The Bow System ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

A/N: So I started reading the book mid-way through writing this and uhm 7k words in I realize that they are actually on a ship. My dumbass wasn't paying that much attention to the movie, apparently! But the whole plot is a little nonsensical, so #whatever. I edited it to be a touch more canon compliant, but at the end of the day it's fanFICTION. Don't think too hard for my sanity. Also don't look too closely at assistant-ly duties that R does. I clearly don't know anything about being an assistant either. And while we're on the topic, I don't anything about alcohol either, but I keep on writing characters drunk. TL;DR I'm a fraud and I'm sorry.

---

The director's office's lights are still on. You don't really see the reason in staying in this office the better part of the night and not just continuing her work at home, but she's never been easily decipherable.

You shift on your feet in front of her door. You've already finished all the tasks she's given you—not like you've had many. She doesn't seem to fully trust you with everything yet. It's a bit odd considering that it hinders your work and doesn't improve her workload at all, and the latter is what you assume she hired you for. Somehow you doubt you could single-handed ly fix her unhealthy working habits either way.

You stare at the plaque on the door as you steel yourself. You take a deep breath and knock.

Stratt tells you to enter. Ever the obedient assistant, you turn the knob and step inside.

You're already regretting this. Stratt makes you nervous enough, but you feel even more off balance and out of place in her office. It's nothing special, just the space they gave her. There's no personal affects except her few items. Even those are just her materials for work.

She sits behind her desk with her glasses low on her nose. Her hair is tucked behind her ear. She looks just as put together as always. You wonder what she looks like at home. You can't imagine her fully relaxed. She always carries tension in some part of her, and she can never really let go of whatever new issue the Petrova line has dumped on her.

You look down from her face. She has her computer to her left and a paper in front of her. She properly acknowledges you and looks up at you after placing her pencil down. She was writing notes, you assume. That should be your job, honestly. It makes you feel just a bit more guilty.

You clear your throat. "It's awfully late. I'm going to go… maybe you should too? The work will still be there tomorrow."

You feel like you must be overstepping. She barely trusts you to do anything besides get her coffee, why would she take your advice?

"The time I waste won't be," she replies.

"I don't think sleep is a waste of time, and, um, I could always help. It'll take less time if you allocate some work to me." You hold you hands behind your back, squeezing them together to expel your many, many nerves.

You spend too much time just watching the scientists work. As a college graduate with no prospects and a pending doctorate in molecular biology (online classes are a bitch), that's awesome. The sun dying isn't amazing, but watching the best minds work on a solution? Now that's a dream job. And, somehow, you're getting paid. You're surprised you're not an intern (I guess working on, arguably, the most important project in the world right now allows them to splurge on theoretically, but not actually, useful employees).

Despite the perks, the guilt of not doing much more besides fetching lunch, explaining science concepts to Stratt, and staring at the wall is getting to you.

"I'm capable." She picked up her pencil. "You can go."

Ouch. Okay.

You know, you shouldn't have been complaining about doing nothing, anyways.

You nod and step out.

— —

It's time to take things into your own hands. You'll get the reports yourself and summarize them for her. Simple enough.

It wasn't hard to find time for it, at least. It fit in perfectly between shredding paper and watching paint dry. It was a bit harder to drag the reports from the scientists, but they were used to expediting things for the director anyways. Stratt isn't the most considerate (what can you expect from the woman trying to save the world?).

This time you stand in front of her door with more confidence. You're doing your job; you're being helpful for once. You knock on her door.

"Come in," she says.

You walk in and place papers on her desk. "The summaries of the progress reports. I didn't leave anything out, don't worry."

She looks between you and the stack of papers. "I never asked you to do that."

You smile sheepishly. "I thought it might help."

She gingerly takes the stack and flips through them. "You don't have the clearance to know half of this."

You'd be lying if you said you didn't know that. It was a bit wrong to go beyond your rank, but it was just so easy to get all of it. Her scientists didn't question too much when you insisted that Stratt told you to.

Though, this is highly sensitive information that some random assistant can't know. It seemed like a great idea at the time. God, this was stupid. You're so fucked—and you'll probably be fired. Or killed. Probably in a discreet way. Who knows what a presidential pardon will let her get away with?

Her focused gaze stays on the paper, letting your mortified expression go unnoticed.

"I was really just trying to help—and I didn't even comprehend half of it! I honestly forgot it all. No idea what I just read," you stammer out.

You're going to lose your job. She'll somehow inhibit you from ever finding work again, best case scenario. You won't even be able to flip burgers at McDonald's. Should you go into hiding? Sounds reasonable. Maybe you should run and get a head start.

Stratt looks back up.

Your face grows hotter under her piercing gaze. She's horrifying and so gorgeous.

"You can have whatever clearance you need to take your notes." She places the sheets down and takes her glasses off.

"…really?" you ask meekly.

"Yes. I'll make it official later. For now, just tell them to talk to me if they don't believe you. Now leave. I have other things to do."

You nod rapidly and get out.

— —

Little by little, Stratt has started to trust you more with things. You get to sit beside her and Grace during meetings to take notes. Occasionally she'll even ask your opinion or an explanation, warranting a few odd looks from everyone, even Grace. I guess no one expected her to make use of her assistant, or maybe they're shocked you're so knowledgeable (you are a bit younger than most). Either way, you're just happy to be doing something.

The stares don't stop in the conference rooms, though. Whenever you're following Stratt around, everyone's gaze seems to linger. Stratt has her eyes trained ahead at all times, so you're sure she hasn't noticed. Maybe it's just Stratt. She's the type to turn heads anywhere.

You aren't the type to turn heads, however, and the staring seems to be following you on your coffee run for Stratt. You keep your head down and enter the break room, walking in on Grace. He meets your gaze with a smile. Finally someone who isn't looking at you weird.

"Hey, Dr. Grace," you say as you grab a cup. You look at the coffee pods, trying to remember which one she asked for this time. You pick up french roast and hope for the best. You pop the pod in and place the mug under.

"Hi. Stratt treating you well?" He sips his coffee.

The coffee begins to drip into the mug. "Yeah. I have an odd question for you, though." You turn towards him. "Is it just me, or is everyone staring at us?"

His face tints a rosy pink.

"Oh no. What are they saying?"

He averts his gaze. "Everyone seems to have a habit of assuming certain about Stratt's closer employees. They, um, used to think we were sleeping together." His face is so red you think he might have busted his capillaries. "When they realized we weren't, they assumed she might be… batting for the other team."

"And what does that have to do with me, Grace?" You cross your arms over your chest.

"Now they think you're sleeping with her."

"You're fucking kidding me." You bury your face in your hands. You just got on her good side. Reluctantly, you drag your hands away and say, "Does she know?"

Grace looks to the side. "She does look at you a certain way, but she seems a little preoccupied with, you know, leading a world-saving task force to—"

"I'm not asking if she knows that she's into me; I'm asking if she knows everyone thinks she's into me. She's not into me!" You put your hands on his shoulders and resist the urge to shake him until something clicks in his head. "Get your head in the game!"

"… no offense, but are you sure?" he asks tentatively.

"About?"

"Her not being into you."

"Well, everyone said that about the two of you." Your face warms and you pull yourself away and grab her lukewarm coffee (your juvenile dilemmas are time consuming) and compose yourself.

"Yeah, and I know how she looks at you and how she looks at me. It's different."

"I don't have time for this. She's waiting for me." You walk to the door.

"Um, good luck?" he replies tentatively.

You shake your head with fondness and a reluctant smile. "Thank you."

You began to walk to Stratt's office. Not only is her coffee lukewarm and most likely the wrong kind, she also has allegations of sleeping with two of her employees. God. Assistant of the year, right here. You sigh and push her door open.

The mug is placed on her desk. "Sorry for the wait, Ms. Stratt."

"Eva's fine." She takes the mug sips. After she swallows, she considers the cup (you 100% fucked up her coffee).

You chew on the inside of your cheek. Eva's fine. "That would not help the rumors," you murmur to yourself.

She hums in confusion and looks up from the mug. "What did you say?"

The explanation lingers on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow it down. You don't need to tell her. you'll manage it. That's your job, right? "Nothing, Ms. Stratt."

"Eva," she corrects. "Please just drop the formalities."

Heat rose to your cheeks. "Eva"

"Thank you." She returns to her work.

— —

You walked out to the deck and saw Stratt standing, looking out into the water. You grinned at the sight of her. You may have been drinking a little too much for what was technically a work related event. In your defense, though, who does karaoke sober?

"Ms. Stratt! Why aren't you inside? I miss you." You stop beside her.

"Eva," she corrects.

"Sorry—Eva, why aren't you inside?" you repeat.

"It's more for you than me."

"But it'd be more fun with you. We could sing a song together. What do you know?" You pause, thinking about all the questions that your colleagues have been asking. "That really wouldn't help the rumors."

She tilts her head. "Which are?"

You study her. "I don't think you're meant to know."

"I think I can know."

"Well…" you smooth your hands over the railing, feeling the cold metal under your palms. "They theorize."

"About?"

"Us."

"That's very vague. I think you know that." Her voice is so level, so nonchalant. It makes this all feel so nonsensical. How could Stratt be treating you any different? What unfounded interest could she hold?

"It's nothing, really." Now not even the alcohol can boost your confidence. You feel yourself shrink under Eva's inquisitive gaze.

She gives you a look. Yep. The grave has been dug and it's only getting deeper.

You avert your gaze. "They think I help you with things besides work."

"There's a bush. You're beating around it."

"They think we're sleeping together." You purposefully avoid seeing her reaction. "Which is insane, right? I mean, what does 'she looks at you differently' even mean? It's not like me and Grace are different. And me being likable and you being amicable doesn't insinuate—"

"I get it," she cuts you off. So rambling is a no-go. Cool. What else will you do? You feel movement in your stomach, except it's not the cute fluttering of butterflies, it's the bites of a million larvae. It's a feeling you only get once you know you've completely messed something up and made a fool out of yourself.

The water continues to oscillate. You stare down into the murky blue. The air is colder here than it was when the sun was at full strength, the breeze just a bit harsher and unforgiving, yet you worry about such trivial matters. You don't have time for this. Neither does she.

"I should've told you sooner," you admitted.

"I knew," she replies.

You glance to her. She's looking right at you. You shy away from her gaze. "You don't care?"

"It's juvenile to concern myself with it. And if speculating on my interpersonal relationships keeps them sane, so be it. I'm okay with that." She says it all so simply.

"You're not at all concerned with what they're accusing you of?"

"Are you?"

You rub your thumb on the rail, trying to find more comfort in the metal. "No. I guess I just thought you'd take offense to it. It's not something to take lightly for some people."

"'It,' being?"

"Well, to put it bluntly," you say as you look up at her. "Being queer."

"They're correct."

You stare at her for a moment. Your heart beats stupidly fast once you realize the prospect of Stratt reciprocating any feeling for you being more feasible than you thought. You curse yourself for even entertaining the thought.

Stratt looks at you patiently, and you realize your silence has been prolonged a few too many seconds.

"Oh. Cool. Me too." You raise your fist for a fist bump.

She looks at your fist, then your face. Shame burns in your cheeks, but before you can retract your hand and jump overboard, she raises her fist. She presses her fist to yours with an amused smile.

You lower your fist and smile shyly.

"It's cold. You should go inside," Eva says. She's better dressed for this than you, and you're sure she's seen the goosebumps on your arms.

You nod. "Um, you really won't come with me?"

She shakes her head. "We'll drink together another time."

You allow yourself to take her in for just a few more seconds. Your eyes trace her hair, then flick back to her eyes. They dip down into the treacherous territory of her smile. They go back up to her eyes. Her wind tousled hair and fond smile might just be your kryptonite. We'll drink together another time.

Another time.

You can wait for her.

She turns back to the water, and you turn back to the door. As your back has turned. She gives herself the same few moments to watch you as you had her. Her gaze lingers on the door that you exited through, that same smile on her face.

— —

You've barely made it five steps into work when a hot drink is extended to you. You look from the drink to the woman holding it. Eva Stratt gets coffee for her assistant apparently. You're shocked you didn't see her approach, but your mind has been cycling through two things: how bad your hangover is and being horrified of how drunk you were with your boss.

"It's for you." Eva keeps the drink held out.

"Shouldn't I be the one getting you drinks?" you ask. This was odd. Eva didn't have time to be getting her assistant things. She's busy literally saving the world.

"Take it."

Keen on not dragging this out, you take the drink. You take a small sip and pause. You swallow, then take another sip.

Your eyes flick up at her. "How do you know my order?"

"Grace told me."

"You asked Grace for my order… because you wanted to…?" You don't know if that was more of a question or a statement. And if it was a question, you don't think she would even be able to fill in the blanks. Maybe there are none. Eva can do a lot of things just because she wants to. The entirety of the United Nations decreed it.

She nodded. "I was getting it anyways."

"Still kind of my job, Eva." Your eyes flick to the sole coffee in her hands. "Do you want me to grab you another? You typically need more."

"Later, maybe." She turns around and begins to walk away. She pauses after a few steps and looks back at you. "Follow."

Your cheeks heat up as you follow, letting her command you like a dog. You follow her all the way into her office and just stand there as she takes a seat behind the desk. She continues her work as usual.

You watch her for a few moments. Does she want to freak you out? Make you sweat? Why else are you just standing in her office while she works? Realistically, you know that's improbable. Stratt doesn't have time for mind games. She does what she wants; you know this.

You clear your throat. "UN wants a meeting. You're free on the eighteenth at 7 A.M. Does that work?"

She nods. She doesn't look at her calendar to double check her schedule anymore; she trusts you've memorized it. "Book three rooms."

You stare at her quizzically. Three? Usually she only needs two. "Dr. Grace, you, and who?"

She finally looks up from her work. "My assistant."

You point to yourself.

"Yes. You."

"You never bring me. Why would you need me?" Usually she'll only ever ask you to do is be with her on more local meetings.

"To assist," she replies. She looks back down at her work.

You stare blankly at the top of her head. "Right. I'll arrange that." You move to leave.

"Work in here."

Okay, what the fuck? Why is she keeping you on a leash all of a sudden? You look back at her, meeting her expectant gaze. She raises a brow, waiting for you to question it. Instead, you nod and leave to get your things. Immediately, you beeline for Ryland.

You stop him in the hall. "Is Stratt acting off? She was bringing me coffee. And sacrificed her other morning cup to have a hand to hold it. Then told me not to worry about getting her another."

Grace looks a little zoned out, probably thinking of his research. Then he really processes what you said. "Wait—she actually got you coffee? She has me up at 6 a.m and doesn't spare me a single cup!"

You stare at him, unimpressed. "That's the point—and didn't she ask you for my order?"

His eyes widen in recognition and he nods. "Yeah. That struck me as weird."

There's a pause as you wait for any more insight. "…No other comments or ideas?"

He shakes his head.

You raise your hands up in surrender. "You know what? I give up. There is no one in the world that understands Eva."

He tilts his head. "'Eva?' When did that happen?"

Really? Have you forgotten on filling him in on this much. "Like two weeks ago—we've been on a first name basis. Did you not—never mind. You know nothing." You groan at the complete lack of help you've gotten and walk away with your things.

"Woah, I want to hear more!" he calls after you.

You wave a hand dismissively. It's the blind leading the blind here. He doesn't know anything about Eva in this regard. You still envy the glimpses he gets into other aspects of her though. You'd like to understand one aspect of her—just one— wholly and completely.

You were able to dig just a bit deeper into her mind last night until your shovel hit a rock. You wonder if she tries to make you feel this way. Does she know how much time she occupies in your mind? How crazy she makes you? Sometimes you think she does. She'll answer the most inconspicuous probing with such vagueness, and you swear you see the slightest satisfaction in her eyes when your lips dip the slightest bit down. Not that you'd know her satisfied look. Eva keeps that from you, too.

You end up getting her that second cup of coffee with a scowl on your face and a racing heart at the thought of Eva's heart being bare for you to dissect, poke, and prod (you've learned that all feelings surrounding her carry the same uncertainty). You don't wait for her response after knocking this time; she expects you. You nod your head in acknowledgment and place the cup in front of her. You notice the first was already pushed to the side, most likely empty by now. By the way she's staring at you, you can tell your expression mirrors your confused thoughts.

You give her what you hope is a reassuring smile and shift the attention from yourself. "So, you'd just like me to sit across from you?"

"Wherever you'd like." Her eyes don't leave you as you sit across from her. You rest your hands on the mahogany of the desk. Her eyes dip to your hands, considering for a moment. Her gaze soon returns to her work, resuming it a little too quickly. If she was anyone else, you'd say that could almost be interpreted as bashful—maybe she was embarrassed you caught her staring? No. Flustered. The slight color in her cheeks is evidence (are you seeing things?). Isn't that a thought? Eva Stratt, Madame director, leader of the Petrova task force, the highest ranking official you have ever met is flustered. What an incredible woman.

You try not to stare too much at her while you work, but she proves to be very distracting. Occasionally she'll look up and meet your gaze, leading you to look away with heat rising to your cheeks like a middle schooler. Now you're the flustered one.

You glance back up at her. She's looking down at her work now. You feel bad for the words bubbling up that will drag her from her work, but you can't resist asking the question.

"Why do you feel the need to babysit me?" you ask. Your voice is light, teasing. The question aims more to pass time than it does drawing out a real answer (when would you even get a straight answer with Stratt?).

"To ensure you spend your time working and not asking pointless questions." She doesn't look up, but through the curtain of red hair, you see the smallest smile. Bingo!

Your smile stretches wide. "Haha. Funny girl." You try to keep your voice dry, but your giddiness seeps in. "Really, though. What's the point?"

That question aims to yield a more serious answer, but to be honest, anything that comes out of her mouth would be okay.

"I'm being honest. You're proving my point, too. Work." She looks up at you. You could tell her wanted to look stern, but a smile breaks out on her face when she sees yours.

You huff out a laugh and return to your work. Your smile is unrelenting. You like her like this. There's so much of her you don't understand, so much she won't let you see. You're happy she lets you see this.

You manage to actually get some work done in between giggling with Eva like a teenager. Eventually, she leaves to go attend to something that has to be done in person.

She grabs her bag. "I'll be back. Stay." No more explanation besides her previous comment of "I have something to oversee." Very to the point. She stops at the door, looking back at you expectantly. You didn't need to follow, did you? She just told you to stay, after all.

You meet her gaze, confused. "Uhm, do I need to do something for you?"

"Tell me you'll stay."

Your brows knit together. "Do you need verbal confirmation for things like that?"

The press of her lips at the statement told you that you said the wrong answer, if there was one.

"Sorry. Yes, ma'am. I'll stay." You press your hand to your forehead in a salute and straightened your posture. You gave her a very solemn look, accepting your task. You just hope your joke will fix the displeasure your reaction had brought.

"Say it sincerely."

Your hand drops to your lap. "I'm sorry."

She shakes her head. "'Yes, ma'am. I'll stay.'"

Heat creeps up your neck. "I'll stay, Eva."

Her gaze hardens ever so slightly. "They're simple instructions. Do you find them hard?"

You swallow down all your pride and dignity and give the director what she wants. "No. I'm sorry. I will stay, ma'am—yes, ma'am. I'll stay."

She hums, taking you in a moment. Whatever she was observing, she eventually finds it acceptable as she nods. She gives you one last appraising look before leaving.

Once the door closes, you bury your head in your hands. "What the fuck."

You repeat the words over, and over, and over like it will make any of this make sense. Was she testing you? Establishing a boundary? Was it meant to be a formality? She was joking around moments prior. You even almost flustered her? What warranted the switch-up? Did you push the envelope? Was it a… kink thing—nope. Don't go down that path. No. Never. Boss—she's your boss.

You groan into your hands once more. What the fuck.

— —

The next few weeks go by without incident. No more weird commands… you think. Eva's intentions always allude you, and that makes it difficult to decipher what's weird. You don't want to dwell on it.

But you do find yourself dwelling on it. The whole time you're flying to some random country with Stratt for a UN meeting you're ninety-nine percent sure is too classified for you to even attend. You study her side profile as she looks down at some random documents. Her eyes sweep over the words on the page, not ever breaking focus once. Does she know you're staring? She has to feel your eyes boring into her. Maybe she has seen you in her peripheral and has chosen to ignore you.

You briefly entertain the thought of her staring at you the same way, trying to discern your thoughts. What did she wonder about you? Does she find you as vague and elusive? You the thought. Of course not. She wouldn't waste her time thinking about you.

You sigh, earning a confused look. You shake your head and mumble some dismissive comment. She returns back to her work. You end up being able to distract yourself for the rest of the flight, alternating between whatever tasks could occupy you.

The rest is a bit of a blur. The travel over to the hotel you had arranged was silent. It was late; people were tired. You walked up to the front desk and gave them the name you put it under.

The bored teenager at the front desk took a few moments, then looked at you with an apologetic expression. "Uhm, we don't have room under that name."

Nope. Not happening today.

You wring your hands together. "Try Stratt, maybe?"

They take a moment, then shake their head.

"Uhm, Grace?"

No dice. You murmur an apology and take out your phone to check the reservation. You review the details. It's the right hotel, the right address, but the wrong fucking month. This is why you should really be productive instead of flirting with your boss. You tuck your phone away and take a moment to convince yourself not to turn in your letter of resignation.

You squeeze your hands tighter. "Okay, great," you mutter with the most enthusiasm you can muster, the kind that only comes with the knowledge that your job is gone. It's shock, really. Your voice drops so Eva can't hear you desperately try to fix this. "I need three rooms for three people, please. Do you have anything available?"

"We have two rooms available," they supply.

You take a deep breath and prepare yourself for sleeping with Ryland. "Please tell me there's three beds between them."

They shake their head, seemingly a little more genuinely remorseful for your situation. Or maybe they're tired. Fifty-fifty.

You press your lips together and nod solemnly. You're cuddling with Ryland tonight. Worse things have happened; you'll make it. HR will hate you, and you'll forever live a life of shame hiding from them.

You work out your stay and gratefully take the keys from that poor, tired, bored out of their mind employee (now that you're paying attention, they were just tired. They don't give a shit that you're living out some shitty version of a one-bed trope with a man that was most likely gay and not who you'd prefer to be sleeping with).

You steel yourself and make your way back to Ryland and Stratt. Ryland looks exhausted while Stratt looks like it might as well be prime daylight hours. Clearly she has the fortitude for these things; you and Ryland are not as fortunate.

You hold out a key for Stratt, and look at Ryland apologetically. "I messed up. We're together tonight." You'd rather not delve into details about your shortcoming with Eva here, but you'd discuss how your pitiful attempt at being a proper assistant will lead to your sleeping on the floor with Ryland later.

"Would it not be more comfortable to share a room with me?" Eva asked.

You felt heat begin to crawl up your body, starting as a tickling fire in your stomach. You try not to think of too many implications. Logically, it made a bit more sense. You were both women, and—speaking pragmatically again—that should be more comfortable for all parties. But you did not want to sleep next to Eva—no, you did. That's why you couldn't. You want to so much that you can't.

You don't exactly know when these feelings become such an undeniable, unpleasant fact, but they had been. The knowledge had been at the back of your mind with every conversation you had for a while now. It seeped in so naturally and gradually that you hadn't noticed it. Or maybe it'd always been there, evading detection until it just didn't anymore. It just wasn't concealed any longer, and you couldn't notice a new presence in your mind when the presence wasn't even new; It had only revealed itself.

You look at the keycard, then at Ryland. He seems just as shocked as you. You bite your cheek. You can't really argue without saying, "hey, boss! I'm going to have inappropriate thoughts the whole time you sleep beside me!" Your only hope is Ryland's objection. You look at him expectantly.

"That's fine by me," he says, avoiding your eyes.

Traitor.

You swallow your objections and hand the keycard to Ryland.

The elevator ride up to your floor is silent. Eva is immersed in typing something on her phone, probably replying to an email if you've learned a single thing about her all these months. You take the opportunity to sneak a disapproving look to Ryland. The lack of help isn't appreciated.

He shrugs. You swear you see amusement in his eyes.

The elevator open and you let Stratt out first. Ryland tries to follow close behind, but you pull him back.

"Woah—"

"Thanks for all the help back there," you whisper sarcastically. "You couldn't spare me one good reason I should have stayed with you?"

Eva glances over her shoulder at the two of you. You pull apart from him, but give him a due smack on the arm once she looked away.

"I'd prefer my top scientist wasn't taken out before he fulfilled his role."

Ryland stifles a laugh and you apologize.

He disappears into his hotel room soon after and leaves you alone with Stratt. You walk slightly behind her, letting her lead you.

"Does it bother you?" she asks.

"Does what bother me?"

She stops in front of the room and properly looks at you. You're beginning to hate how she reads you. She studies your expression once she speaks. "Does sharing a room with me bother you?"

Yes. No. Maybe. It's complicated. You wish she'd stop making it all so complicated.

You maintain a neutral expression and speak with the most sincerity you can muster. "No. It doesn't bother me."

Thankfully, she takes the answer at face value and turns to open the door. You walk in after her and take a second to glance over the room. There is definitely no alternative for sleeping in that bed with her except the desk in the corner.

You hold in your childish groan and instead focus on getting the clothes you're going to sleep in out.

"I'm probably going to shower first, if that's okay," you say, looking up for a moment. She's already sat down at that desk, working.

"Take your time," she replies.

You grab your clothes and walk to the bathroom. One last glance is thrown her way while you decide if it's worth it to recommend that she sleeps. Maybe she'll be done soon.

But when you step outside the bathroom with damp hair and a shirt you really didn't think anyone would be seeing, you see her still working. You're really starting to hate that damn computer.

She notices the lack of noise and looks back at you. Her gaze dips down to the graphic on your shirt. Your arms cross protectively over your chest, but she's already seen it.

She tilts her head. "'I wear this shirt periodically,'" she reads aloud. "You have a matching shirt with Dr. Grace?"

You look away. "It was a spur of the moment decision."

When you look back, you see she looks more troubled than confused. You almost comment on it, but she turns back to her work too soon. You glance at the bed, then her, then back at the bed. Sleep or spend your time convincing Eva to sleep. Decisions, decisions.

You move to stand behind her. "I'm getting Déjà vu here."

She tilts her head up at you. "How so?"

"I feel like I'm always convincing you to go to bed at reasonable hours."

"And I feel like I'm always convincing you that I'm capable of regulating my sleep schedule."

You bite the inside of your cheek as you consider what to reply with. Eventually, you sigh and give up. "Just… it's not good for you. And what's not good for you isn't good for this task force—not that I question your leadership, but- I worry. That's all." A sigh escapes your lips again, followed by your hands scrubbing over your face. The conversation was meant to go much better than this.

Cutting your losses, you walk back over to the bed after murmuring a "goodnight." The computer clicks shut.

From your seat on the edge of the bed, you look back once, then twice. "You're actually heeding my advice?"

"I suppose if you want to sleep with me so bad, I'll acquiesce." She places her things back into her bag and then makes her way to the opposite side of the bed.

"What? That's not the point of-"

"Kidding. Rather defensive, hm?"

You let out an uneasy huff of a laugh. "I wasn't gifted with your indifference."

"I'm not indifferent."

"Then I don't have your poker face."

"Do I not look absolutely riveted by this conversation?"

"Oh, you're having the time of your life." Your head falls back onto the pillow. "I do mean it when I say that you should sleep, though."

She looks down at you for a moment. The silence hangs between you. Eva is just… staring. She's lost in thought, perhaps. She's been getting that way lately. You assume that all of responsibility is starting to take its toll, worming its way into her mind at all hours. You acknowledge her silence with a tilt of your head.

She snaps out of it and looks away. "I should."

You watch her follow suit and lie down. Fortunately, she faces away from you, so she doesn't catch your staring. She knows, probably. It doesn't matter to you. You earn your own staring.

Idly, your gaze traces over her figure while you mull over her vaguely concerning habits. Over the time you've spent working for her, you've gained enough rapport to be bold in making sure she takes care of herself—you justify your persistence with the fact that she doesn't seem to do the best job of it herself. Your job is to assist, is it not? She brought you here "to assist." She never specified with what. Despite your relationship, you worry you'll push the envelope too far some day. For that reason, you keep your mouth shut about her losing focus. You'll address it another day.

Forcibly tearing your gaze away, you turn your head to look up at the ceiling. Your eyelids close, your breathing evens out, and you fall asleep.

— —

Your eyes blink open. You sit up and rub your eyes before swinging your feet over the edge of the bed. You push yourself up and stretch with a yawn. It's ungodly early—a byproduct of being forced to keep up with Eva's schedule—Eva.

You look over at her. She fell asleep reading, apparently. A book rests on her lap, her hands relaxed but still holding it. Her reading glasses are slipping down her nose and her lips are just slightly parted. She's quite the vision.

You walk over to her side of the bed and slip off her glasses. Her book is next. You gingerly pick it up and fold the corner of the page she's on. You take a glance at the title, but you can't read the German on there. The book gets placed on the table beside the bed. You look back at Eva.

Does she have trouble sleeping? You make a mental note to buy her some kind of melatonin (and to thank Grace for meddling, because he's responsible for you seeing this).

Emboldened by her lack of response, you reach out to smooth her hair down—oh, god, it's so soft. The strands are like silk under your fingers.

Eva's head turns into you hand, and you freeze. Is she leaning into your hand? Oh, oh, she is!

You keep your hand on her head, letting her lean against it. She's not awake as far as you can tell, and that makes this so much more precious. You slowly take you hand away from her. Her head falls a little further to the side, but she stays asleep.

Would it be wrong to take a photo and preserve—yes. Very wrong. But maybe… no. It's wrong.

You stare longingly at your phone. This photo would look amazing in your camera roll. You sigh and turn away from the scene. Rummaging through your bag, you find the clothes you were planning on wearing to this meeting. With those in hand, you go into the bathroom to change. Best not to test how deeply asleep Eva is at the moment.

You go through the motions of getting ready, styling your hair, brushing your teeth, taking at least three breaks because the sight of Eva distracted you (creep), etc. It's a normal morning.

You're texting Ryland when her alarm goes off. You pause typing and look at her while she silences the alarm.

You bite back a smile and look away. "Good morning. I was going to go get breakfast with Ryland. I could bring you back something, or you could come with us." You look back at her. She's looking at her glasses and book the nightstand, no doubt piecing together that it was you who placed them there. She looks back at you. There's no comment on it, thankfully.

"I'll be okay," she says, shaking her head.

"Oh, alright. Well, let me know if you change your mind. I'll be back in… I don't know, actually. Depends on Ryland's navigational abilities." You grab the second keycard and tuck it into your pocket. "When do you need us back?"

She glances at the clock. You have hours before the meeting. "An hour."

You nod and say your farewells then head off to get Ryland. You took his spare key earlier when you thought you were sharing a room with him, so you just swipe his door open.

You rap your fingers on the doorframe, saying "knock knock!" in your best Stratt impression as you walk in.

Ryland jumps when you walk in, turning to you. "Gosh—when did you get a key?" He stands there, shirtless and endlessly confused.

"Took it before you sold me to Eva for entertainment." You walk by him and sit on his bed. "And put a shirt on, please. Not really into that."

"Right"— he slides on a shirt—"how did that go, by the way."

"Pretty sure I'm ovulating."

He tilts his head, eyebrows raising. His mouth opens, closes, opens again, closes again—yeah, he just gapes at you for a while. For such a knowledgeable man you think he'd know what that means.

"So, when the ovaries release an egg—"

"No, I understand that part," he cuts you off.

You giggle. "Okay, okay. I'm joking. I'm just saying she's really cute, and her little glasses are adorable, and… yeah maybe I should check my Flo app."

He turns away to grab comb for his hair. You can faintly see blush on his cheeks. "Do you just spend your time staring at her—? I don't want to know. Enough about your attraction to Stratt. Why are you here?"

You scoff. "First off, it's called admiring, and I came here to drag you out to getbreakfast. I'm hungry."

He tucks his comb away into his bag. "Ever thought of just calling me and telling me that? A text, maybe?"

"No, not really."

"Right. So you just walked in on me half-naked. You're just like her, you know."

You grin. "Think she'd be into that?"

"Not answering that."

"But that doesn't mean you don't have an answer." You drag out the 'r' in a childish way. At this point you're just annoying him. "C'mon, no insights into her thoughts on morally questionable, age gap relationships?"

"I'm not speculating on anything!" He groans. "Could we please talk about anything else?"

"Okay, sure." You raise your hands in surrender. "What's her relationship status? Ever been married? Any girlfriends? When was her last relationship? When was the last time she—?"

"How would I know any of this?" he asks, exasperated. "No one Stratt-related questions. None. I'm done with it."

You do end up pushing his buttons for the entirety of breakfast regardless.

You're back within an hour, just as Eva instructed. You have two coffees in hand, one for you, one for Eva. They prove to make opening the door difficult, but you end up managing.

Once the handle of the door is down, you nudge it open with your hip. You slip in and see Eva, predictably, working. She's strolling through something that you can't quite see on her tablet. She looks up once she hears you, though.

"Got you coffee." You walk over and place it in front of her.

She thanks you before taking a sip.

"Eat anything while I was gone?"

"I was busy."

You stare at her, unimpressed. "I should've gotten you something. How are you even still alive?"

"Typically adult homo sapiens are self sufficient."

You poke her cheek. "Sure you aren't even slightly robotic?"

"Are you prodding at me?" Her eyebrows knit together in confusion, but her lips perk up.

"It's the most scientific method available." You did your finger into her cheekbone. "Feels like flesh but ultimately needs more testing."

"With observations like those, I should just send all my other scientists home and put you in charge."

"Smartest decision you've ever made." You retract your hand. "Seriously, though, please eat something before we leave."

"We have ten minutes before we leave."

"How do you feel about granola bars?"

"They're enjoyable."

"Great!" You go over to your bag to grab a granola bar. You wouldn't say they're amazingly filling or nutritional, but it's better than eating nothing. You pass it to her.

She thanks you, then unwraps it. She takes a small bite and hums, swallows, then comments, saying, "It's not bad."

"I'll buy you an actual meal later."

Eva hums noncommittally and returns to whatever work she was hoping to get done before leaving. Briefly, you feel bad for not matching her insane work ethic. Though, you're very sure that not everyone can be Eva Stratt and somehow do this all without burning out.

You sneak one last glance at her eating your granola bar and, biting back a smile, you text Ryland the time you should supposedly be leaving. You tuck your phone in your pocket and catch Eva sharply looking away from you. Odd.

She stands up abruptly. "I think we should be going."

"Okay, I'll get Ryland—"

"Dr. Grace can meet us in the lobby." She begins to collect her things.

You study her for a moment, looking at the bock of her head. "Al-righty. I'll tell him that." Your words come out slow and uncertain. You fish out your phone to tell Ryland of this change.

Eva walks out, not waiting for a second.

You follow her out, jogging to catch up. "Are you okay, Eva?"

She nods, but you know that faraway look, slight furrow of her brows, and purse of her lips. She's thinking. The last time you saw her think that hard was when she was deciding on whether or not to place the crew in a coma. This is somehow different. She looks… frustrated? You've seen this before when she was met with obstacles in the project, but what news could she have heard? Huh.

You match her pace and walk beside her. "Everything alright?"

"Perfectly fine."

Ryland comes out of his room at a rather convenient time; you're just passing by. He waits for you two to get to his door and he then falls into step beside you.

"Good morning!" Ryland greets Eva. He forgoes the greeting with you, because he saw you earlier.

Eva doesn't spare him a glance. "Dr. Grace."

Ryland gives you a sideways glance. You shrug.

Eva, despite her tendency to be a little too blunt, usually at least offers Ryland pleasantries first before showing him that she doesn't care about how his day went or how he's feeling. Guess she's skipping to the point today.

She never really stops acting off. She's silent the whole ride, she can't look at you and Ryland for more than a few seconds, and she doesn't even say a word when Ryland downplays his role in astrophage discoveries to the shockingly talkative driver. That is what really concerns you. If Eva is letting someone be humble… oh, god, the apocalypse must be on its way. You shudder.

You're both behind Eva walking in. You whisper to him, saying, "Did something happen with the project?"

Ryland shakes his head. "Not that I know of. But she does usually tell me things later than I'd like—if I even hear it from her."

You stare at the back of her head, willing her thoughts to just present themself to you. She drives you insane.

You turn back to Ryland, but he's suddenly busied himself with talking to some Russian guy. You recognize him as one of the scientists on Stratt's Vat. You briefly remember him working on the spin drives for the ship. You look back ahead. Whatever. He'll be back in time for the meeting.

Eva gets stopped by some man in a suit. He looks to be in mid-60s. He looks European, but that's more a feeling than anything else.

He opens his mouth and immediately he confirms your theory. Yep. European. He's speaking French to Eva, and she's replying in kind (it seems like every day you find out a new language she speaks). Eva looks a little less than pleased, and he looks a little too pleased. You're catching too many stares dipping down where they shouldn't be. He turns to you and makes some comment to Eva. You look between the two of them curiously.

"Ah, hello! It's nice to meet you." He pulls you in for a hug. Your arms remain limp at your sides for a moment, but eventually you bring them up and pat his back in what you hope is a friendly manner. He pulls away but keeps a hand on your back. He's a little too close.

"Nice to meet you, too." You force a smile.

"You're her assistant, right? Don't tell me she keeps you cooped up on that ship. You're a pretty woman; you should be out. I could take you—"

"Take your hand off my assistant," Eva cuts in.

His hand comes down reluctantly. He looks a little surprised but shaken it off rather quick. He's still prattling on about some of the places he could show you in the city, but you don't care. All you can focus on is the felling of Eva staring daggers at the two of you. You need to leave.

"I'll take you up on that sometime, but right now I need to… discuss the schedule with Ms. Stratt."

He gives Eva a sad smile. "I'll see you at the dinner, yes?"

She nods. "You will be seeing me."

He asks something in French, casting a glance to you.

Her eyes narrow. "She will not be attending."

You quickly steer her away and say your goodbyes before she can do anything stupid. Your hand on her back guides her away.

"Dinner? What dinner?" you ask. "You never told me about that."

"I have people to meet with."

"And how does Mr. Sleazeball fit into that?"

She shoots you a look.

"Sorry, sorry."

"'Mr. Sleazeball' is manufacturing the materials we'll be using to breed the astrophage," she explains.

"And you're having dinner with him, why?"

"He's a notoriously difficult asshole, and remarkably ingenious with it. He asked for a dinner, he'll have one."

Your eyes go wide. "How awful is he if you're not challenging him?"

She shakes her head. "I don't want to talk about it."

Yeah, you don't even want to know.

— —

The meeting was uneventful. You mostly just sat there except for the few times you could contribute to the conversation. Fortunately, it went by relatively quick (Eva is good at expediting things). Unfortunately, everything else went by quickly, too, and you're now left alone. Eva took Ryland with her to this "dinner." You're thankful that she isn't alone with him, but a little resentful that you weren't deemed necessary is be there.

You've busied yourself with studying, your upcoming assignments, random things for Eva, everything. Now you're just bored. If you were anything like Ryland, you'd try to find something to do with the limited other scientists Eva brought. You're not him, though, and you don't find making friends to be as easy as he does. You're typically attached to Eva at the hip; that stunts your social skills—but isn't Ryland usually with her, too? Yeah, you have no excuse. You'll live with that.

Pushing yourself up, you sigh. You briefly wonder about how that dinner's going. He probably took them somewhere nice, the kind of place with aged, fancy wine—bars! A few drinks wouldn't kill you, right? Besides, Mr. Sleazeball was right about you being confined to that boat (as much as you hate to say that). It won't hurt to socialize a bit. It's only been—you check the time—a little under an hour since they left. You have time. You can be there and back before they're done.

It's decided.

You set off to go find whatever bar you just searched up. It's nice to take a walk without the smell of the sea permeating the air. New York City is not all that bad.

—

New York City is amazing! This bar is amazing.

You're more than a few drinks in (maybe even one or two too many), and you feel amazing. You're talking with a girl and a few of her friends. You're laughing at too many things you'd never find as funny sober, but you don't care. It feels amazing to let go for the first time in months, and even more amazing to talk to people your own age. Especially pretty women your own age. The woman next to you keeps on stealing glances at you, and you can tell her friends were pushing her towards you a bit. It's nice, honestly. You don't mind it. She's good company and laughs at your subpar jokes. It could be worse.

You've lost track of time at this point, but you get a very stark reminder once you feel your phone buzz.

"Aw, shit, one second." You excuse yourself and take your phone out. Eva—oh, it's been hours. Not good. You rush out the door and go into an alley to pick up the call.

"Eva! How was dinner? Fun?" you ask, slurring your words just the slightest. You aren't wasted, definitely not sober, but a little bit past tipsy.

"Are you drunk?"

"I can hold my alcohol, thank you very much—"

"Where are you?"

"I'm not far. I can walk back. I am really sorry about—"

"No, you're not. Where are you?"

Embarrassingly, you crumble and give her the address. Following that, you hear her muffled instructions, then you hear a car start.

"Are you coming to get me?"

"Yes. Stay where you are." She hangs up on you.

You can't tell if you're fucked or not. You probably are. And with whatever thing she's dealing with that's making her to irritated and off, you're probably going to experience her frustration tenfold.

You trudge back inside to go give your farewell to the group that adopted you for the night. You stop beside them and call the bartender over to close your tab.

"Are you leaving?" The woman next to you asks.

You nod. "Um, yeah, my friend is going to drive me back to the hotel I'm staying at."

"She can wait outside with you!" her friend blurts out.

You giggle as the woman turns away and blushes. "You don't need to do that."

She shakes her head. "No, I want to. It's the least I can do."

"You've been buying half my drinks."

"Still. You shouldn't wait out there alone." She downs the rest of her drink, presumably for confidence. "Let's go."

You hold the door open for her. "Pushy friends, huh?"

"Just a bit. They mean well." She brushes by you with a soft "thank you."

"I have friends like that. I'm sure they do." You lean against the wall of the bar. Your eyes mindlessly sweep the street full of traffic. You probably would've made it back quicker walking.

"Is the hotel far from here?" she asks.

You shake your head. "Not horribly. She's just a little overly concerned with my safety." You smile fondly.

"Are you guys close?"

You huff out a laugh and look at the ground. You wish you knew. "I'd like to think so."

"What makes you say that?"

"She's a little…" You search for the right word. "Mysterious."

"So mysterious that she's driving you back to your hotel so you don't need to walk, and you don't know if you're friends?"

You begin to laugh. "You'd be surprised."

You hear someone call your name ("someone?" Who are you kidding? You could pick out that accent in a sea of a million people all screaming at the top of their lungs). Your head turns to follow the sound, and you spot Eva. Is she in a dress? Yes. Yes, she is. Do you wish you had a photographic memory right about now? Also yes.

You look back to the ginger—maybe blonde—?

You squint, look at Eva, then look back at the woman.

You know that hair color. You know that hair color because you look at it everyday. You know it because it's Eva's hair color. And you recognize the blue in her irises because it makes the blue hues in Eva's eyes. Suddenly every part of your companion reminds you of Eva. Oh, god. You realize why you like her now, and you realize why you could have never liked the real her. It's because she's not Eva.

You are so screwed.

"Well, goodbye!" You quickly move to Eva.

"Wait, do you think I could get your number? In case you're ever in town again and you want to… yeah." The woman blushes. She averts her gaze, and she smiles sheepishly. It's not the smile you love. It's not the smile you see Eva crack whenever your presence serves to amuse her—most of the time you're more of a court jester than an assistant, and it's all because you look for that smile whenever you're with her. Nothing compares to the flutter in your chest whenever you see it. Nothing compares to the hit of dopamine you receive at the sight. Right now, all you feel is longing. Not longing for her, longing for her. You don't even need to clarify to know which woman occupies the same space in your mind and heart.

You chew the inside of your mouth. "I work on a boat, actually. I don't get out much, and I visit New York even less. I don't think I'll see you again."

The woman nods. "Okay, then. Goodnight."

"Have a good night." You turn back to Eva. Her jaw is set as she looks between the two of you.

She turns around and begins walking to whatever car she presumably stole. You use the time to take a look at the nice dress she wore. When did she pack that? And, more importantly, why did Mr. Sleazeball get to see her in it first? You don't want to think about how he was looking at her, but you're thinking about it. Your feet drag on the pavement the rest of the way to the car.

As you get into the same black car you took to the UN headquarters, you find that your suspicions were correct; she did take the driver's car. The thought makes you giggle.

Eva looks at you, her burdened expression giving away to a smile. You stare far longer than you should.

— —

You're so young, so naive. Hell, Eva doesn't even see a wrinkle on you. You prefer going out to a bar instead of a more relaxed, quiet evening inside that only time could make you value. Was this your first serious job? You're fresh out of college, she's sure of it. She remembers it on your resume, but you don't look like you could be anything else, either.

Your resume. That she read because you applied for this job, for this position under her (she can think of a few other positions she could put you in). God. She's your boss.

But she's also just a woman.

She's the woman you're looking at with such unadulterated trust in your intoxicated state. Eva's not used to trust being placed in her so freely and unprompted. The UN hand selected her for a variety of traits: her objectivity, her ruthlessness, work ethic, and how easy it'd be for her to take the fall for everything, surely. You're different. You just… looked at her and said, "yeah, I'll let this woman do whatever she wants." You don't know any better. You're basically a stray puppy.

She's the experienced one. She holds the power here, even if you undo her without even knowing it. Although, she's been abusing that power.

She didn't mean to push you into saying those words to her in her office. But, god, it sounded so good coming from your mouth. "Yes, ma'am. I'll stay." And you did. You stayed like the perfect, obedient assistant you are. You waited for her to finish her boring rounds, looking at scientists work and scaring them just enough to keep them motivated. You even waited for her to act on the undeniable desire you'd aroused in her (she subjected that bathroom to a few unholy things). You just offered the words so willingly. You were joking at first, but it was all too easy to push you a little farther. You crumbled with a look. All it took was a stern look.

Fuck.

You stripped yourself of your pride and dignity to appease her.

Her knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. She risks a glance in your direction and finds you staring out blissfully. Her eyes snap back to the road before you could catch her.

It had hurt more than expected when she saw you with that woman. Nothing compared to the dull ache she gets when she sees you smiling with Dr. Grace, but the knife certainly twisted in her chest. Sure, it could be interpreted as evidence of you being attracted to her—physically, at least. The woman had Eva's hair, her adoring look, and her blue eyes. But her hair was cut into layers, much more interesting than Eva's hair. The mystery woman held more expression than her. She seemed to not have any of the ambiguity that most definitely annoyed you. And Eva's eyes had nothing on the life that the other woman's had exhibited. And, most importantly, she had been much more age appropriate.

Do you prefer that, or is Dr. Grace your type?

He has more than a few years on you. He has stories to tell, knowledge to bestow, experience to wow you with. She has the same, she supposes. But Dr. Grace's life hasn't weighed on him. He doesn't carry the burden that she does. Life hasn't made him meaner, more ruthless. It hasn't taken away his passions. He spends all his time throwing himself into his work, but the bags under his eyes aren't a product of neglect, they're a product of passion. They show his endless contributions to his field, and they show his drive. What does Eva have on him?

She clears her throat. "Who was your friend?" Her fingers tap on the wheel. Her hands always find something to do while her mind wars with impatience.

You look at her, eyes wide with curiosity. "Why do you ask?"

"You shouldn't have been alone, intoxicated, and in a bar within an unfamiliar city," she skirts your question entirely. She won't can't answer that.

"You had your dinner—how did that go, by the way?"

She shrugs. "He's willing to give us the materials we need."

You look her up and down, displeased.

"What's that look for?"

"Mr. Sleazeball got to see you in that dress."

Eva shies away from your gaze, instead choosing to focus on the road entirely.

"He's creepy, you know. He was leering at you. You shouldn't have gone to dinner with that awful man." You fake a gag. "You're too pretty for that. Don't stoop to such lows."

Do you really need to twist the knife?

Luckily, you drop the topic and prattle on about the importance of pre-gaming to have an optimal night out (mentally, she confirms her thoughts of you being a recent college graduate). You continue your rant even while Eva cuts the ignition and walks you inside the hotel.

"So, if envision intoxication as a parabola here—you know, if we're graphing it—then…" you trail off once Eva stops. You look at the room number, then at Eva, confused.

"Uh, did you forget our room number, Eva? This is Ryland's room."

She doesn't want to relinquish her custody of you for the night. She enjoys your company, and you've been the only thing to help her sleep in all these months spent working on the project. That night with you was the only night she had more than five consecutive hours of sleep. Regardless, she knows she should let you be with Dr. Grace (or Ryland, as you so call him—which she is bitterly reminded of). She knows you're something with him—even if the woman you were with tonight was evidence of it not being exclusive.

"You can sleep in Dr. Grace's room tonight, if you please."

Your brows furrow. "Why would you suggest that?"

"Because of your relationship with him."

You tilt your head.

"You're constantly with him, and I see how you smile at your phone while you text him. I'm not oblivious."

Your head becomes level again, and your lips perk up. You begin to giggle, then you dissolve into laughter. Your hand comes up to your mouth to muffle the sounds. When your fit of laughter finally slows, you have to bite back another giggle before you can even attempt to speak. Eventually, you're able to stop laughing (embarrassingly, she wishes the sound lasted longer).

She's very confused.

"Eva Stratt, that is a gay man if I have ever seen one, and he is not the person I want in the slightest."

Her chest tightens, but she does her best not to show it. "So there is someone?"

Your grin softens. This isn't the smile she's used to. It isn't one that graces your face when she makes a particularly blunt comment, or when Dr. Grace whispers a joke to you during one of the more boring meetings. This one is almost pained.

You shrug. "Maybe in another lifetime."

She understands you. She knows the feeling. She's feeling it in this moment, here with you.

She mirrors your smile and walks down the hall to your room. You follow close behind. Like nothing ever happened, you start going on about parabolas and intoxication. If this were any other time, she'd be amused. All she is right now is so, so jealous. And, honestly, a little mad. You're rambling about whatever topic you somehow connected to the previous one while she's moping around.

"Did you mean it?" you blurt out.

That made Eva pause her nightly routine. She couldn't hear you well in the bathroom (like that stopped your monologue), but this stands out clear as day.

She steps outside the bathroom. "What?"

"When you said you'll drink with me another time. I want to know if you were being serious."

Her face slowly brightens with recognition. "Haven't you had enough alcohol for a lifetime?"

You shake your head and look at her like she just told you that the sky is purple. "It's not about the alcohol. It's about your company."

"I thought you've spent enough time with me for a lifetime." Her heart flutters. You make her feel a way she hasn't for a long time now. You've managed to stir up a storm of emotions that she thought she lost in all her work. She loves humanity, but she hasn't loved a single person in a long time. You stand out in a sea of eight billion people and give her one more reason to make this project work.

"Not enough."

The warmth that spreads across her entire body could replace the sun.

— —

You blissfully kick your feet back and forth. You don't mind this sleeping arrangement at all anymore, actually. You like watching Eva flit about. In another life, your days would start and end with this sight. You smile at the thought. She's always evoking those from you. You bite back a laugh when you remember that she was so close yet so far at finding the reason for them; they were out of love, yes, but for her, not Ryland. Was that why she was so mad? No… maybe?

You sit up. "Eva Stratt, were you jealous?"

She freezes. She was mid-way through placing her hairbrush back in her bag when her motions halted completely.

Oh my god.

"Really? Of who? That's why you were so pissed off?" You lean forward, energy thrumming through your veins. Blood is pumping through your veins at ungodly speeds as you anxiously watch her.

"No, I just find relationships between colleagues to be unprofessional." She regains her composure and continues closing her bag.

You scoff. "You never give a shit about DuBois and Shapiro, and they are very obvious."

"They get a pass; they're on the crew."

"Excuses, excuses. Admit it: you're jealous." Maybe you're reading into things, but the more you watch her reaction, the more you really believe it. It's hard to imagine her floundering. Good thing you're witnessing it first hand. She refuses to turn around to look at you, and you're sure you'd see that illusive blush on her face if she did.

You wait rather impatiently, your body jittery as you wait for a response. It doesn't come. Even Eva has limits to how far a person can push them, but you have to go all the way. When can you ever get this opportunity again?

Composing yourself, you take a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

With the most steady, calm voice you can muster, you say, "Look at me and tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you aren't jealous of Ryland Grace."

"I am not jealous of Ryland Grace."

"You're not looking at me."

She doesn't turn around.

"I was smiling at you, Eva." Your voice comes out soft. It's more vulnerable than you intended, but Eva deserves the reprieve from your teasing (she's surprisingly receptive to it).

That makes her turn around. The slight red on her face evokes a stupid grin on your face.

"You see me smile like that around Ryland because you're there. It's always been you."

She stares at you, expression unreadable except for the telling pink on her face. She takes one step forward. It's hesitant, but she quickly loses her previous inhibition and bridges the gap. You look up at her, lips parted, ready to say something, but then she leans in. You barely register it until her lips are already on yours. You are so sure you're dreaming. It can't be—Eva wouldn't do this. It's impossible. But it feels so real, and—no, no, no. Eva pulls away. You were so lost in your thoughts that you were frozen, and you've most certainly given her the wrong impression.

Your hands slip past her the curtain of her hair and pull her face right back to your level. You would rather die than let this opportunity pass you by. You're not as sweet as she was; you want to consume every part of her. Your hands fall down to her hip and pull her into straddling your lap. Any distance between you is too much. All you want is more; more of her on you, more of her touch, more time—no, no, no.

You whine her name and chase her lips when she pulls away. You're stopped by her hands on your shoulders. You really can't find it in yourself to care about how pathetic you're being.

"How many drinks did you have?"

"Not enough to make you stop." You push forward again, but she keeps the distance between you two.

"Right. Because you're always like this," she deadpans. "You love to complain, but I don't think I've ever heard you whine."

Warmth spreads from your face down to your neck—and not the enjoyable kind.

"Okay, says the woman who… I have nothing on you." You sigh. "Let's just go back to how eager you were to make out with me."

While Eva was occupied with formulating another response to annoy you with, you took the opportunity to nudge her hands off your shoulders and kiss her jaw. "Give me two more minutes, c'mon. That's all I need to ply my fantasies with."

"I could taste the alcohol in your mouth." Her fingers graze your chin. They barely even apply pressure before you just move wherever they're guiding you.

"Are you sure? Maybe you should check again—"

"No."

You crumble. "Okay."

Her fingers slide up to your cheek, tucking themselves away, past your ear, so her palm can rest on the side of your face. You lean into it, soaking up her gentle touch. She allows herself to just be content with studying you for a moment. There's a certain vulnerability in her eyes. This won't last—it can't, not with the fate you know she's destined to fulfill. She'll be discarded once she's served her purpose. And even if she were to live on, unaffected by her role in this project, this is an unconventional relationship. There's no good way to spin this.

But you're not in the future. You're here, with her. So you let her stare, and you allow yourself the same luxury. You're content to just feel her for a while longer. You feel you've been waiting forever for it.

You let the moment stretch for as long as you can justify, but you know you should let her sleep. "I shouldn't keep you up. The director needs her sleep, you know."

"I never sleep well regardless."

"Yeah. I noticed." You glance to your bag. Residing in it, there's a bottle of melatonin gummies. You bought it on a whim when you were passing through a convenience store for cigarettes. "I bought something for you, actually."

She follows your gaze to your bag, and takes the hint to get off your lap and allow you to grab it. She's sitting beside you now, her thigh pressed to yours. You miss her proximity. Still, you push yourself up and off the bed to grab the bottle. If you're being honest, you didn't think you were going to actually hand them to her. Discreetly placing them in her bag or putting them on her desk would've been preferred—honestly, you didn't even expect that you would be giving to her at all. If you knew, maybe you would have picked something a little less infantilizing that came in a few less flavors. Oh, well. You've done worse.

You retrieve the bottle and hold it up. "It might be a little too American for your taste." You walk back over. You stand in front of her now, reversing your previous roles. Once you've handed it to her, you briefly ponder which one you like better (you quickly come to the conclusion that you'll take whatever she gives you. You're painfully easy).

She turns the bottle over, inspecting the label. There's thinly veiled distaste.

Yep. Too American.

"You can't just take a pill?" She peers through the clear plastic.

"Why do that when you can"—you squint at the label—"taste passion fruit."

She glances up at you. "That's stupid."

You shrug. "Just taste the passion fruit and go to sleep."

She unscrews the cap, and then takes one of the gummies between her fingers. It's yellowish and mimics the shape of fruit. She inspects it, deciding if she really wants to eat this. She looks back up at you, then back down at the gummy. She places it in her mouth, chewing, and so obviously holding back a face of disgust.

You roll your eyes. "You are so dramatic. It is not that bad."

"You try it and see if you fare better."

You take one and pop it into your mouth. It can't be that—oh, ew. It's rubbery. Way too rubbery. And you're not sure what you're even tasting. It is, in so uncertain terms, awful. Your face screws up in disgust. You are not taking this better.

You look back at Eva, seeing her amused and holding back laughter. You dissolve into a fit of laughter, she chuckles in a much more classy and demure way.

"That was horrible. I'm so sorry," you say, plucking the bottle out of her hand and promptly disposing of it. "I will buy pills or whatever—" The way she's staring at you makes you pause, suddenly shy. "You can't look at me like that."

She's leaned back on her palms, chin dipped, eyes fixated on yours. Her hair curtains over her cheeks perfectly, and it looks so, so soft. You're angry you drank instead of sitting in front of the door, patiently awaiting her return.

Her lips part, ready to speak, cruelly taking away the absolute vision that is her smile. "Why can't I?" Her voice has a teasing lilt to it, a cadence that you hear more often than not now. It has become your favorite.

You fumble to find words that don't seem so juvenile. She seems to highlight your inexperience with the way she contrasts with you. She's so put together. You're not. "Everyone will figure it out in seconds. Ryland already says you look at me weird."

"I do," she simply states.

"You fail to see how that's a problem?"

She shrugs. "They speculate regardless."

"But being overt won't do us any good."

"I'm not suggesting we have sex in my office with the blinds open."

You don't want to talk about the things that makes you feel, or why that makes you blush so hard, or why your heart is racing, or why you can't stop imagining that—that's enough.

"Okay, let's table this," you say, walking over to the other side of the bed and climbing in. She swings her legs onto the bed and lays down beside you.

It's decidedly silent. You only realize it after you're done recalibrating—thanks to Eva's comment. The silence isn't uncomfortable, maybe a little awkward, though. You open your mouth to say something, maybe to tell her to try to sleep tonight or to tell her goodnight, but she beats you to it.

"We can do whatever you'd like."

You turn your head to face her. She's looking up, hands on top of her stomach. Your movement hall doesn't spur any of her own. She just continues looking up. "What do you mean? Right now?"

"You can decide how we conduct ourselves."

You narrow your eyes skeptically. Eva is very particular. She finds value in calculated risks, in finding faith in what she can't control, but she certainly tries to control everything she can. She weighs all risks, considers all angles, and rarely just entirely places her trust in someone else. Sure, she knows she needs to confer with more knowledgeable people—especially when all this science has her out of her depth—but she doesn't just let someone else decide.

"You're staring very loudly," she says, unbothered.

"I'm confused."

"I couldn't tell."

You huff out a small laugh. "Not to be rude or anything, but you're a bit of a control freak. Why do you trust me with this?"

She turns her head. "I trust you with everything," she says, her tone too incredulous for a woman that won't let you answer your emails.

"I really don't have time to go over how wrong you are."

"You're a capable woman. You do very well with the things I assign to you."

"Are we forgetting that this room situation stemmed from my mistake?"

"Don't belittle yourself over one incident. There is no one on my team that doesn't do their job well."

Okay, well, hard to argue with that. She is thorough. Reluctantly, you nod. "Yeah, okay. But you're really just okay with what I decide?"

"I've said so, yes."

"Okay. Then we'll… we can just continue like normal, I guess?"

She faces the ceiling again. "Okay."

Your eyes trace her side profile. It's dark, but light enough to make out her silhouette. You don't need light to indulge in the scent of her shampoo, though. She's hygienic, yes, but you can tell she didn't bring her own shampoo. You recognize the citrus of the lemon-scented set of toiletries in the hotel bathroom. It's nothing like the perfume she uses (you note that because, shockingly, she seems to care enough to make sure nothing clashes. You'll never smell layers of mismatched scents—not that you go around sniffing her… she just always happens to smell comforting). You wonder if her hair is as soft as the curves of her body, if your fingers can slide through it as smoothly as they slid over her skin. Curiosity wins over common sense; you reach out and twist a small portion her hair around your finger. Really soft. You abandon the motion in favor of running your fingers through the hair on her scalp. Really smooth.

Eva's eyes fall closed and she leans ever so subtly into your hand.

"Y'know…" you start, "sleeping with other people, like, helps—not like that. It just helps people sleep sometimes."

"It didn't do anything last night," she replies. Her voice is a low murmur. She's still not-so subtly pushing her head into your hand (adorable.), but she has opened her eyes to look at you.

"We weren't very close."

Her brows knit together. You fight the urge to smooth them out. "We were in the same bed."

"Eva, I'm trying to subtly insinuate that we should cuddle. Now, big spoon or little spoon?" You shake your head. "No, just turn around."

You retract your hand and watch her lay on her side, facing away. You move closer, your chest just barely touching her back, and you place an arm around her. She's tense for a moment, but eventually relaxes into you. Her hair smells even better when you have a face full of it. You're so happy you can't even bring yourself to care about it. This has to be your life's greatest purpose.

"See? Helpful?"

"Yes," she sighs softly.

You grin, imaginary tail thumping against the bed over, and over, harder, and harder. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," she echoes.

And it is a really fucking good night.

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