I’m reading too much smut

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

taglist: @theworstwolvie @qardasngan @madsfilmjournal @vexerieart (comment to be added)

By the time you reached the bottom of the stairs, your grip on the handle had tightened to the point your fingers ached. You paused in the dim hallway, breath catching. It wasn’t because of the suitcase, but the weight of everything you were leaving just four floors up. 

The heavy door. The flat. 

Him. 

You stopped your train of thought before your heart led you straight back upstairs, stepping out into the night. The street was quiet, wrapping you in cold darkness immediately. It was late, no sounds of traffic or voices, only the distant sound of the city and the hollow echo of your own footsteps as you crossed toward your car. 

You remembered the first time you’d stood on this exact stretch of pavement, keys in hand, both of you grinning like idiots.

Your salary, paired with his teacher’s one, had been just enough to make it work—barely, at times—but it had felt like a win at the time. A one-bedroom with an actual kitchen, a living room that wasn’t just a glorified corridor, and that tiny little balcony that had sealed it for him immediately.

He’d stepped out onto it that first day.

“It’s perfect,” he said, turning back to you with boyish excitement. “Do you know what we could grow out here?”

You hadn’t, at least not then, but it was impossible not to learn when living with a science teacher. 

Every morning after felt easy. He’d be up before you sometimes, or just after, padding out onto the balcony with a cup of coffee in one hand, already half-focused on the plants before he’d even taken a sip.

You’d stand just inside the glass doors, your own mug warming your hands, watching him.

He’d crouch, careful with his makeshift garden. Fingers brushing over their leaves. He always treated them with such care. Checking the soil, murmuring little observations under his breath.

And then he’d look up at you.

“This one’s doing really well,” he said, pointing, already halfway into it. “I’m going to have to repot it soon—yeah, definitely. It’s starting to outgrow its house. If I leave it the roots’ll get compacted and then it’s just a whole thing—nutrient uptake drops, water retention—should probably move it before it gets upset.”

You never understood half of it, but you loved the way he said it. Loved the way his whole face lit up, voice picking up the pace. He always got completely absorbed with his subject, even something so small and living and hopeful. 

Like he used to be with you.

You reached your car now, dragging your case the last few feet, catching some of the uneven pavement before you lifted it into the back. It landed with a dull thud, making this feel even more final. 

The back of your eyes began to sting as you tried to swallow. 

You glanced back at your building for one last time as you slammed the door shut. Turning and wrapping your arms around yourself to give you some semblance of comfort. 

He always said that it was his job to take care of you. To make sure you were okay, to look after you. 

You’d believed him. 

Just another lie. 

You think you knew from the beginning. The late evenings, distracted conversations. Him nodding along to things you said without really hearing them. You’d been kind to him, told yourself it was normal. People get busy, life gets in the way.

But then it began to stretch.

He’d start coming home later. And when he was home, he was miles away. You’d sit on the sofa together, something half-watched on the TV, and you’d feel it. Physically, he was next to you, but his attention was fractured; trying to be present but couldn’t quite manage it.

You tried to ignore it.  Hell—you wanted nothing more than to ignore it. But you weren’t stupid. 

“I’ve got an after-school thing.”

“I might be running late.”

You’d nodded, because what else were you supposed to do?

But something about it had sat wrong.

That was until you’d picked up your phone, dialled the school, and asked casually if you could leave a message for him. But the voice on the other end told you something you already knew: that the building had been locked up hours ago.

You fucking knew it. 

You closed your eyes, inhaling slowly, trying to steady the tightness in your chest that had been building all day.

You still loved him.

You loved him, and you missed him.

Missed the way he used to look at you, the way he used to reach for you without thinking. Missed the thoughtless closeness that had once been the foundation of everything.

This was not supposed to end with you standing next to your car, years of your life packed away in the back, sneaking away in the middle of the night. 

You were just about to open the door when you heard a noise.

First it was distant, but fast approaching, amplified in the empty night air. It grew louder fast, then closer, your stomach dropping as your mind scrambled to keep up. 

No.

No, no, no. 

You turned your head just enough to see it. A small white light cutting through the dark at the end of the road. 

His bike.

Your heart leapt, slamming against your ribs as your fingers fumbled uselessly with your keys. They slipped, catching awkwardly between your hands as you tried to press the small button.

Not now.

Please, not now.

This was the whole point—you hadn’t waited for him, hadn’t given yourself the chance to hesitate, because you knew if you saw him, if he looked at you the way he used to, if he said your name... 

You wouldn’t go.

Your breath came shallow as you tried again, hands shaking now. Behind you, the bike slowed.

“Hey!”

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to rewind the last thirty seconds so you could just leave.

He pulled up. You heard the shift of movement as he dismounted, the soft scuff of his shoes against the pavement.

“Hey—” he called again, like nothing in the world was wrong. “You off somewhere?”

You finally unlocked the car, the sound that seemed to echo far too loudly in the street.

“If you needed me to pick something up you should’ve just asked,” he went on, voice warm, slightly breathless from his journey home.

You kept your head down, unable to look at him. 

You heard the shift of his helmet being pulled off, the shake of it as he adjusted his hair, the soft clatter as he leaned the bike carefully against the side of your car.

God. You didn’t want to do this.

You didn’t want to stand here and say the words out loud. You didn’t want to hear him explain or watch him try to fix something that had already slipped too far through your hands. You didn’t want to beg him to tell you what you already knew.

That he’d lost interest.

Or something worse.

“Move, Ry,” you sighed, hand already on the door as you tried to pull it open.

The cold air bit at your skin sharply, but you barely felt it. He made no effort to move. He did the complete opposite, stepping in front of the car, cutting you off entirely, clearly not realising you were trying to do. 

“Hey, are you alright?” he asked, his brows pulling together as he took a proper look at you. “It’s freezing out here.”

You almost laughed.

You hadn’t even brought a jumper. Every single one you owned was his.

Soft, worn cotton that still smelled faintly like him, no matter how many times you washed them. You’d stood in front of the drawer earlier, fingers curled around the fabric. You didn’t know if your heart could bear taking them.

So you’d left them behind, left everything back there. 

“Move,” you tried again, stronger this time, your voice shaking despite your best efforts as you stepped forward, attempting to push past him. “Please, I—I need you to move.”

He shifted slightly, just enough to stay in front of you, confusion flickering across his face as your words finally began to register properly.

Something wasn’t right; he could see it now.

“Hey—wait—”

He dipped slightly, crouching just enough to catch your face as you tried to turn away, his head tilting, searching for some sign to tell him what was going through your head.

It was impossible not to see the red rims of your eyes, your breath coming in unevenly despite how still you were trying to hold yourself.

His expression shifted.

Please, don’t do this. 

“…what’s wrong?”

His hands came up without thinking, settling gently on your shoulders like they always did when he was trying to ground you. You shrugged them off, stepping back like his touch burned.

He would never expect you to react that way to him. 

His hands hovered in the air for a second before dropping back down, his fingers flexing, unsure at his sides.

You’d always lean into him.

Always.

“You’re worrying me, sweetheart,” he tried again, shifting his weight. “C’mon—let’s just go upstairs, yeah? We can talk about whatever this is inside. It’s not safe to be out here this late—”

You wanted to, so badly.

You wanted to go upstairs, let him pull you into the warmth of your home, make you tea, talk you through it in that rambling way of his until everything felt manageable again.

You wanted to look into his eyes and believe him.

But for both of your sakes, you couldn’t let that happen. 

You knew the second you stepped back into your shared space, softening even a little, it would be over for you. You’d fold. You’d stay. You’d convince yourself it wasn’t as bad as it felt.

And you couldn’t do that again. You owed yourself more than that.

“I’m not going upstairs with you,” you said, lifting your head finally, forcing yourself to meet his eyes.

Those stupid, pleading blue eyes that had always undone you without effort.

“I’m leaving, Ry,” you continued, your voice breaking. “I—I can’t do this anymore.”

Your words didn’t properly land, hovering somewhere between the two of you. Words he never imagined he would hear. 

His mouth parted like he was about to say something before stopping himself, his eyes searching your face like he was trying to find something that made sense.

Much like you had, for weeks at this point. 

“What—” he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. “Why?”

He took a step closer, cautious now he realised how serious you were.

“C’mon,” he said, voice tighter, something creeping into it, panic, maybe, or confusion. “You’re not making any sense. Let’s just—let’s just go inside, okay? We can figure this out—”

“There is nothing to figure out.”

You saw the way he stilled, the way his shoulders tensed, the way his expression flickered again. 

Hurt this time, unmistakable.

“Seriously,” you added, your hands trembling as you gestured weakly toward the side, toward the space you needed him to move from. “My mind’s made up, so if you can—”

Your voice wavered and he caught it.

Of course he fucking did.

It was like a switch flipped behind his eyes, the moment your words faltered. That ever-so-small crack in your composure was enough to make him hope that this was salvageable. He sharpened immediately, though his confusion remained, but it shifted into something more urgent. 

“Hey—no, wait—” he said quickly, stepping forward again. “Don’t—don’t do that.”

His voice softened on the last part, trying to steady you.

You shook your head immediately, stepping back again, your heel catching slightly against the curb as you tried to keep distance between you.

“Just—please,” you said, breath uneven now. “Just move, Ry, I don’t—I don’t want to do this like this, I just—”

“Like what?” his words spilt out. “What are you talking about?”

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back messily. His eyes kept shifting between your face and the car, like he was trying to piece something together and kept coming up short.

“You’re leaving?” he said again, like saying it slower might make it make sense. “You’re—why would you—what happened?”

What happened? 

Like he had the nerve to even ask. 

A laugh broke out of you, brittle and wrong.

“What happened?” you echoed, your head shaking “Ryland—are you serious?”

He winced, the missing nickname hitting him. 

“I—yeah, I—what do you mean?” he stammered, genuinely lost. “You were fine this morning, I—”

“That’s exactly it,” you cut in. “I’m always fine, right? Everything’s always fine because I don’t say anything and you don’t ask and we just—carry on like nothing’s wrong.”

“Something is wrong,” he said, immediately agreeing, more careful now. “Clearly something is—just tell me what it is.”

Just tell him what it is so he can fix it. 

You shook your head again, your hands coming up as you could physically push the words back down.

“No, I—I can’t—” you started, your breath hitching as it all caught up with you. “I can’t keep pretending like this is—like this is normal, like this is what it’s supposed to feel like—”

“What isn’t normal?” he pressed, trying to follow. “You have to tell me, I can’t—”

“You’re never here anymore!” you burst out, the words breaking loose before you could stop them.

The silence that followed was painful. The confusion on his face faltered as it softened into something sadder, almost edged with apology, even if he didn’t fully understand why.

“What?”

“You’re just—” you gestured helplessly, your hands shaking. “You’re gone, Ry. You’re here, but you’re not here, and I—I don’t even know when that happened, I don’t know when I stopped being part of your life in a way that actually matters—”

“That’s not—” 

“You don’t talk to me anymore,” you pushed on messily. “You don’t look at me properly, you don’t—you don’t see me, and I’ve been standing there just—waiting for you to come back to me and you just—”

“I am here,” he said desperately. “I’m right here, I—”

“No, you’re not.” 

Not in the way he used to be. 

He opened his mouth, trying to figure out how to respond to what was so obvious.

You could see it, see him trying, like he always did. Reaching for something to fix it, to explain, to make it all make sense again. He’d always been good at solving problems. But this felt like something that had slipped too far through his hands to put back together.

This had been breaking for a long time. 

“I’ve just been busy,” he said finally, grabbing the first thing that made sense. “That’s all it is. It’s—it’s work, it’s been—”

“Busy?” you repeated, your voice cracking again. “You’ve been lying.”

His whole body went still, like you’d pulled something tight inside him.

You knew you were right. 

“I—no, I haven’t—” he said too quickly. 

There it was again. 

That instinctive, immediate reach for something untrue, so fast it barely felt like he’d thought about it. You’d let yourself hope that he might fix it. That he might finally say something real enough to pull you back.

But that just cemented it.

He was sticking with the bullshit. 

“You told me you were at the school,” you gritted out, tears finally slipping free despite how hard you’d been holding them back. “You told me you were working late, and I—I called, Ry. I called them.”

His face fell.

“They said the building was locked,” you went on, your voice breaking. “Hours ago.”

“Okay—okay, wait—” he said quickly, hands coming up again, palms out like he was trying to slow everything down. “There’s—there’s a simple explanation for that, I just—”

“What?” you asked. “What explanation?”

What could he possibly say?

“I was—I was there,” he said, nodding like he was trying to convince both of you. “I just—I left, like, right before you called, they must’ve just—missed me, or—”

“Ryland,” you pleaded for him to stop. 

He tried to press on.

“I—stopped at the store,” he added, scrambling now. “On the way back, and I—lost track of time, that’s all, I just—”

You stared at him, and something in your expression must have told him because he stopped. The words fell apart mid-sentence, realising how poorly he was doing. 

Even he wouldn’t believe a word coming out of his mouth. And he knew you weren’t stupid. 

“You’re a terrible liar,” you said quietly. It wasn’t even cruel, just a plain observation that he couldn’t even be angry about.

He swallowed hard, his eyes flicking away from yours for the first time since he’d gotten there.

“I’m not—” 

“You are,” you said. “You always have been.”

It was true. Last year he’d tried to convince you he hadn’t planned anything for your birthday, doing a terrible job of acting casual while you narrowed your eyes at him. He’d tripped over every word, couldn’t quite meet your gaze, and you’d laughed because it was so obvious, so him. 

Now you weren’t even sure he’d remember the date without being reminded.

The silence stretched again as your mind went somewhere you had been skirting around for weeks. You didn’t want to believe it, but you had to be sure, even if you broke your own heart in the process. 

“Is there—“ you began, trying to swallow the taste of the question back down. “Is there someone else?”

Your voice broke on the last syllable, his head snapping up. 

“What?” his response was immediate, like he was unable to comprehend you asking such a question. 

“Because I don’t understand what else it could be,” you went on, tears falling freely now, your chest heaving with it. “You’re gone all the time, you won’t tell me where you are, you barely touch me anymore, and I—I just need to know if I’m—if I’m just—”

“Hey—no—no, no, no,” he cut in quickly. He couldn’t stop himself when you looked like this. “Sweetheart, no—how could you even—no, I would never—”

He moved without hesitation, closing the space between you, one hand catching your arm just to steady you before the other came up, hovering for a split second at your cheek like he wasn’t sure he had the right.

His fingers were warm against your skin, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye as if he could physically stop the tears.

“I would never do that,” he said urgently. “Not to you, not—no, that’s not—don’t—don’t think that, okay? Please don’t think that.”

His words were so soft, but you were already splintering, and the contrast was too much to bear. Whatever you’d been holding together, whatever thin thread of control you’d been clinging to, snapped completely.

A sob tore out of you before you could stop it, your hands coming up to cover your face as your shoulders shook, the sound raw and helpless and completely out of your control.

“Hey—hey—” he panicked now. “Okay—it’s okay, I’ve got you—”

He pulled you into him, unable to stop himself, arms wrapping around you properly this time.

He couldn’t lose you like this.

You didn’t fight him, already lost in his familiar embrace. Your hands clutched at his jacket instead, fingers twisting into the fabric as you cried into him, the sound muffled against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he was saying, over and over, the words tumbling out. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t realise it was—I didn’t know you were—”

You shook your head against him, your voice breaking apart between breaths.

“You weren’t there,” you managed, the words barely coherent. “You—you weren’t there and I—I didn’t know how to—how to fix it on my own and I—”

“I know, I know,” he said, his hand coming up to the back of your head, holding you there gently, his fingers brushing as he tried to calm you down. “That’s on me, okay? That’s—that’s my fault, I should’ve—”

His voice caught as the guilt started to settle. 

How could he have let it get this bad? 

Was he that blind? 

“I’m here,” he said instead. “I’m here now, okay? I’m right here.”

You cried harder at that. The statement offering you little comfort. He had been here physically, albeit in fragmented pieces, but he wasn’t with you. It was outlined in every late-night and half-finished conversation. 

Your knuckles started to ache as you squeezed his jacket tighter, feeling the damp of your own tears leaving small marks on his lapel. You could feel the erratic rise and fall of his own breathing where your cheek was anchored into his chest, far from his usual steadiness. Instead, it was racing. 

Good. 

It was a bitter thought, but you couldn’t help it. It felt good to have him feel just a fraction of what you were going through. The feeling didn’t last long; you were too tired. Far too worn to sustain any malice right now. 

You let yourself take a deep breath in, trying to steady your breathing. The adrenaline diffusing into exhaustion. The fog in your head cleared as you came back into yourself, making the decision before you even pulled away, shaking your head softly against him. 

“I think—“ you started, your voice muffled by his shirt. “Maybe it’s better if we just… spend tonight apart.”

His whole body went rigid beneath you. Every muscle locked up at once as you barely finished your statement. 

“What?” he sputtered. His face had gone pale beneath the streetlight. “No,” he said again, already shaking his head. “No, absolutely not. No.”

“Ry—”

“No.” He swallowed hard, now blinking fast, trying and failing to get hold of himself. “No, I’m not—I’m not letting you just go somewhere alone when you’re this upset, okay? I’m not doing that.”

We don’t do that. 

The urgency of it made your chest tighten all over again. He looked wrecked now, breathing still uneven, eyes darting over your face.

“I’m not asking for permission,” you said weakly; even to your own ears there was no strength in it. “I just… I can’t do this tonight. I can’t stand here and—”

“No, no, you can’t—” He was speaking too fast now, his brain sprinting ahead of his mouth. “Okay, yes, obviously, tonight is—bad, I get that, I do, but you can’t leave like this. You just can’t. Not—not when you think—” He broke off, exhaled sharply through his nose. “Not when you think that’s what’s happening.”

You looked away from him, jaw trembling.

“I don’t have it in me to argue with you.”

“Then don’t,” he said, almost pleading now. “Just—just let me try.”

Your throat tightened.

His voice dropped, but no less desperate. “Please,” he said, almost painfully with his sincerity. “Please just come upstairs with me.”

You didn’t answer.

You wanted to. To fold into the shape of him and let him lead you upstairs, but you felt completely wrung out. Heavy with grief and the cold and the too many sleepless nights spent staring at the ceiling when he was right there next to you. 

“I’ll tell you everything,” he said. “Okay? I will. I promise, I know I’ve been weird, and I know I’ve been gone, and I know this looks terrible—horrific, actually, in retrospect, which is my fault—but it’s not what you think it is. It’s not. You have to—you have to believe me on that part.”

His hands had slid down to your elbows now, holding lightly. His thumb kept twitching against your sleeve.

“I’ll explain all of it,” he said more firmly. “I’ll tell you everything. Just… please don’t walk away from me tonight. Please.”

You searched his face, the open panic there. The fear. His mouth was parted slightly, ready to keep pleading if you needed him to. His eyes were frantic, horribly earnest.

He looked nothing like a man who had stopped caring. He looked like a man who had just realised what his silence had cost him.

The fight was draining out of you, leaving a dangerous flicker of hope you did not trust. Your face felt cold from the night and hot from crying. Your chest hurt. Everything hurt.

You gave the smallest nod, one that was barely there. One which he latched onto instantly. His whole expression changed with almost comical speed, relief flashing across his face so fast and so naked it might have been laughable in any other moment. 

“Yeah?” he said, breathless. “Yeah?”

You managed another tiny nod.

You could let him try. 

He perked up at once, scrambling to gather himself. 

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “Yeah, alright. Come on. Come on, let’s just—okay.”

He was moving before he’d even finished speaking. He shrugged off his coat immediately, that caretaking part of him kicking in with no thought at all, and stepped forward to drape it around your shoulders before you could protest. It was still warm from him. 

“You’re freezing,” he muttered, already fussing with the collar to pull it closer around you. “God, why didn’t you—no, stupid question, forget I asked.”

Gently but decisively, he took your keys from your unresisting hand. You frowned faintly, too wrung out to stop him, watching through blurred vision as he glanced at you once before he clicked the button.

The car locked with a sharp little chirp. He winced, caught out.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, not sounding sorry in the sense that he regretted it, only sorry that you’d noticed the calculation. “That was—yes, I know. But you were about to leave me in a parking spot, so I think I get one tactical decision.”

Despite everything, despite the ache in your throat and the tears still wet on your cheeks, the line was so desperately, transparently him that something in your expression must have shifted.

“I’m not locking you in,” he said more gently. “I’m just… I need to get you upstairs before you bolt or decide I’m terrible enough to justify vehicular manslaughter. One crisis at a time.”

You chuckled against your better judgment. 

Damn him. 

“C’mon,” he said quietly, his hand finding yours. And when you didn’t resist, he tightened his hold just a fraction.

At the front door, he let go of your hand only long enough to fumble the key into the lock, missing the first time because his hands were still shaking. He huffed under his breath, corrected, and pushed the door open before immediately turning back to you.

“Go sit down,” he told you. “I’ll make tea, alright?”

You didn’t argue, letting him guide you inside, his hand still hovering at your back. The flat felt wrong now, with you going back on the promise not to return here tonight. 

You moved toward the sofa, lowering yourself down slowly, his jacket still wrapped around you. Behind you, you heard him move into the kitchen. Cupboards opening, shutting. The scrape of something being moved out of the way. The clatter of the kettle being filled, water rushing.

He was nervous; you could hear it in everything he did.

Your hands curled into your lap, fingers picking absently at the skin beside your nail, tugging at it until it stung. You pressed your thumb harder against it, grounding yourself in the sharp pain. You stared at nothing, eyes unfocused, listening to the soft click of the kettle switching on. The sound filled the space, just like old evenings. 

He reappeared with two mugs in his hand, steam curling from both of them, glasses slightly fogged, 

“Sorry,” he started automatically, stepping into the living room. “I couldn’t find your mug, I swear it was—”

You looked up. His words faltered mid-sentence, his eyes drifting from the mugs in his hands to your face.

“Oh,” he said softly.

You were really serious. 

His voice was quiet and your gaze dropped immediately, heat creeping up your neck, embarrassment uncomfortable in your chest. You stared down at your hands instead, deciding they were far more bearable to look at.

He shook his head quickly, needing to undo the moment as fast as possible.

“Hey—no, look—it’s fine,” he said, a little too gentle. “It’s—I’m gonna fix it, alright? I’m gonna make it fine.”

You really hoped so.

He crouched slightly as he reached you, setting one of the mugs down on the coffee table before offering the other to you. You took it without looking up, the warmth seeping into your palms.

Then he sat opposite, on the edge of the table. Your knees were almost touching. He rested his elbows on his thighs, one hand still loosely wrapped around his own mug, the other running briefly through his hair again before dropping back down.

Here goes nothing. 

“Okay,” he said finally. “So.”

You lifted your eyes to him slowly, bracing yourself.

“I don’t… really work as a teacher anymore.”

What?

I mean, you knew it wasn’t his first profession, that had been ripped away from him. He told you after a few weeks of dating, the past still sat heavy on his shoulders. But he took a shine to his kids, was protective of them, even found himself finding joy in the small places the classroom offered. 

“…you got fired?” 

It was the only thing you could deduce. 

“No—no, God, no,” he said, startled. “I’m not that terrible.”

You didn’t laugh. He swallowed, nodding once to himself like he’d expected that.

“Right. Yeah,” he muttered, shaking his head. He set his mug down, both hands coming together loosely between his knees.

“What I’m about to tell you—” He faltered, dragging a hand over his mouth. “It’s not something I’m meant to say. Not to anyone. So I need you to trust me, okay? Just—trust me for a minute.”

Your throat felt too tight to speak, but you nodded.

“Do you know what the Petrova line is?”

You tilted your head, the question so abrupt it threw you slightly.

“…yeah,” you said slowly. “You’ve—you’ve talked about it before.”

He nodded in relief.

“Yeah, yeah, of course I have,” he said, more to himself than to you, like he was trying to reassure himself that there was a logical entry point here. “Right. Good. That’s good.”

How could he not remember?

He was fascinated by it, and mildly concerned. Researching articles and sharing them with you in the evening, or even messaging them to you while you were at work. 

Maybe you weren’t a priority anymore.

He kept going.

“So—okay—the Petrova line,” he said, slipping unconsciously into explanation mode. “Those dots, right? The… the dimming events on the sun? They’re not just random fluctuations. They’re consistent.”

He glanced at you, checking you were following. You nodded faintly.

“They’re… eating it,” he said, the words sounding strange even as he said them. “Not—not like, metaphorically. Literally. Something is consuming solar radiation at the surface level and absorbing it or… something.”

“…huh?”

“I know,” he held up a hand, already anticipating the reaction. “I know how that sounds, okay? I do. But it’s—it’s measurable. The data’s there, it’s been there, we—I just didn’t realise how serious it was.”

His voice was picking up now, like he was explaining something to his class. 

“It’s spreading,” he continued. “Exponentially. And if it keeps going at the rate it is, it—it’s not just a solar anomaly, it’s a—it’s a problem. A big one.”

Your fingers tightened around the mug in your hands.

“…Ryland,” you said quietly. “What are you talking about?”

How did this relate to anything?

He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face before looking back at you.

“I got… approached,” he said, choosing his words more carefully. “At work. In the school car park.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Approached?”

“Yeah,” he said with a small, humourless breath. “Like—cornered, basically. There were people. Government people. I didn’t—I didn’t know that at the time, obviously, I just thought—” He shook his head. “They knew about an article I wrote years ago. About life not necessarily requiring water to evolve, you remember?”

Like he had to ask. 

You looked at him to continue. 

“I tried to say no,” he added defensively. “I did. I told them I was a teacher, that I wasn’t—I wasn’t the right person, that they should find someone else, but they—”

Something tightened in his expression.

“They didn’t really give me a choice.”

The room felt smaller.

“They think these things—whatever they are—they’re alive,” he went on. “And they can survive on the surface of the sun.”

Your eyes widened as you fully registered his words. 

But… how is that possible?

You didn’t have a PHD in space science or damn astrophysics, but this sounded insane, even to you. 

“And because I have a background in molecular biology and I’ve written about organisms that can survive extreme environments and I am, apparently, just obscure enough to be useful without being politically complicated…” He let out a breathless exhale. “They… recruited me.”

Recruited him.

It was almost unbelievable. He was brilliant—yes—but your cardigan-wearing, plant-watering, middle-school-teaching boyfriend had somehow been snapped up by the government to investigate why the sun is basically dying?

He was right, it did sound insane. 

“…you’re serious?” you said, though it didn’t sound like a question.

He held your gaze.

“I know how it sounds,” he said quietly. “I do. I know it sounds insane.”

He got that right. 

“…you’re saying…” You started, your voice unsteady. “You’ve been—what? Working with the government?”

He nodded once. And you realised, with a sinking, dizzying feeling in your chest. 

He wasn’t lying.

As much as you hated to admit it, the information sank through your chest. You wanted to tear it apart, find a seam and rip, pulling until you could shred it into something easier to understand. 

But it made sense. 

The late nights shrouded in secrecy, all of the distractions. He was stretched thin about something he clearly couldn’t talk about. He’d come home wired, your brain jumping to the worst possible conclusion, but his mind was still buzzing with something far greater than the two of you. 

There was detail in his explanation—so much detail, and it was fast. The intricacies of his story felt unpolished and unrehearsed, just like life was. His lies were never this big; this felt too real to be something he’d constructed just to avoid telling you he didn’t love you anymore. He would never be that cruel. 

It was true, but you didn’t want to think about what that meant for you both. 

Your stomach twisted as you processed, not knowing whether to be angry or terrified. Your grip tightened around the mug as your pulse started to make itself known again, surging back with fresh force. 

“You—“ you began. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

You had an inkling as to why. This was a huge secret, but he still allowed you to think the worst, not noticing how fractured your relationship was becoming. 

“Hey—no, I wanted to,” he told you quickly, slightly relieved you were humouring him. “I tried to tell you. Like—multiple times, actually, I just—”

He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair.

“There were NDAs,” he said, the words tight. “Not the kind you sign for, like, a new textbook publisher or whatever, I mean actual—legal, government-level—if I say the wrong thing to the wrong person I could—”

He cut himself off again, jaw tightening.

“They’re… not people you mess around with,” he finished. “They’re the real deal.”

Who the hell has your boyfriend even been talking to?

“These people?” you echoed, incredulous. “Ryland, how do you even know these people are legit?”

“They are,” he said immediately. “They just—are.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I know, I know,” he said, frustrated with himself now. “I just—I can’t give you, like, credentials or a LinkedIn profile or—I don’t know—”

Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched faintly. 

“But they’re real. I promise you they’re real.”

You focused on him through the haze of adrenaline, allowing the noise in your head to go quiet. Mulling his words over and over as he awaited your response. 

It was your turn to look at him now, the man you loved sitting opposite. And if you were being completely honest, he looked wrecked. 

The exhaustion clung to him. There were faint shadows under his eyes that were far darker than they should have been. His hair had grown slightly longer than usual. It fell messily over his forehead, half pushed back and unkempt. His hands were itching at his knees, unable to stay still. Fingers flexing and twitching, wired with adrenaline. 

He was waiting for you. Waiting for you to say something. 

Tell him you believe him. 

But in doing so, you’d be admitting that he hadn’t just drifted away from you, he’d been taken to somewhere you couldn’t follow. 

Your throat burned as your emotions scattered. 

He could have told you something—a small thing. Something to stop you from unravelling the way you had, enough to stop you from standing outside with a packed suitcase, ready to leave everything behind. 

You parted your lips as you tried to find a question to ask, a hundred things you could demand of him right now. From the look on his face, he would do them all. 

What mattered most right now? What did you need to hear from him first? 

There was only one thing that circled in your mind, the thing that kept you up at night. The only thing that made this ache so sore. 

Your voice was fragile as you posed the question. 

“…you didn’t just… get bored with me then?”

Ryland looked at you, completely devastated. 

How could you ask him that?

“No.” It was his most immediate response that night.  “Absolutely not.” 

He leaned forward, needing you to hear his words more clearly than ever. 

“That was never—never what this was,” his voice was firm. His chest ached at how fragile you sounded, ached even harder that you had to pose the question. 

He could hardly bear to imagine what must have been going through your head these past weeks. 

“You really thought I—“ he stopped to align the words right. “You really thought I could stop loving you? Just like that?”

The thought sounded unfathomable to him. 

You fell silent, your actions from tonight speaking for themselves. 

You had. He had pushed you to the point where you had. 

He exhaled as your gaze dropped to the mug in your lap; you felt a sense of shame, which he saw immediately. 

“Hey—this is on me,” he quietly told you, shifting forward. “This is completely on me, alright?”

Before you could react, he reached forward and gently took the mug from your hands. His fingers brushed yours without him meaning to, and you found yourself almost itching for them again. He set it down beside his own on the table, deciding to join you on the couch.

“I feel so stupid—” you started.

“Hey—no,” he cut in immediately, his hand finding yours where it rested in your lap. “No. You’re not stupid.”

Far from it in his mind. You were the only person who was, quite frankly, alarmingly smarter than him on most days.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, feather light as they moved.

“If anything, you’re underreacting,” he attempted with humour. “Honestly, I’m impressed you didn’t throw something at my head sooner.”

A weak, breathy sound left you. You definitely thought about it. 

“I got in over my head,” he admitted. “And I handled it badly. You deserved better than that.”

His hand tightened around yours.

“A lot better.”

You could feel it in the way he said it, the weight he’d been carrying, the guilt sitting heavy in his chest. This was a conversation that should have happened weeks ago.

“I should’ve trusted you with it,” he went on. “I should’ve—I don’t know.”

His other hand came up then, tentative, brushing lightly along your arm before settling at your elbow.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softer now. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Your throat tightened again. He shifted, body angling toward yours fully now, closing the space without overwhelming you. His hand lifted slowly—giving you time to pull away if you needed to—but when you didn’t, his fingers came to your face, warm against your cheek.

“Hey…” he murmured. His thumb brushed lightly along your jaw, coaxing. “Look at me.”

Your eyes met his, wide and a little glassy. And the way he looked at you. 

God.

The love he’d been too wrapped up to show properly for weeks was pouring out of him completely now. Attention back on track to where it should have been all this time.

“I love you,” it was a statement, the honest truth behind all of this. “Do you believe me?”

You had to. 

You paused before nodding softly, still unable to meet his eyes. Your pause was far too long for him, showing him just how far this had fractured. His had been immediate. You had never been hesitant with him before, not when it was this.

He nodded, accepting what he had hoped wouldn’t happen. It was a small dip of his head, careful not to disturb you too much. 

“Okay,” he sighed, defeated.

It wasn’t the okay you wanted. Far from reassurance and steeped in uncertainty. It was an acceptance; it almost sounded like a goodbye. Your fingers tightened slightly in his hand, but he misread it. From where you sat opposite him, all he felt was distance. 

He swallowed, his thumb slowing against your knuckles.

Space. That was what you needed.

And if that was what you needed, then he would, of course, oblige. Even if it ate at his stomach from the inside out. If he’d hurt you this much, if he’d made you doubt something as fundamental as this, then the least he could do now was not crowd you. Not make it worse.

Even if it meant walking away when every part of him was screaming not to.

“Alright.” 

Your brows pulled together faintly, but before you could speak, his hand slipped from yours. The absence of it was immediate. He pushed himself up from the couch, movements controlled, and straightened slightly, like putting physical distance between you might somehow make this easier.

“Hey—” 

He gave a small, almost apologetic shake of his head.

“It’s alright,” he said quickly. “I can—I can come back tomorrow. If you want.”

“Huh?” 

“You want space,” he added, choosing each word so it wouldn’t hurt you more. “Which—yeah. I mean, that’s fair. Completely fair.”

“Ryland—”

“I’ll just—” His hand dipped into his pocket, pulling out your car keys—the ones he’d taken earlier—and he stepped toward the table. The small clink as he set them down beside the mugs felt loud.

“You can leave if you want,” he said, glancing at them briefly before looking anywhere but directly at you. “Or stay here. Either’s fine. I’ll, um—”

He faltered.

“I’ll give you some space.”

Your stomach dropped. Suddenly, you could see the way he was reading this, the way he’d twisted your silence into something it wasn’t. You watched it hit him all over again, turning awkwardly as he made space to depart and all you could feel was panic once again. 

No—

It flooded through your chest, hollow and twisting as you watched the man you love walk away from you once again. You only let him take a couple of steps.

“Ry—no, wait—”

You were moving before you even fully registered it, the room tilting for a second as your hand reached out. Your fingers caught the sleeve of his shirt, gripping it just enough to stop him. He turned back to you slowly. You swallowed, your grip tightening slightly on his sleeve, anchoring him there.

“Don’t—,” you said, your voice catching despite your best efforts. “I—I want you to stay.”

Something flickered across his face. 

“Are you sure?”

You nodded your head quickly, stepping closer without thinking, your other hand coming up to fist lightly in the front of his shirt.

“I don’t want to be alone right now,” you admitted, the truth of it sitting raw in your chest. 

And you didn’t want him to either. You knew exactly what he’d do.

He’d find somewhere last-minute, something overpriced and uncomfortable, tell himself it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t sleep, he never did when something was weighing on him, and then tomorrow he’d show up with that careful smile, pretending he was fine so you wouldn’t worry.

“Please don’t—please don’t leave me again.” 

You didn’t give him time to overthink it. Your hand tightened in his shirt, pulling him down just enough. And then you kissed him.

It was everything you hadn’t said, everything that had been sitting heavy in your chest for weeks, all of it crashing into that single moment as your lips met his.

His hand came up to your face instinctively, fingers warm against your cheek as he kissed you back, grounding like he needed to make sure you were doing this. You broke it just enough to breathe, your forehead brushing his.

“Stay,” you whispered, your voice soft but certain. His breath hitched.

“I need you, Ry,” you murmured, your fingers curling tighter into his shirt, keeping him close. “Please.”

And the way he looked at you then,  like you’d just handed him something he hadn’t dared to hope for.

“Okay,” he said again, but this time it wasn’t resignation. 

You were giving him a chance, and he would be an idiot not to take it. 

He leans down to kiss you again, and it’s the kind that makes your head spin. It’s the same kiss that got you to say yes to being his girlfriend, the one that made you feel like a teenager all over again. 

He reaches his hand under your neck to tilt your head up, tasting you once again, guiding you gently with his mouth against yours. 

“Honey…” he breathes against your lips. “We don’t—we don’t have to—“

You weren’t listening to him. 

The night had overwhelmed you completely, more than you knew how to hold. The only thing that made sense now was him—and you needed him close. Needed the weight of him, the warmth of him, something real to hold onto.

“Please,” you ask him, already pawing at his shirt, desperate for him to be close to you. “I need you, Ry—please.”

He groans against your neck, trying to keep up. 

He knew he could do this for you; you were etched into his brain. He knew how to make you breathe his name, how to make you fall apart from his words, his fingers. 

You were practically begging him to hold you, to be near you. He felt it in the way your hands were palming his shoulders, trying to drag him deeper into the flat. 

This he could do for you. 

This was the least he could do for you. 

He dipped his head to your neck, sucking and nibbling gently at the spot you liked. He hums when he hears your soft sigh, continuing until he feels your neck open for him more. He holds you in place as his movements get more precise, feeling his chest soar when he hears the gentle moan pass your lips. 

One palm slid under the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your waist. 

“Can I?”

It pained him to ask. Usually he listens to your body for confirmation, the way you melt into his touch, but tonight is different. He wants to hear you tell him, remind him that he is the one you want right now, the one who gets to have you like this. 

You nodded, heart hammering. He eased his coat off your shoulders first, letting it pool behind you on the floor, then hooked his fingers under the edge of your shirt. He didn’t yank it up; he peeled it away tenderly, lips following the path his hands made—crouching almost in worship. 

He kissed the newly exposed skin of your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your bra as he tugged the fabric over your head. Gently, he ushered you back toward the couch, far too desperate to make the small journey to the bedroom. 

His hands held your hips as he knelt between your thighs, gazing up at you with an expression that could only be described as awestruck. He had seen many things in his life, but none quite as beautiful as you looking at him like this. Soft-lids, flushed cheeks. 

He wasn’t religious, but at times like this, he believed he could be. 

He dragged the zipper down with agonising slowness, then hooked his fingers into the denim and your underwear at the same time, easing them down your thighs together. Every brush of his knuckles against your skin made you shiver, and he noticed leaning in to press open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your knee as he freed one leg, then the other.

When you were finally bare, he sat back again. His breath hitched visibly. 

“God,” he breathed when he saw you, sitting back on his heels just enough to take you in. His hands settled on your hips, thumbs stroking slow circles. 

How could he forget this? 

You were practically shivering with anticipation, lips parted as you ached for his touch. It had been weeks at this point, the strain between his own legs reminding him. How he had neglected you, both of you. 

Tonight, he was going to fix this. Fix everything. 

He leaned upward, allowing his hands to finally wander. He groaned, low and genuine. The first slow glide of his fingertips through your folds made you both gasp. You were soaked, slick heat coating his skin instantly, and you because the touch was so light, so careful, so exactly right. He circled your clit once, feather-soft, and your breath caught sharply.

He finally sank one finger inside you, slow and deep, and the stretch was perfect—familiar, warm, the slight callus on his knuckle dragging just right. You arched with a soft cry, and he hummed in approval, curling the digit gently like he was testing the waters even though he already knew exactly what you needed.

Your head fell back against the couch cushions, hips rocking down to meet his hand as the pleasure built in slow, syrupy waves. He was everywhere—mouth pressing kisses to your collarbone—while his fingers worked you open. He wasn’t out of practice at all; every twist, every curl was deliberate.

“Ry—fuck,” you gasped when he crooked his fingers just right, brushing that spot inside you that made sparks shoot up your spine.

His name had never sounded so sweet. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he cooed as your face scrunched. “There we go.”

You flushed under the weight of his praise, legs parting to allow him even closer, but it wasn’t enough. You needed him closer, needed him inside of you. It had been too long; he owed you that much. 

“Ry—“ you breathed out and he stopped his movements instantly. 

“What is it?” he asked gently, lips still running along your jaw. “Talk to me.”

Tell him what you need.

“Want more,” you sighed as your hands wandered lower, gently tugging at the waistband of his jeans. He got the message, willing to give you exactly what you wanted tonight. 

He pulled back to yank his shirt over his head in one quick motion. The sight of him—bare chest, the faint trail of hair leading down, the way his muscles shifted under his skin—made heat pool low in your belly all over again. 

You missed that sight.

You were getting impatient, after weeks of torment, leaning forward to reach the button on his jeans. He couldn’t help but let a small chuckle escape his chest at your eagerness. 

“Easy,” his hands came to cover yours. “We have all night.”

You huffed at his response and he sped up his movements, shoving jeans and boxers down in one go, kicking them off toward the end of the couch. His cock sprang free, flushed and already leaking at the tip, and he wrapped a hand around himself, stroking once, twice, eyes never leaving your face as he sucked in a breath. 

Gently, he stood, soft as he lay you down. One hand holding the back of your head, the other on your hip, angling you exactly where he could look after you. Where he could take care of you properly. 

Instinctively, your legs sprang up to wrap around his hips, automatically aligning his with yours as his cock strains against you. 

“Baby—“ he groans as his eyes flutter closed, buring his face in your neck as you rock gently against him, the friction sending small jolts through his body. 

“Hey,” he shakes his head as he mumbles. “Gotta take it slow, alright?”

It’s been so long, and he’d be damned if he ended up hurting you like this. 

“Don’t wanna,” you plead as you paw at him. “I can take it—promise.”

A low, broken sound rumbled in his throat when the words left your mouth. God, you sounded so sweet beneath him. His beautiful girl begging so gently for him, in a tone he far from deserved. 

He settled between your spread thighs, the head of his cock nudging against your slick folds, and he hissed at the contact, eyes fluttering shut for a second. 

“Ah—“ He rocked his hips forward slowly, sliding the length of himself along your pussy without pushing in yet, coating himself in you while his hands flexed on either side of your head. Every slow glide bumped against your clit and you whimpered, hips jerking up to chase the friction.

“Please, Ry—” 

“I know,” he coos. “I know.” 

He just needs to get you there gently, the way he knows you like.

“You ready f’me?” he asks gently, satisfied with the pool of slick between your folds. His hand drifts lazily down as he circles your clit, waiting for your answer. 

You nod slowly as you recline on the armrest, opening yourself fully to him. He eases himself in steadily, so thick you felt every inch stretching you open. Your mouth fell open on a silent cry as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, and he let out the most broken, relieved sound you’d ever heard from him.

It really had been that long. 

“That’s good?” he breathes, needing to know. 

“Yes,” you mewl in response. 

His mouth was on yours again before you’d even fully caught your breath, the kiss slower this time. It made you whimper into him. Your fingers tangled themselves in his hair, nails gripping as you pulled him close, the way you knew drove him wild.

His hips faltered as he let out a broken groan into your neck, trying to keep his composure. 

“—sweetheart,” he pants, as he steadies himself with a chuckle. “M’not gonna last long if you do that.”

He pulled back and he looked at you, something pleading in his gaze. It was your turn to smile up at him, lips curling ever so slightly as you leaned up to his lips. 

“Then you better hurry up, Ry,” you tease. “You’ve got a lot of making up to do.”

And he intended to do it properly.

He continued with a new pace, your fingers still trailing. It was deeper now, with one hand sliding under your knee to hitch your leg higher around his waist so he could angle even better. The new position made you cry out, back arching clean off the couch, and he groaned in response.

You had never looked more beautiful, so soft under his weight. You still trusted him completely, even after he left you. 

After you nearly left him. 

His jaw tightened as his hips faltered at the thought before he stopped himself. You felt his hands guide your own up beside your head, lacing your fingers as he folds you deeper into the couch cushions, desperate to hear your moans get louder against his ear. 

“Feel good, honey?” he breathed. “C’mon, let me hear you.”

Let him hear he was doing it right. He had to be. 

“So good—“ you breathe out. “Always feel so good.”

God, he hopes so. 

Far too long he had left you alone, not taking care of you in the way he should. He cursed himself for almost letting you slip between his fingers, cursed himself when he had this to come home to every night. 

He’d been such an idiot. 

It was his job to take care of you. To make sure you felt wanted, seen, to make sure you felt good. 

“Haven’t been good to you,” he admits as his voice breaks. “Not nearly enough—god—“

You whined under him, letting him know he was hitting your sweetspot as your chest brushed against his own. 

Just like that. 

He needed to see this, needed to give you this, to know that he could still make you feel good. 

That you still loved him. 

You were losing it under him, every thrust dragging pleasure through you in heavy waves, the emotional weight of his words mixing with the physical until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes—not from sadness, but from how full you felt, how desperately loved.

“Ry—Ry, I—I can’t—” you gasped, hips meeting his on every stroke now, the slap of skin on skin mixing with the wet sounds of him moving inside you.

“You can,” he promised, voice cracking as he thrust harder, chasing the same edge you were on. “Yes, you can, baby, you’re almost there—can feel it—so deep, Christ—“

He reached between you, thumb finding your clit again in tight, perfect circles, and the added stimulation shattered you. 

“That’s it—” he groaned, hips stuttering but not stopping, fucking you through it with those same devoted strokes. “There you go—“

Your orgasm crashed over you, vision whiting out as you clenched around him, moaning his name like a prayer. He slowed just enough to let you breathe, kissing you messily, tongues sliding together while he kept moving in shallow thrusts, drawing it out.

When your tremors finally eased, he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy and adoring, before pulling out.

“You with me?” he asked, voice soft even as sweat beaded on his forehead. You nodded, wrecked and glowing, and tugged him back down into another kiss.

“Mm,” you nodded, against his lips. 

He smiled, hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face, fingers careful, as they tucked a loose strand behind your ear. Finally, for the first time this evening, feeling close to you once more. 

He lingered there for a moment, hand still cupping your cheek, thumb brushing softly along your skin. You hadn’t pulled away. You were letting him be close again.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I know I’ve said it, but… I’m really, really sorry.”

You watched him for a second. The panic from earlier had subsided, lost in the haze. Your hand came up to cover his where it rested against your face, holding it there.

“I forgive you.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Yeah,” you repeated. 

Oh, thank God.

He let out an exhausted but satisfied laugh. How he managed to salvage this, he didn’t know, but what he did know, he was damn lucky. 

“But—” you began. “If you ever get pulled into something like that again,” you said, holding his gaze, “maybe don’t just… disappear on me and hope for the best?”

He winced. Just a little.

“Yeah. Bad strategy.”

“At least keep me in the loop,” you added, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. “You don’t have to tell me everything if you can’t. But… don’t shut me out like that.”

That was more than fair.

“Okay,” he said, nodding once. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Your brow lifted slightly.

“Can you?”

He let out a breathy laugh, the tension in him easing just enough to let a bit of that familiar energy back through.

“Right—yes. Sorry,” he said, straightening slightly. “If I am ever, hypothetically, recruited into another deeply questionable, government-adjacent science situation—”

You huffed.

“—I will,” he continued, softer now, more sincere, “tell you. Or at the very least… not vanish in the process.”

You smiled properly then.

“Good.”

He nodded, a little more firmly this time, already planning on how he was going to make this right.

Not just tonight, tonight wasn’t nearly enough.

His mind was already moving ahead of him, piecing it together the way it always did, except this time it wasn’t equations or variables—it was you. What you liked. What you needed. All the ways he could show up better.

Tomorrow, for a start. He could take the day off. He would take the day off.

Stratt could wait. The sun—well, the sun had its issues, but it could manage one more day. He’d deal with the fallout later. Right now, there were more important things to fix.

A few days, maybe.

As long as it took.

Slow mornings. Proper meals. Being here fully, the way he should have been all along.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles again, softer this time, almost absent as the thought settled into certainty.

He was going to make this up to you. The way you deserved.

He couldn't wait for you to see it yourself.

a/n: sorry this is late !! things have been hectic on my end (may or may not have been head-hunted to be the head chef of a new fine dining restaurant omg i have the meeting on tuesday!!!) and i still feel super rusty with writing

ive literally just started the book so please excuse any inaccurate plot timeline, hopefully i shall get some more inspo later on as i do really want to write a full series for this thing

the problem is that you’re sitting beside him, and ryland has discovered over the course of your relationship that concentrating becomes significantly more difficult whenever you’re nearby.

you aren’t even doing anything, that’s the worst part. you’re simply existing. occasionally humming softly to yourself while reading through human books you’d borrowed from him. occasionally looking up to ask questions that derail his train of thought for the next twenty minutes.

questions such as: “why do humans have so many words for different types of bread?”

“why did humanity invent reality television?”

“if humans understand gravity, why do they continue climbing very tall mountains?”

every question is sincere, and every question somehow requires an impossibly complicated answer, and every answer turns into a conversation. which is how ryland ends up spending half his day talking to you instead of working.

not that he minds, he never does. you’ve become his favourite distraction, his favourite conversation, his favourite anything, really. the thought still catches him off guard sometimes. the simple fact that he can look across a room and see somebody he loves who loves him back.

after everything. after the loneliness, and the isolation. after waking up in a spaceship with no memory and believing for a while that he might die alone. some days he still catches himself staring at you simply because he can.

because you’re real. because you’re here.

because somehow the universe decided he deserved this.

you glance up from your book, immediately catching him looking. “hello, ryland grace.” ryland accidentally scares himself, “what..!?” your smile at him, “you were staring again.”

he immediately looks back at his screen, “i wasn’t.” you smile even bigger, “you were.” ryland looks away, mumbling “i was thinking.” you tilt your head to get a clearer look at him, “about me.”

“that is a baseless accusation!”

you continue smiling, he knows you’re right, because your smile has somehow become one of his favourite things in existence. it doesn’t matter how many times he sees it. it always affects him.

he shakes his head and reaches into his pocket, mostly because he’s trying to distract himself. what emerges is a slightly crumpled packet of skittles. one of the precious remaining pieces of human junk food aboard the ship. he’d been saving them like they’re scarce, which technically they are, but he still had at least ninety packets left.

you immediately stop reading, your eyes narrow as you focus on the little green bag, “what is that?” you ask. ryland follows your gaze, “hm?”

“the colourful package.”

“oh,” he glances down. “skittles.”

you wait, and he also waits, eventually you lower the book. “very helpful, thank you, doctor.” he laughs, the kind of laugh that sneaks up on him. he forgot how well you had learned sarcasm.

“right. okay. sorry. they’re candy.”

“candy..?”

“human sweets.”

you set the book aside immediately, and dug into your mental rolodex of human culture. you remember learning about sweets, about the sugary treats that humans enjoy. you didn’t remember them looking that.

“what makes them different colours?”

“nothing, mostly just food dyes.”

you blink, then ask: “then why are they different colours?” ryland shakes the colorful little candies in his palm, “because they’re different fruit flavours, and because humans enjoy colourful things.”

you consider this, then nod. “yes. makes sense.”

you look closely at the tiny bright colours against his skin, without hesitation, he holds them out. “want to try one?” you lean forward a little more, fascinated. everything about humanity fascinates you, not in a detached scientific way, in an enthusiastic way. the way a child might explore a new world.

you carefully pick up a red skittle, turning it over between your fingers and studying it from every angle. “safe?” you ask, ryland nods, “yes.”

you narrow your eyes, “that answer came suspiciously quickly.” he laughs, “i’ve eaten approximately ten thousand of these.”

“that does not technically prove safety.”

“fair.”

you finally pop it into your mouth. ryland watches and waits. your expression doesn’t change immediately, then suddenly your eyes widen very slightly. you sit up straighter, then look down at the skittle packet, then back at him. “ryland!”

his grin starts immediately, “yeah?”

“this is excellent!”

he laughs, “it’s a cherry skittle.”

“it is a masterpiece! … though i’m not entirely sure what a cherry is supposed to taste like.”

you immediately reach for another, then another, carefully analysing each flavour while providing running commentary the entire time.

the red one receives highest praise, the sour cherry one. “the existence of a sour cherry implies the existence of a sweet cherry, and a bitter cherry, and a salty cherry.”

the purple one is apparently “emotionally compelling.”

the orange one sparks an extended debate. you don’t like it, it’s one of ryland’s favourites.

by the time you’ve sampled all of them, you’re holding the packet possessively, like a puppy guarding treats. ryland can’t stop smiling because this happens constantly. every human thing becomes magical through your eyes. movies, music, blankets, coffee, and even rain.

you approach all of it with the same wonder, the same excitement, and somehow seeing familiar things through your perspective makes him appreciate them again too.

eventually you settle back in your chair, still holding the skittles, looking pleased with yourself.

“thank you,” it’s such a simple statement but something warm settles in his chest anyway, it always does. “you’re welcome.”

for a while the two of you simply sit together in a comfortable silence. it’s one of ryland’s favourite discoveries since meeting you, that silence isn’t awkward when it’s the right person. it doesn’t need filling, you can simply exist together.

he works, you read, and you occasionally share skittles.

it’s easy and comfortable. the sound of you flipping book pages reminds him of when his kids used to silently read in class back on earth. it’s a sound of home.

after a while, however, you lower the book again, which immediately makes ryland suspicious. because that usually means a question is coming. “ryland grace?” there it is.

“yeah?”

you tilt your head thoughtfully, “may i ask something?”

“always.”

you seem to consider your wording carefully, which is another warning sign. your most interesting questions are always preceded by careful wording.

finally you speak.

“humans place considerable importance on kissing.” ryland freezes, then lowers his glasses slightly, you continue. “correct?”

“uh.”

“ryland?”

“yes...?”

“correct?”

“…yes.”

your smile returns immediately, “excellent.” somehow that makes it worse, “why is that excellent?” you look genuinely pleased. “because it confirms my research.”

research?

“your… research.”

“yes,” you nod confidently. “i have observed that kissing appears frequently in human culture.” ryland looks at you from over his lowered glasses, “have you?”

“yes.” then you begin counting on your fingers. “books.”

“right.”

“films.”

“yep.”

“music.”

“yes.”

“historical records.”

“historical records???”

“i was thorough.”

of course you were. you continue, “therefore i have concluded it possesses significant cultural value.”ryland rubs his face, because unfortunately you’re correct, and because unfortunately you’re discussing this while looking directly at him, and because unfortunately you are currently his girlfriend.

the combination is proving a little difficult. you smile, bright and innocent. “we have only kissed a few times.” ryland nearly dies, actually nearly dies. a skittle goes down the wrong way, and he starts coughing immediately.

you shoot upright, instantly concerned. “ryland!” he waves a hand, trying calm you down and breathe. “i’m okay.”

“you appear extremely not okay.”

“i’m okay! i promise.”

“your face has changed colour.”

“i know.”

“should i get rocky?”

“absolutely not.”

you continue studying him, until he stops coughing and sits upright again. “i was wondering if you would teach me.”

silence, ryland simply stares, certain that he had misheard you. “teach you..?”

“yes.”

“how to kiss.”

“yes.” you smile again, completely sincere. “I would like to understand your culture properly.” his heart is attempting escape his chest. you’re asking so innocently, not in a seductive or teasing human flirting kind of way, it’s because you’re curious. and simply because you trust him.

because you want to learn something important to human culture, and perhaps more importantly, something important to him. you continue before he can respond. “you are the human whose opinion i value most.”

oh.

great.

now he’s definitely even redder than before. you notice his expression, and you immediately back off, “you do not have to.” the softness in your voice finally breaks through his panic. “what?”

“if it would make you uncomfortable.” your smile dims slightly, and suddenly none of the embarrassment matters anymore. because the last thing ryland wants is for you to think he’s uncomfortable with you.

he looks at you, really looks at you. at the concern in your eyes, at the way you’re waiting patiently, giving him room to refuse, trusting whatever answer he gives.

and something inside him melts completely, because that’s you. that’s always been you. kind, gentle, thoughtful. he reaches over and takes your hand, your fingers immediately curl around his, and the nervousness eases. just a little, because this is a part he knows. holding your hand, being close to you, loving you. those things have never been difficult.

he smiles softly, “okay.” your entire face lights up, as bright as a star. “okay?” he laughs quietly, “okay.” the smile you give him in return is so beautiful that for a moment he forgets every coherent thought he’s ever had.

for a moment after he says okay, neither of you moves. you’re still holding his hand. still looking at him with that open curiosity that manages to derail every coherent thought in his head.

ryland had always assumed that if he ever found himself in a situation like this, there would be some sort of script. some innate human knowledge. something to save him.

instead his brain has become approximately eighty percent static, which is unfortunate, because you’re waiting patiently.

“so,” you say after a moment, “how does one begin?”

ryland lets out a nervous laugh, he’s never considered himself to be a good kisser, let alone great enough to teach kissing. “that’s a very scientific way of putting it.”

“i am attempting to learn.”

“right.”

you nod seriously, “you are the expert.” he immediately sighs, “i am absolutely not the expert.” your eyes widen slightly, “but you are a human…?”

“that’s a frighteningly low qualification threshold.” that gets a smile out of you.

eventually he squeezes your hand gently, mostly because he needs something to do with the overwhelming amount of affection currently attempting to burst out of his chest.

“it’s not really something you teach like maths.”

“good.”

“good?”

“i did not enjoy maths.”

“that’s because you never had me as a teacher.”

the quiet settles around you again, then you tilt your head. “are humans always this nervous?” ryland nearly laughs himself into another coughing fit. “about this?”

“yes.”

“no, it’s depends.”

“interesting.”

you seem genuinely fascinated, like he’s explaining some obscure scientific phenomenon. which, admittedly, might be exactly what this feels like.

“okay.”

you brighten immediately, “okay?”

“first lesson.”

your smile becomes almost impossibly pleased, “i am listening!”

“it’s less about technique.”

you nod.

“and more about…” he searches for the right words. “…the feeling behind it.” you consider this carefully, “the feeling?”

“yeah.”

“what feeling?”

“when you care about someone, and you know, ..find them attractive.” your expression immediately gentles, “oh.” then your fingers tighten slightly around his, and the look you give him nearly finishes him off entirely, because it’s just so fond. “that part is easy, you’re very attractive. and i do care about you.”

ryland’s can feel his cheeks burning as blood rushes to the surface, and he forgets how to function to a second. but he quickly psyches himself out.

“come here,” he says, so you walk over to him, and stand directly in front of him. “like this?” you ask, a little too excited. he swallows, mumbling a quick “yeah.” as he look up at you from his lowered glasses, his voice came out slightly rougher than intended.

your eagerness gave him an ego boost. ryland leans back against his chair, the. pats on his spread thighs, “come sit, baby.” he says, voice low. so you do as he says, and as your legs hand on either side of the chair, his hands come up from under your thighs to pull you even closer. “now, wrap your arms around my shoulders,” he says, gently taking your hands and pulling them up around his broad shoulders. “there you go..”

he smiled gently, keeping his hands light on your face. “just… follow my lead," he murmured before closing the small gap between you. the first kiss was slow, soft pressure, warm lips meeting yours in a simple press. just gently just showing you how humans kissed.

you slowly kiss him back, your hands gentle against his shirt. ryland’s thumb gently against your thighs as he tilts his head slightly to the side, slightly deepening the kiss, which earns him a small noise from your lips. he pulls back a little, looking at you with a small smile, “you okay?” he asks

you nod, scooting even closer on his lap. “am i doing good?” you ask, and ryland smiles again, gently brushing your hair back. “you’re doing so well baby.”

you smile before leaning in to kiss him again. ryland’s hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb gently caressing your cheek. his other hand leaves your thigh, moving to wrap around your waist. he needed to feel you as close as possible. your lips moved softly against his, mimicking his movements as well as you can.

ryland swipes his tongue against your lips, making you whimper a little. he smiles against your lips, his hand coming down to your chip, thumb dragging just a bit to part your lips slightly. his tongue slides in against yours, and your eyebrows furrow slightly as a small moan escapes you. you can feel your heartbeat picking up, your hands slightly gripping on his shirt.

you tasted like cherry skittles.

he reaches his hand back down from your waist, and up the back of your shirt, gently dragging his fingers along your spine, making you want to kiss him harder. your chest pushes against his, and he hums against your lips, his tongue teasingly pushing against yours. your slowly trace your hands down his cheek, then to the nape of his neck, playing with the soft blond hairs there. you accidentally tug on it, and ryland whimpers against your mouth.

your heart skips a beat at the noise, it’s made you feel .. weirdly good? you do it again, and ryland’s hips push up against yours with another whimper. he deepens this kiss, pressing his lips even harder against yours, hungrier than earlier. slow hands trailed down your waist, then your thighs, then settled against your ass, softly gripping.

you drag your fingers along his neck, nails dragging against the sensitive skin there. ryland can feel blood rushing to his cheeks, the base of his neck and throat suddenly feeling feeling hot.

ryland pulls away just for a second, he quickly takes off his glasses, and tosses them on a nearby table before pulling you back in. he whimpered a little, he could feel your breath against cheeks, his heart pounding against his rib cage, the warmth of your hands as they climbed back up against jaw.

there was a lot of things he missed about earth. the feeling of sunlight against his skin, the smell of rain, but, god, if there was one thing he really missed, it was a good make out session.

ryland unconsciously pushes his hips up against yours again, he was getting a little too carried away, but the current of growing desire was undeniable. the sound of your lips pushing against each other, and the sound of each other’s whimpers filled his ears. he blushed again, he didn’t want to rush anything, so he savoured every second.

every kiss was getting hotter and hotter. the taste of overly sweet cherries on your tongue, the feeling of you every shift on his lap, the sound of you genuinely enjoying kiss him were making his thoughts hazy. he whined against you, half from desire, half from emotion. the way your body perfectly moulded against his made him feel dizzy. he couldn’t tell if his heart was now pounding from deep affection or greedy need. but he knew he needed to pull off of you before getting way too carried away.

when he finally pulled away, you were both slightly gasping for air, but your faces remained close. a thin string of slightly still connected you for a second before breaking away. “baby..” ryland muttered, “you’re too good at this.” then he smiled again a little, eyes half lidded, “you’re learning so fast..”

you’re the first intelligent lifeform he’s encountered besides himself in an impossibly long time. of course he’s emotionally invested. of course he likes talking to you. of course he keeps finding excuses to linger in rooms after conversations should reasonably end.

that’s just psychology. not love. definitely not love.

then one morning he wakes up before you and immediately feels disappointed about it. and that’s… concerning. because ryland has spent most of his adult life alone very comfortably. he likes solitude. likes quiet. likes not having to emotionally perform around people constantly.

but now the hail mary feels strange when you’re not in the room. too still. too empty. and it doesn’t help that you’re so painfully easy to adore.

you emerge from your sleeping pod every morning with your hair floating wildly around your face in, feet slightly dangling as you fly around the ship, glowing softly with sleepiness while mumbling cheerful greetings in increasingly better english.

“good morning, ryland grace,” you say brightly one day. “i have missed you for seven hours.”

ryland nearly choked on his coffee pouch. you don’t notice. you never seem to notice what you’re doing to him. or maybe you do. he honestly can’t tell anymore.

at first, he thinks your warmth is simply cultural. your species is tactile and emotionally expressive in ways humans aren’t. you touch his arm while talking. lean against him while reading data projections. smile at him constantly with this open radiant affection that makes his chest hurt.

none of it means anything romantic necessarily.

probably.

except then you start seeking him out.

not just for work. not just for translation practice or scientific collaboration. for him. if he disappears into another section of the ship too long, you come looking. always with some transparent excuse. “i have another human question.” “the plants appear emotionally unstable again.” “i became bored without conversation.”

and every single time, ryland feels himself soften instantly at the sight of you. it becomes ridiculous very quickly. he starts talking more around you. rambling honestly. endless tangents about earth and science and terrible films and obscure marine biology facts that absolutely do not matter. and you listen to all of it like he’s fascinating.

that’s the real problem. nobody has ever looked at ryland grace the way you do. not impatiently. not tolerantly. not waiting for him to finish. you look at him like hearing his thoughts is genuinely the best part of your day.

one time he’s explaining the concept of theme parks while repairing a filtration system, mostly because you asked why humans would voluntarily pay money to experience fear recreationally.

“it’s the illusion of danger,” he says, crouched halfway beneath an open panel. “your brain knows you’re safe, so it turns fear into excitement.”

you’re sitting cross-legged beside him on the floor listening intently. “humans are very strange.”

“correct.”

“you enjoy this?”

“rollercoasters? absolutely not.”

you think about it seriously, “i would likely vomit.” ryland laughs so suddenly he bangs his head against the panel above him.

“ow— fudge.”

you gasp and immediately lean towards him in alarm. “ryland!”“i’m okay,” he wheezes, rubbing his forehead. but you’re already kneeling beside him, glowing faintly with concern while gently moving his hand away to inspect the injury yourself.

and ryland stops functioning entirely because you’re so close. your face inches from his. your hands warm against his skin. your expression openly worried in a way that feels terrifyingly sincere. “there is redness,” you murmur.

“yep.”

“you are injured.”

“it’s barely—”

you touch his forehead lightly. ryland forgets every language he has ever spoken. you blink at him. “your heart rate accelerated significantly.”

“yeah, well,” he says weakly, “that happens sometimes.” you continue staring. then very earnestly: “humans are emotionally unstable organisms.” and somehow that makes him laugh.

that night he lies awake in bed staring at the ceiling of the hail mary and realises, with absolute certainty, that he is catastrophically in love with you. not a little bit. not rationally. catastrophically. the kind of love that rewires your nervous system. the kind where your entire day reorganises itself around another person without permission.

he starts noticing insane details after that.

the exact shade your glow turns when you’re amused. how your voice softens when you’re tired. the way you fly closer unconsciously whenever he sounds upset. he notices because he’s watching you constantly now. not intentionally. okay, maybe intentionally. a little.

the worst part is that he cannot hide it to save his life.

one evening you’re both cataloguing samples in the lab while soft music plays through the ship speakers. ryland is supposed to be entering data. instead he’s watching you smile at a petri dish because apparently some microbial reaction looks “friendly.”

“you know,” he says before thinking better of it, “you’re really cute when you do that.” you glance up immediately. “do what?”

“uh.”

abort mission. abort mission immediately.

“you make that face,” he says helplessly. “that little— the smile thing.” you beam at him. actually beam. “oh! you find me visually pleasing.”

ryland physically covers his face with both hands. “ryland grace,” you say with growing delight, “you are turning red.”

“i know.”

“this is extraordinary!”

“i’m having a horrible time.”

you laugh so brightly the sound echoes through the ship, and ryland thinks helplessly that he would probably survive being set on fire if it made you laugh like that again.

by the time rocky arrives, the situation has already become completely unmanageable. rocky notices immediately. because of course he does.

the first time the three of you share a proper meal together, rocky pauses midway through discussing astrophage trajectories. “observation,” he says calmly. “grace stare at y/n constantly.” ryland chokes on his cup noodles. you look delighted. “you have observed this also!”

“oh my god,” ryland groans.

rocky tilts his body curiously. “why grace pretend this not obvious, question?”

“it is not obvious.”

rocky and you stare at him in silence. then you say gently, “ryland grace, earlier today you walked into a wall while looking at me.”

“in my defence, that wall came out of nowhere.”

“you say this often,” rocky observes.

it only gets worse after that. because now rocky actively enjoys pointing it out. ryland offers you his blanket during a cold cycle?

“observation: mating behaviour.”

ryland brings you human fruit portions because you liked them once?

“grace perform courtship ritual.”

ryland spends forty straight minutes fixing the environmental settings because you mentioned the temperature felt slightly uncomfortable?

“grace aware he already pair-bonded, question?”

“rocky,” ryland says through a full body blush, “i need you to know, you’re not helping.”

meanwhile you seem endlessly fascinated by all of this. not mocking. never mocking. just curious.

“you care for me greatly,” you say one evening while the two of you float near the observation deck watching distant stars drift past. ryland glances at you nervously. “yeah. i do.” you smile softly at that. “so does rocky.”

“okay, yes, but differently.” you tilt your head. “explain.”

and there it is. the problem. because ryland grace can explain astrophage reproduction and relativistic mechanics and molecular biology under pressure. but trying to explain how deeply he loves you apparently turns his brain into soup.

“i just…” he exhales shakily. “i think about you all the time.” you blink slowly. “i worry if you’re tired. or cold. or sad. i like making you laugh more than literally anything else. the ship feels wrong when you’re not around and—” he cuts himself off abruptly. “jesus christ.”

your glow brightens softly in the dim observation deck. “you experience significant affection.” you state, “that is a horrifying understatement.” for a moment neither of you speak.

the stars drift endlessly outside. then you move closer. just inevitable. your hand rises carefully to his face, fingertips brushing his cheek with unbearable gentleness while you study him with those big glowing eyes.

“you are very dear to me also, ryland grace.”

he actually stops breathing for a second, because you sound so sincere and so certain.

“you know,” he says faintly, “for a scientist, i’m handling this situation with very little professionalism.” you smile. “i enjoy when you become emotionally compromised.”

“oh good. excellent. glad my suffering entertains you.”

“it does.”

ryland laughs helplessly, and then, because apparently the universe has decided he deserves happiness after all, you lean forward and kiss him. so very softly, and very carefully. like something precious. ryland makes a tiny startled noise against your mouth that will haunt him forever. your species doesn’t kiss naturally. you learned it from human media and anthropological discussions with him, which means this kiss is entirely intentional.

entirely for him.

when you pull back slightly, ryland is staring at you like you reached into his chest and restarted his heart. “oh,” he says weakly. you look worried instantly. “was this unpleasant?”

“what? no! no, i just— wow. okay.” you brighten immediately at his reaction. then kiss him again. ryland is so unbelievably gone it’s honestly embarrassing.

after that, it becomes common knowledge aboard the hail mary that ryland grace is hopelessly obsessed with you. even armando and mary know it. not subtle obsession either. disgustingly obvious obsession.

he follows you around unconsciously now. smiles whenever you enter rooms. looks physically happier every time you touch him.

rocky watches this unfold with endless fascination.“observation,” rocky says one day while you’re curled beside ryland during calculations. “grace now approximately seventy-three percent softer emotionally.” ryland points accusingly. “i was always soft.”

“no,” rocky says immediately.

you laugh into ryland’s shoulder and he instinctively wraps an arm around your waist tighter without even thinking about it. rocky notices that too. “further observation: grace would do anything for y/n instantly.”

ryland looks down at you curled comfortably against his side. at your soft glow. your warm smile. the way you still look at him like finding him out there among the stars was the best thing that ever happened to you. because it was.

then he sighs.

𖤓 the first meeting is nothing like ryland expected. your ship had had just enough energy left to send a distress signal, and the fact that this energy had lasted just enough for you perform a spacewalk and construct a interconnecting pressurised airlock tunnel was nothing short of miraculous.

𖤓 ryland cautiously opened the airlock, expecting some form of hostility, only to be met by a humanoid alien woman who looks at him with wide stunned eyes and immediately bursts into tears. fully sobbing, exhausted overwhelmed disbelief.

𖤓 ryland panics immediately, “oh my god, please don’t cry. god, okay, please stop crying. i dont know what going on either.”

𖤓 you’re immediately grabbing at his suit, crying at his feet and rapidly saying something in a language he can’t understand. you sound grateful. he just stood there, confused, because you were looking at him like he personally descended from heaven. you’re friendly, reaching towards him instead of away.

𖤓 the first couple of days together are nothing short of both hell and fascinating. neither of can understand the other, and ryland has you hooked up to a translator, needing to manually add words so you can communicate. you’re talking through pointing, drawings, frustrated noises, and increasingly dramatic gestures. you’re terrified he’ll kick you out, and he’s scared you’ll turn into a monster and eat him.

𖤓 you’re learning insanely fast, and you’re talking nonstop now that communication has been established. not out of naïveté, but because the silence had become a haunting soundtrack of those years you spent alone waiting for death to free you. you’re endlessly asking about humans, music, birthdays and rain. you watch ryland sleep, patiently waiting for him wake up just to ask another “important human question.”

𖤓 you’re laughing at all of his corny jokes, because you genuinely find them funny, and ryland realises with absolute horror that he wants to keep making you laugh forever.

𖤓 and for something alien, ryland is shocked at how human you were. you were empathetic to a fault, fascinated by cat videos, and immediately loving the idea of a rainbow. but you could also pick him with one hand, and memorise the ship’s coding interface within minutes. you had grabbed his hand to steady yourself, and that’s when he found out that you had healing abilities after a scar from childhood faded after you let go of him.

“why are your eyes doing that?”

“i can see in the dark!”

“…you can what now??”

𖤓 you had a tendency to misinterpret human culture in the funniest way possible while being very confident about it. ryland teaches you sarcasm, and suddenly you’re using it in deeply inappropriate situations. “dang it! the system failed again.” “you’re so good at this, no wonder your people chose you.”

𖤓 you’re always close to him instinctively. watching over him while he works, leaning over his shoulders to watch over his experiments, wandering into rooms purely because he’s there. ryland found the proximity comforting. having been alone for years too left him touch starved in ways he hadn’t even begun to unpack. he enjoyed the way you’d drape your arms around him, they way you’d grab his face to understand human expressions, when you’d touch his hair because you didn’t understand why it didn’t float off like yours.

𖤓 this leads to him realising that you couldn’t stand being alone. not in a clingy way, but more out fear after enduring decades of forced solitary confinement. if he disappears into a section of the ship for too long, you’ll come looking for him under the guise of wanting to help him with something trivial. you’re attached to him, because to you, he’s your divine intervention. another living creature in the vast nothingness.

𖤓 ryland is used to people tolerating him, respecting him professionally. but you’re genuinely amused by him, you look at him like he’s genuinely special and he has absolutely no defence against that.

𖤓 your fascination with human affection is what emotionally cooks ryland. your species expressed closeness differently, so you studied him constantly. the meaning behind every smile, every tone shift, why humans touch each other so casually. ryland had given you a hug after helping him unlock a memory from his time back on earth, and you freeze for a moment trying to understand it. after that, you made up reasons to initiate physical touch yourself. fingers brushing his while handing him tools, resting your head on his shoulder while looking at star maps, sitting so close to each other and your thighs touch.

𖤓 you learn that humans kiss after watching a movie, and become obsessed with understand why. and ryland is a blushy mess trying to get you to drop it.

“what biological significance does ‘kissing’ have?”

“not much. it’s just-.. you know, emotional.. significance..”

“oh. can you demonstrate? …why are you red?”

𖤓 and ryland can’t handle it normally. the chemistry becomes too much to handle because you’re so open and warm, and he’s so painfully awkward. you look at him like he’s the centre of the universe, isolation stripped away all pretence for you, so you trusted him blindly. and when you tell him: “i forgot what conversation was like before you. i used to talk to the walls so i would hear a voice answer back in the echoes.” and suddenly he became very busy tightening a screw because if he looked at you, he would’ve cried. he knew what that was like.

𖤓 you adored him so openly, it truly confused him. to you, he was an intelligent, compassionate, and full of life. always watching him with that expression that said you couldn’t believe he’s here. and ryland, who was very emotionally avoidant, would try to rationalise it scientifically.

“i think you’re just culturally expressive.” while you’re playing with his hair, unable to stay away from him.

𖤓 and because you’re so emotionally sincere, there’s no playing games. if you’re happy to see him, you say it. if you miss him you say it. if you think he looks handsome while he’s working on something while his biceps flex, you’ll tell him.

𖤓 one night, ryland accidentally falls asleep in the lab, and when he wakes up, you’re laying on the ground next to him because you didn’t want him to wake up alone.

𖤓 hugging him for the first time because he fixed something in your ship. just throwing your arms around him, “grace!!! you’re so wonderful!!!” and it’s just him short circuiting, and genuinely forgetting what he was saying.

𖤓 constantly complimenting him, and him not knowing how to take it. “you’re very beautiful when you think!” “your voice becomes higher when your excited! very adorable!” “your eyes are very kind! very beautiful!”

𖤓 you listen to every single word he says, you made him feel like his every thought mattered. even his dumb dangers. especially his dumb tangents. but he’s apologising halfway through over explaining molecular biology to you. “why apologise? i enjoy hearing you think!” with the prettiest smile and his brain is blue screening.

𖤓 your crush on him is very obvious, there’s no hiding it. it’s obvious in the way you look at him, there’s way you touch him, how you’re immediately healing him when he’s hurt even if it’s something as small as a paper cut.

𖤓 sometimes ryland looks at you while you’re admiring the drawing his students gifted him, and he’ll feel this crushing ache in his chest because you survived for so long on your own, but still came out gentle. still came out loving. and that terrifies him, because he’s developing a level of attachment that he knows will eventually hurt. a part of him keeps trying to resist your connection, but the other part already knows that he’s hopelessly gone.

𖤓 he admires you endlessly, you’re not someone he rescued anymore, you’re the brightest star he’s ever encountered.

𖤓 with your open affection, you end up accident teaching him casual intimacy. sitting in silence, little touches, casual praise, shared routines. ryland realises one day that no one has ever made him feel this emotionally safe before.

𖤓 he starts needing you in ways he doesn’t want to analyse too closely. everything feels off when you’re in another section for too long. he craves your praise when he’s researching. he’ll feign having headaches just to feel your fingers in his hair. he automatically looks for you whenever he enters a room.

𖤓 the real turning point comes when you’re hurt during routine maintenance work. it’s nowhere near life threatening, but ryland is panicked, his voice is shaking, his hands are trembling while trying to help you. he’s half dazed, holding you a little too tightly when he realises: “oh. oh, i got it bad.”

𖤓 he’s so much more softer, more open afterwards. he already knows how you feel about you, so he’s touching you a lot more. hands on your waist and hips, resting his forehead against yours when he’s tired. and you react like those gestures mean the world to you every time.