the sampler, Grace watching carefully over your shoulder.

“See? This is part of the mating ritual, too, Rock.” It barely comes out as a whisper as you’re writing down “a1. input” and “a2. output” neatly across the tape for either panel. It’s sarcasm really, but you realize much too late that Rocky might not interpret it as such. Grace, somehow, is much more occupied at watching over your labeling technique; he murmurs back a distracted “Hm?” before furrowing his brows. He stands straight up, eyebrows furrowed. It might have taken a second to register, but Grace is fully aware of what you’ve said—

And suddenly, Rocky is practically shouting down the corridor with a hurried, “wait, wait wait!” You can hear the successive rapid thunks of him sliding into his xenonite ball, sealing it, and rolling back towards the both of you. The Eridian practically comes barreling in through the doorway, running into the white metal shelves of the Hail Mary with a childlike ardor. “Is initiating kiss, question?”

“Again?” Grace groans, pulling his glasses off and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. When he lowers his hand, you can see the blush spreading across his face, from the tips of his ears to his cheeks. “Okay. That’s it,” Grace huffs. “This has to end now. No more bits.”

“Graaace. Do not be mad,” Rocky whines in a low tone, “Is only kiss. Partial threshold for human relations.” Grace is tugging his hoodie off in a desperate attempt to keep a regular temperature. There’s a shelf hook close enough for him to toss up the garment haphazardly. Once it’s out of the way, he turns toward Rocky.

“You didn’t even know that word an hour ago.” Grace’s voice raises in tone and volume all at once, crackling with embarrassment. It’s unintentionally accusatory. Grace certainly didn’t code in <kiss>, and it’s not like Rocky can type into his own vocabulary bank. And Grace can’t seem to figure out why you’d code it aside from entertainment value.

“Kiss not bad word, Grace. Is normal,” Rocky explains calmly. “Now, do kiss. Please.” The begging tone that Rocky dishes out to Grace only makes him more and more impatient. Meanwhile, you’re simply watching the two of them bicker with one another—not interested in the slightest to stop the argument. Shamefully, you do want Grace to be pushed to his limit. And this happens much quicker than you would anticipate. Right about now, Grace has his hands locked together and resting just over his head. His face is still flushed, and he’s got his glasses hanging off his face.

Grace is trying to stay as calm as he can and failing. Every time the word is used, he’s getting deeply distracted by the thought of your lips on his. He can’t help the way his mind drifts to that very, very vivid fantasy of your hands balancing flat on his chest. Finally, he breathes out a heavy and burdened sigh: “No more kiss talk. We aren’t together, end of story.”

“I mean, we kind of are,” you say to Grace, who turns sharply mid-speaking to tilt his head at you.

“What?” he stammers softly. You’re not helping his case, especially with that tone.

Hands held behind your back, you repeat for Grace, “We are.” It's a matter of fact. Any semblance of sternness Grace was attempting prior crumbles at the drop of a dime. He’s pointing at you with his index finger, then at himself, then you again. “No, we’re not.”

You grab for Grace’s wrist, just over the red-band of his wristwatch. “Okay. Come on, we’re going up to screens.” Grace, still stunned, lets you drag him out of the lab and towards the corridor. As you look over your shoulder, you can see that Rocky is shooting you a strong thumbs-down.

—

The empty, numbered panels of the projection deck flicker to life into the backdrop of the river Seine. You’ve asked Mary to put on music—really, anything would do—and she decides to ring out some folk-rock song that you’ve never heard before. Something older, not too much ruckus when played loud. It’s a decent way to guarantee yourself a bit of privacy with your new, sound-attuned roommate. You’ll be lucky if Rocky can’t hear the two of you finally having this talk. Over the sound of the soft strumming guitars, you stretch your shoulders back. “I might have had a bit too fun teasing you. Sorry.”

“Well, I thought you were just… doing a bit. Like, ha-ha, ‘Ryland Grace dies alone in space,’” Grace mumbles. “Is it still a bit? You’re sending a whole lot of signals, and I don’t think I’m receiving—” Grace seems to quiet down as soon as you plant your hand down on his chest. He’s tracing his eyes from your hand, down your arm, and straight up to your face with his lips parted. “Or, I am receiving. A little bit.”

“Okay,” you decide, “You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? I have. We’ve been living together for the equivalent of… what, a few months now? I’m comfortable with you, and you’re comfortable with me. It’s been like that ever since we got sent up. Maybe even before. I don’t remember. But we like each other.” Your fingers are dancing soft on his chest, and his breath is hitching.

“We?” Grace echoes. “I was under the impression that you were, you know, kind of uninterested in me. Besides, you know, as a co-habitant. Mission-wise, it’s crucial for us to get along.” He’s clueless, clearly, because it hasn’t been like that at all—for you, at least.

You’re trying to stir up another line of reasoning for him. You have to meet Grace at his level.  “There’s the, uh, Einstein quote. I know you know it, just… let me think.” You massage your temples with your fingers, trying to wrack your brain for it. It’s perfect. What is it, again?

It’s easy for Grace—the middle-school science teacher that he is—to pick up what you’re putting down. "When you sit with a nice girl for two hours, you think it's only a minute. But when you sit on a hot stove for a minute, you think it's two hours. That's relativity,” Grace nods, “But that’s a very crude explanation of the concept, and I don’t really—”

You shush him with a shake of your head. “Right. Eridians don’t have a conception of relativity. It isn’t necessary for them, because things are just… what they are. They’re literal and exact, and there isn’t any dancing around the facts.” you explain to Grace hurriedly. “So… you’re my boyfriend. You’ve been my boyfriend.”

It takes a moment for him to process your argument. It’s very… forward. He seems to look past you towards one of the panel-screens. The projected river is still glittering behind you, and you’re not going anywhere. Mary even put in the effort of mixing this ambient watery sound—boats and people, back on Earth whenever ago—with the music track. Somehow, your traveling abode in space has made the absolute perfect atmosphere for this. You and Grace.

“Well, that’s just…” Grace nods slowly, “peachy.” He drops his head down in absolute disappointment of his own incapability to speak. What is he saying?

“Peachy?” you repeat quietly. You’re astounded that that’s the choice of word he’s selected for this entire ordeal. It’s so like him. You can feel yourself shuddering out a breath. Your cheeks are already sore enough as is—and you don’t think you can take another hard laugh.

“Don’t,” Grace says, “I have had a long and emotionally tumultuous couple of hours.”

“Are you mad about the teasing?” you ask, stepping closer to Grace. He’s barely paying attention, eyes glazed-over in a dazed fashion. He’s having trouble focusing on your words. Too occupied with you.

“No. Never,” he murmurs, eyebrows knitted together. You’re reaching for Grace next, hands swinging around his neck in an effort to pull him in. He’s fumbling with his hands, unsure exactly where to place them. They’re steady only when they find grounding on your midsection. You give him one peck on the lips. Then, another. He leans into the contact, the rims of your glasses brushing against the surface of your cheeks. It’s casual, comfortable—as if it’s not the first time. You’re his, and he’s yours. It’s effortless. Grace seems to finally ease up.

There’s a few loud thuds down the hall—presumably, your Eridian counterpart. The folk-rock is no use. Rocky has obviously been listening through the entirety of your back-and-forth. “Finally, Grace act like real mate. Congratulate, congratulate, congratulate.” His voice rings out loudly towards the projection deck. Grace is muttering under his breath again, something about those boundaries. At least now, you’re both on the same page.

You would never ask your friend to indulge in your longings out of respect for his space, but god did you want to remember what it felt like to wrap your arms around someone gently and give them a squeeze. Or to hear someone’s heartbeat when you placed your head to their chest. Or even running your hands through their hair as they told you all about their day. Those moments were what you thought about most whenever you started to miss home.

It was one of those occasions where there was nothing you wanted more than to return to Earth -- to your friends and family. As you sat gazing mindlessly out at Adrian through Mary's only large window, you felt a presence behind you.

"It never gets old, does it?"

Ryland caught your attention and you smiled up at him. He was in his usual attire. Jumpsuit tied at the waist with one of his science pun t-shirts you'd grown to be quite fond of. A smile graced your face as you patted the space next to you and invited him to sit. With no words exchanged, the two of you sat together watching the green swirls move slowly on the planet's surface. This was a regular occurance between you both. Watching space together was a nice reminder you weren't alone.

The silence was comfortable as you let your mind wander. You looked to Ryland to catch a glimpse of his expression. The bright green reflected through the glass and drenched you both in colour. As always, his glasses were squint on his face in a way that made you question if he even remembered how to wear them half the time. Before you could stop yourself, you reached up to tilt them back into place. Ryland flinched, not expecting your hands so close. Yet he didn't pull away. He let you fix them and sat patiently wile you adjusted them to his nose.

"Sorry, it was bothering me." You muttered before going back to minding your business. He didn't respond, just kept looking at you.

"Do you ever miss the feeling of holding someone?" He broke the silence, causing you to turn to him again. It was almost like he read your mind about what you were feeling so down about.

"All the time." You responded wholeheartedly with the ache of melancholy in your heart.

He didn't say much after that, just glanced down at your hands and then back to your face like he was afraid to ask out loud for what it was that he wanted. You understood completely. For what felt like weeks you had yearned to reach out and hug him or even just lean on him while you, him, and Rocky watched movies and videos in the 'Don't Go Crazy' room.

Holding out your hand towards him, you waited. If you read the situation correctly then you hoped he could reciprocate your action. Without missing a beat, Ryland grabbed your hand in both of his, feeling over every line and crease like he was trying to memorise it. The sensation of someone studying you so intensely was nothing short of intimate. It was evident from how gentle and immersed he was that had wanted to do this for a long time.

His fingertips and palms were calloused from the work you had both been doing on board. Marks and scars from burns and cuts that weren't quite healed littered his skin. While he was captivated with your fingers, you took a moment to appreciate his face.

It would be a lie to say you didn't find joy in the way his eyes lit up as you willingly let him touch you -- not just in passing or by accident, but rather on purpose.

It was amusing to watch as he discovered every detail of your skin. You had been so distracted observing his face, you weren't expecting him to move in closer so you were sat hip to hip, and intertwine his hand with yours. He gave your hand a squeeze and looked away as if he were embarassed.

"Sorry...I just forgot what it felt like to, you know."

Ryland wouldn't meet your eyes so you brought your free hand up and turned his face towards yours. His eyes widened as you carressed his cheek with your thumb lovingly, feeling his stubble rub against your palm. A peaceful expression formed on his features as he melted into your touch.

Not a word was spoken. You just moved closer to share each other's warmth and continue watching Adrian's colours dance. It was comfortable and satisfied the deep craving of another's presence. Having Ryland so willing to fill that void was probably the reason it felt so right. Now it had started, you prayed things would stay this way forever.

Being so caught up in your own world, you failed to hear the sounds of things clattering and the rolling of an asymmetrical ball enter the lab.

"Grace and Y/n finally mates, question?"

Dead.

They were dead.

Two of the three people that you had been sent on this mission to protect, to make sure that they accomplished their task alive, were deceased.

You had woken up last from the coma that was designated for every passenger on board the Hail Mary, partially because you were the last to be put into it.

The first few months after lift-off included regular rounds: making sure that the systems were all working accordingly, watching the monitors, stimulating muscles in case the machine to do it had a short.

Once everything had been working properly for two weeks, that was the timeframe Stratt had ordered you, you would lie in your designated pod and allow yourself to be put into a coma.

You had gasped awake as the coma began to wear off four years later, struggling weakly against the IVs and machines, even against the nanny bot that you had helped design.

Stumbling away from the bot, you lean against the furthest wall that was out of its reach, legs trembling like those of a newborn deer.

Your eyes snapped back and forth around the room, mind swimming with memories of the reasoning behind the trip as your body tries to calm itself from the adrenaline of being woken up, breath coming out in sharp pants.

Four pods, all of them seemed to be empty now that you were awake.

A shuffle at the entrance of the sleeping quarters instantly causes your gaze to snap over, finding a man standing there with wide eyes, holding what you could tell to be a blanket that slowly begins to slip from his hands.

Blond hair and blue eyes.

Ryland Grace.

His name flashes in your mind, memories of what Stratt had told you flashing alongside it. The science teacher who was sent against his will.

For the betterment of the world.

Is what Stratt had drilled into your mind.

“You’re awake.”

His voice came out breathy, almost trembly, as he continued to stare at you, the look on his face reminiscent of somebody who had seen a ghost.

You don’t answer his astonishment, though, your mind still trying to catch up with everything that was happening.

Continuing to lean on the wall, away from the nanny bot that continued its effort in trying to grab you, your eyes stare into his.

“Where’s Yao and Ilyukhina?”

Your throat ached from going unused, words scratchy, before you gulp a wad of saliva to try and lubricate it, cringing at the slight sting that follows.

Ryland’s face shifts as the name leaves your lips, his eyes moving down to the blanket as he bends down to pick it up. Your brain instantly catches on to something being wrong.

Were they sick? Were they hurt? What did you need to do to help-

“They didn’t make it.”

Everything stops.

“What?”

That’s not right. You had double, triple, quadruple-checked everything before you allowed yourself to be placed into a coma. Everything was working; everything should have been fine.

They should be awake.

That’s when your legs finally give out, slowly sliding down the wall until you’re seated.

You barely process as Ryland makes his way over towards you, barely feel the softness of the blanket that he had wrapped around your shoulders, barely hear his words as he tries to speak to you.

You were the medic. The doctor sent by Stratt to make sure that all four passengers were healthy for the mission, healthy to save Earth.

And two were dead.

Your very purpose for being sent on this mission was an immediate failure.

You had failed Earth.

You were a failure.

Guilt gnawed at your very bones, a chill rolling through you even with the fuzzy blanket Ryland tucked around you. A sick feeling settles in your stomach, and your eyes stare blankly ahead.

You stayed like that for quite some time.

Ryland tried his very best to keep calm about the situation.

From waking up with no memories and surrounded by two corpses, to having to keep his excitement down at seeing you awake.

He wasn’t alone.

Ryland sat near you, not touching, just near. He knew the sudden touch might be too much for you at this time. He didn’t want to overwhelm you after he had to inform you of such news.

He watches as you curl in on yourself, your eyes staring at the floor.

He couldn’t remember you; his memories were still barely coming forth, but he still had human decency. He could sense something was troubling you; he just assumed it to be the fact that your crewmates had died.

Ryland wasn’t wrong.

But he wasn’t entirely correct.

Your eyes are forced to focus on something being suddenly shoved in your field of view, your thoughts of guilt momentarily screeching to a halt, and instead, figuring out what it was.

Ryland was holding a small tube, a brown mixture barely peeking out from the grip he had on it, the meaty smell instantly hitting your nose. The words ‘Day 1 Meal’ were printed on the side.

Right.

You hadn’t had solids in years, only being provided nutritional slush from an IV. Your stomach growls at the thought of finally getting to eat.

Right.

You needed to eat.

Glancing over, you find Ryland slurping on his own meal tube, noticing that his mixture had a few chunks in it, clueing you in to the fact that he had been awake for quite some time before you.

His arm was still outstretched, the tube held just high enough to meet your lips, but his gaze remained forward, unnoticing of the thoughts brewing behind your eyes.

The offer was clear: he would hold the tube for you.

Something in you flutters, a feeling you instantly push down as you lean forward, slurping the mixture while your own gaze moves towards the opposite wall.

For a short while, the room is only filled with the sounds of slurping and the occasional shuffle of movement as the two of you adjust your seated position.

Ryland had finished with his first, setting his now-empty tube aside as his focus went entirely to squeezing what little remained in your meal tube.

“I’ve already sent them off.”

His voice, softened by the moment, interrupts the quiet.

Your shoulders tense as you're reminded of why you felt so down in the first place. Even though you were stuck on the Hail Mary, were you truly worthy of being its medic?

You had already let two crewmembers down.

Could you handle letting down the third?

“Hey… at least we’re not alone.”

Your gaze slowly moves over towards Ryland at his newest set of words, leaning back to silently show him that you were done, stomach full from such a small amount.

When you meet his gaze, a jolt is sent through you at just how hopeful he looked at the sentiment of not being alone, the slight quirk of his lips in an awkward smile.

Not alone.

Resting your chin against your knee, your gaze remains locked on him as you take in his words. He was right, this mission would’ve been hell if only one survived.

Could the mission have been done? Yeah, but the emotional turmoil that one would’ve been sent in would be worse.

The guilt that had pooled deep in your veins lifts ever so slightly.

You had failed two, but you could protect one.

You could prove that you were worthy of being a part of this mission.

Lips slightly quirking in your own awkward smile, you give a small nod in agreement to his words, shifting the blanket on your shoulders as you sit up straighter, your legs stretching out in front of you.

Maybe it could turn out all right with just the two of you.

It’s already March. Any remnants of holiday festivities are long gone. The Christmas tree that Ryland decorates his classroom with is back in storage (even though he leaves it up for 2 extra months, decorating it with paper hearts and calling it “Valentines’s Day” decor.) The only holiday Grace has left is St. Patrick's Day, kinda lame but he’ll find some green chlorophyll related experiment to do. His students were mostly looking forward to their week-long break in April. Somehow, it still feels like the best of the year is upon him.

The spring brings sun rays that shine warmly through the large windows and gentle showers that piddle against the glass panes. It thaws the dreaded frost and chill from the air, making Ryland’s bike rides plenty more pleasurable. Most consistently, it brings breezes that float pollen absolutely everywhere. So. Much. Pollen. Ryland tracks the yellow little buggers that stick to his blazer into the building after his commuting bike ride. He’s had to invest in medicine over the past few years because these allergies are unbearable (he’s dramatic but it really is awful).

Despite the runny nose and watery eyes, Ryland loves the spring. Sure there’s end-of-year testing and students’ inconsistent attendance between spring and summer breaks, but there are field trips and outdoor experiments (and a very cute teacher across the hall wearing fun sprint-time attire.) Most importantly, now Ryland can finally teach his expertise- space!

It’s a Wednesday afternoon. The same as any other, except Ryland is very excitingly explaining the life cycle of stars to his students. With some very terribly drawn diagrams (he’s as bad at drawing as he is at spelling) he explains the different kinds of stars while students try to take down any of the vocabulary they hear in their notebooks. 

Bang bang bang

A series of sounds echoes in the hallway. Ryland squints his eyes and presses his lips firmly together. Now typically he leaves random hallway noise alone. There are always kids goofing off and skipping class, that’s not new, and unless someone was screaming or dying, Ryland didn’t pay it much mind. He reopens his mouth to speak when the sounds come again. It sounds as if a herd of laughing elephants were running back and forth past his classroom. Really, it was the loud slamming of sneakers against the linoleum floors.

Ryland really tries to ignore it. But after the 3rd run-by, his kids are looking at him expectantly. He sighs. Guess he better put a stop to this than letting any of the stricter teachers catch them.

He quickly wipes the white board as more ruckus resonates, not running this time, just childish laughing and speaking in rapid succession outside. He works his way to his laptop and puts on a video he’s already got queued up. One benefit to being a younger teacher is that he’s pretty technologically proficient. It would be pretty embarrassing if he was only 32 and knew how to use an atomic-emission spectroscope but couldn’t work a projector.

Anyway, this CrashCourse video (thanks Hank & John Green) should keep everyone nicely entertained for about 8 minutes and 23 seconds, though he seriously doubted he needed that much time to lightly scold children in the hallway. He flicked off the main light as he stepped out of the room.

Ryand looks up and down the hall to find three girls snickering on the side of your classroom. They’re sitting, pushed up against the wall under the bulletin board you’ve expertly set up with spring decorations- rainbows and flowers and grass cut out from construction paper. It was a little elementary, but that was just a hang up from you teaching elementary school in years past. 

Each month you put up a recommended reading list on the board with contributions for your students. Ryland doesn’t read nearly enough, especially anything that is not a scientific journal or article. He’s working through one of your recommendations from your January list. It’s a slow process, but he really wants to finish it for the pure purpose of reporting back to you and having something else to connect over. It’s some sci-fi book about a man stuck in space. Unrealistic, but Ryland’s having a fun time fact checking the books science and math.

The girls in front of the science teacher have their faces buried in notebooks, rapidly scribbling across the lined paper. Ryland crosses his arms over his chest, his blazer tightening across his back and biceps. He clears his throat and puts on his disappointed dad look, glancing at them over the rims of his glasses. They looked up, startled. They’re already wearing expressions that show they already know what they were about to hear.

“Ladies, you really should be in class y'know. Or at least be sneaky enough in the halls if you're skipping.”

One of the girls that Ryland had last year, Maya, stutters while fiddling with her long curly hair, nervous habit Ryland recognizes. “B-but Mr. Grace-” she begins to say.

You round the corner, looking a bit frazzled. You let out a huff.“Girls! I told you not to run off before I finished giving instructions,” you chide, placing your hands on your hips.

Your attention snaps to Ryland and your peeved expression wanes. “Ry- Mr. Grace,” you correct yourself. “Sorry about them. I hope they weren’t causing too much trouble.” You throw a pierced look over your shoulder at the young girls, but it was mostly playful.

They shake their heads in protest, all opening their mouths at once to defend themselves. You shake your head at their jumbled mixed words. “I, honestly, don’t care. You’re not in trouble. Just get back to the library, and I better not catch you in the hallway again on my way back.” You glaze.

The girls nod, but they’re smiling as they run off again. You sigh, giving up on admonishing them.

He hates to admit it, but Ryland really likes that somewhat serious tone you use when taking authority. A mix of sarcastic, funny, and stern. It’s kind of hot. He wouldn’t mind if you spoke to him like that. Oh no. Absolutely not. Ryland’s brain went too far with that thought.

He chuckles, clearing the air. “I came out here to see what the kids were up to, but now I’m more curious about what you’re up too, having students roaming the halls.”

You raise your hands to show your innocence. “In my defense, they’re supposed to walk.” You laugh. “But you’re right, this is all a part of my masterplan, and you’re in on it too.”

“I am?” Ryland raises an eyebrow, his arms still crossed over his chest.

“Yep. You’re the one to give me the idea. The mastermind, if you will.”

“I am?”

You laugh, nodding. “Remember when I told you the kids were having trouble focusing and being creative in my hamster cage of a classroom.”

He nods. You’ve complained about that many many times. Ryland doesn’t really mind. He knows if he had to stay in that room any more than 30 minutes, much less every hour of the work-day, he’d be complaining too.

“You said I could take kids outside the classroom, give them a little break. And I talked to the principal, and it turns out I can do that!”

Ryland smirks. “I take it you’re pleased about that?”

“I’m ecstatic! It’s great. Once a week, I can take the kids somewhere on or near the school grounds and get their creative juices flowing. We started last week in the library. I had the kids write about falling into their favorite book, very The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and Alice in Wonderland coded.”

“That sounds fun.” He speaks softly. He wasn’t quite sure what he found hotter, your serious tone or your exciting chattering…He probably preferred the latter; There was just something so heart warming about it. And it felt pretty nice to know he was, in some small way, responsible for your happiness.

“It was incredible! Mike wrote 5 pages, 5 pages, hand written. I couldn’t get him to write anything but 3 sentence haikus for the first month of class and now he can sit down and chug out paragraph after paragraph. His grammar is way better too,” you ramble.

Ryland takes a half step closer, feeling drawn into you. “You still haven’t explained why you have kids running around,” he teases.

“Oh so I can’t be excited without doing something sinister?”

…

Ryland’s silence spoke volume.

You scoff. “Jerk!”

“I’m just saying!” Ryland barks out a laugh. “You have many ideas, some more evil than others.” He wiggles his eyebrows. 

“Don’t forget, this was your idea.”

“It really wasn’t. Now will you just answer my question? You know how curious I get.”

“Riiiiggghttt.” You roll your eyes. “I told the kids to find their favorite place in the school- anyway reasonable- and write about it. Anything about it, the surroundings; how it makes them feel; why it’s so special to them. Those girls ran off before I could set reasonable parameters from ‘being disruptive’, but I really shouldn’t have to tell them.” You sigh.

“That’s a… really cool teaching concept, actually.” Ryland muses for a moment. “S-so they came here?”

You nod. “This is their favorite place-” you gesture around- “well, your classroom is their favorite place, but I did manage to tell them not to go into any busy classes.”

“Wait, my classroom is their favorite place?”

“Naturally. You are their favorite teacher.”

Ryland pushes his hair out of his eyes with that shy smile. His hair’s getting long again, teasing you with the thoughts of running your hands through it. He easily turns shy when complimented. It’s always been true. He’s a talented deflector, but that resolve melts when you’re the one complimenting him (as you often do).

“You act like you don’t know you’re a good teacher.” You step closer. Ryland’s not sure if you’ve ever been closer than this moment.

“I know. No, really I do. I love teaching, I know I’m not terrible at it.” He chuckles. “It just… just…”

“Feels different when it comes from the kids?”

“Yeah.” He says breathlessly. Because what really made it different was any kind of flattery coming from you. Sure, he still gets all warm and gooey when the kids say something nice, but your kind words literally melt him into a puddle.

The magic of the moment fades away, and you’re faced with the embarrassing realization that you’re sharing warm breath with the man in front of you. You step back like it hurts to. You’ve long given up on squandering your crush on the science teacher. It was just never going to happen; the second you laid eyes on that muscly nerd in a stupid t-shirt, you were done for. Now, you’re just forced to just deal with it. You’re forced to remain professional; forced to keep your lingering looks secret; forced to not let him too deep into your life.

If you had it your way, you’d have as much time with Ryland as you could. But, you can’t have things your way, unfortunately.

“I’ve really got to stop disturbing your class time. It’s a pattern at this point.”

“I don’t mind,” says Ryland, too honestly.

You blush. “Yeah, well… not a good habit… and what not.” You’re speaking nonsense now, but staring into each other’s eyes seemed much more interesting than paying attention to whatever you were saying. Ryland’s ice blue eyes lock with yours, searching the depths of your soul to see if there’s a sign you feel the same as he’s felt for months. He still hasn’t gotten past his own obliviousness to notice the obviousness of your emotions. 

The silence drags from comfortable to tense. So you break it.

“We’ll be outside in the field next week.” You rock on your heels. “Your class could join. Do an outdoor experiment. Try not to distract each other too much.”

Ryland smiles. He looks like a dork with a huge grin. “Maybe,” he says, but he’s nodding.

“Cool.” A pause. “See you at lunch.”

“Yep.” Ryland makes no more towards the door, so you have to be the first to walk away.

“I’m ordering from the Vietnamese place,” you call out.

“For the both of us?”

“Of course.”

“Yum. Looking forward to it!” Ryland sighs and stares off as you turn the corner. He could have straight garbage for lunch and still look forward to it if he gets to share that time with you. He walks back into his room just as the youtube video is ending.

Ryland ducks his head, taking another bite of his gyro. It was his turn to pick food for lunch, so you both indulged in a local Greek place that is basically robbing Ryland blind at this point. He hates to cook and the food is just too good, sue him! (Don’t actually sue him, he cannot afford that.)

“I jus dwon’t undersamb-” Ryland says, mouth full.

“Well, I don’t understand you when you talk with your mouth open.” You tease. You grab a napkin and dab the corners of the man’s mouth. You dust away the crumbs and the sauce from his lips. He swats at you, smiling. Normal coworkers totally do stuff like this.

Ryland takes a second to properly chew, then swallows. “No seriously. This book is so long. I’ve done the math, there’s no way the main character doesn’t get back to Earth; it’s the most logical thing! And nothing else bad can happen to him because he has-” Ryland snaps- “whatchya call it?”

“Plot armor,” you supply.

“Yeah, that.” He takes another bite. “So bwasically I swhould jus read the ending.”

You laugh. “You’re ridiculous.” You hang your head. “You’re almost to the end! I promise if you just read through it you'll enjoy it.”

He pouts like a chipmunk, mouth full of food.

You plead. “Please. I want to talk about every part with you and you won’t understand it if you skip a quarter of the book. Please, just take your time and finish it! I’ll read any boring science article you want me to.”

That gets Ryland to perk up. He takes a sip of water from his reusable bottle. “Okay then, there’s this really good one on bacterial biology from a few years ago titled- blah blah blah proper name, place name, science stuff.”

You wave a hand, dismissing the topic. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll read it, just finish the book. You promised me.”

Ryland groans. “I hate when I make promises I don’t want to keep.”

“Sucks to suck.” You’re starting to sound like the kids. 

You pull another item from the plastic bag of food on your desk. Two bags of Skittles. The lime green wrapper crinkles in your hand. Ryland lights up even more. You have a devilish smirk on your face as you hold out one of the bags to him.

“Hey, I didn’t even know you got these.” He pauses, reaching for the Skittles. “Wait, when did you get these?”

“Doesn’t matter.” You chew on your lip. “I have something to ask though.”

“Oh, god. It’s a bribe.”

“It’s not a bribe.” You toss him the candy. “Okay, it kind of is, but I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“Absolutely not.” Ryland pushes his chair back from the desk. “I haven’t heard words like that since undergrad.”

“Well, I-” pause- “Okay, I have so many questions, I don’t know where to start. We’ll touch back on that later… I guess…”

Ryland shrugs, blushing. Why did he say that?

“Anyway, I want to send in a field trip request to the principal.” A grin spreads on your face.

“Oh? A field trip?”

“Uh-huh. It’ll be on a San Francisco bus tour.” Ryland opens his mouth to speak, but you hold out one finger and cut him off. “And before you ask ‘aren’t those just for tourists?’,” said in an absolutely terrible impression of his voice, “yes. They are catered to tourists, but I want to use it to make the children see a new side to the city, through the eyes of great writers, which they all are.” 

“You’ve got the whole thing planned out, huh?”

You nod excitedly. “That’s where I need to ask a favour of you… Would you chaperone the trip?”

Ryland smiles, so wide it hurts. He knows he looks dumb. “Me?” He asks, dumbly. “You want me to go on the field trip with you?”

He knows you’re friends now, but it still surprises him when someone chooses him, specifically. He’s spent years being the “outisder”. He was the odd man out during his years in academia for his theories alone. He gets drinks with his fellow teachers from time to time, and even then it felt like he was looking in through window panes. And then you came along and it’s felt like his whole world has opened up, in a sense. If he’s in a social situation, and he’s afraid he’ll be painfully awkward or accidentally offend someone, it’s comforting to know you;ll be right there beside him. You’re Ryland’s best friend (sorry Marissa), and time and time again you continue to show that you want him around.

“Yes, I want you to do the field trip with me. Having another teacher chaperone already signed on for it would make it even more convincing!”

It feels like a knife stabs Ryland’s heart.

Of course. You don’t actually want him there. You just need another chaperone.

Ryland’s used to being the man on the side, but it always hurts more to be included out of pity or convenience. At the end of the day, that’s all he might be to you: A placeholder. Someone to talk to while you get used to the school, only to grow distant in the summers. Who even knows if you’ll really be back next year. 

He lets out a sigh. He’ll still agree to help you anyway. Unfortunately for him, he still painfully wants to be around you, however you’ll have him. 

Before Ryland can utter his disappointed agreement, you continue: “But also, I really want you to come along. I know the kids will be almost excited to bring you as I am. I can’t imagine doing my first middle school field trip without you.” There’s a toothy grin on your face. You fiddle with your fingers as you wait for an answer, part of you still thinking he’d decline.

Ryland eyes bulge open. He isn’t sure when he started smiling but a rosy blush dusts his cheeks around his upturned lips. Just like that, you prove him wrong again, proving that he can be more than the “outsider” and the “placeholder” to someone.

“So?” You ask. “Is that a yes?”

The blonde doesn’t say anything for a moment. He lightly snatches the bag of skittles from your hand. Ripping the wrapper, he pours some into his palm before tossing them into his mouth.

“Of course.”

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Right on cue, the soft hiss of the lab doors sliding open broke the quiet.

You didn't turn around immediately, letting the rustle of his jumpsuit and the soft, hesitant thud of his sneakers against the metal floor grating announce his arrival. He walked into the lab, stopping a safe, meticulously calculated four feet away from your chair.

"Hey," he said. His voice was a little too loud for the dim lighting, tightly wound with nervous energy.

You pushed your chair back slightly and turned to face him, keeping your feet planted on the floor. "Hey, Ryland."

He was clutching a digital tablet to his chest like a ballistic shield. His hair was slightly ruffled, and that betraying flush was still lingering high on his cheekbones.

"So. I've been doing some thinking," he started, launching immediately into his rehearsed speech before his courage could fail him. His words came out in a rapid-fire, heavily academic clip. "And some reading. I reviewed the ship's psychological medical files regarding long-term, deep-space isolation, and I think it's really important that we contextualize what happened in the control room."

You raised an eyebrow, staying perfectly still. "Contextualize it."

"Yes!" He tapped the tablet, not looking at you, his eyes locked desperately on the screen. "You see, in an environment devoid of external stimuli, the human endocrine system begins to aggressively seek out serotonin and dopamine. Furthermore, forced proximity combined with high-stress situations can cause an artificial spike in oxytocin, leading the brain to misinterpret standard platonic attachment as a... as a romantic imperative."

He finally looked up from the tablet, offering a tight, panic-laced smile. "So, the slip-up earlier, the vocabulary choice... it was just a neurochemical misfire. Entirely clinical. We can just log it as a symptom of space madness and completely forget it ever happened. Right?"

Instead of answering, you stood up.

The gravity felt heavy and grounding as you closed the four feet of empty space separating you with slow, deliberate steps. He took a sudden, panicked step backward until his shoulders hit the cool metal of the bulkhead with a soft thud.

You didn't stop. You stepped completely into his personal space, so close that the toes of your shoes bumped gently against his sneakers. Because of the height difference, you had to tilt your head back to look at him. The proximity forced him to look down, his posture stiffening as he tried to press himself as flat against the wall as physically possible.

"Clinical," you repeated, keeping your voice low and soft.

"Y-yes," he stammered. His eyes were wide, darting nervously across your face before dropping to your lips and quickly snapping back up to the ceiling. He swallowed so hard you saw the apple of his throat bob. "Very clinical. Textbook."

You let a small, teasing smile touch your lips. You reached up, lightly resting your palm flat against the center of his chest.

Ryland made a sound that was half-whimper, half-squeak. Beneath the thin fabric of his jumpsuit, you could feel his heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your palm. His fingers went completely slack. The digital tablet slipped from his grasp, hitting the metal floor grating with a sharp, loud clack.

"So, the isolation made you do it," you murmured, lightly tracing the zipper line of his jumpsuit with your fingertips. "The oxytocin made you call me a good girl in that exact tone of voice."

"Please don't say it back to me," he whispered miserably. He squeezed his eyes shut, letting his head thump back against the bulkhead. "I'm going to die. My heart is going to give out before we even reach Tau Ceti."

"I don't know, Dr. Grace," you murmured, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer. Your voice was barely a whisper now. "Your heart feels pretty strong right now. It's practically beating out of your chest. Is that the oxytocin, too?"

"It's the... the adrenaline," he choked out, opening his eyes. He was trying so desperately to keep his composure, but his gaze immediately dropped to your mouth again. "Flight or... or fight response."

"And which one are you doing?" you teased gently. "Because you're backed against a wall, Ryland, and you're definitely not fighting me."

"I..." His voice cracked completely. "I'm trying very hard to be professional."

You waited for a moment, letting your hand rest against his chest, giving him the chance to drop the act. But he just stood there, frozen in place, his breathing shallow and his eyes wide behind his glasses, completely paralyzed by his own over-analytical brain.

You let out a soft, slightly resigned sigh. You let your hand drop from his chest, taking a slow step backward.

"Okay," you said quietly. The teasing edge completely left your voice, leaving behind something far more gentle and a little sad. "I can give you space to be professional, if that's what you really want. Goodnight, Ryland."

You turned away from him, your sneakers scuffing softly against the floor grating as you started to walk back toward the lab doors.

You only made it two steps.

"Wait."

His voice wasn't a stammer this time; it was slightly raspy, sudden, and urgent.

Before you could fully turn around, his hand caught yours. His long fingers wrapped around your hand, halting your momentum instantly. The grip wasn't painful, but it was incredibly firm - the grounding, desperate hold of someone who had just realized exactly what they were about to lose.

You paused, looking back over your shoulder.

Ryland wasn't pressed against the wall anymore. He had taken a sudden step forward, closing the distance you had just tried to put between you. The panic was still there in his eyes, but the hesitation was gone, overridden by the sheer terror of watching you walk away.

"Don't," he breathed. He tugged gently on your hand, pulling you back around to face him. "Please don't go."

"Ryland..."

"I'm not trying to be professional," he confessed, the words tumbling out of him in a rushed, breathless whisper. He stepped closer, using his grip on your hand to gently pull you back into his space. "I'm just... I'm terrified. I don't know what I'm doing, and you're so incredible, and my brain is just short-circuiting because I can't believe this is actually happening."

He lifted your hand, pressing the back of your knuckles softly against his chest, right over his racing heart.

"The data is flawed," he murmured, a shaky, self-deprecating smile finally touching his lips as he looked down at you. "It's not oxytocin."

He didn't give his brain another second to overthink it. He let go of your hand, only so his arms could encircle you. He bowed his head, his shoulders hunching slightly to accommodate the height difference, and finally pressed his mouth to yours.

The kiss wasn't perfectly smooth or practiced, but it was overwhelmingly sweet, dizzyingly eager, and completely unguarded. He kissed you like a man who had been starving for years and had suddenly been handed a feast. You felt his rigid posture give way entirely as he let out a soft, shuddering sigh against your lips. His arms wrapped securely around your back, holding you close, his warmth chasing away the chill of the lab. You slid your hands up to his shoulders, tangling your fingers gently in the hair at the nape of his neck.

When you finally broke apart to breathe, he didn't pull away. Instead, he just let his forehead drop to rest heavily on your shoulder, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. His chest heaved against yours as he tried to catch his breath, and you could feel the furious heat radiating off his cheeks.

"So," you whispered into his ruffled hair, a tiny smile playing on your lips as you rubbed soothing circles into his back. "Still think it was just a neurochemical misfire?"

Ryland let out a breathless, muffled groan against your shoulder. He held you a little tighter, completely abandoning any remaining pretense of being 'just colleagues'.

"Okay," he mumbled into your collarbone, refusing to lift his head and face his own mortification just yet. "Okay, fine. I admit it. My hypothesis was completely wrong."

You let out a soft laugh, resting your cheek against the top of his head. The tension that had been suffocating the ship for hours finally broke, replaced by a warm, comfortable domesticity.

"I'm glad to hear it," you murmured.

He stayed hidden in the crook of your neck for a long moment, just breathing you in, letting his nervous system finally catch up to the reality that you weren't going to reject him. When he finally lifted his head, the furious blush had faded to a soft, warm pink across his cheekbones. His glasses were slightly askew, and his hair was an absolute mess. He looked incredibly handsome.

He didn't pull away. Instead, his hands slid from your waist around to the small of your back, resting there as he looked down at you. The panic in his eyes was entirely gone, replaced by a deep, overwhelming affection that made your breath hitch.

"You're going to get a crick in your neck," he murmured softly, his thumb gently stroking the fabric of your jumpsuit at your spine.

Before you could ask what he meant, he took a half-step forward. With a surprising, quiet strength, he gripped your waist, lifted you effortlessly, and set you down on the edge of the metal lab counter behind you.

The change in elevation brought you perfectly eye-to-eye.

Ryland let out a small, satisfied sigh at the new arrangement. He stepped between your knees, stepping completely flush against the counter. He reached up, his hands gently framing your face. His thumbs lightly brushed across your cheekbones, tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence that made your heart ache.

"Much better," he whispered.

This time, when he kissed you, there was no hesitation. The desperate, frantic energy of his first kiss smoothed out into something slow, deliberate, and dizzyingly intimate. He tasted like the bitter ship's coffee and the minty toothpaste from the washroom, a bizarrely comforting combination. You wrapped your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.

He let out a low, rough sound in the back of his throat, his hands sliding down from your face to trace the line of your neck, his fingers lightly brushing against your collarbone - a deliberate, lingering echo of the touch that had started this entire cascade. His lips trailed softly to the corner of your mouth, down to your jaw, pressing open-mouthed, heated kisses against your skin that sent a searing jolt straight down your spine. He wasn't dominant or aggressive; he was thorough, attentive, and incredibly observant, learning exactly what made you gasp and immediately repeating it.

The cool, sterile air of the laboratory seemed to evaporate, replaced by a heavy, suffocating heat. You tilted your head back, letting your eyes fall shut as his lips moved to the sensitive skin just below your ear.

"Ryland..." you breathed out, your voice slightly wrecked.

He paused, resting his forehead against your temple, his chest heaving as he tried to steady his breathing. "Am I doing okay?" he whispered, his voice incredibly rough, still carrying that adorkable need for positive reinforcement.

"You're doing amazing," you managed to say, pulling him back in.

He smiled against your lips, a bright, genuine thing, and leaned in to kiss you again-

Beep.

The sharp, electronic chime of the PA system echoed through the quiet lab, instantly shattering the heavy silence.

"Observation. Human biological monitors are registering unprecedented spikes."

The deadpan, robotic monotone of the translation software blared from the ceiling speakers. Ryland froze instantly, his lips hovering a millimeter above yours.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Ryland groaned, his forehead dropping heavily onto your shoulder.

"Heart rates are highly elevated," Rocky's voice continued mercilessly. "Body temperatures have increased by zero-point-eight degrees Celsius. Respiratory rates indicate lack of oxygen. Are you experiencing a medical emergency, question? Or is this the continuation of the mating ritual, question?"

You pressed your face into Ryland's shoulder, your shoulders shaking with silent, uncontrollable laughter. Ryland let out a long, long sigh, resting his weight against you for a moment before reluctantly pulling back.

"I forgot about him," he muttered, adjusting his glasses. "I completely forgot about the very smart, very nosy alien spider who has complete access to our biometric data."

You hopped down from the counter, smoothing out your jumpsuit while still biting your lip to suppress a grin. "We have to answer him, Ryland, or he's going to roll in here to administer first aid."

Ryland dragged a hand down his face, looking up at the nearest security camera. He hit the comms button on the lab console.

"We are not having a medical emergency, Rocky," Ryland said, trying to inject as much calm, teacher-like authority into his voice as possible. "We are... we are fine."

"Understood," the robotic voice replied. "Then it is the mating ritual. Does Earth biology require privacy for mating, question?"

Ryland's entire face burned a spectacular shade of crimson. He looked at you, utterly mortified, but you just nodded encouragingly, gesturing for him to continue.

"Yes," Ryland said, his voice cracking slightly. "Yes, Rocky. Human... human bonding requires a high degree of privacy. It is a very strict cultural imperative."

"Fascinating. Eridanians sleep in large piles to maintain temperature and security. Isolation is illogical. But I will respect Earth customs."

A series of musical chords filtered through the speakers, the raw audio of Rocky humming to himself, before the translator kicked back in.

"I have disabled the biometric alerts and audio-visual feeds for the human sleeping quarters. I will remain in the engineering bay. Have a good mating ritual. Words of encouragement.”

The comms clicked off, plunging the lab back into the low hum of the centrifuge drive.

You stared at the speaker for a moment, letting the sheer absurdity of the conversation wash over you, before you finally let out a loud, genuine laugh.

Ryland buried his face in his hands, shaking his head. "I am a respected scientist," he mumbled into his palms. "I have published papers. And I just asked an alien for permission to have privacy with my crewmate."

You walked over, gently prying his hands away from his face. His eyes were crinkled at the corners, a sheepish, hopelessly fond smile breaking through his embarrassment.

"Well," you said softly, linking your fingers through his. "He did turn off the cameras in the sleeping quarters."

Ryland looked down at your joined hands, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The nervous energy was entirely gone now, replaced by a quiet, deep anticipation. He looked back up at you, the dark intensity returning to his eyes.

"He did," Ryland agreed, his voice dropping back down into that low, quiet register. He gave your hand a gentle tug, pulling you toward the lab doors. "We should probably go verify that his modifications to the security system are fully functional."

"Very clinical of you, Dr. Grace."

"Extremely," he murmured, a completely smitten smile on his face as he led you out into the blue-lit corridor.

The walk down the corridor was a study in sensory overload.

After months of navigating the Hail Mary with careful, professional distance, the simple act of holding his hand felt completely grounding. His palm was warm and slightly calloused, his long fingers interwoven tightly with yours. The ship’s night cycle bathed the narrow hallway in a deep, sapphire glow, and the only sound was the steady, heavy thrum of the centrifuge and the quiet scuff of your shoes against the floor grating.

When you reached the door to your quarters, the keypad glowed a soft green. The door slid open with a quiet hiss, and you stepped inside, the door automatically sealing shut behind you.

The sleeping quarters were not designed for romance. They were small, utilitarian, and dominated by the narrow bunk built securely into the bulkhead. The air in here always felt a little cooler, stripped of the residual heat from the laboratory equipment.

But as the door clicked into its lock, isolating the two of you completely from the rest of the ship - and from the universe at large - the sterile room suddenly felt incredibly small, and incredibly charged.

Ryland let go of your hand, only to reach up and gently cup your face again. In the dim light of the cabin, without his glasses slipping or his scientific brain frantically trying to categorize his emotions, he looked incredibly soft. The adorkable, frantic microbiologist was still there, but beneath it was a man who was looking at you with a reverence that stole the breath right out of your lungs.

"I can't believe we're actually doing this," he whispered, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. It wasn't a question of hesitation, but a statement of pure, unadulterated awe. "I've spent the last months terrified that if I looked at you for too long, you'd figure it out."

"Figure what out?" you asked softly, leaning into his touch.

"That you are the absolute center of my gravity right now," he breathed, his voice rough and incredibly earnest. "And we are currently in a one-g spin."

You let out a shaky, quiet laugh, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. "That was a terrible physics pun, Dr. Grace."

"I'm a desperate man," he murmured, a smile curving against your lips just before he kissed you.

The gentle, tentative exploration from the lab vanished, replaced by a deep, aching certainty. He stepped fully into your space, backing you slowly until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. His hands slid down from your face, moving with a careful, deliberate focus to the heavy, industrial zipper at the collar of your standard-issue jumpsuit.

His fingers worked the zipper down, the metal teeth separating with a soft, rhythmic rasp. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the small cabin, punctuated only by the low thrum of the centrifuge and the quick, shallow rhythm of his breathing.

You could feel him trembling - just slightly - as he pushed the jumpsuit off your shoulders, letting the fabric fall and pool at your feet. The cool air of the cabin raised goosebumps along your arms, but the heat radiating off his body, pressed so close to yours, quickly chased the chill away.

"You're shaking," you whispered, your hands coming up to rest on his bare forearms.

"I know." He didn't deny it. His eyes met yours, dark and earnest in the dim blue light, his glasses slightly askew. "I know I'm not- I haven't- It's been a very long time, and I want this to be good for you. I want you."

You pulled him closer, your fingers working at the zipper of his own jumpsuit now. "So stop trying to hypothesize and just ask me what I like."

A shaky exhale escaped him. "What do you like?"

"This," you said, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "And this." Another kiss, softer, to his jaw. "And when you're confident. When you stop second-guessing and just take what you want."

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, tracing the line of your throat, the curve of your breasts beneath the thin tank top you wore underneath your jumpsuit.

He reached for the hem of your tank top, his knuckles brushing against your stomach as he bunched the fabric in his hands. You lifted your arms, and he pulled it over your head, discarding it somewhere on the floor. His breath caught audibly as his eyes traveled over you - your bare skin, the way your chest rose and fell with quickening breaths, the flush spreading across your collarbone.

"God," he breathed, the word barely audible. "You're so beautiful. I've imagined this - l've tried not to imagine this, because it felt invasive, but-" He swallowed hard, his hands hovering just above your hips, not quite touching. "Can I-"

"Yes," you said, pulling him closer. "Ryland, yes."

His hands finally made contact, sliding around your waist, spanning the curve of your hips. His palms were warm, slightly rough, and they left trails of fire in their wake as they traveled upward, tracing the sides of your ribs, the underside of your breasts. He was looking at you like you were the answer to every question he'd ever asked.

You reached up, your fingers gently removing his glasses and folding them carefully, setting them on the small shelf beside the bunk before tangling your fingers in his hair and pulling his mouth down to yours.

The kiss was deeper now, hungrier. His tongue slid against yours, and you tasted the desperation there, the months of suppressed longing finally unleashed. His hands grew bolder, cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped against his mouth, arching into his touch, and he made a low, rough sound in response.

"Bed," he managed, his voice wrecked.

"We should - the bed is right there-"

You nodded, letting him guide you backward until your knees hit the edge of the narrow bunk. You sat down on the thin mattress, looking up at him as he stood over you, chest heaving, his pupils blown wide.

"You're wearing too many clothes," you observed.

A shaky laugh escaped him. "Working on it."

He reached for the zipper or his jumpsuit, pulling it down with a steady hand that belied his nervousness. The fabric parted, and he shrugged it off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Underneath, he wore a black t-shirt-and across the front, in block letters, it read:

I had potential.

You burst out laughing. "You wore that. Under your uniform. On a mission to save humanity."

His cheeks flushed crimson, but he was grinning. "It was a gift from my students. It's lucky."

"It's terrible."

"And yet," he said, tugging the hem of the shirt, "you're smiling."

He pulled the t-shirt over his head, and the laughter died in your throat.

Because beneath the nerdy exterior, Ryland Grace was jacked.

There was no other word for it. His chest was broad and sculpted, pectorals so defined they looked carved from stone. His shoulders were massive, capped with muscle. His arms were thick, biceps straining against nothing, veins tracing along his forearms.

His abdominal muscles were a ridged, symmetrical washboard, the kind you saw on fitness magazines, not on microbiologists. And trailing down from his navel was a dark line of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxers, drawing your gaze exactly where he clearly wanted it to go.

You stared. You couldn't help it.

He caught you looking and his flush deepened, but something else flickered in his eyes. Confidence. Heat. He flexed slightly - unconsciously, or maybe not - and his pecs shifted.

"See something you like?" he asked, his voice lower now.

"You've been hiding that under a baggy jumpsuit for months?"

He shrugged, and the movement made his shoulders roll impressively. "Didn't seem professional to walk around shirtless."

You reached out, trailing a finger down the center of his chest, tracing the line between his pectorals, then down each ridge of his abs. He shivered under your touch, his breath catching.

"Definitely not professional," you murmured. "Definitely a problem."

"I can put the shirt back on-"

"Don't you dare."

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and pushed them down, stepping out of them with an awkward haste that made you smile. He was hard - clearly, obviously hard - and the sight of him, completely bare and utterly vulnerable in the dim blue light, sent a pulse of heat straight between your legs.

"Your turn," he said, his voice dropping into that lower register that made your stomach flip. He knelt in front of you, his hands finding the waistband of your underwear.

"Can I-"

"Yes. Please."

He tugged them down your legs, his knuckles brushing against your thighs, your knees, your calves. He paused when you were bare, his hands resting on your knees, his eyes fixed on the apex of your thighs. His breath came in short, uneven bursts.

"You have no idea," he whispered, "how many times I've thought about this. About you. About what you would sound like. What you would taste like."

"Then stop thinking," you said softly, reaching down to cup his face, tilting his chin up so his eyes met yours. "And find out."

He needed no further encouragement.

He leaned forward, his hands sliding up your thighs, parting them gently. You let your knees fall open, making space for him, and he settled between them with a quiet sigh of relief - like he'd finally found where he belonged.

His first kiss was pressed to the inside of your knee. Then higher, to your thigh. Then higher still, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his breath hot and damp against you. You shivered, your fingers tangling in his hair, and he let out a low hum of approval.

"You're so responsive," he murmured against your skin. "I love that. I love that I can feel you react to every single thing I do."

His mouth found you - finally, finally - and your head fell back, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat. His tongue was tentative at first, exploratory, the same careful, methodical attention he gave to every experiment. But he learned fast. He always did.

He learned exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly where to focus, exactly when to circle his tongue and when to suck gently. He learned the sounds you made - the little whimpers, the sharp intakes of breath, the way you moaned his name when he did something particularly devastating. And every time he discovered something that made you gasp, he did it again, and again, until you were trembling beneath him, your thighs shaking around his shoulders.

"Ryland," you breathed, tugging at his hair.

"Ryland, I'm close-"

He didn't stop. If anything, he doubled down, his hands gripping your hips, holding you steady as his tongue worked you through the rising tide of sensation. Your back arched off the mattress, a broken cry escaping your lips as the wave crashed over you, white-hot and overwhelming, your entire body shuddering through the release.

He stayed with you through it, gentling his touch as you came down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip bones, the curve of your stomach. When you finally opened your eyes, he was looking up at you with an expression of pure, unguarded wonder.

"That," he said, his voice rough and raw, "was the single most incredible thing I have ever experienced. And l've seen a supernova."

A breathless laugh escaped you. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm honest." He crawled up your body, bracing himself above you, his forearms planted on either side of your head. His hair was a disaster, his lips were slick, and his eyes were burning with a heat that made your heart stutter. "I want to be inside you," he said quietly, no stammer, no hesitation.

"Is that okay?"

You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, pulling him down so your foreheads touched. "Yes. Ryland, yes."

He reached down between your bodies, positioning himself at your entrance. You could feel him there - hot, hard, pressing against you - and the anticipation alone made your thighs clench around his hips.

"Tell me if I hurt you," he said. "Tell me if you want to stop."

"I want this." You reached up, cupping his face in your hands. "I want you, Ryland. Every overthinking, beautiful, brilliant inch of you. Now stop talking and fuck me."

The word hit him like a physical blow. His hips jerked against you, and a sound escaped him - half laugh, half moan - that vibrated through your chest.

"Yes ma'am," he breathed. He didn't push in immediately. Instead, he rocked against you, teasing, letting the friction build until you were arching up beneath him, nails digging into his shoulders.

"Ryland, please-"

He pushed inside you slowly - agonizingly slowly - inch by inch, his jaw clenched, a low groan vibrating through his chest. The stretch was exquisite, a fullness that made your eyes flutter shut and your nails dig into his shoulders.

"You're so tight," he breathed, his voice cracking. "God, you feel- I can't- fuck-"

"More," you demanded.

He gave you more. Another inch, then another, until he was buried to the hilt, his body pressed flush against yours. He stayed there for a moment, trembling, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

"You feel..." He couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

You clenched around him experimentally, and he swore - a sharp, bitten-off curse that would have made his academic colleagues blush.

"Move," you whispered against his ear.

He did.

The first thrust was tentative, almost shy.

The second was deeper, harder. By the third, he had found a rhythm - slow and deep, each stroke dragging against that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes.

"That's it," you breathed, your legs tightening around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Right there. Don't stop."

He didn't stop.

His hips snapped against yours, the rhythm deepening, quickening, each thrust driving him impossibly farther inside you.

"Like that?" he gasped, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat-slick and trembling. "Is this- fuck- is this what you wanted?"

"Yes," you managed, your voice breaking on the word. Your hands clawed at his back, nails raking across his shoulder blades, and he groaned - a raw, guttural sound that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his chest.

His hips never stopped moving, but the frantic edge softened into something deeper, more deliberate. He was making love to you now, not just fucking, and the shift made your chest ache.

"I'm not going to last," he admitted, his voice muffled against your skin. "You feel- God, you feel incredible- and l've been imagining this for so long, and I can't-" His voice broke, his hips stuttering as he fought for control. His forehead pressed hard against yours, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle in his body pulled taut like a wire about to snap.

"Don't stop," you commanded, your voice breathless but firm. Your legs locked tighter around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. "I'm close too. Don't you dare stop."

His eyes flew open. "You're-"

"Yes. So close. Please, Ryland-"

Something shifted in his expression. The desperate scramble for his own release transformed into fierce, focused determination. He wanted this for you.

Needed it.

"Okay," he breathed, adjusting his angle.

"Okay, tell me what you need."

"Harder. Right there-"

He obeyed. His hips snapped against yours with renewed purpose, each thrust deliberate, aimed, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes. His breathing turned ragged, his control clearly fraying, but he held on. For you.

"That's it," you gasped, your nails raking down his back. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't-"

The pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter, a spring winding toward its breaking point. He was trembling above you, sweat dripping from his temple, his jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jumping.

"I can feel you," he groaned, his voice wrecked. "I can feel you squeezing me- fuck, you're so close-"

And then his voice dropped. Lower. Darker.

That tone - the one that had started this whole thing back in the control room.

"Come for me," he murmured against your ear, his hips never slowing. "That's it. Be a good girl and come for me."

There.

The words hit you like a live wire. Your back arched off the mattress, a broken cry tearing from your throat as the orgasm crashed through you - white, hot and all-consuming, radiating from your core to your fingertips. Your inner walls clenched around him in pulsing waves, and the sensation of you coming undone around him, triggered by those two words, was the final thread holding his control together.

"God-" he choked out.

His hips snapped twice more, three times, and then he buried himself to the hilt and shattered. A raw, broken sound escaped him - half your name, half a sob-as he spilled inside you, his body shuddering through wave after wave of release. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his entire weight pressing you into the thin mattress, and he gasped against your skin like a drowning man finally breaking the surface.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The ship hummed around you. The centrifuge spun. Somewhere in the engineering bay, an alien politely pretended not to have heard any of this.

Ryland's breathing slowly steadied. His heart hammered against your chest, wild and out of sync with your own. You could feel the dampness of sweat on his back, the fine tremor still running through his thighs.

"That was..." He lifted his head, looking down at you with glassy, adoring eyes. His hair was a disaster, his lips swollen. He looked utterly wrecked. And utterly happy.

"Clinical?" you offered, a teasing smile tugging at your lips.

He snorted, burying his face in the crook of your neck again. "If I ever use that word to describe this, you have my permission to space me."

You laughed softly, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his sweat-damp back.

"Noted."

He shifted, pulling out of you with a gentle slowness that made you both wince. The loss of him left you feeling strangely empty, but he didn't go far. He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, rearranging your bodies until you were curled against his chest, your head tucked under his chin.

"We should probably clean up," he murmured, his hand stroking up and down your spine.

"Probably," you agreed, making no move to get up.

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip. Then, softly, almost hesitantly: "I meant what I said. About you being the center of my gravity. That wasn't- I wasn't just trying to be clever."

You tilted your head back, looking up at him. In the dim blue light, his face was open, vulnerable.

"I know," you said softly. "You're terrible at lying, Ryland. It's one of the things I like about you."

His lips twitched. "One of the things?"

"There are many things," you allowed. "We have a long flight to Tau Ceti. I'm sure I'II discover more."

He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "We have a few years," he said quietly. "Give or take."

"Plenty of time for research."

A laugh rumbled through his chest. "Is that what we're calling it now? Research?"

"Very rigorous research," you confirmed, your hand splaying across his heart. It was still beating fast, a steady thrum beneath your palm. "Peer-reviewed, even."

He propped himself on an elbow to look down at you, his nose brushing affectionately against yours. In the dim blue light, the earlier panic was completely gone, replaced by something steady, warm, and profoundly certain.

"Well, as a man of science," he whispered, a bright, hopelessly fond smile breaking across his face, "I'm going to need to replicate the results. Multiple times. Just to be absolutely sure the data is sound."

"Get some rest, Dr. Grace," you murmured against his lips. "We will still be here tomorrow."

He let out a soft, contented sigh, settling his weight back down beside you and wrapping his arms securely around your waist. He tucked his face into the crook of your neck, his breathing finally falling into a slow, even rhythm.

Living in a tin can hurtling through the dark abyss of space meant that personal boundaries were a luxury you had both abandoned long ago. You had learned to navigate around each other in the cramped, utilitarian quarters of the ship, sharing unappetizing nutrient paste rations, recalibrating the atmospheric controls shoulder-to-shoulder, and existing in a constant, comfortable proximity that would have felt suffocating back on Earth.

But out here, with only each other - and an incredibly intelligent, five-legged alien space spider - for company, that proximity was the only thing keeping you sane. Ryland was brilliant, relentlessly optimistic, and possessed a deeply ingrained, nerdy charm that made the crushing weight of the mission feel survivable. He was a good man.

Lately, however, that comfortable proximity had started to feel a lot heavier. The accidental brushes of his arm against yours in the laboratory, the way he looked at you when you managed to decipher a new string of Eridanian vocabulary, the warmth of his presence when you were both exhausted and staring out at the uncaring void - it was all beginning to build a quiet, simmering tension in the pit of your stomach.

Currently, that tension was being tested as you sat strapped securely into the pilot’s seat in the main control room, running manual astrogation drills.

The ship’s automated systems were robust, but Eva Stratt’s paranoia had dictated that every single crew member know how to fly the Hail Mary in the event of a catastrophic computer failure. Well, except the two of you. You were scientists, not pilots. The dizzying arrays of vectors, velocities, and orbital mechanics were entirely outside your wheelhouse. But Ryland, ever the patient educator, had taken it upon himself to teach you - in theory, that was. You liked to consider the both of you as clueless as any other human down on Earth.

"Okay, let's run through the parameters one more time," Ryland said.

He was hovering just over your left shoulder, anchored to the hard plastic back of your pilot's chair in the zero-gravity environment of the control cabin. Because there was no 'up' or 'down' without the centrifuge spinning, he was floating at a slight angle, perfectly relaxed in the weightlessness.

"If I want to adjust our attitude to point exactly at that specific star cluster in the Tau Ceti system," you murmured, keeping your eyes locked strictly on the glowing telemetry screen in front of you. You raised your hands, hovering them over the manual thruster controls. "I can't just fire the port thruster like I'm turning a steering wheel."

"Right. Why?" Ryland prompted. His voice was close. Close enough that you could feel the ambient heat radiating off his standard-issue jumpsuit, a stark contrast to the slightly chilly, sterile air of the cabin.

"Because of Newton's First Law," you replied, reciting the lessons he had been drilling into your head for the past three weeks. "An object in motion stays in motion. In the vacuum of space, there is zero atmospheric friction to slow down the spin. If I fire the port thruster, the ship will just keep spinning along that axis forever, or until we make ourselves incredibly dizzy."

"Exactly," Ryland beamed. The pride in his voice was palpable, vibrating right near your ear. "You are your own friction. You have to be your own brakes."

You swallowed hard, forcing your focus away from the warmth of his arm, which was currently hovering a mere millimeter away from the shoulder of your flight suit, and forced your brain back to the math. "So, I fire the port thruster to initiate the turn, let the momentum carry our mass, and then I have to counter-fire the starboard thruster at the exact right millisecond to arrest the momentum and lock us into the new trajectory."

"That's the theory. Now let's see the application," Ryland encouraged softly. He was watching your hands over the console, entirely focused on your progress.

You let out a slow, steadying breath. You disabled the autopilot interlocks, the console flashing a brief yellow warning before yielding full manual control to your joysticks.

"Alright. Manual control engaged. Firing port attitude thruster for zero-point-two seconds... now."

You tapped the left control stick. The ship didn't shudder - the attitude thrusters were too small to feel inside the massive hull - but the starfield out the reinforced viewport slowly, lazily began to drift to the right. It was a dizzying sensation, watching the universe spin around you while you sat perfectly still.

You glued your eyes to the digital degree marker on the main astrogation display. It ticked up with agonizing slowness. Ten degrees. Fifteen degrees. Twenty degrees.

"Wait for it," Ryland coaxed.

He leaned in a fraction closer to check the monitor over your shoulder. You could faintly smell the sterile, unscented ship soap they provided in the washroom, mixed with the distinct, warm scent that was just fundamentally him. It was intoxicating in a way it had absolutely no right to be. His presence was a massive, grounding anchor in the middle of nowhere.

"Twenty-eight... thirty-two..." you counted aloud, your fingers tensing over the starboard control stick. Your heart was thumping a rapid rhythm against your ribs. If you overshot the counter-burn, you'd have to waste precious fuel correcting the wobble.

"Thirty-eight, thirty-nine... counter-firing now."

You tapped the starboard control with as much precision as you could muster.

Out the viewport, the spinning starfield instantly stopped drifting. The sudden halt was almost jarring to the eyes. The nose of the Hail Mary locked into absolute stillness. You checked the telemetry screen. The digital crosshairs were sitting exactly on top of the coordinates you had calculated. Dead center. Zero drift. Zero wobble.

"Yes!" Ryland cheered.

In a completely natural, unfiltered burst of scientific triumph and pride, he shifted his grip.

His large hand moved from the hard plastic back of the pilot's chair to rest warmly and firmly on the curve of your shoulder. His thumb pressed right into the dip of your collarbone through the fabric of your jumpsuit, an anchoring, heavy weight in the zero gravity. He leaned down, his face dipping into your peripheral vision, his cheek almost brushing yours as he grinned at the perfect alignment on the screen.

"Perfect pitch and yaw," he praised.

The sheer, relieved approval stripped away his usual nervous, rapid-fire energy. His voice dropped an octave, settling into a low, breathless rumble that vibrated right through the shell of your ear.

"Textbook execution. Good girl."

The ambient, ever-present hum of the ship’s life support systems seemed to vanish entirely from your awareness.

The praise had slipped out of him on pure, unadulterated instinct. It was a leftover relic from his previous life, from his days of leaning over lab tables, grading middle school science fair projects, and offering gentle, authoritative encouragement to students who finally figured out how to balance a chemical equation.

But floating in a tiny cabin in the dark abyss of space, millions of miles away from any school or civilization... it didn't sound like a teacher.

Delivered with the heavy, possessive weight of his hand on your collarbone, the close proximity of his body, and the low, rough timbre of his voice, it sounded like something else entirely.

It sent a searing, electric jolt straight down your spine, pooling hot and heavy in your stomach. Your breath hitched audibly in the dead quiet of the cabin. Your hands froze over the manual controls, your fingers curling inward. Every single nerve ending in your shoulder seemed to hyper-focus on the exact shape and heat of his hand gripping you.

It took Ryland Grace exactly one and a half seconds to hear the echo of his own words replay in his brilliant, analytical brain.

"Oh, my gosh," he gasped.

He yanked his hand off your shoulder as if your flight suit had just been doused in liquid nitrogen. In his sudden, blind, overwhelming panic, the man completely forgot the very laws of physics he had just spent half an hour teaching you.

He pushed back away from you with entirely too much force. Without any gravity to anchor him, the violent push launched him backward across the control room. He flailed wildly, his arms windmilling in the air as he sailed across the cabin, completely out of control, until his back slammed into the main science console with a loud, painful thump.

You spun around in your chair, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, entirely unsure if you should be concerned for his safety or absolutely entirely amused by his panic.

The brilliant, world-saving biologist - the man who had figured out how to harness alien microbes for interstellar travel - was currently tangled in his own zero-G socks, gripping the edge of the metal console for dear life. A furious, agonizing, painfully bright red blush was crawling so fast up his neck that his ears practically looked radioactive.

"I- I didn't mean-" Ryland stammered.

His eyes were wide, round, and completely horrified behind the lenses of his glasses. His hands hovered awkwardly in the air in front of him, fingers twitching, as if he didn't know what to do with his own limbs anymore.

"My brain just- it cross-wired!" he blurted out, his voice cracking horribly. "I was looking at the telemetry and I was just so proud of the math, and my brain just reverted to grading eighth-grade science fairs! I swear on my life, I swear to gosh, I do not think of you as a seventh grader! That was incredibly inappropriate, I am so, so sorry, I didn't mean it like- I didn't mean to sound-"

He was rambling at the speed of light, his chest heaving under his jumpsuit as he hyperventilated.

But despite his absolute mortification, despite his frantic attempts to rationalize the slip of the tongue as a simple, harmless pedagogical error... the tension in the room had irreversibly shifted.

It was thick. It was electric. You could practically cut it with a scalpel.

He was panicking precisely because he was suddenly, acutely, and overwhelmingly aware of the fact that you were definitely not one of his students. The realization was hitting him like a freight train, crashing through the comfortable, platonic barriers he had built around himself for the duration of this mission. As he stared at you from across the room, his eyes darted nervously from your gaze, down to your slightly parted lips, down to the curve of your throat, and quickly back up to the ceiling ceiling panels, swallowing hard enough that you could see the apple of his throat bob from across the room.

You bit down hard on your lower lip, trying desperately to suppress the smile that was threatening to break across your face. Your own cheeks were burning hot, a flush that you knew matched his completely. You could still feel the physical ghost of his thumb pressing into your collarbone.

"Ryland, breathe," you managed to say. You tried to sound reassuring, but your voice came out a little softer, a little huskier than usual, betraying the fact that the slip-up had affected you just as much as it had horrified him. "It's fine. Really. I know what you meant-"

Thump.

A soft, hollow impact echoed in the cabin, cutting off your reassurance.

A large, perfectly clear, pressurized sphere of xenonite drifted lazily through the open doorway of the control room, gently bumping against the upper doorframe before floating into the space between you and Ryland.

Rocky was inside his custom-built bubble. The Eridanian engineer had likely been in his workshop, heard the loud crash of Ryland slamming into the science console, and pushed himself down the zero-gravity corridor to investigate the commotion.

"Observation. Human female face is red. Internal temperature elevated."

The deadpan, entirely emotionless robotic monotone of Ryland’s custom translation program filled the room instantly. Because the software was completely hardwired to intercept Rocky’s frequencies and translate them in real-time, there were no musical chords to soften the blow - just the immediate, blunt observation echoing from the laptop speakers strapped to the console.

Ryland groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated suffering. He let go of the console and pressed both hands over his flaming face, hiding behind his fingers.

"Oh, heck," Ryland muffled into his palms. "Please. Kill me now. Just vent the airlock and put me out of my misery."

Inside the floating sphere, Rocky shifted. His carapace scraped slightly against the xenonite, his five little articulated legs tapping a rapid, curious rhythm against the clear wall of his bubble. He was a scientist at heart, and a new, unexplained biological phenomenon was entirely too fascinating to ignore.

The laptop speakers instantly spoke again, delivering the translation with zero tact.

"Query. Grace also turning red. Heart rates for both humans are currently fast. Biometric sensors indicate endocrine systems are actively producing large amounts of adrenaline, cortisol, and oxytocin."

Rocky’s bubble slowly rotated in the zero gravity, his eyeless carapace seemingly tracking between the two of you.

"Are humans in physical danger, question? Or is this typical Earth mating behavior, question? Please explain."

"It's not mating behavior!" Ryland yelped, dropping his hands from his face.

His voice was an octave higher than normal, bordering on hysterical. He pointed an accusatory finger at the floating glass ball, looking like a man who was fighting for his life against his own ship's computer.

"It was a linguistic error! A vocabulary slip! I used a colloquial phrase in the wrong context and triggered an inappropriate psychological response! Rocky, I swear to gosh, turn off the biological monitors right now! Stop looking at our oxytocin levels!"

Inside the sphere, Rocky tapped a few more times.

"Linguistic error causes mating response, question?" the robotic voice stated deadpan. The xenonite ball slowly bounced off a wall panel, lazily drifting back toward the center of the room. "Earth biology remains highly confusing. I will take notes for future reference."

You finally let out a shaky laugh. You couldn't hold it in anymore. The sheer absurdity of the situation - arguing about mating responses and oxytocin levels with a highly intelligent, incredibly blunt alien space spider who was rolling around in a hamster ball - was exactly what you needed to break the suffocating, heavy sexual tension that had gripped the room.

You unbuckled your complex pilot's harness, the straps floating away from your shoulders. With a gentle, practiced push against the footrests, you floated up and out of the pilot's seat, letting the zero gravity carry your momentum smoothly across the small room.

Ryland watched you approach. He looked entirely paralyzed, his back pressed flat against the science console. His eyes tracked your every movement, the dark rings around his pupils blown wide, the furious blush on his face stubbornly refusing to fade.

You reached out and caught the edge of the science console, arresting your momentum and stopping just a few inches away from where Ryland was currently trying to merge his molecular structure with the bulkhead. Up this close, you could see the rapid pulse beating at the base of his throat. You could feel the heat radiating off him again.

He looked up at you, his breath catching audibly in his chest for a second time.

"I'm going to go to the galley and get a drink of water," you said softly, holding his panicked, entirely captivated gaze.

You let a slow, deliberate, teasing smirk tug at the corner of your mouth. You didn't back down from the proximity. Instead, you let the silence stretch for just a second longer than necessary, letting him sweat it out.

"But you know..." you added, leaning in just a fraction of an inch closer, dropping your voice. "My astrogation is getting pretty good."

Ryland swallowed, his eyes darting to your lips. "It... it is. Yes."

"So," you whispered, pushing off the console to slowly float backward toward the open doorway, "I expect you to keep up the positive reinforcement, Dr. Grace."

Ryland made a sound that was half-choke, half-squeak. His hands gripped the metal edge of the console so tightly his knuckles turned completely white.

Satisfied, you turned in the air and floated gracefully out of the control room, heading down the corridor toward the galley. You left the brilliant, awkward microbiologist completely flustered, entirely speechless, and very, very red as Rocky’s clear glass bubble lazily drifted past his head, the laptop speakers chiming one last time.

Ryland was very grateful that he was visiting her classroom and that she wasn’t visiting his. Her room was a stark contrast to his. He had planets hanging from the ceiling, his desk was cluttered and trashed, and things fell down regularly. Here, there were paper lanterns hanging down, but that was all. They were evenly spaced and gave the room a cozy feel, not a trapped in low budget space feel. Everything had a place. Her desk was cleared, at least the top was. He had no clue if the drawers were in the same condition. The classroom was organized from the row of backpacks hanging on the wall to the cabinet filled with toys. It was structured, warm. 

However, nice as the classroom was, that was not the best part of this arrangement the two schools set up. Working with Y/n was the highlight of his school year. There was just something about her. Maybe it was the fact that she always had a tupperware filled with baked goods for him when he brought his class to visit. Maybe it was the fact that she always smelled like vanilla and jasmine. And maybe, just maybe, it was the way she taught her students. The way that she could help one student understand a concept using props and hand motions and then turn around and help another by turning it into a game. She had a passion for helping them get from where they were, to where they were going. It was written all over her face. 

This was what Ryland thought about as he walked his eighth grade homeroom over to the elementary school. The morning fog was still thick and a slight breeze sent a chill down his spine. The buzzing chatter of his students was making the grey sky seem a little lighter. He loved that they were just as excited as the kindergarteners were. 

They made it inside the elementary building and the warmth immediately seeped into his bones, welcoming him like the embrace of an old friend. He navigated his class through the now familiar hallways and stopped outside a door that had been decorated with small laminated ducks, each one bearing the name of a kindergartener in the classroom. He turned to his gaggle of students. 

“Remember, go in quietly and sit on the floor near your kid.” He said, making eye contact with the students who loved to go in squealing and hug their kindergarten partner. 

“Yes, Mr. Grace,” the class echoed. 

Ryland knocked on the door. He suddenly felt nervous. This had become the new normal since the first time Y/n opened the door. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat to no avail. He wiped one sweaty palm on his jeans and ran the other one, shakily, through his tousled hair. His stomach knotted, he felt like an idiot. 

The door opened, and there was Y/n. She was wearing dress pants and an oversized sweater. Her hair was falling naturally. The smell of her perfume was wrapping him up like he just stepped inside after being out in the cold too long, which technically he did. His breath hitched quietly and he hoped she didn’t hear it. He felt the small smile creeping onto his face and there was no point in trying to fight it. 

He didn’t get to bask in the feeling as long as he wished to, the overly excited five year olds started babbling behind her. She smiled at him. What kindergarteners? 

“Hey,” she said, her voice low, like she was whispering a secret for his ears only. 

The small smile broke into a full blown grin. “Hey,” he whispered back. Y/n opened the door fully so Ryland and his class could enter. The two teachers stepped aside while the students entered the space and situated themselves. As he entered the room, his eyes settled on her desk, finding a tupperware sitting on it, a pink sticky note on top with his name on it. He could feel the tips of his ears match the color of the sticky note. 

“My kids have been excited all week. We had to make a countdown paper chain on Monday,” She said, beaming up at him. 

Ryland let out a small chuckle. “Mine too. They try to play it off and act cool, but they’ve asked me once a week when we’re coming back.” Y/n laughed and both teachers got back to what they were actually supposed to be doing. 

The schedule was simple enough. First was penmanship. The eighth graders had to help the kinders write a three sentence story. Y/n stood in front of the whiteboard, pink marker in hand. 

“So if Mr. Grace is my partner,” She said, looking at the group of fifty or so kids crammed into the room. “Then he and I are going to come up with the story together! It can be about anything!” She looked over at him. “For example, I might write, ‘Mr. Grace is a good teacher.’” She wrote the sentence on the board. Her lettering was smooth and elegant, only in the way that teachers can have. She glanced over at Ryland expectantly. 

“And I might want her to write, ‘Miss Y/n is a great teacher.’” He hoped that it wasn’t obvious that he was trying to elevate her. The smile and roll of her eyes told him he was unsuccessful. She wrote it anyway. He moved to stand next to her. 

“After that, we might say, ‘They make a great team.’” She said, and the smile she gave him went right to his stomach. He had to snap his eyes anywhere else or he feared he would forget himself and make a really dumb move in front of the students. He felt his neck heat up and he was sure he was beet red. Y/n noticed. Her gaze drifted back to the students. “Are there any questions?” She asked. 

A hand shot up instantly. Y/n nodded for the student to ask his question. “But, Miss Y/n! Our papers have a big square on top of our writing lines!” Y/n smiled at the urgency of the question. 

“They do! Good job, Jeffrey, I almost forgot! At the top of your paper you have a blank space. You and your buddy are going to color a picture that goes with your story.” 

Another hand went up. “Miss Y/n, you didn’t draw a picture.” 

The middle schoolers chuckled, noticing the way their teacher was avoiding looking at Miss Y/n. One of them raised their hand. “Yeah, Mr. Grace, you have to help Miss Y/n color a picture of the two of you!” 

He wanted to die. He hated how bad he was at being subtle. He was rescued when Y/n let out a laugh. “You guys are right. Tell you what, while you guys write, Mr. Grace and I will draw a picture on the board.” 

The students got to work as Ryland uncapped a black marker. He started drawing a stick figure. It was lopsided, and the eyes weren’t evenly spaced out, but Y/n assumed it was his best efforts based on the way his brows knit together and his tongue poked out slightly from between his lips. 

He looked over to where Y/n was finishing her drawing. It was very obviously him. From the glasses to the cardigan he was wearing, the dry erase drawing was very evidently Ryland. He was even giving a thumbs up. He glanced back at his drawing. Not terrible. Not great. He picked up the pink marker she had been using earlier. He drew a flower in the stick woman’s hand. He took a step back and admired his work. Y/n did the same. 

“We really do make a great team,” she said, turning to look up at him. 

His brain short circuited. She didn’t even compliment him. Why was his brain offline? Think of something! Say something! Say anything! She’s looking right at you! Say something! Say something now!

“Like ribosomes and protein synthesis.” Not that! Idiot. 

But the panic subsided as Y/n let out a huff of laughter and her body involuntarily leaned into his. It was brief, a slight graze of her shoulder against his. Yet it was all he could focus on. He stilled as it happened, trying to memorize the feeling instantly. He spent the next ten minutes trying to figure out if his arm tingled from the force of impact or if his brain was experiencing a minor chemical imbalance. His internal debate subsided as Y/n instructed the students to turn in their work. 

The rest of the morning passed by in a flurry of raised hands and tiny confused sighs as math worksheets were handed out and completed. There was a breath of relief when Y/n announced it was time for recess. He shrugged his cardigan off and onto the chair as he pulled his blazer back on. Y/n led the group down the hall and outside as Ryland manned the end of the line, ensuring no wandering or straggling. 

This time, the fresh air felt less inviting, like it was stripping the atmosphere of all the warmth and depth that Y/n’s classroom supplied. It smelled Earthy and sharp. Normally it would be one of his favorite things in the world. In this moment, he wanted nothing more than to be inhaling her scent. Her classroom scent, that is, or so he told himself. His inner lament was silenced when a soccer ball went flying into his left foot. 

“Mr. Grace!” A chorus of students yelled his name and ran over to him. A tiny boy with a mop of dark curly hair peered up at him through thick eyelashes. His hands were clasped near his chest as he started to speak. “Mr. Grace, will you play with us?” 

Ryland felt something profound tug at his heart strings as the boy looked up at him expectantly. 

“Sure, but only if we beat these middle schoolers, deal?” He stuck out his hand, the soccer ball now pinned under his foot. 

The boy, Miles, shook his hand and giggled out, ‘deal’. 

“Kinder versus middle school!” was all Ryland shouted before kicking the ball towards a five year old and running towards the goal, guarded by one of his own students. 

Y/n watched from the sidelines as Ryland weaved, not so elegantly, between the students. He was constantly stumbling over his own feet, and his glasses kept sliding down his face. However, Y/n also saw the way he passed the ball to her students every time. The way he  would steal the ball from an eighth grader, pass it to a little kid, only to have the ball stolen by a middle schooler again. She noticed the way he fell backwards and landed on his back in order to avoid lightly bumping one of her students. She watched him pause the game to help a girl tie her shoe. He had never looked so attractive. He was squatting down, her yellow shoe resting atop his knee. His glasses hung around his chin and his hair was tousled and sweaty from running. The way he smiled, watching as the girl ran back to the game once her shoe was properly tied again. She noticed the way that the water ran down his hair to his cheek to his neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt. Wait, water?

Y/n’s train of thought was cut off by a splash of rain hitting her forehead. Oh great. Before she knew it, five year olds all around her were losing their minds. She pulled her sweater tighter around herself as the rain picked up. Ryland was by her side in an instant, shrugging his blazer off and, awkwardly, draping it over Y/n’s head, an attempt to shield her from the rain. Y/n smiled despite herself as she watched him concentrate. A whistle blew and all the kids quickly got in line as Y/n led them towards the classroom. Ryland, soaked to the bone, stood at the end of the line, waiting for one kindergartener to catch up after he ran back into the playground for his water bottle. 

The group was buzzing as they re-entered the classroom. Y/n gave instructions for the kids to hang up their coats and find a seat on the rug. Ryland stood next to Y/n, who was finally pulling the blazer from her head. “You didn’t have to do that,” She whispered, a faint smile tugging at her lips. 

“Yes I did,” he breathed out. Y/n tried to hand him the blazer, but it was quickly draped around her again, this time, over her shoulders. She smiled as he rubbed the fabric up and down her arms. There was a faint smell of clean linen and stale coffee. It was uniquely Ryland, like the scent only existed for him. She had been mostly protected from the rain, and she didn’t really need dried off, but she let him do it.

His glasses had little drops of water on them, sliding down the lens and onto the floor. His hair was completely soaked, dripping down his face steadily onto his clothes, which had been thoroughly drenched. Yet here he was, drying her off. The whole world seemed to narrow down to just the two of them as Ryland pulled the blazer off of her and wrapped his knit sweater around her. The sleeves were too long for her, but she pushed them back slightly, freeing her hands. The soft fabric brushed his arm as he tucked a stray hair behind her ear. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, Y/n waited with baited breath. 

“Miss Y/n?” A tiny hand pulled on the sweater and Y/n reluctantly pulled her eyes away from Ryland’s. 

Ryland felt his mouth shut quickly, suddenly very aware of where he was. He looked over at his students, who were smirking and looking away. Because that's what he needed, a class of middle schoolers noticing his awkward crush on the nicest woman in the world. 

He tried looking anywhere else. The pattern of the floors was suddenly riveting. His gaze snapped back to Y/n as she turned on a movie and told the class to watch quietly and eat their lunches. He turned the lights off and made his way to the back of the classroom, sitting on a tiny table. Y/n sat next to him, tupperware in hand, pink sticky note still on top. She handed it to him wordlessly, the air around them full and comforting. He opened the container as Y/n started eating her lunch next to him. 

“Banana bread?” He whispered excitedly. “You didn’t!” 

Y/n smiled, and she was overjoyed that the lights were off and he wouldn’t be able to see the way that her cheeks flushed. “Of course I did. You said it was your favorite.” Ryland leaned back in the chair slightly and started eating quietly, eyes trained on the students in front of him. 

He let his hand settle on the table beneath him, slowly letting it drift closer to Y/n’s until his hand was ghosting hers. Y/n didn’t look away from the kids as she carefully shifted so her hand was pressed against his, trying to get him to just take a hint already. 

He let his fingers delicately trace over her knuckles before hooking his pinky under her hand and flipping it gently so it rested in his. It was slow, and a little clumsy, but it was also warm. Solid. 

Ryland could feel the quickening thump of his heart against his chest. His throat was dry and he was suddenly very nervous that his hand was going to start sweating. 

The thoughts were subdued when Y/n brushed her thumb over his knuckles, trying to memorize every ridge, every valley. He looked down where they were joined together. A small smile graced his features and he went back to watching the kids. 

Lunch was over too soon in his humble opinion. In reality, they had actually gone fifteen minutes over because Y/n didn’t want to let go of Ryland’s hand. Only two more hours before he had to leave, and he tried to push the thought away, like not thinking about it delayed the inevitable. He took his place at the front of the room as Y/n settled her students into their seats. 

“Alright you guys! Who’s excited to learn about space?” Every little hand shot into the air. 

He uncapped an expo marker and started asking questions. “Who knows what is in the middle of the solar system?” A middle schooler started whispering into her kindergartener’s ear. The five year old jumped up frantically, waving her hand in the air. 

“I know! I know!” 

“Tell me, Amaya!” 

“The sun!” 

“Good job! Yes! The Sun is in the middle of our solar system! Everything goes in circles around it.” He drew a sun on the whiteboard. “Alright, Amaya, I need your help now.” 

Amaya looked over at Y/n for reassurance. After receiving a nod of approval, Amaya walked to the tall teacher. 

“Okay. Amaya, you are the sun. You’re gonna stand right here.” He gave her a high five as she stood where she was told to. 

“Who knows what planet is closest to the Sun?” 

There was more whispering. Then more voices shouting out ‘I know’ and ‘Me! Me!’. 

“What is it, Jack?” 

“Mercury!” 

“Good job! Come on up!” Ryland added another circle to the board. “Okay, Jack. You're gonna go in a circle around Amaya, and you’re the fastest planet in the solar system! So go! Faster! Faster!” The class erupted into giggles. 

“What comes after Mercury?” He didn’t have to wait this time. “Which planet is it, Claire?” 

“Uh, Venus?” 

“Venus is right!” Claire didn’t wait for permission before walking to the front. “Okay Claire, you have to walk in a circle too, but you’re very slow,” He said, dragging out the last part of the sentence. Claire started marching in slow motion around Jack. Laughter again. 

He continued on until he had an entire solar system of kindergarteners running around the space. Y/n watched as he laughed with the kids and inevitably started to ramble about how technically Max, the Earth stand-in, was moving slightly too fast for this example to be realistic. She didn’t realize she was smiling until Ryland glanced over and shot her a grin. 

He finally settles them down and returns everyone to their seats. Y/n watched him for a moment longer before remembering the coloring sheets in her hand. 

They sat together at her desk once the kids started coloring together. “I don’t think they’ve ever had that much fun during science,” Y/n said, her voice sincere, with a hint of something more. God, Ryland hoped he wasn’t imagining it. 

“I don’t know about that,” He said, his gaze flicking quickly to her lips and back up to her eyes. Y/n noticed. Her cheeks heated up and her eyes shifted to the ground, remembering quickly that they were still working. 

Ryland wanted to die. He looked up at the ceiling and wished that it would fall on him. He was saved from the awkwardness when a voice called his name. 

“Mr. Grace,” A teary eyed Amaya approached him with her coloring page in her grasp. He was moving before he realized it, crouching down so he was eye level with her. 

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He held his palm out and let her grab it with her small hand. She sniffled and Y/n felt her breath get caught in her throat at the interaction. The way his eyes scanned Amaya for something wrong. The way he subconsciously made her feel seen. The way he knew to hold out his calloused hand. It all caused something to bubble under the surface. 

“I messed up my drawing,” she mumbled, showing him the paper. Ryland looked at the page and then back at the small girl. 

“Messed up? I don’t see anything wrong!” He said, embellishing his confusion slightly. 

“Saturn isn’t supposed to be pink,” She sniffled again and let out a small, sad sigh that made Ryland want to tear up a little. 

“Well you know what?” He asked, looking at the girl holding his hand. 

“What?” 

“I think pink is the best color anyway. I think that Saturn looks better in pink than any other color.” 

Amaya cracked a small smile. “Pink is your favorite color?” 

Ryland beamed back. “Well, I don’t know, orange is pretty cool, but pink is too.” 

Amaya giggled and let go of Ryland’s hand, bouncing back to her seat. He stayed crouched on the ground, watching her go back to her seat for a while longer. 

It was at this moment that Y/n subconsciously noticed how strong his shoulders looked through his still damp shirt, which clung to his muscles in all the right places. She shook her head as he stood up, like it would remove the thought from her brain. 

“You’re really good with them, you know.” Her voice was quieter. It sent a warm tingle down Ryland’s spine. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it quickly. 

Y/n giggled and looked back at the students. He opened his mouth to try again. 

“Well, statistically speaking, it’s easier to induce dopamine at that developmental stage.” He noticed the way her lips curved into a smirk and her eyes slightly narrowed in confusion. “Their baseline for excitement is much lower than in adults, so small achievements tend to produce disproportionally strong reactions. So like,” He took a breath, realizing he was still staring at her lips, and moved his eyes to meet hers. “High return on minimal input situation.”

Y/n rolled her eyes and laughed, lightly shoving his shoulder. “That was a lot of words to say that I was right.” He smiled and pressed his shoulder into hers. 

They sat together until Y/n went up to give the next instructions. Her eyes kept wandering over to his frame, sitting in a tiny, blue chair meant for a five year old. The older kids helped their kindergarten partners put their things away and start their reading work. 

Y/n started picking up markers that had fallen on the floor. Ryland followed suit. He stopped at Amaya’s seat, noticing how Saturn was bright pink with orange rings around it. He smiled softly and went to pick up the orange marker at the same time that Y/n did. Their fingers brushed, and at first Ryland pulled back, startled by her presence, letting out a quiet gasp. 

Y/n let out a small giggle, and quickly clapped her hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. He rolled his eyes at her laughter, but smiled despite himself. They cleaned up quietly, enjoying the last moments together. 

“Alright, kinders! Let’s say bye to our middle schoolers!” Y/n said as the eighth graders lined up with their bags. 

“Bye!” The class shouted. The middle schoolers waved and filed out of the room, Ryland hesitated outside the door. Y/n stood in the doorway, wanting to see him as long as she could before closing the door. 

He turned from Y/n to his class. “Start walking to the bus, I’ll meet you there. Gotta ask Miss Y/n what grade you guys should get.” The class groaned but started walking anyway. 

He turned back to Y/n. “I uh,” what was he doing? This was a terrible idea. “I, well, you,”

Y/n smiled and he completely forgot whatever it was he was trying to spit out. In a moment of foolish bravery, his mouth moved faster than his brain. 

“Would you want to go out with me?” He breathed out. 

Y/n smiled, looking at the ground, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth. She looked back up at him, cheeks flushed. “I’d love to.” 

He let out a sigh of relief. There was something about the way she looked at him. The way her eyes flitted down to his lips and then back to his eyes. He forgot himself for a moment. His lips went crashing into hers. It was a little clumsy, and a little rushed, but his lips were soft, and molded nicely with hers. 

He pulled away, breathless, eyes a little wild. Y/n leaned against the door, not registering the students behind her talking and coloring. 

“I‘ll see you later,” he mumbled as he walked backwards, eyes still trained on Y/n. He stumbled only twice before he turned around and walked towards the school bus waiting for him in the rain. 

He was startled as he climbed on board and was greeted with applause. 

“Yeah! Get it Mr. Grace!” 

“Finally did it!”

“You wanted her so bad!” 

“It was like an awkward nerdy soap opera!”

Just to be on the safe side, you yank the door open with a tight smile on your face and hiss out as neutrally as possible, "Can I help you?"

"... Oh." The smug smirk drops from the man's face.

You blink.

The man leaning against the doorframe, and was casually abusing your doorbell until a second ago is a carbon copy of your boyfriend.

".... No."

Shaking your head, you shut the door, the small chain locked into place, palm covering the peephole just in case.

From the split-second look you got, the resemblance is uncanny. The eyes, the jawline, down to the curl of their lips when they are sporting a lopsided smile. There are some differences such as the stranger having slightly coarser facial hair and a more rugged style — though even the silhouette of sporting a jacket is similar.

Scam calls of people imitating your elderly parents or your friends or partners are common. Likewise, accounts getting hacked and sending malicious links to people's inboxes pretending to be the owner are common.

Not whatever this— this Mandela Catalogue, this No I Am Not Human, this Among Us, Imposter situation—

"Uh, Ma'am..?" The Doppelganger awkwardly clears his throat, tapping on the door from the other side to get your attention, "Terribly sorry if it's wrong, but there's supposed to be a Ryland Grace living here..?"

... Okay. The fact that he knows Ryland's full name means good. ... Probably.

".......Ry..!" you yell as you approach the bathroom, and a muffled One sec! accompanies the sound of shuffling before Ryland opens the bathroom door, hair still sopping wet, the bathrobe barely halfway closed. "... There's a clone of you at the door."

"Clone..?" Ryland tilts his head, and it takes a fraction of a second before realisation dawns on him. "Oh! Can you let him in? I'll get dressed super quick!"

... Okay. So he knows the guy, great!

You slammed the door in the guy's face. .... Not-so-great.

Swallowing your nerves, you crack the door open, hesitantly peeking your head out to meekly offer, "... Come in, please. He'll be with you in a moment."

The Not-Ryland closes his eyes for a second before he gives you a thankful nod as he steps in, but the way his lips are pursed and his shoulders shaking slightly is proof enough of how hard he's trying to hold in his laughter.

It makes laughter bubble up in your own stomach, honestly. The entire situation is ridiculous.

"So," you start, "Since Ryland is apparently wrestling his wardrobe and will take a while, I suppose introductions are in order," extending your hand for a handshake, you offer him your name, "... The girlfriend," you tack on the title.

"Colt Seavers," A calloused hand takes yours in a firm handshake, mimicking your format "...The twin brother."

"Ugh, figures!" you chuckle, running a hand through your messy hair, "I don't know my first thought was some kind of clone version of Ry, I really need to lay off sci-fi movies for a while—"

It dawns on you that you're still in your pajamas. Hell, you're standing in front of your boyfriend's unknown-until-now brother freshly rolled out of bed.

"I should get dressed!" you turn on your heel towards the bedroom, only to turn back around again at the thought of leaving a guest unattended in the arguably messy (you now realise) living room, without a beverage, no less. "Actually— can I get you anything? Coffee, tea—?"

"I'm good, sweetheart, no need to worry," He waves you off, moving to the kitchen himself. "Sorry for the scare. My dear little brother forgot to mention he has a girlfriend. I mean, I know our communication is a bit spotty sometimes, but sheesh!" He reaches for a mug from the cabinets, seemingly knowing his way around.

"Funny, he also forgot to mention he has a twin brother to me."

"Don't blame him too much. Things sometimes slip his mind — you know how he gets." Colt gives you a non-committal shrug as he waits on the coffee machine, "You can go change. Cute pajamas though." He points to your fluffy pajamas, decked in panda prints.

"Shut up," you half-heartedly swat at his direction, already halfway through the room before he finishes his sentence. "Cool jacket! I'll be back in a jiffy."

Whipping around suddenly, you support yourself on the doorframe, leaning in to whisper; "Do you have some embarrassing childhood stories to share?"

Colt barks out a short laugh, giving you a double thumbs up. "Thousands."

"Booyah!"

"I did not just hear the two of you plotting against me." Ryland comes up from behind you, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Of course you didn't!"

"Friend alright, statement." Rocky pulls back from the xenonite as he awaits confirmation.

"Yes."

Visibly relaxing, "Grace so dramatiiiiiic—" Rocky drawls, and you're sure if he had eyes, he would be rolling them. "Grace is bad pilot. It fact. Friend try. See if better than Grace. Rocky thinks so. Grace worse than average."

"Mary! Back me up, please?" Grace looks to the ceiling for any kind of support.

"Dr. Grace has no previous records of pilot training received." Echoes from Mary's speakers, dealing the final blow as Grace purses his lips in a pout.

In Mary's defense, that does contribute to his argument. He can get better if he trains a bit more, but alas. The delivery of the line has comedic timing too good to ignore.

"Oh my God—" you cackle, snorting to catch your breath, "Let him live, both of you!"

"Rocky is no threat to Grace. Grace live. Odd human expression, question?"

Nodding, you manage to choke out a sound resembling yeah, wiping your eyes. As if remembering something, Rocky turns to you, and uh-oh, looks like you're next on the chopping block as the finger-like appendages meet into a point to gesture to you.

"Friend also! Inefficient human design. Leak for everything! Disguuust! Make Rocky worry. Apologize, statement."

Shaking with laughter, you lean against the xenonite, wrapping your arms around it in a hug. It's not like you can be mad at him for worrying about you, even though the things that worry him come with human anatomy itself. "Sorry for being human, buddy."

"Acceptable."

Rocky rolls next to your bunker when you're cleaning up your space a little.

"Friend. Time good, question? Rocky have question."

"Sure, hun. What's up?" you settle down to get comfortable. Rocky usually doesn't have simple questions, especially when seeking you out in private. If you're not the readily available human to ask in the first place, the reason why he seeks you out is to either get a second opinion (or confirm the information previously provided), or that he has not been able to get a satisfactory answer out of Grace.

"What word mean, question?" Rocky echoes, tilting his head, tapping a claw twice on the xenonite floor.

"Oh," This might be the first time you call him that petname, actually. "It's short for "honey", — a sweet subtance for consumption. It can also be used as a term of endearment for people who are close to you."

"Do not consume Rocky. Will not digest." You're still amazed at how well the humour carries on despite the translation device. "Eridian term of endearment not have "sweet" substance for consumption. We have ♫𝅘𝅥 𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮♩ ♪___♩. ♪ ♬𝅘𝅥𝅭 𝅘𝅥𝅮 ... But not same word."

"Do you want me to add it as a word?"

"No. Rocky think for more similar word. Question, now. Statement," Rocky tumbles closer, "Rocky observe. Friend no touch Grace. Hand up," he raises a claw, acting as if he's going to touch his another claw, then suddenly puts it down and slumping in place. Putting a show for your dumb little brain, as Grace would say. "Then change mind. Display intention, but no act. Why?"

"That's a loaded question, bud," A long sigh leaves you before you can stop it. Shrugging, you opt for a mild; "I don't want to cross any boundaries, you know?"

"Rocky not know. That why Rocky ask."

Oh, great.

"Boundaries, Rocky knows." Rocky supplies after a brief moment of silence to prompt you into talking, "Grace has explained before. When Rocky first arrive on ship. But you Grace same. Species, same. Mission, same. Same same same. Why boundary, question?"

"... Humans are—" you start.

"Stupid. Statement." Rocky finishes your sentence for you.

"I was going to say complicated, but you know what? You are absolutely right."

Rocky makes a satisfied noise, "Rocky always right." There is a dolphin-like sound you pick up as Rocky shakes up and down, laughing. You think he's being smug about being right until he adds; "Rocky is favourite. No boundary. More hug. Friend love Rocky more than Grace."

"Hey, now—"

"What counts as human mating behaviour, question?"

Unlike Grace, you live to yap with Rocky about the differences in species, perhaps owing to a personal interest in anthropology.

"Ooh, very sudden but flavourful question," grinning, you tap your chin in thought, "Do you mean like, courtship, or behaviour displayed exclusively between mates?"

"Second."

"You first, then. Just to provide an example."

Rocky gives a contemplative hum, one claw fluttering over the turquoise mark along his arm. "Mating mark, here. Rocky have Adrian mark."

"It's beautiful..." your eyes graze over the mark. Even with the sentimental meaning aside, it does look like something precious, like a gem or mother of pearl. "A little similar to that, humans have tattoos. We, uh... force ink under our skin to create patterns we like. But it's more of a personal expression, and not exclusive to mates, even if you get matching tattoos with another."

Rocky thrums, and he's definitely judging. You can tell.

"Otherwise, off the top of my head? Kissing, but... on the lips. That's exclusive to mates, I think. Kissing the cheek or hand for example, are not, and can be a display of affection or even respect, depending on the culture."

"... Matching patterns not sign of mate. Touching mouths is sign of mate." Rocky makes an exaggerated motion with his body, displeased at the mere idea, though before he can comment any further, you jut your hands out in a panic;

"We have wedding bands!" you blurt, pointing at your ring finger, "It's when you — supposedly and arguably — commit to your mate for life. You take a vow, and the collective recognizes you as a pair. Traditionally, you wear matching rings made of precious metal to signify the "unbreakable bond" or something."

"... Are you explaining the concept of marriage to Rocky?" You whip around to see Grace leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and with an amused grin on his face.

"Help," Pleading, you reach out for him, and surprisingly, he takes your hand momentarily as he sits down.

Unnecessary physical contact.

You might, in fact, be so touch starved that you classify the action as flirting before you bury it deep down.

"Rocky no understand. Do puppet show."

Both you and Grace blink.

"For... for what..?" Grace asks, putting the glasses hanging off his chin back on his nose bridge.

"For everything! Rocky study Earth culture. Do puppet show! Grace and friend as puppets for better understanding, statement."

Rocky opens and closes his claws in a very enthuastic display of jazz hands.

".... I can narrate." you offer dumbly, the mere thought of close contact with Grace frying your mind, "We both can, actually. ... Shall we?"

The two of you get up, casting one last awkward glance at each other before holding hands and interlocking fingers.

"Why does this feel like explaining reproductive biology to middleschoolers..." Grace sighs, and you bark out a startled laugh.

"Ryland Grace!" you squeak, putting on your best scandalized form, swiftly delivering a light smack to his bicep, "We're not procreating! Certainly not in front of Rocky!"

"Would procreate if Rocky leave room, question?"

"Don't even, Rocky." Grace raises his pointer finger at him, brows raised as the ultimate warning.

After a getting past the initial awkward phase of trying to talk through scenarios and where to put your hands, you realise both you and Grace have a knack for acting.

It starts off with showing Rocky an initial meeting, mostly consisting of explanation and dialogue. Then come the dates, with a lot more props involved, like a makeshift wheel made out of a large valve as Grace pretends to pick you up from your home. It's like a dam has been broken with how many ideas flood the two of you.

Neither of you comment on how you're essentially acting out on your fantasies.

You act out a fancy dinner date, blundering through explaining why mood lighting in the form of candles is so important. Then, a more causal dinner date, something like a diner; showing classic things like sharing a milkshake with two straws, and somehow it's cute and playful to steal fries off of your lover's plate.

Moving rooms, you start getting more specific.

Acting out beach dates and swimming together, and at some point the conversation derails so bad that Grace ends up having you sit on his shoulders while he sits on his knees, and;

"It's played with two pairs. The one on the bottom is usually the stronger out of the pair, both to be able to carry the other and to have a strong foundation so the other pair can't push you off that easily," He keeps a hand on your thigh as a safety measure while he gestures to his waist with his free hand, "You would be in the sea water waist-deep at the very least, though going higher is usually preferred. And then the ones on top try to topple each other, and the pair who stays standing wins."

"It's a bonding activity for all parties and induces some friendly competition," you add, a hand resting on Grace's head, absentmindedly noting how soft his hair is before you pat the crown of his head to signal you want to get off.

"Display of strength. Rocky understand."

Then come the cinema dates, and Grace, of course, does not miss out on the opportunity to show the classic "pretend-yawn-and-embrace" move, to which Rocky visibly looks confused at, and Grace covers all his bases as he mentions cuddling is much more common in more private viewings, like at home.

"Okay, and then— again, traditionally," Grace shoos you a few steps ahead before tapping your shoulder, sinking to one knee as you turn around, bringing his hands together, then opening it as close to a ninety-degree angle as he can, pretending to open a ring box. "The male gets down on one knee to propose."

"Propose what, question?"

"Marriage, Rock."

"Oooh. Ceremony, question? Knee down also part of propose?"

"Eh," Grace makes a small, non-commital noise, "Pre-ceremony, more like. As for the kneeling, yes, but I'm not sure of the reason."

"I heard it dates back to knights." Avoiding his gaze in favour of looking at Rocky, your hands cup his, "Like, bending the knee to take the chivalric oath, or to swear loyalty to their chosen Lady. Haven't checked my sources, though, so don't quote me on that."

"That... makes so much sense, actually."

"Ceremony over when knee down, question? Proposal just gesture?"

"Oh! No Rock, you actually give a speech," Grace tilts his head like a cat, "Let me think, uhh..." A short sniffle out of reflex, "Something like..." gears in his head turning, he takes a moment before clearing his throat, fixing his posture before looking into your eyes, a hand resting over yours, "I, Ryland Grace—"

No matter how nervous you feel, you must not flex your hand, he will feel it. Pull it together, deep breaths. Deep breaths.

"Promise to love and cherish you for all my days. I promise to be true to you in good times and the bad, in sickness and in health,"

Can he feel your pulse from your wrist? God, you hope not. It feels like your heart is trying to beat itself out of your ribcage.

"Will you marry me?"

Time stops.

Something in his gaze is different. You look for any semblance of humour or pretend, just something to let you know that he is doing this for the sake of the puppet show, and find... none.

"Yes," you manage to breathe out, the sound barely audible.

Grace— Ryland? Even if it was an act, you just proposed, and accepted the proposal respectively — does not take his eyes off yours as he rises, leaning a bit closer, breath mingling with yours, and—

He bypasses your face entirely, opting in for a hug.

"Couples usually kiss after that, since it's a happy event." He presses you closer to him, talking to Rocky over your shoulder.

You don't mourn the fact that you cannot see his face when you can feel his heart beat is just as thunderous against his chest when you're so close you can feel the heat emanating off his skin.

"All the horns are yours to toot, honestly," Grace lifts up both hands in surrender, then gesturing at you with open palms as if to say the stage is yours. "I had heard your name come up multiple times the moment I was cleared to handle confidential information." He mirrors your earlier shrug, like he doesn't want to fully commit to his perception. "Stratt sounded oddly self-assured, like you were the one ace up her sleeve that wouldn't fail her."

That draws a short bark of a laugh out of you. Eva Stratt is many things, but unprepared is not one of them.

Having blind faith in people, also. Not her style at all.

"That's an exaggeration," you push at his shoulder like you push away the ridiculous idea, "I had many back-ups like everyone else, I assure you." Stretching out your legs, you sink back into the impromptu pillow fort with a sigh, "I trust your judgement. If you say so, that is how it must've looked like to an observer. Even if so, it's probably just that she saw high odds of success with my presence or something. Nobody is indispensable to Stratt."

"Oh, I would know."

The bitter chuckle that leaves his lips drip with venom.

... You probably shouldn't ask, but what is humanity without curiosity?

"Could be a different case for you," Nodding, you carefully try breaching the subject. "She was very insistent that you join. I know she's bossy and persuasive, but I still cannot fathom how she managed to convince you. That's Stratt, alright."

It takes you a second that might have come off as you underestimating him.

"Not in a bad way!!" Before he can speak, your hands fly up in defense, "I mean, you just seemed so..." Rolling your hands before clasping them together once you scrambled for the appropriate word for long enough, "... Hesitant. Not to say you were meek or bad at your job or anything, but I was under the impression that you didn't want to be involved any more than the bare minimum needed for the science." Taking a breath through your teeth, you offer a quiet "Sorry."

"You're right on the mark," he says, tone somber, and oh, you're not sure if you can bear to look at him. You have come across him with a mournful expression on his face once or twice, seemingly expressionless but the bleak mood hanging heavily in the air as he watches the stars; and it tugs at your heartstrings in all the wrong ways. "She didn't."

"Hm?"

"She didn't convince me."

Heart dropping to your stomach at the implications, you turn your head to face him at the speed of a medieval gate opening.

"I didn't volunteer," His mouth twitches up, though it's more a grimace than anything else, "I refused — tried to escape when she tried to force me into it. The memories are still a little spotty, but I remember being hunted down."

The sheen of tears in his eyes reflects your own, your lower lip wobbling as he continues; "The grass against my cheek. Uncomfortable pressure on my lower back. A rainbow. The feeling of an intrusive needle in my neck."

They didn't give him a choice. He was hunted down like an animal and forced on a suicide mission with one order, all in the name of greater good. And yet.

And yet he works to help those back home — home, if you can even call it that with the newfound revelation. You cannot imagine being stripped of your autonomy in such a way and still have the resolve to help the very people that betrayed you.

Sure, it is not the entire population. A powerful few, if not just one, but still. You don't dare label him a saint or assume his feelings on the matter, with considerable effort.

The feeling of being betrayed, deceived, far outweighs the sorrow, your resentment manifesting itself as molten anger streaming down your cheeks.

How dare they. How dare they.

"I'm nothing like you, Yao, or Ilyukhina," Grace mumbles, the words haphazardly thrown together as he moves to get up. "Sorry I'm not who you think I am."

Your hand flies to latch on his wrist so hard you hear one of your joints pop.

"We," Swallowing thickly, you close your eyes to pull yourself together, trying to refrain from choking on your words, "We were told you agreed. Yao was against forcing you from the very beginning, as were the rest of us. Stratt said after a long discussion, you wanted to be put in the medically induced coma before launch for nerves or something—!!"

Bile raises in your throat. Your ignorance makes you feel almost complicit in what happened to him, even if you had no say in the matter.

"I'm so sorry," you barely manage to get the words out, lightly tugging at his wrist.

Grace crumples in your arms like a flimsy doll, fingers clumsily digging into your shirt in a poor attempt to hold onto you — or to hold himself together. You can't tell.

"Thank you," you barely hear the words, muffled by your own shoulder, "It's nice to know at least some cared."

Your circumstances could not have been more different. The revelation hangs in the air, present yet not in focus.

It's not like you had someone to die for, you have told Grace that much. No heroism or bravery was involved in your decision, you did simply because you could. No grand aspirations behind it.

It would be nice to be hailed as a hero if you succeed, though it's a double edged sword. You have enough grasp on history to know how quick people are to pin the blame on whoever is the easiest target, in which you and Grace are the very ones.

"I still think that you're extremely brave." Grace croaks, breaking the silence. The glassy sheen in his eyes match yours.

Craning your head to meet his gaze, you can't help but furrow your brows in disbelief. "... I just told you I wasn't thinking much of anything. Might as well have been on autopilot the entire time."

"Doesn't change a thing," Grace shrugs with a surprisingly smug smile that comes with proving himself right, pinky bumping against yours as he adjusts his position gaze at the pixellated beach more comfortably, a small oop— sounding in the room at the contact.

"I think you're extremely brave, too." Before he can pull away, you curl your pinky around his, grip loose in case he wants to pull away, "Brave, and kind."

His pinky curls around yours. The gesture feels like making a small promise, though you don't know what you're swearing to.

The space walks are the fun part of this entire ordeal, rare as they are.

Grace — Ryland, disagrees. He has always been more at home in the lab, which, you get it, him being the lead scientist, and being the only one who can manage to get something done and all.

"Are you sure about this?" Ryland grunts, hooking a foot in the net as he spins around, trying to put his suit on to accompany you, despite it being more strategically aligned to have someone on base at all times, having insisted you don't go exploring alien territory on your own.

Especially in the form of a golden ship at least three times as long as Hail Mary harbouring intelligent life.

"More than," you chuckle, floating over to zip him up, stabilising both him and yourself with practiced ease. "We're not saying anything, though. Can't risk jinxing it. But they did invite us in the form of attaching themselves on our ship, so at least we're not uninvited guests. All implications included."

"Alright, yeah, got it, no problem," Ryland rambles, releasing a shaky breath as he raises his chin as you zip him up, giving you the most unsure thumbs up combined with the soggiest look you have ever seen.

Holding back a giggle, you pull his helmet closer, though you make sure to splay a palm over his head to mess up his hair affectionately before putting it on him, finally baiting an exasperated chuckle out of him.

He still looks like an elastic band stretched too thin, threatening to snap any minute, though. Like, you're sure he's going to get cramps from how tense he is from nerves.

The solution to such a problem comes to you in the form of latching onto one another, which proves surprisingly effective.

Until Ryland gets startled upon first contact.

The scream scared off himself, you, and the creature, until the situation was somehow diffused, and hopefully written off as a misunderstanding on both sides.

The creature is extremely intelligent, and you love it immediately.

Similarities in culture is not impossible by any means even across stars, though it's still astonishing that body language and gestures convey their meaning this well, mimicking aside. You gesture for it to wait, and after a few demonstrations, it understands, and waits. Mimicking the gesture as closely as his physiology will allow, it tells you to wait as well, and you wait.

God, you're communicating. You're actually communicating with an alien creature.

You decide to take shifts to avoid losing time — or brainpower. Ryland tripped four times just trying to bring a clock over, and you walked in circles back and forth between Mary and the Blip-A for seven minutes before it dawned on you that you forgot what you were searching for.

The process of breaking the language barrier is as close to smooth sailing as possible after the arrangement, so much so that after you take off the soundproof earphones when you wake up, a robotic voice greets you.

"Hi friend!"

You take off your eye mask to see Rocky greeting you with a three-clawed wave.

Any semblance of sleep you had in your body evaporates.

"Hi Rocky!!" you coo, voice going up several pitches from excitement as you jog to meet him behind the xenonite, waving at him before turning to Ryland, "You gave him a voice?"

"Makes things a lot easier," he tilts his head, voice laced with sleep. "Welp, guess it's my turn to sleep." He places a hand on your shoulder, lingering before it slips off your bicep, "Knock yourselves out."

"What Grace mean, question?" Accompanied by two taps for emphasis.

"It's an expression, Rock. He means have fun."

There is a void all around you.

No sound, no sight, no feel. No memory of what happened.

Inhale, exhale.

You feel your lungs fill with air before you force it out. That means you can breathe. Good.

There is still no feeling in your fingertips. Nor your face, for that matter, and you worry it's blunt force trauma. Chances of you being treated in some void pool meant for sensory deprivation is quite low. You try shifting your weight somewhere to test where you are. On the floor, probably, until you feel your entire weight pull you down, and suddenly you're like a marionette on a string.

Not the floor, then.

The tension tells you you're strapped in, and—

Blue eyes blown wide with terror flash in your mind. A hand reached out towards you, not your face, but in front of it before your memories cut off.

You yank the safety belt off with pure muscle memory, your entire body protesting as it tries to stand upright, your arm shooting out to find support wherever the panels are.

Your senses come back to you slowly, like static sounding more and more coherent until you stumble upon a channel when searching for one in the radio.

The once muted sound of beeps are now deafening alarms blaring in your ears. The once blurred lights are now blinding as they flash red. The smell of something burning makes you gag.

An inhuman wail makes its way to your ears, and the sight that greets you is of Rocky in the corridor, trying to pull a limp Ryland towards the Lab.

Rocky is out of his space, wisps of black smoke rising out of him. So I no die in Grace and friend atmosphere, you recall. Ryland is unconscious, and probably in worse shape than you are.

You lunge forward before your brain can register what you're seeing.

"Your results are everything I could hope for," Says Stratt, and though her voice remains stoic as ever, you can tell she's impressed as she looks over the report in her tablet, your chest swelling with pride. "To call your body durable would be an understatement. Your performance has not fallen under the optimal metrics in any of the environments we tested you for; not to mention your short recovery time. The textbook definition of sturdy, really."

Your hand hooks into the back of Ryland's collar as you throw your body forward to drag him faster without falling over, barely managing to avoid slamming into Rocky, putting one foot in front of the other with unprecedented determination.

The moment Armando is in sight, you grab the first thing you can reach, which happens to be the insulated blanket Ryland has left lying around, and you flick it in Rocky's direction.

Before you can rasp out the command; ever so smart, Rocky steps onto the blanket, and you waste no time dragging him to his enclosure with all the strength you can muster, even with the world swaying beneath your feet, vision growing dim.

The small wail that comes from the medical bed falls on deaf ears.

"I will make it," you hiss, more for yourself than for Rocky, eyes trained on the clear xenonite, "I've got you, buddy."

Only one out of you three set out on this mission to die. You're not about to let either of them be the ones to die, not when Ryland wants to live. Not when Rocky has a mate, a home to return to.

Your hand slams on something as you lose your footing, though you make sure to curl your arm up, just to save Rocky a few steps.

"Please, God, anyone—" you croak, not having the strength to even lift your head to see if Rocky made it, "Please let them make it. Let them live. Kill me instead. I'll do anything. I'll die, I'll live— anything."

Your world descends into darkness like your plug has been pulled.

"Eye movement detected. Good morning, Doctor Grace."

There is an eery stillness around him.

Blinking to shake off any uncertainties he has, Ryland sluggishly gets up, gaze dropping to a faint trail of black, peppered with red spots, leading out of the lab.

Dread weighs on his shoulders heavier than a boulder as he moves slowly, trying to brace himself for whatever sight that will greet him with each deliberate step.

He sees you first.

Laying face first on the floor, your face is shielded by your arm curling around your head. If he didn't know any better, he would have assumed you had taken a particularly nasty fall but was too embarrassed to get up.

Swallowing thickly, he brings a shaky hand to your neck, resting his fingertips on your pulse—

There is a faint rhythm beating against the pads of his fingers.

He releases a breath he didn't know he was holding, curling in on himself and squeezing his eyes shut, letting his tears fall.

Your other hand reaches out to the xenonite, towards Rocky, and a sob tears itself from his throat when there is a slight move, quiet wheeze of a sound, followed by a thrum.