Cringe | Queer | Thotty

You’ve let Holland in more than anticipated, and he’s pleased with it. You can tell that much from the way Holland’s eyebrows jerk up and his mouth tugs into a grin. He doesn’t seem to question it at all, even if he clearly wants to know more. Instead, he settles for, “Maybe, I could slip you a twenty for your troubles.”

“That’s too much, and I’m not babysitting.” The trope is practically writing itself, you think. “It’s a neighborly favor,” you tell Holland, “And, if you want to know so badly, I would’ve just watched Wheel of Fortune over a TV dinner. Not so clubby on the weekends.” What are you, eighty?

But, Holland insists, “I’ll slip you fifteen and you can use it to buy takeout for the both of you. Would’ve spent the same amount if I wasn’t working tonight.” God, it’s terribly perfect the way he scrambles to find his wallet on his person. He pats his hands from the  front of his trousers to the back, before finally retrieving the folded brown-leather out of its usual spot in the inner-pocket of his suit. You watch as his fingers delve in to count his own cash.

“You don’t spend fifteen dollars on takeout. That’s absurd.” He takes out twenty—two ten-dollar bills—taking your hand up from your side, pressing the crisp bills into your palm, and closing your fingers over them.

“Would’ve been six bucks on the takeout, plus another two—I tip well. And the rest would get squandered on booze and cigarettes,” he reasons. The sheer size of his callused hand makes your own feel small in comparison, and the math, you’re sure, is still not adding up. So, you try to fork the bills back over to him by force, shoving both of your hands closer to his chest.

The insistence gets you nowhere except slightly closer to him. “It’s too much,” you tell Holland, “I can’t take it.”

He pressed your hand back. “Once the money comes out of the wallet, it can’t go back in. Personal rule,” he shakes his head. “You’re doing me a big favor with Holly, and I know you’ll spend it better than I will.” It comes out more earnest than even Holland himself could’ve expected, but he seems to mean it. Meek smile and a shrug. Oh, you despise him.

—

So, your evening has a bit of an unexpected detour, seeing as you’re in the March house doing the same thing that you would’ve at your own place. Chinese takeout and Wheel of Fortune, plus Holly. You’re shocked that she hasn’t asked you to change channels yet. You’re watching some snotty, East Coast elementary school teacher spin the Wheel with ardor, collared blouse high and tight on her neck. It lands on $200, she guesses “S” successfully, and then “B” unsuccessfully. You think, Bad luck and also wonder why Holly’s so damn quiet. It takes you a moment to brave it out and look over at her.

Holly’s large blue eyes distort with a clouded kind of look that you haven’t quite seen before—something between contemplation and amusement. Terrifying. You try to look back at the cable TV, maybe focus on the fried rice that you’ve got in the takeout box in your hand. But, Holly’s already noticed and ready to strike. “My dad has a crush on you, you know.”

Your chopsticks halt in the box. “No, he doesn’t,” you blurt. “Eat your lo mein.” Wheel of Fortune keeps playing on, with the tick-tack spin of the wheel, the letters, Susan Stafford turning the letters. Holly shuts up, taking her fork up to shovel a fried shrimp and a generous scoop of noodles into her mouth. Then, after scarfing that all down, she asks you, “Do you want to know how I know?”

“No.” Of course, that’s not true. You totally do want to know what Holland thinks of you, if he thinks of you, and if it’s with just as much perversion with which you think of him. You shouldn’t call it that. Perversion. But it’s true that you think of Holland too much and in too many ways.

Holly places her takeout box onto the coffee table with a soft thud. You have a feeling that she wants to teach you to death, and only somewhat regretfully, you decide to endure it. Holly squeaks out, uncrossing and recrossing her legs on the couch, “He stares too much. Totally checks you out when he thinks you’re not looking. It’s kind of gross. Like, he wants to X-ray your clothes.” Like Superman, you think sardonically. Skepticism aside, the thought of Holland being unable to keep his eyes off you has you thrilled. “He also has your number up on our fridge under his ad clipping, which he says is for emergencies for me, but I don’t really buy it.” 

“Compelling points, Holly.” Dismissively, you begin to close up the empty takeout boxes and throw them straight back into the crinkly plastic bag that they came out of.

She’s relentless. “Also, he’s always asking me about what you like. Flowers and colors and if you have a boyfriend. I told him you don’t have one and then he got all preach-y.”

You take the filled plastic bag and Holly’s empty coke bottle over to the trash. “What does that even mean? Preach-y,” you echo.

“He got on his knees and started putting his hands in the air. Like this.” Holly raises her hands up in the air and clasps them together they lift over her head. As she looks up—presumably, to God—she seems to configure her expression into a caricature of desperation. The thought of Holland in this exact positioning on the ground of this house makes you cackle insubordinately. Holly laughs, too. “I’m telling the truth, you know. I even heard Mr. Healy and Dad talking about you just last week.”

Up until this point, you had been taking her claims without an ounce of seriousness. “And what did Mr. Healy say?” Your chuckling reduces down to a sweaty smile, eyes narrowed as you await her response. Holly, the tormentor that she is, cups her palms on her knees, shrugs, and rolls her eyes. She knows she’s got you hooked.

“Mr. Healy said Dad needs to quit trying to date up and stay in his own league. ‘Cause every time Mr. Healy watches Dad talk to you, it’s like watching Sisyphus eat shit.” Well, it sure sounds like Healy. Holly beams, “Dad wouldn’t listen to him, though—said he just couldn’t help it.”

—

You’re sleeping on your side on the March’s couch, arms crossed and tight to your chest. By now, Holly’s tucked in bed behind her little curtained alcove, and you’re fulfilling your promise to keep her company well into the night. The couch isn’t the most uncomfortable thing in the world; it’s just the March’s lack of central heating in this otherwise perfect rental that has you folding into your own body.

It’s a decent enough rest until about two in the morning. You wake up to the sound of keys jingling just outside the front door, the crack of the door open and close, and a stumbling upon the runner. A heavy body thuds onto the ground.  The streetlight pooling in through window slats gives you enough visibility to see him in there, keeled over right by the opposite end of the couch. You hiss, “Holland? Holland.” He rushes like a snail to his feet, shirt buttoned low, white undershirt exposed, yellow tie hanging undone over his chest. You can see his ring dancing on its silver chain helplessly as he gets back on his feet.

“Don’t look. M’stuck.” And it seems that Holland’s suit jacket is caught halfway off, locking his arms in a tight tangle behind his back. In your just-now-conscious state, it’s really very pleasing to see him straining to get out. You cup your hand over your mouth in a choked laugh. Holland murmurs to himself, still trying to thrash the suit jacket off himself. Finally, after a fair amount of struggle, he gets the sleeves tugged off his arms—you’re sure you’ve heard some kind of rip from the inner-fabric—and he throws it on the side chair across from you. “You’re still here. Thought you’d go home,” he rasps.

By now, you’ve sat up on the couch and let your socked feet touch the ground. You blink slowly at Holland, trying to rouse yourself awake. “Did you drink a whole bar? Jesus.”

“I didn’t drink a whole bar. I drank three-quarters of a bar. Healy had the rest.” Holland stumbles into the hall. Holly’s certainly still fast-asleep in her room, you remember, and you have to get up from your resting place on the couch to try and quiet him down. There’s a thud. Holland stumbles back, colliding with your front. Drudgingly, he turns to face you with his hands cupped over his face. Guilty.

“What are you doing?” you whisper pointedly at him. He doesn’t know how to be any less quiet right now. 

“I was trying to find you a blanket or something warm. There’s a spare comforter in the hallway closet, but closet’s missing. Just my luck.” You peer over his shoulder in the barely lit hall. The closet is another six feet down from the flat wall that Holland tried to “open.”

You shake your head. “Just come back to the living room. And be quieter, please. Holly’s still asleep and I wanna keep it that way.” Holland stumbles along as you drag him by the sleeve back towards the living room. His fingers seem to wander on their own accord, brushing at your wrist with an unsteady touch.

“Are you cold? You seem cold,” he notes, “Maybe I could warm you up. Don’t need a comforter for that.” Holland’s drunk, you remind yourself. He’s not thinking straight, and you’re too flustered to think up something witty to say back. So, you merely sit him on the couch with a mild bit of force. He seems to slump over in defeat as you drop him down, whining as you draw away from him, “Where are you going?”

You pad into the kitchen, grabbing a tall glass from the high cupboard—right past the rather strong brigade of tequila glasses. Then, straight to the faucet: you crank the cold water on and fill it halfway. It shouldn’t take you nearly as long as it does to grab the water for Holland, but you really need a second to think. What are you doing, taking care of him? Just this afternoon, you signed up to watch his kid, and you’re now babysitting the man himself. Then again, Holland is a handsome mess—and sweet on you, too. You shut the faucet off with your head hung.

When you return to him with the glass, he’s quick to take it out of your hands and chug it down with a grumbled “thank you.” You have to look away from the water that drips onto his stubble down his neck. It makes uneven splotches on his shirt. Once he lowers the glass down onto the coffee table with an unstable hand, he edges his body towards you. Determinedly, Holland says, words slurring into one another, “It’s not safe for you to walk back this late. You might as well stay here.”

You want to scold him, but you can only impart a firm and patient, “I was already staying here, March. You woke me up.”

But, Holland’s stuck on it now. The mere thought of you walking home, a measly block and a half away, tortures him.  “I don’t want you to walk home,” he insists in his plastered state, “You’re too pretty to walk home. You could get nabbed or something.”

“Too pretty?” you laugh, “Where’s this coming from?” Oh, it feels almost cruel to ask this to Holland when he’s so far gone—but selfishly, you’d like to see how he’ll respond, especially without the usual, lightly veiled filter.

“Oh, you already know I say it all the time behind your back. Everybody’s tired of it,” Holland admits, “Healy wants to sock me every time I talk about you. He’s almost done it once or twice.” You blink in rapid succession. So, Holly had been telling the truth all along.

Holland leans straight into the back cushion of the couch, exasperated, and his head thuds loudly against the back frame. Holland barely leaves enough room for you on the couch, his arms and legs sloppily spread out. Taking up the most surface area possible seems the most comfortable for his inebriated self; he’s practically melting into the seat. Meanwhile, you’re only minimally avoiding the fall of his hand close to your thigh. He’s not even looking at you now, just throwing his hand over his eyes. Holland mumbles, “Just sleep here in my room and, uh, don’t look under my bed. Playboys…” And, he’s out like a light. Holland’s chest rises and falls with the pattern of his snores. You let yourself watch over him for another moment, before lifting off the couch and walking tentatively towards his room.

—

The next time you see Holland, he’s shockingly upright—in the kitchen, changed into a similar dress-shirt to yesterday and slacks to go with them. It’s a little impossible how quickly he’s recovered from his state the night before. The whole house is concentrated with the scent of something sweet, and by the looks of it, he’s slinging something on the stove. Once you’re in his sight line, Holland’s eyes drift down, then up, then down again. He’s practically drooling at the sight of you with your sleep-mussed hair and your tight pajamas—bare legs and all, he doesn’t know what to do. He practically burns his hand accidentally touching the panhandle too close to the burner. “Shit—morning.”

“Good morning to you, too,” you say, neck cocking out to see what he has cooking up.

Holland is quick to serve a plate and urge it towards you—a short stack of pancakes. “March special. Sorry-Thank-You Breakfast.” You take it from him with an air of hesitance. You’ve heard about this kind of breakfast by word of mouth before, from Holly, of course. The recognition must read on your face and the way you turn your head over your shoulder to search for the blonde little girl; Holland is quick to tell you, “She’s down the street at the old place, reading that book you lent her.” He looks down to serve his own plate, shuts off the stove with a click.

You’re quick to turn your back to him, placing your serving on the dark-wood surface of the dining table. He’s still carrying on behind you; you can hear the spatula grating against the pan, then the glass plate, the click-off of the stove… Holland notes, only half-serious, “Seems like she likes you more than she does me, lately. Not a good sign—means I should maybe sit you down sometime and fish for a couple of tips.”

You can’t avoid the subject—as much as he clearely wants to. With a spin around, you rub your palms together. “About last night—”

“What I said—”

You interject, “You have a problem and a half, Holland,” and he seems to stop in his tracks. He’s seemingly shocked that your primary concern is him. But, you’re clearly more riled up than you’d expected yourself to be. “You can’t just stumble in at two in the morning drunk off your ass. You’re lucky you even get home. And God knows what happens when I’m not here.”

Holland places his plate down on the stove, diagonal to the pan. Then, he juts his palm across the scruff on his neck. “I don’t think I wanna say.” You can picture it clearly enough—him, ending up in all sorts of odd resting places, on the living room floor, in the tub, maybe even the bushes outside. All options are rather morose, and they worry you beyond your minid.

“You have to get your shit fixed,” you lecture.

Holland approaches you now, with earnestness. “I can do that.” It’s loaded. I can do that for you. His eyes beg for forgiveness, and his hands are almost close to coming up to your hips. It’s a surprise that he manages to lower them down to his sides as soon as they threaten to come up. Holland’s sorry, he wants to atone, he clearly wants your forgiveness. You wonder how quickly he scrambled this morning to get everything in the kitchen ready for you, and with how much intention he’d gotten dressed. Now that he’s this close to you, you can certainly tell that he shaved up, combed his hair rather meticulously. His clothed knees practically bump against your bare ones.

“I won’t let you date me if it’s an empty promise,” you murmur. It’s there in the open, now—the gap that Holland had been waiting for you to bridge. He remembered what he said last night, you remember what he said last night, and the two of you have merely been waiting for the inevitable to hit.

Now that he knows you’re on the same page, Holland seems to be renewed with a new kind of vigor. “…You’ll let me date you?” It’s almost taunting. He’s clearly feeling more self-assured, smirk and all, and you want to wipe it clean off.

With a shrug, you say, “I’m considering it.”

It’s as unconvincing as it can be, and Holland seems to huff out a soft sigh. He has you—and still, he plays along. “Oh, consider it. Seriously consider it.” He seems to lower his gaze down to your lips, slowly but surely urging you back against the wooden table. You can feel the edge of it hit the back of your thighs.

You tilt your head, a fit of heat filtering through your body. He’s terrible—too good at getting you like this. He reaches one arm up behind you to push your plate aside. It skids on the table slow. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you, and you have to push out a soft, “What’re you doing, March?”

“Trying to kiss you,” he mutters. “That okay?” As soon as you get the slightest movement of a nod, Holland acts. His hands come up to your hips with a strong squeeze, and he’s quick to smash his lips into yours. It’s almost risque, the way he kisses you with so much force. You can hear him grumbling, pleased to be feeling you all over with his large hands. It takes another minute of this before Holland scoops you up off the ground and onto the table—stronger than you’d expected. He drags his lips downward; you can feel his mustache drag roughly down your neck with each hard kiss.

Then, as soon as he reaches the neckline of your shirt—his shirt—he makes sure to pull back. Again, the scent of pine lingers on your senses. You hadn’t noticed, in the rush, how easily Holland had settled in between your legs. He’s too happy about this development, clearly, because he has a stupid grin on his face. You scoff, and it only grows wider. “First date. No drinks,” you decide, “And you’ve got to dial it back on the cologne. Like, half of whatever you’ve been putting on.”

Holland nods, sure to help you quick off the dining table—lest Holly comes back and flees at the sight of both of you. With a tug of your hips closer to him, he hums, “Whatever you want from me, baby.”

“Calmly?” the suited man interrupted sharply, glaring at you. “Your daughter assaulted my son.”

Holly shifted beside you and muttered under her breath, “He deserved it.”

“Holly,” you said quietly, touching her shoulder.

The man scoffed loudly. “See? That’s exactly the problem. No discipline. No respect. Girls like her practically invite trouble, and then act shocked when it finds them. Someone should teach her consequences.”

You felt Holly tense beside you.

The principal cleared his throat nervously. “Mr. Patterson…”

“No,” you interrupted smoothly, your voice calm. “I’d really love to hear this. What exactly did your son do before she hit him?”

The boy avoided eye contact immediately, but his father inhaled deeply. “That’s irrelevant. A young lady should never behave like that. We’re not animals.”

“Young lady,” you repeated flatly.

Holly shot you a quick glance. She knew that tone.

Mr. Patterson leaned back comfortably in his chair. “If she were my daughter, she would’ve learned respect a long time ago.”

You studied him carefully. Every word out of his mouth sounded like a countdown to disaster.

“Please,” you said softly. “Go on.”

“I’m saying girls need structure. Hierarchy. A firm hand. It’s obvious she doesn’t have a father around willing to handle that properly.”

Holly lifted her head, ready to speak, but you were faster.

“Careful, Mr. Patterson. I’d choose your next words very wisely.”

The principal rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Please, everyone, this really isn’t necessary.”

“No!” Patterson snapped, his cheeks turning red. “Modern women think they can raise children alone, and then they’re shocked when those children turn into little criminals!”

“Your son called her a slut!” you shot back.

Silence crashed over the room. The only sounds left were the hum of the fan and faint typing somewhere outside the office.

“I didn’t say that,” the boy muttered without looking up.

“Oh, yes you did,” Holly snapped. “And you tried to yank my backpack away from me.”

His father waved a dismissive hand. “Boys tease girls. That’s normal at their age. She’s oversensitive.”

“She hit him because he wouldn’t let her go,” you replied coldly.

“She hit him because nobody taught her how to behave!”

“And nobody taught your son to keep his hands to himself!”

Mr. Patterson stood abruptly. “Excuse me?”

You stood too. “Oh, don’t be dramatic. You’re not nearly intimidating enough for me to be afraid of you.”

“Ma’am…” the principal tried weakly.

“No. This man does not get to sit here pretending his son is innocent while blaming Holly for defending herself.”

“She attacked him!”

“He was harassing her!”

“She’s unstable! Just like her mother!”

“At least she’s not being raised into a future predator.”

“Okay!” the principal slammed a hand against the desk as he rose to his feet. Silence fell again.

Holly stared at you with a mix of horror and admiration. The principal looked like he’d aged five years in the last ten minutes and deeply regretted inviting any of you into his office.

He opened his mouth to speak, probably to desperately salvage the situation, when sudden commotion erupted in the front office.

“Sir, please wait, you can’t go in there right now!” the secretary called out.

“That’s my daughter in there,” a familiar voice answered sharply, “and I’m about to be in there too.”

You and Holly looked at each other instantly.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, staring at the door in alarm.

A second later it burst open. Every head turned.

Holland March looked furious. Or worse,  he looked furious and completely in control of it. His tie sat crooked like he’d put it on while driving over here, his hair slightly messy. The second he entered, his eyes locked onto Holly.

“You okay?” She nodded immediately. Then his gaze flicked to you. “And you?”

“Mostly.”

His jaw tightened.

The principal straightened up quickly, scrambling to regain authority. “Mr. March. I’m very glad Ms. Smith finally managed to reach you. We gathered here today to…”

“Who,” Holland interrupted calmly, “called my daughter a slut?”

The principal froze. Even you didn’t dare speak. Holly visibly sank lower in her chair.

Mr. Patterson finally recovered enough to sneer, “Your daughter assaulted my son.”

Holland looked at the boy, nodded once, and said, “She should’ve hit him harder.”

“Holland!” you hissed.

“What?” he said defensively. “I’m right.”

“Mr. March…” the principal tried again.

Patterson scoffed loudly. “Your daughter is violent because neither of you know how to parent properly.”

Holland studied him carefully. Then he smiled. Softly. Dangerously. “Oh, buddy…” he said gently. “You picked the wrong damn family today.”

The man swallowed hard. Sweat gathered at his temples as his fingers tightened around the arms of his chair. “Maybe if you controlled your woman instead of letting her run her mouth,” Patterson spat, “your household wouldn’t be such a disaster.”

The principal groaned quietly and dropped back into his chair, covering his face with both hands.

“Holland…” you whispered, grabbing his arm. “Please.”

“No, sweetheart,” he said calmly. “Let him finish.”

Patterson crossed his arms. “Your wife has disrespected everyone in this room. You should teach her some manners. She barged in here like a damn wild animal, insulting everybody, refusing to listen,  that kid clearly takes after her.”

Holland looked at you then. There was no anger in his expression. No disappointment. Quite the opposite. He’d seen the way you defended Holly without hesitation. He knew you would tear the world apart for that girl if you had to.

“You know what, Mr. Patterson?” Holland said lightly. “She could handle you just fine without me here. We’re only trying to save the principal some extra paperwork.” His voice stayed calm, almost amused. “Honestly, I mostly stopped you from ending up looking like your son.”

“Holland…”

“What?” he asked innocently. “I’m not lying.”

Then he looked back at Patterson and his son for the final blow. “If you ever touch my daughter again, she’s gonna break your nose. I’ll personally make sure she knows how.” He pointed at Patterson next and nodded at you. “And if you ever speak to her like that again, she’ll break yours too. Understood?”

Holly shifted awkwardly in her chair. Then Holland glanced at her.

“You’re grounded.”

“Dad!” she groaned.

Holland looked back toward the principal, adjusted his tie slightly, and smiled politely. “So. We done here?”

The man nodded helplessly. He clearly had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do anymore. Without another word, you grabbed Holly by the arm and walked out into the hallway. None of you spoke until you reached the parking lot outside. The second the warm sunlight hit her face, Holly grinned.

“That was AWESOME. Patterson was literally about to piss himself.”

“You’re still grounded,” Holland muttered. “Get in the car.”

Holly rolled her eyes dramatically and shuffled toward dad’s car. Holland turned toward you then, his expression difficult to read.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I was pretty surprised when the school called and said my daughter and my wife were sitting in the principal’s office.”

You sighed. “I never told them I was your wife. I was trying to handle this calmly, but that guy…”

“If you hadn’t shown up, she would’ve ripped that man into tiny little pieces!” Holly yelled from the car window.

“That is not true!”

“I saw your face,” Holland murmured, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Honestly, I think I saved his life.”

“She liked threatening him,” Holly added smugly.

“I like watching idiots get what’s coming to them,” Holland corrected immediately.

Holly gasped dramatically. “Is this your foreplay? Because if it is, I want to be adopted.”

“HOLLY!” both of you shouted at once.

She slumped back into the passenger seat. “I’m just saying…”

You pulled your keys from your pocket, glancing toward your own car before looking back at Holland. He’d just lit a cigarette.

“You know…” you started quietly, flicking a glance toward Holly to make sure she wasn’t listening. “The way you walked in there. The way you looked at me…”

“Hm?”

“That was hot.”

His eyebrows lifted instantly, eyes gleaming. “Oh? Really?”

“Yeah. Watching you defend us. Watching you shut that guy down…”

He laughed softly, smoke curling from his lips. “I was barely holding it together. Internally, I was emotional Jell-O.”

You stepped closer, fingers curling into the front of his jacket. “Didn’t notice,” you murmured. “All I saw was a strong man standing up for his girls.”

Holland exhaled slowly and tilted his head back with a groan. “Shame we probably can’t send her to bed any earlier tonight…”

He looked down at you for a second longer, cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. Then his hand slid around your waist, pulling you just a little closer.

“Y’know,” he murmured quietly, “seeing you go feral in that office might’ve been the hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

From the car, Holly choked loudly. “Oh my God, can you wait until I pass out?”

Woe finds you on a Tuesday at the staffroom lunch table. 

Picking apart the leftovers of a miserable thrown together attempt of fried rice that came to be after realising there were no better dinner options with the ingredients you had in the fridge two days ago and the determination to not get take out more than once a week that would surely fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on. 

Eat take out once a week, maximum. Read one book a month, minimum. Sleep more. Stop turning down social invites

The last one is what leaves you particularly perturbed, as your lunch goes lukewarm and your thumb flicks about on the social media profile.

“I just… I can’t say no.” You lament. “It would be weird.”

“Weirder than going?” Margot asks, pulling her own container of lunch from the oven. It’s also leftovers, but slices of impeccably cooked roast with what looks to be red wine sauce and vegetables- no doubt made by her smokeshow of a house husband (he just works from home, she insists. You’re pretty sure the pair are sitting on a lofty investment profile because no man ‘works from home’ cooks roasts bi-weekly and buys his wife diamond earrings for her birthday).

“I don’t know. Maybe.” You manage, the next bite of fired rice tasting like loneliness packed into an over-salted flavour profile. 

“What’s weird?” Ryland asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.

The staff room of E-Block is near abandoned. Of the ten-odd teachers with rooms in the little block of aging brick, most tended to eat in their classrooms. Save for you, Margot and Ryland. Occasionally there will be another visitor, but most days, it is just the three of you. 

“Wedding.” Margot supplies, sitting down and shuffling her chair in with a sense of poise so rarely found in Middle-Schools. She’s older, somewhere in her early fifties, and still manages to approach the job with the same level of discipline as before ipads made their invasion into the classroom. 

Ryland frowns. “You’re already married.”

He’s… well, Ryland's… actually you’re not sure how to put him into words, which is saying a lot considering the literature degree collecting mildew in the filing cabinet of your apartment. 

He’s in the same boat as you in terms of finding yourselves with a teaching career. Studied something else first, got your passion and love for it soured by morons and went back to college for a second round, dishing out more cash for a masters in teaching that has you trying to tame fourteen year olds all day. Delightful, truly. Although, Ryland had certainly lasted a lot longer with that first degree than you had. A doctorate. He hates the kids knowing that though. A handful of them had called him ‘Doctor Grace’ last year, after digging about online and getting their grubby fingers on his linkedin profile. 

‘Mr Grace’ as he is now known, is awkward. A little socially inept at times, but not enough to come across as anything other than endearing. Now is one such time, as he looks over the frames of his glasses at Margo, the stack of pop quizzes he’d brought to mark and keep himself occupied momentarily forgotten. His eyes darted from her face to the ring on her finger. 

“Mm mm.” She hums, shaking her head as she chews, then levels her fork to point in your direction.

“You’re not getting married.” Ryland states when he turns to look at you, like it’s a scientific fact, one he’s so assured of. 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr Grace.” You reply, still sort of wallowing at the photos on your phone. 

His gaze flickers, a little less sure as the corner of his lips fall and, like he had with Margot, settles his eyes on your hands. Your lack of a ring. “You aren’t, are you?”

“No. My ex is, though.” You sigh, despondent. The reminder glares back at you from the overly-bright phone screen. 

“Oh. That sucks.” He manages, clicking open a red pen to start circling and ticking the first sheet on his pile. “Happens to the best of us.”

The kettle rumbles away on the tiny kitchenette. You look at him for a long moment. The best of us. Like it’s happened to him. Ryland’s not one to discuss relationships beyond the occasional quip about quitting to be a house husband like Margot’s. He’s never mentioned past romances, you don’t think he’s been in a relationship in the three years since he started at Grover Cleveland Middle. It’s such a bizarre glimpse at his life, that he doesn't even seem to register what he's revealed, marking as he waits for the boiling water to cook another lunch of instant ramen. 

You sit up a little straighter in your chair, weary of knocking your shoes against where his long legs sprawl under the small table. The staff room is meant for ten but is cramped even with the three of you, nothing more than a little kitchenette and big whiteboard in the corner. There’s a shelf against one wall, just far enough away from the doorframe that the door doesn't crash into it when pushed open. There’s a long window the length of the wall on the door’s other side, a good view of the eighth-grade outdoor lunch area. The other staff call it the fishbowl, it’s why they opt to eat in their classrooms, not keen on the kids' eyes on them when it is supposed to be one of the fleeting breaks during their day.

Thank god the door is closed- if the kids heard you whining about this, a wedding, they’d never let up. “I’m considering the pros and cons of skipping it.”

“You were invited?” He baulks, dropping his pen.

You try not to smile, focusing on your self pity instead of the three shoddy attempts Ryland takes to catch his pen from dropping out of his hand, rolling off the stack of paper then off the table. “I already said I’d go too.”

“Why?” Ryland sounds appalled, like that one time you’d caught him trying to explain that the five second rule is not an effective barrier against bacteria to a student. 

“It’s complicated.” You say, biting at your cheek. 

“Bullshit.” Margot aptly calls. Looking over with the same expression she used to call students on their bullshit. You're not a big fan of having it directed at you. 

“We went out for maybe two months in college.” You sigh, setting your phone on the table face-down to stare at your lunch, contemplative. “He’s engaged to one of the girls from my sorority. We’re… friends.”

Margot watches. “With your ex or the sorority girl?”

“Sorority girl. Daisy.” That's the better option of the two at least. You think it is, not that there is much left to save you from the impending train wreck of discussing the relationship woes of your late teens and early twenties with the only two coworkers who care to eat lunch in a communal space. The company is nice, Ryalnd had said once, when you’d asked, gets me out of the classroom. 

Margot screws her face up for a second, muttering it again under her breath as if the name offends her. 

“You were in a sorority?" Ryland asks, face a little blank as he looks at you from across the table. 

It makes you falter, the way his thoughts seem to be buffering like the school's slow wifi. “I… Yeah? That’s the interesting part?”

He shakes his head, looking down at his marking sheets and pushes his glasses up from where they’re slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose. “No, I just can’t picture it.”

You purse your lips, consider pulling up some photos from your sorority days, then remember the kind of outfits the lot of you wore and think better of it. “Well Daisy and I were roommates for a year and a half. She’s nice. Works in PR now.”

“But she’s marrying your ex?” Ryland asks, still kind of baffled. 

You dismiss it with a lazy hand wave. “I mean, she asked before they went out and everything. I just think it’s a little weird. I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s going to be embarrassing.”

Margot tuts twice, done with her lovingly made lunch that symbolises how successful she has been in the department of marriage when you have all but failed so far. “Why is it embarrassing? Two months is nothing.”

“I was a little head over heels for this guy.” You admit, sheepish. 

Ryland stands up, clears his throat as he turns away. “Yeah? How so?”

His back is to you, as he peels the lid off his cup ramen and wrestles with the flavour packet. You come to the conclusion it’s easier to confess this sort of stuff with only one set of eyes on you. “I was sort of convinced he was my soulmate. He was doing pre-law, witty too.”

“Hot?” Margot asks, always straightforward.

You feel a blush rise on your cheeks as you remember the early days of your sorority experience, flopped back on the bed as you made little love sick sighs at your ceiling. “God, his jawline. And his hair- it was so… ugh!” 

The thud is dull when your forehead lands on the table, to the right of your now abandoned lunch. “I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s dumb.”

You hate how you sound- petulant like the kids you prod for not searching for better words in their assignments, moping like your world is ending over something so trivial. It’s not even the new years resolution that has you mulling this over so intently.  You’d agreed to go months ago- six months ago- and said yes to the offered plus one, adamant to yourself that you’d have someone by then, a partner or something. Someone of importance. 

Attending alone is going to be even worse than if you had just RSVP’d for yourself in the first place. It’s one thing to watch your college friend and ex-sort-of-boyfriend exchange vows alone, and a whole other monster to do it with a pointed empty seat beside you. 

All of it tumbles out your lips in a hurried hurl of word vomit, followed by a few moments of silence that has you cautiously raising your head to peek over the wall of your forearms. Ryland is staring at you, cup noodles steaming in his hands where it hovers over the sink, like he’d been about to pour out the excess water. Margot is looking at you with a frown, the same one she wears when teaching senior mathematics and the children have drawn up an equation for her to solve with the foolish belief they could stump her for more than ten seconds. 

And just as in class, Margot is not phased for more than a handful of moments. “Then find someone with a better jawline and better hair to go with you. You can borrow mine.”

You blink at her, mulling the words over before asking, “Are you trying to pimp your husband out to me?”

“Only for aesthetic reasons, of course. It’d be nice to have the house to myself for once. Not like you have better options.”

It would sting more if it wasn’t so true. There were very few options and with the wedding only two weeks away, that was certainly not enough time to squeeze in enough dates with someone to justify taking them to a damn wedding. 

“I mean, how good is his jawline?” Ryland finally says, walking over with his little cutlery box, plastic chopsticks he washes and reuses almost everyday, to set his lunch down on the table and settle back in across from you. “Are we aiming high?”

There is no way to un-dig this hole, not now that they’ve both decided to put their two cents in. You concede with another sigh and reach for your phone, arms and chin still on the table as you fish about Instagram for a photo. It’s the one that had reminded you of this awful upcoming event, posted by Daisy. You all but toss your phone on the table between your coworkers, sinking a little lower into your folded arms, awaiting judgement. 

The photos must be from a walk though of the venue, the pair of them posed together between some old marble arch where they were having the ceremony at. She was laughing, hand on his chest, showing off the ring on her finger while he looked at her, besotted. The caption made it worse. Only two weeks left till I get to marry my man on these very steps.

You like them both, you really do, but the thought of showing up by yourself, as the lonely friend who’d never found ‘it’, your own version of the love they were celebrating, well it was just nauseating.

Margot looks the photo over critically before humming in a sort of so-so tone. “You can do better.”

Ryland looks kind of at a loss. “This is your type?”

As if to emphasise the point, he lifts the phone up and turns it around to show you the image you were already being haunted by. “This is the hair that had you all…”

He doesn't find the words, just waves the hand with his chopsticks around in a messy motion, looks at you critically over the rims of his glasses.

“He slicks it back now. It used to be… I donno. Messy? Fluffy? Good to run my fingers though.” He scoffs a little to himself, dissatisfied maybe with your excuse.

The only forgiving factor is that the photo does highlight the sharp cut of his jaw, which even Ryland concedes to. “He does have a good jawline...”

Yours is better, you want to say. Immediate and impulsive, because it kind of is. Especially when the shadow of his stubble stretches a few extra days between shaves. Your ex is clean shaven- you used to think that was sexy, at least sexier than the patchy beards boys in college had back then. Now you’re kind of obsessed with the so-called ‘5-o’clock shadow’ Ryland sports on Fridays. 

It’s not something you’re likely to tell him though, especially not when you glance at the clock and realise you have a duty across campus in three minutes. Saved by the bell maybe, either way you’re able to liberate your phone from the pair of them and their conspiratory whispers, bin the scraps of your lunch and haul ass out of there. 

By the end of the school day, you have reached the conclusion that you will blame it on work. That some mandatory day of ‘professional development’ as it is called nowadays, has come up and you will just have to miss the wedding, truly you’re devastated about it all. 

Then Ryland corners you in your classroom. The bell’s long gone, as are the students. He’s dressed like he’s on his way out, his green backpack tossed over one shoulder and bike helmet hanging by the strap in one hand. You’re halfway through explaining your plan and the wording you’re going to use in the tragic text message to Daisy when he cuts you off. 

“I’ll go with you.”

He’s a little breathless with it, like he’d been saving up all his oxygen to get the words out, leaving him in one big rush as they topple though the doorway of your classroom and splatter onto the linoleum floor between you both. 

“I know that I’m not Margot’s husband with a ‘better jawline and better hair’ but we can go and eat nice wedding food- If he’s a lawyer it’s gotta be fancy, right? And we can make fun of his stupid slicked back hair together and you don’t have to be alone or make an excuse and feel guilty about it.” Ryland’s big speech is as flawed as it is heartwarming

Because he does have a better jawline and better hair. And Margot looks between you both during lunch hours and staff meetings like you’re her personal romance drama, there to occupy her during the day. 

But the wedding food will be good, your ex will shill out for the best and Daisy has always had a taste for the finer things in life. Ryland is the best company you can think of to have by your side and he knows you well enough to understand how guilty lying about something makes you feel, how it churns your gut. 

“Yeah. Okay.” You smile, something warm and fuzzy in your chest. 

His eyes don’t move, maybe widen a little before he speaks again, still a little breathless. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

It isn’t a hard thought to come around to, taking Ryland to a wedding. As a date is something that goes unsaid between the pair of you, not sure whether it could be classed as such for real, or if this is simply a favour between friends-slash-coworkers. It is certainly a date for show, to the many college friends you’re about to reunite with after a few years, for your Ex, Jack who’s obsessed with his wife, for Daisy who you’d told years ago to ‘go for it, he’s a nice guy’ working under the assumption that she’d only last a few months by his side too. 

You’re not sure which answer you’d prefer, honestly; a date or a favour. 

He texts you a lot- after school, on the weekend- asking about what he should wear, what you’re going to wear, how he should prepare for this sort of thing. It’s sweet, cute in a way that has little butterflies flapping around in your stomach. 

“Okay, I’ll show you. Wait, hold on.” You placate, setting your phone down on the bed, screen up. 

“It’s a lovely ceiling fan, but I doubt it fits the dress code.” Ryland drawls, and you can hear the smile there. 

“Ha ha.” You reply, a little echo-y as you lean into your closet to pull the dress out. 

He’s up in arms about what to wear, says he needs to know what you’re wearing too so he can match. The invite’s dress code called for formal attire in ‘dark colours’. On the facebook page she’d made for the event, Daisy had a full post going into more detail, about how she’d love any and all dark tones- forestry green, navy, even burgundy was fine. You had taken a firm stance against burgundy considering there’s some old wedding traditions that state wearing red indicated you’d slept with the groom. Which you had, but you were not about to advertise that. 

So navy it was. 

You’d sent Ryland a picture of the invite, where it was stuck to your fridge with letter magnets spelling out ‘woe’- it had felt fitting when you’d stuck it up there- and several screenshots of the lengthy dress-code post Daisy had made that went into excruciating detail. He wasn’t satisfied though. 

Even your attempts to describe the dress you’d bought didn’t work well enough.

“I mean it! you expect me to know what any of those words apart from ‘floor length' means?” he bemoans from your phone speakers, face time call crackling. “I need all the data.”

“Oh listen to you, Mr. Science,” You drawl with a smile, pulling the dress out. It’s too long to hang from a door knob so you have to stretch up on your tip toes to hang the coat hook over the curtain rod of your bedroom window. 

“I was thinking of changing my name. Very to the point, don’t you think?” He replies, still smiling as you collect your phone. His eyes are sparkling with something cheeky when you appear back in frame. 

Ryland’s dressed down, in one of those dumb science t-shirts he wears on ‘Casual Fridays’ as it is called in staff meetings. This one’s dark blue and has the periodic table on it in worn down white transfer ink. You’ve seen it enough to know the punch line sprawled over his lower stomach even though it’s not in frame. I wear this shirt periodically. He finds an extra layer in humor that the shirt is factually correct as well, that he does in fact, wear the shirt in regular intervals as he’d explained to you during a free-period on one of those casual Fridays. 

He’s at his kitchen bench, phone propped up against something, while he taps away at his laptop. You’ve not actually been to Ryland’s apartment before, but it sorta feels like you have, the cramped studio always on display in the back of video calls like this one. 

It’s just one long rectangle. Kitchen by the front door, a bench, a gap that is probably intended for a kitchen table but he’s stuck a desk there instead, his bed that’s almost always unmade with a tv wall mounted across from it, and a balcony. Like this, you can see the expanse of it behind him. The stacks of paper piled up on his desk, the extra monitors and little trinkets gifted from students, the sage green sheets of his bed, peeled back on one side, sun shining in through his big glass balcony doors. Honesty, you kind of want to see the view from his apartment in person, he’s a little higher up than you are, in a better part of the city too. 

Ryland’s not brushed his hair, it’s all spiked up in different directions and you wonder if the mug he’s been sipping from, periodically, is his morning cup even though it’s just past ten. He’s blinking slow behind his glasses, sitting a little too still for his brain to be fully functional yet. 

“I’m sure the kids will love it. Harder to spell on their assessment sheets, though.” You can imagine it, the staff badge, the name on his board in fun bubble writing where it would stay untouched for a whole school term. 

You flip the camera, showing him the dress he’s been complaining about not understanding for the last half hour over text before he gave up and called you. 

It’s cute, how his head tilts and he leans towards his phone for a second before just picking it up and holding it close enough so his eyes and forehead are just about all that is in frame. “Is that velvet?”

“It’s fake satin. I think.”

“Fake satin?” He repeats, confused.

The dress was one you already owned, bought a year or so ago for another friend’s wedding that you had attended alone but not felt crappy about, even if it did seem like everyone your age was getting married nowadays. It’s got a fitted bodice, but there fabric is a little drapey, looks like it pools over the chest and down towards the fluid skirt. "Wasn't expensive enough to be real satin.”

“Okay, I know what you mean by delicate straps now.” That had been his main hang up, whining about, What do you mean delicate straps? Like they’re about to break?, swearing that the shit he was googling was just not helping the mental image considering there were about six different results for everything.  

“Yeah, and here, the lace up back.” You say, stepping up to twist the dress away from where it sat flush against the curtains to show the corset style back, with thin cord lace just a little thinner than the straps. 

“Isn’t that going to be a nightmare to put on?” He asks, squinting still.

“There’s a zip.” You say, dragging the little hidden zipper down, showing him how the dress fabric parts and slips open. “So it’s fairly easy to get on. The cords are about as tight as they should be anyway, it isn't hard to pull to fit.”

You fumble a little trying to get the zip back up but eventually just conceded to leave out like that until you put the dress away. When you glance down at your phone, Ryland has moved, no longer sitting down and if you had to guess, is now walking the length of his apartment instead. He looks a little distressed. 

“Come on, you’ve got the easy part.” You try, a little concerned he’s about to say he shouldn’t go. “You just have to put on a suit.”

“I can’t just ‘put on a suit’.” He whines, flopping down onto his bed like the world is ending. “I’m supposed to be like, your big ‘fuck you’ to the girl who got with your ex. I’m supposed to look good with you. I don’t know if I have a suit nice enough for that dress.”

“Ryland. It’s not about saying ‘fuck you’ to Daisy, or pulling some revenge stunt. I just didn’t want to go alone like a loser when I said I was bringing someone.” You can’t really help the little breathy laugh that weaves its way though his name, because he sounds like you did four days ago acting like the world was about to end, face down on the lunch table. “You don’t have to come.”

“No, I’m coming. I just need to go through my wardrobe.” He’s cute, you decide, in a round-about sort of way. The determination to play this self elected role well, to perfect it and give it his all, like he does with everything else in his life. The whole situation was elevating your ‘aesthetic appreciation’ of Ryland that you’d been attempting to suppress, to a new sort of level. 

You flop down on your own bed, roll over on your side and let him derail the conversation towards lesson planning, listen to him talk about the plans he has for the next weeks worth of classes, a couple of activities he’s got in the works. All while you consider the pros and cons of having him beside you instead. 

Ryland was probably the teacher you got on best with at work, despite being from two very different teaching areas. When he’d first arrived, you’d assumed he would be a little pretentious, with his Phd and professional experience beyond the classroom. You weren't expecting him to be so awkward. The children took to him so quickly, and Ryland had told you time and time again that he doesn't understand why they think he’s cool. 

Over the years you’ve found that he can be cocky, in certain bouts of confidence seemingly appearing via divine-intervention. A local bar had run trivia nights for some six odd months, and it had unleashed a beast within him.

On Monday afternoon he sent you a photo. A little black bag with a logo you’d googled, realising it was a menswear store before the second photo had come though. A tie, sleek navy like your dress, rolled up neatly with a matching pocket square beside it, both nestled in a box that screamed expensive. You’d sent back a random string of praise, imagining him lulling it over in the store. It was nearly five in the afternoon, he’d left work pretty much on the final bell. You wonder how long he spent comparing the seemingly endless ties the shop’s online store offered, considering what would match best to your dress.

It makes you a little giddy, to be honest, has you dreaming of a situation where you’d asked him to come to the wedding, or where you’d already been together long enough that it was simply a given when the invitation turned up in your mail box. 

Neither of you mention it during school hours, not keen on the kids hearing whispers of you and Ryland doing anything outside work hours- students will take anything and run with it.

But he messages you about it constantly. Makes a plan; he’d come to your apartment and you would uber from there to the venue, it was a sunset ceremony and evening reception. He lived close enough that it was a brisk walk or quick bus trip. He pointedly mentions that he would not be cycling- ‘In a suit? God, never’- and makes sure you know that the uber would also drop you both back to your flat and he’d walk home or take another separate uber. 

There’s talk about your ‘backstory’, which he takes as seriously as he does exam periods. You tell him it’s not super necessary, that saying you met at work is more than enough exposition for the gaggle of college friends you’d not seen in years. But he was never one to do things in halves. 

“We obviously would have met at school.” He says, like it’s a given. Ryland is laid out on the reading rug at the back of your classroom, staring at the ceiling. And the fake clouds that are actually just a hobby-fill glue gunned to paper and taped to the ceiling, he’d turned the fairy lights that are threaded though them on before he’d decided the floor was his resting place. “Maybe trivia is where it happened. We liked trivia.”

“We did like trivia.” You agree, pointedly. 

It’s almost impossible to not just sit there and watch him, the student folders that you’re sorting worksheets into acting as a very inefficient distraction. 

He’s got a button down on, some pale blue that looks nice under his grey wool blazer. The pale wash jeans and white converse are a bit more casual, but he wears the combination well. Too well. Laid out like this, with one knee up, he looks far too attractive for you to swallow. Glasses pulled down to hang off his jaw, sitting there catching the afternoon light as it came through the windows, casting rainbow refractions onto the back wall. 

“Maybe trivia was a date. What would you have done?”

“If you’d asked me to trivia as a date?” You glance up. He’s already looking at you, head tipped to the side, something soft, tentative there in his eyes.

“Yeah.” You can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his chest rises with each breath. 

Ryland sounds… nervous, in a way that does remind you of the first trivia night you’d gone to. He’d been dressed similarly there, you remember thinking he looked nice, polished up a little more than he did in the school day with dress shoes and what smelt like cologne. Handsome where he waited by the entrance, backlit by the bar’s warm lighting. He’d been a little twitchy for the first hour or so, but settled into himself by round two. 

With the way he’s looking at you, now as he plans out the false scenario that’s beginning to sound a lot more like a confession, you’re starting to get the idea that trivia could have been a date. If either of you had put it into words. 

“Enjoyed it, probably.”

“Really?” He looks shy, a bit of a flush working its way up his cheeks. 

You smile at him, thinking about how nice it would have been to kiss him in that bar with a sweet cocktail on your lips, dizzy from his flattery about your trivia skills. You hum, nodding a little as you look at the folders and sheets spread out over your desk, feeling a flush rise to your own cheeks.

He knocks when you’re halfway through lacing up the back of your dress, holding the cords with one hand as you open the door. Ryland’s not been to your apartment before, something you’d failed to realise until he called you and asked during his walk over, if you’d have to buzz him in. 

He was appalled to find out the front door to your building was sporting a broken lock and had been tied back with a length of rope for the last two months while the landlords procrastinated fixing it. 

“See,” You say, opening the door for him, keeping it propped open with your foot as he shuffles in. “My door locks.”

“Still one less lock that you’re supposed to have.” he grumbles, stepping out of his very nice dress shoes. They look expensive- black leather shined up propper. 

Actually, Ryland looks expensive. 

“You look nice,” he says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that. 

“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly. 

Holy fuck he looks good in a suit. It’s the only thought spinning around your head. It’s a proper one, tailor made no doubt. Blazer, slacks and undershirt, all three of them a deep inky black. The navy tie he’d sent you a photo of is done up around his neck in a knot neater than you’ve ever seen him wear to work. The pocket square is folded too, fluffed up with a little volume that suggests he did so intentionally. 

Suddenly you’re reminded of all those times he’d complained about all the formal conferences and charity gala’s he’d attended during his days in academia. You realise you have made a grave error. 

There have always been little parts about Ryland that oozed wealth, the glasses he wore for one, that he told you were antique when you’d asked. The watch on his wrist that you thought looked like some practical sporty thing but found out was actually worth three months rent when you’d googled it out of curiosity. These little things fall out of the spotlight and become footnotes that are often ignored when he’s in his classroom, or tiny apartment. 

Dressed in such a nice suit, here in you apartment definitely wearing cologne- the same from that very first trivia night, something a little warm, woodsy like oaky bourbon, sharp and contrary to the fresh nothingness he smelt like at work- Ryland seemed so far beyond you. 

“You look good.” You manage, letting the door slip shut and dropping the lace of your dress, it loses its tension a little but stays in the same spot for the most part, to run a hand over the lapel of his blazer. “How long have you had this?”

“Ages. Dug it out of the back of my closet. A little tighter than when I last wore it, but it will do the trick. Right?” He tacks that last bit on, like he’s waiting with baited breath for your approval. 

“I’ll say.” You slide your hand down the lapel a little bit, down over the press of his chest. The tightness just shows the subtlety of his build, lean muscle that comes from idle exercise and good diet, maybe even a splash of genetics. He’s tidied his facial hair up a little, slid the electric razor over all of it to make sure it’s the same length, no doubt. Ryalnd’s still got his glasses on, you were a little worried he might have opted for contacts and are very relieved you get to see this outfit complete with the lenses that frame his face so well. 

With a realisation you might be getting a little lost in your head, you drop your hand, turning to walk further into your apartment, towards the couch where your shoes for the night sat on the floor. “Right, we'll, I'm nearly ready. The uber will be here soon.”

“Do you need a hand?” Ryland asks, and you’re about to turn, ask him, ‘with what’ when you feel his fingertips against the small of your back. It sends a jolt though your skin, he’s cold. From the outside air, where as you’ve been nice and cosy with the heat on while you’d done your hair and make up. 

Goosebumps rise under his hands as they gather the ties for the back of your dress. Something low swoops in your gut, like the dip of a roller coaster, free falling as he chuckles a little behind you. “Sorry, cold fingers.”

You swallow. “It’s.. it’s okay.”

“How tight?” He asks, giving the strings a gentle tug. You almost sway with the moment, feeling a little swept off your feet already. 

“Bit tighter.” You manage, as he presses a flat palm against the small of your back, over the criss-crossing cord, and gathers both ties in one hand to pull slow and firm. It tugs you back into his hand, a steadier hold than you’d expected. 

“There?” He questions when the dress is pulled in to sit flush with your skin but not dig in. You get the feeling he might have done some research, when he plucks at each string to even them out and make sure none of them are too tight, on how these dresses are supposed to sit. 

“Yeah, perfect.” It leaves you like a sigh, as his palm dips, brushes where the zipper sits before pulling back to tie a neat bow, tugging the cords out carefully so both loops are even. 

All of it has you lightheaded, directing more effort than necessary to get yourself to the couch and pull your heels on, black mary janes that are comfortable enough to walk in. As you fiddle with the buckles, you eye him. 

Ryland’s hair is tousled, intentionally a little messy, not combed or slicked back. Looks like it would be nice to run your fingers though, and you find yourself wondering if that’s why he’d opted for the style, if he’s here, dressed up as the guy with ‘better hair and a better jawline’ that Margot had pitched, unaware that he already was exactly who he’s trying to be. 

He holds an arm out for you to loop yours though, walking down the stairs in steady but slowed steps. You smile. “Wow, full gentleman experience.”

“I told you, I can't just ‘put on a suit’. It’s more than that.” He chides jokingly, and you pity the version of you that didn’t realise this was an option. 

He opens the door for you- the car door, the door into the building door tied back by a rope (he glares at it when you pass it)- then rounds the back of the little toyota that’s polished up to try and seem fancier than it was. You don’t talk much on your way to the venue, comfortable silence that the driver thankfully settles into. 

It’s nearing sundown when you pull into the driveway, a big circular road that’s already crammed with other cars and guests climbing out.

“You can just let us out here.” Ryland says to the uber driver, unbuckling his seatbelt to hop out, then rounding the car again to open your door, hand held out like it’s necessary, when the car is nowhere near low or high enough to warrant such assistance. 

You place your palm in his anyway, letting him pull you from the car, no more temperature disparity in your hands since you’ve both been in the car for fifteen minutes, but it still makes your skin tingle. He’s got cufflinks, the same pale gold as his glasses, in the shape of atoms. You flick one lightly. “I like these.”

He smiles, something a little smothered like he’s trying to stamp it down from a grin as he threads his arm though yours again, beginning the small walk to the venue's front steps. “Well I like your dress, so I think we’re even.”

It’s a ballroom, with these big stained glass windows in the room they hold ceremonies in, you’d seen some lovely shots on the venue’s website of sunset light streaming through them. Imagining Ryland in the warm sunlight has you in a good mood, he’s always suited it, even if the city’s never had much to offer. 

“Not too much for our first date?” You tease.

Something like a laugh tumbles out of his lips, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “First date was trivia- and you were underdressed. Keep up.”

You flush, crowding a little closer to his side to make it through the entryway without shoulder checking anyone. Had you been? It was so long ago you could hardly remember anything other than jeans, tight ones that dug into your waist when you sat down- tight jeans hardly felt like being underdressed, they probably meant you wanted him to stare at your ass. Either way you let him have the win, as minute as it is. 

Doesn't really matter what you wore back then when you’ve got him like this now. 

Together you sit about halfway down on the bride’s side, the pew’s nearly empty, only someone on the other end you don’t know but looks vaguely enough like Daisy, that's you’d guess extended family. 

“So why’d you like this guy so much?” Ryland asks, quiet enough for it to just stay between the two of you. He’s glancing around, but his eyes keep bouncing back to Jack at the front of the venue, where he’s talking to gaggle of similarly dressed guys, his groomsmen. 

“What?”

“Him,” Ryland says, tipping his head a little to gesture at Jack. “What had you talking about soulmates? Couldn't just be the hair, tons of guys have good hair.”

“They do.” You answer, raising a hand to tangle one of the longer stands where it’s dangling over his forehead around your pointer finger and give it a light tug. Ryland’s eyes settle on you, like there’s nothing else to look at. “He made me feel like the only girl in the world.”

“That’s a cliche.” He refutes. “And a song lyric.”

You smile. “I’m serious. He’s like that with every girl he went out with. He’s like it with Daisy. He just loses sight of every other woman, so attentive.”

Ryland stays silent for a moment, eyes searching for something in yours. Maybe permission, or a want, for him to keep digging, it’s almost as if he’s scared what he might find. “What'd he do? To make you feel like that?”

It’s cute, how nervous he is, despite the fact it feels as though all week, the pair of you have been laying this ground work, a path to follow that will lead you somewhere inevitable, like a trivia date, or the messy sprawled sage green sheets or Ryland’s bed. You smile at him, wondering if he’s thought about you in them. You wonder if he knows how easily you could be, that you might just follow him to the edge of the universe. 

Still, you answer his question, offering a peek into your brain, the way you used to operate when teenage giddiness was closer than adult yearning. "Took me dancing. Kissed me slowly, cared about how I wanted things to go. It was like he just couldn’t stop looking at me, for me. It was intoxicating.”

“I can’t.” Ryland blurts out, all reckless abandon, and he’s looking at you like you’ve already kissed him breathless just by being here. You let your leg shift to press the length of your thigh against his, warm even through the layers of fabric. 

You breathe in deep through your nose, the scent of his cologne sticking dizzyingly to the air, a scent you think is enough to get drunk on even without the assistance of wedding champagne. "Can't what?”

“Stop looking at you.” He clarifies, eyes darting down to your lips. “I can do the other things though.”

A flutter knocks about your chest, unsteady and uncoordinated. “Yeah, you like dancing Doctor Grace?”

“If it’s with you.” He amends. 

“And slow kissing? You like that too?”

“Yeah I do.” He’s not even trying to hide it now, gaze settled on the dusty pink line of your lips, his own a little slick with spit when he darts his tongue out to trace one quick line along them. 

You almost asked him to prove it, but in your peripherals, down the aisle and pausing at the sight of you, was Macey, another one of your college friends, smiling. So you place a hand on Ryland's thigh, just above his knee. “Good. Really good.”

Ryland looks dizzy with the praise, like it’s all rushed straight to his head. 

“Hey Macey, good to see you.” You greet, using your hand on Ryland's knee to tip his legs towards you, making room for Macey to shuffle into the pew. 

“Oh my god, good to see you too! It's been awhile, hasn’t it?” She leans down a little awkwardly to wrap you in a hug as you half stand, and it’s good to see someone after so long, to look at them and remember times when things were simpler and you were allowed to be a little stupid, a little dangerous. It’s nice to see her here, for her to sit next to you- Macey’s always encouraged you to be a little wild, and with the way Ryland’s been looking at you all night, you might need her ego-bosting tonight. 

“I’m Macey, nice to meet you.” She extends a hand to Ryland over your lap and he shakes it curtly, offering his own introduction. 

There’s a big rock on her finger, and you remember seeing it on an instagram post, some dreamy forest scenery with a ‘coming soon to a theatre near you’ caption under it. 

“I suppose it will be your wedding next then,” You tease, “Where’s Jamie?”

“Oh she had a work trip, couldn't avoid it. She wanted to come though.” Macey waves off. Her and her fiance met on some film set, both camera operators, at the time, although you faintly recall reading something about Jamie’s name working its way up to director for some upcoming project, amongst the throws of social media posts from people who once knew everything about you and now you only see once every few years. 

“So Ryland,” Macey starts with a glimmer in her eyes, something evil and mischievous that throws you back to seeing her in the living room with a bottle of tequila and monopoly board. “How’d you two meet?”

“We teach at the same school,” He grins, a hand sliding to your knee, just along the inside of it, where your dress fabric hangs low with slack, enough for his palm to press there, thumb drawing slow lines back and forth. “A little cliche but I don’t mind.”

Macey smiles, fans her face a little like that’s just soooo romantic. “What do you teach?”

“Science, opposites attract I guess.”

“Please tell me you used that line.” She practically swoons. 

Ryland huffs a little laugh. “No, the kids threw that one at me actually.”

“Really?” You question, a raised eyebrow because that was not part of the backstory he’d been cooking up all week.

“Oh yeah. You should hear them. “Mr. Grace, you and Miss are ,like perfect for each other. You should ask her to the spring dance. They’re relentless, I swear.”

He pitches his voice a little, lazy tones and improper grammar leaking out in the way it did when he did impressions of your students and you can’t help but giggle a little. 

“Their heads might explode when they find out.” Macey laughs too, then like a stroke of inspiration, slaps her hand against your arm a few times in pure, unrestrained excitement. “God- remember when we found out Professor Morisaki and Professor Collins were married? Holy shit it was like our heads exploded.” 

You bark a laugh, muffling it under your hand considering the rather low level of idle chatter in the venue. “Oh my god, I forgot about that.”

“Professors of yours?” Ryland asks, this soft smile spread across his lips still.

“Yeah, we were doing a car-wash fundraiser! They were kissing in the background of one of our photos!” Macey still whispers gossip like she did in college, like your students do now. 

Ryland looks a little red in the face when he asks. “A car wash fundraiser?” 

Macey smirks, always too good at picking things up from others' words and you kind of want to stomp your heel over her toes to tell her off before you remember how this evening had been going so far. “Oh? Don’t you know? We were a little wild in college.”

You scoff. “A little?”

“Okay, a lot.” She corrects. “The car wash was an annual thing. White tshirts, bikinis. There’s definitely pictures. I have pictures.”

“Macey.” You scold, mostly joking. 

She shrugs, straightens up and sits to face the fronts, pointedly not looking at you with a smirk on her face. “Hey- I’m just reminiscing on good times. Don’t you remember the kissing booth we ran? Of course you do you were the most requested-”

Now you stomp your foot onto hers, although she doesn’t do anything but laugh to herself. 

Ryland is back to that dazed look, like he’s on some far off planet in his mind, when he murmurs, "Kissing booth?”

You glare at Macey, for a sharp moment. Before patting one hand on Ryland’s chest, leaning in close when you say, loud enough for Macey to hear. “Tell you about it later, handsome.”

He ducks his head a little close to you, a tiny little movement that stops as soon as it starts. His cheeks are the reddest you’d ever seen, looking a lot like he’s about to kiss you now, when there’s a music cue somewhere further up the aisle and a hush falls over everyone. He doesn't look away at first, eyes glued to yours for a long second before he bites his lower lip, to stop himself saying something and reaches a hand up to lace his fingers together with yours over his chest. He pulls it gently to his lap, smothering it in between his warm palms, fiddling with your fingers as the ceremony starts. 

It’s beautiful, truly. The light lowered through the stained glass windows, reflecting and casting colour across the whole room, gentle music and teary vows. Picturesque really, and it reminded you of that time you’d all made ‘vision boards’ as a bonding activity, and Daisy had a little corner on hers that outlined the life she’d like to live, from a small sunset ceremony to the little white picket fence outside a cottage. You’re happy she’s finally arrived there, that she has a man who’s willing to give her everything she’d dreamed of. 

You tell her as much, when you catch the pair of them in the reception hall. A warm hug for each of them and a firm hand shake between Jack and Ryland. It’s a lot less daunting than you had thought it would be, seeing them with the knot tied, no bad blood lingering or awkwardness about what once was. Just contentedness, with where your lives had led you each. 

The food is good and the atmosphere is better, seeing people from a previous life chapter all reunited, laughing and catching up. The reception is held in a ball room, with gorgeous polished hard wood floors and lovely low lighting that hangs from the ceiling in delicate chandeliers. There’s a classical band, a memento board for people to take polaroids and write well wishes on them, a corner with photos from Both Daisy and Jack’s lives, in albums and tacked up on walls, showing where they meet and things bleed together into their future. All of it’s beautiful. 

It’s heading into the later part of the night, when some people have excused themselves and cake has been cut, a hefty supply of the champagne depleted, that a nice slow song comes on.

You aren’t really paying that much attention to it, until you see Ryland shift beside you, rising and holding out one hand, palm up, towards you. “Care to dance?”

Something warm spreads over your face, a flush probably, as you lay a hand in his and he ever so gently pulls you to your feet, right in close to him. He leans down again, lips pressing feather-light to your temple before he leads you towards the dance floor. 

It’s littered with other couples, celebrating the love they have for each other as well as the bride and groom. 

All of it has you a little dizzy, settling a hand on Ryland’s shoulder as his palm slides around your waist, fingers slowing around the lace up back of your dress, pressing into your skin with gentle intent. He’s warm, firm against you, breath fanning across your cheek as you look up at him. “I know this isn’t the kind of dancing you meant, but it’s the best I can do for now.”

You humm, feet shifting in time with his, a slow waltz you weren’t even aware he knew. “I think I prefer this kind of dancing nowadays.”

Ryland’s lips tick up into a smile. “Yeah?”

He looks as good in the warm lamp light as he does in sunlight, kissing across his tanned skin and stubble, showing off the highlights of his hair. You want to run your hands through it, press a kiss to the scruff of his jaw. You settle on talking instead, worried he’s not one for such public displays of affection. “Left my wild nights behind in college.”

He sighs, like this is a devastating blow, hanging his head slightly, glasses slipping a smidge down his nose. “A shame. I was looking forwards to an appearance.”

You purse your lips, lifting the hand from his shoulder to cup his jaw, tilting his head back up a little, the pad of your thumb pressing his glasses back up to where they're supposed to sit. “Might do a private showing. Just for you.”

“You going to wash my car?” He asks, teasing. Eyes following the movement of your hand as it slips back down into place on his shoulder. 

Your forehead falls, pressing against his collar bone as a furious blush blooms over your face, the worst it has been all night, murmuring, “You don’t have a car.”

He must have known what you were going to say, or some semblance of it because you certainly weren’t speaking loud enough for him to catch all of it, but he still sighs, a little dramatic. “Guess we’ll have to go with the kissing booth then.”

You lift your head a little, to look up at him where he’s smiling down, mirth dancing about in his eyes. “Oh, what a shame.”

The drawl has him crack a grin, cheeks flushed as he looks away. Fingers dancing slowly along the skin of your back, between the cords he’d tied up so perfectly for you. 

For you, all of it. His nice suit he’d dug out from the back of his closet, the smart shoes nudging against yours with every step of the waltz. Ryland would do a lot for you, the realisation comes a little late, considering everything. You lean forwards a little, resting your cheek on his chest, as the song slows right down, indulgent. 

“You got plans after this?” You ask, and it sounds so cheesy, so bland once it’s left your lips. 

Still, when he answers, the smile is audible in Ryland’s voice. “Thought I was getting a private show. Is that offer off the table?”

“Think I can manage it,” You murmur, listening to the final few chords echo about the ball room, basking in the way his voice had rippled and rumbled through his chest, low against your cheek.

He lingers for a few seconds in the quiet, holding you close against his chest. You wonder if he, too, is basking in it. The closeness, the idea of having something that you’ve both been pretending couldn’t happen, wasn’t there in the air of exhaled breaths and weighted stares. 

When he pulls back, there is nothing but adoration in his eyes, hand that holds yours falling low, but not releasing it, palm soft against your waist, almost as if he doesn't want to let you go just yet. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Bit forward, Ryland,” You tease, “we’ve not even taken photos yet.”

His eyes follow yours to the polaroid board in the corner, considers it for a moment before he’s pulling you gently by the grasp of his hand around yours, towards it. 

The polaroid camera is a little hand held thing, there’s a stand for it, and poster board instructions on how to set a timer delay. 

Ryland insists on taking one of just you, and while you’re grinning, trying to convince him to join you against the black fabric backdrop, the shutter goes off. 

He rolls his eyes, but lets you drag him in beside you for the next photo. The timer is set, and just as you’re preparing to smile, something a little sweet and knowing, he gets one hand around the small of your back, knocks one of those very smart shoes against your heel and tilts you into a dip. It leaves you a little breathless, as he smiles, nose almost touching yours, shutter flashing off to the side. 

He lets you choose which photo goes on the memo board. “Whichever one you don’t put up there, I’m keeping.”

You look a little silly in both, at least you think as much, caught off guard, and laughing a little out of breath. Ryland insists you look amazing in both. Something a bit selfish pulls at your gut, as you apprise both photos, and eventually, hand the one of you and Ryland to him- liking the idea of getting to see it again, of having a physical reminder of the night you two have spent together. 

He grins like he’s won something, pulling his wallet out from his jacket pocket- a crisp brown leather that looks worn but well cared for- and to your mortification, tucks the photo into the clear slot. The one most people put their licences, or photos of loved ones, like heart-shaped lockets back in the old days. Ryland says nothing on the matter and he folds his wallet back up and slides it back into his pocket, waiting for you to write your message on the other polaroid’s back. 

You scrawl some comment about happy endings and humble crazy beginnings, Signing your name on the bottom under the image of your laughter, and tack it up on the board next to the one Macey’s left. 

Ryland’s got his arm out, hooked there for you to loop yours through again. 

You manage to catch Daisy by the bar on your way out, and give her a tight hug, telling her again how beautiful the wedding has been, how happy you were for her. 

The night air is crisp and the second you’re outside, waiting for the uber that’s just a few minutes away, Ryland strips off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a lack of hesitation that makes it seems as if he’s been waiting to do it all night. 

You look at him and raise a brow, but don’t say anything when you catch sight of his pleased smile. It’s almost devastating to realise he looks even better in just the black button down and tie than he did in the full suit. 

Again, the drive is mostly silent, but you notice pointedly, that you’re not going back to your apartment. And when you tilt Ryalnd’s phone and tap the screen awake, you recognise his street name in the trip’s destination. 

“Presumptious.” You smile.

He grins back, lets a warm palm wander to the curve of your knee, fingers curling around it then venturing to settle a little higher around your thigh. “How are you going to wash my car if we don’t go to my place?”

“You don’t have a car.” You repeat, curious where all this teasing confidence has come from, if perhaps your very clear signals have finally given Ryland the means to throw out all of that unnecessary nervousness and doubt. 

“Right,” He hisses, patting his other hand on his leg, as if to say ‘drat, there goes that plan’. Then he leans in close, whispers to you, “What was the back up plan again?”

“You are much bolder after a few glasses of champagne.”

He hums, a considering sort of sound that rumbles in the minimal air between you. “More so when I know I'm right.”

“And what, pray tell, are you right about?”

“That you like-like me.” He teases, like a child on the playground and if you were a little less level-headed, you might have kissed him right there, leant across the middle seat to lock lips with him in an uber. 

But you don’t want the first time you kiss him to be viewed through a rear view mirror by a driver who looks very unimpressed by the conversation happening in the back seat. “You gonna prove that hypothesis in your apartment?”

“That’s very forwards of you.” He teases, head tipping down like he is going to kiss you.

Expect you turn your head, and his lips brush against your cheek, as you tut. “All scientists say experiments are supposed to be conducted in controlled environments.”

He leans back, still close enough for his warm breath to fan across your face. “You’ve been seeing other scientists? I’m heartbroken.”

“Give yourself some credit, your classes are very interesting.”

“Earsdropping, huh? Didn’t think you were the type.” He looks far too pleased by the idea that you’ve listened to him teach, like he doesn't know that when you come for something during class hours that you linger by the door and wait for him to finish whatever he’s saying, as if you could look at anything else when he was so captivating.

“I’ll Tell you exactly what type I am in,” You glance down to tap his phone awake, checking the ride estimate. “four minutes.”

He nods and you wonder if he’d get that head-rush distant expression on his face if you praised him for the patience. It’s something you want to save for later, you decide, for private. Just for you.

Ryland manages to wait, even keep his hands to himself, once you’re both out of the car, leading you though his building with a sort of reverent silence, that you get the impression wouldn’t return once broken. You stand across from each other in the elevator. With both his hands braced on the bar at hip height, Ryland fixes you with a look that echoes in the space, though the mirrors surrounding you and over the idle hum of machinery. You’re still wearing his jacket, over your shoulders, a slight barrier between the handrail and the curve of your back, as you stand with your arms crossed smiling at him. 

The giddiness that bubbles up and about inside you, as you huddle in close behind him through the hallway, as he unlocks his door and lets you squeeze in past him, is something you’ve not felt in a long time. There’s not much room for childish excitement in the modern dating landscape, it feels as though everyone is in a rush, trying to get where they want to be with a relationship before it’s too late. 

Ryland though, he’s here. You watch him latch the door, before he turns, standing there to let his eyes run up you again. 

“Soooo,” He says, pursing his lips and tangling his hands together in front of him, like he’s suddenly nervous. 

“So?” You ask, taking a few steps forwards to run your hand down the plane of his chest again, feeling it under your palm just like you did when he’d turned up at your apartment that afternoon. 

“It’s been four minutes.” He swallows, and this close you can see how his adams apple bobs. Your other hand reaches up to scratch feather light against the stubble of his jaw, hand on his chest catching on the silky soft fabric of his tie, the one he’d picked out just for you. 

Rylands hands are slow, one moves to the dip of your waist, landing where it had during your waltz, if not a little more firm as it presses you close against him. He catches his jacket by the collar, lets it slide back off your shoulders and hang from his grip as it slides to settle on the curve of your hip.

“It has.” You lick your lips. 

Tuggin on his tie was not supposed to be a demanding thing, more so a gentle tease like you have been doing all night, stepping around that first move like it was a pitfall trap you’d never make it out of. Expect he pitches forwards much easier than you expected and Ryland's lips are pressed against yours. 

Soft and still a little honeyed by the champagne, he moves slowly against you. He takes one step back, then another, pulling you with him and not letting his lips leave yours as he backs himself up against his apartment door. 

Your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and a sharp inhale escapes him, almost a gasp, before he melts into the wood at his back, parting his lips and slipping his tongue up against yours. 

It’s slow kissing, it’s dizzying and it’s want. Everything he’d promised you hours ago, in the afternoon sun of that venue, looking like a dream come true. 

For what could be hours, you stay there, pressed up against him, kissing at his skin, until he shifts his legs, just slightly, enough to press one somewhere between yours, a soft presence halted by the fabric of your dress. 

Breathless, you break the kiss and he lays a sweet peck against your temple, an echo of earlier, before he begins to nose at the line of your jaw, your neck. Kissing then sucking at the divot along your collar while you pant. “Ryland,”

He says your name, just as breathless against your skin, his hand dropping the jacket to pull at the chord of your dress. 

“Is your doorway where you take all the girls?”

“There are no other girls.” He murmurs like a confession, far more earnest than you’d been prepared for. 

“Just me?”

He pulls back, pupils blow wide and face flushed blotchy and red. “Yeah.”

Ryland leans forwards, crowds impossibly close until your feet begin to shuffle, back, back, back into his studio apartment. It passes in a blur as he presses in to kiss your lips again, glued to them until he deems it’s been enough backwards paces and presses another kiss to your jaw. Using his grip on your sides, Ryland turns you around, folds in around behind you. 

His bed’s unmade, messy sheets splayed out in front of you, a pile of sage green cotton that feels like a promise, a sight you’ve dreamed about far too many times.

There’s pressure there, against your ass, a hard length that’s tight against his slacks and it makes your stomach swoop to know he’s so turned on by the slow kissing you’d been thinking about all night. His shuddering breath rushes like wind by your ear, as his fingers pull at the bow he’d tied himself. “Been thinking about this for too long.”

“Yeah?” You shudder when his lips find their place against your neck, sucking and biting at the skin there in a way that will probably result in a lasting reminder. “Since you laced it up?”

“Since you showed me this zipper." He pulls at it and the fabric gives, parting to sit low on your hips. Ryland kisses at the juncture of your throat, biting, and nipping. 

The dress doesn’t fall, not with the straps still hanging loosely from your shoulders, but it’s a damn near thing. One of Ryland’s hands winds around your waist, dragging you back against him as he presses up with one slow grind that has him choking on a groan. His cock, still trapped in his slacks, drags between the zip and against your underwear in a tease that’s maddening with far too much still left to your imagination. 

You try to turn but he’s got you wrapped up so firmly in his arms that it’s not plausible, so instead you reach a hand back, over your shoulder to tug at the knot of his tie, fingers slipping against the silky marital, catching in the bulk to it to tug. A particularly hard tug has him whining. 

“Okay,” You huff out as he sucks a little harder just under your jaw that will definitely result in a hickey if you let him continue for much longer. “Come on, don’t you wanna fuck me?”

You punctuate this by groping around between you both until you get a hand over his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

“Need to remember this bit.” He mumbles, hand around your waist retreating to slip inside your dress from behind, curving back around so his fingers can skate over the soft skin of your stomach, tips slipping just under the waistband of your panties. 

It has you clenching down on nothing and you become actually aware of how uncomfortably wet you’re beginning to get. You squeeze your thighs together, squirming in his grasp. 

“Next time, Ry-” He splays his hand over your stomach, using it to press you back into him. “Ryland, come on. Need you.”

It tumbles out in a breathy whine, and it’s like you’ve said the magic words. He’s turning you around in his grasp, hands reaching up to slip the straps off your shoulders and marvel at the sight. 

He swallows as you reach for his tie again, loosening it gently now you can get your fingers into the knot properly. Ryland’s hands hover nervously before settling against your rib cage, fingers brushing anxiously against the underside of your breasts. 

Your dress was not one that lent itself to a bra, so you’d gone without. You had assumed that he’d figured that one out, given how he’d both laced and un-laced the back of it, but now that it’s out of the way, he’s looking at your chest like he hadn’t expected to see it so quickly. 

“You mean it?” He manages, sounding all tongue tied as you pry the tie off, letting it fall onto the floor, blending into the puddle of your dress- a perfect shade match. “I.. I get a next time?”

“Yeah.” You breathe, working on his shirt buttons, one after the other, coming apart as easily as Ryland did under your gaze. “As many as you want.”

When you get to the bottom of his shirt and reach for the belt buckle, Ryland’s hands move from where they’ve been gently nudging your breasts, to your wrists, snagging them gently as he pulls them back. His shoes nudged against yours, another one of those silent signals to step back that you didn’t know you understood so well until tonight. 

“Let me.” He says, one hand coming to your hip to push you gently back and down onto his bed. 

You land softly, mattress springing underneath you as you shuffle back, leaning on your elbows to gaze up at him as he toes off his shoes and pulls off his socks, a little off balance like the whole path from the door has altered his centre of gravity. 

Ryland is a sight, heaven-sent. 

His hair’s spiked out in six different directions, and you want to scratch at his scalp and pull at the strands all over again. He slides his glasses down his nose and sets them on the nightstand. The skin of his chest is just as tanned as his arms, a wide expanse that’s begging to be marked up with your teeth and nails. 

The belt buckle clinks softly in the empty air as he slips it open, unbuttoning his slacks before he shrugs the black dress shirt off. God, you want to bite his shoulders. 

Your teeth clamp down on your tongue at the thought, kind of wishing the tie was in the picture so you could pull him down on top of you. Just when you’re about to reach up, aiming for his shoulder or maybe even his cheek, Ryland surprises you by taking a knee. 

His fingers are a little clumsy as they wrap around the heel of your left shoe, pulling it up onto his bent knee as he fumbles with the buckle. He’s gentle with it, more careful than he was with his own shoes that are certainly worth more than your cheap pair, right shoe, then the left.

Still, it has your stomach tied up in knots to witness with just how much reverence he’s treating you. And the sight of Ryland between your legs is certainly one you could get used to. 

He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before blinking up at you. “Are you… Can I-”

Ryland cuts himself off and that same unwarranted nervousness from before takes over his face, fingers curling tightly around your ankle, as if to ground himself. You smile at him, something that feels a little too giddy and a little too much like your 20 year-old self from college, fumbling and laughing your way to bed. “What is it Ry? You’ve already got me on your bed, no need to be shy.”

He bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth as he considers the words. “If you say so.”

Then he gently leads your leg, by the ankle that’s still gripped tightly in his palm, off his propped leg as he drops it to kneel, and hooks it over his shoulder. Ryland kisses a path up your calf and along the inside of your leg and with an overwhelming flood of realisation, you fall back against the bed, bracing for the moment where he presses a soft kiss on your clit, through the fabric of your underwear. 

Despite his earlier hesitance, Ryland does not dilly-dally. Once he hears your shuddering breath that sounds more like a moan than anything else, he hooks a thumb though the crotch of your panties, pulls them to the side and presses another slow kiss against you. 

It’s maddening, has you gasping out his name as he licks a stripe up your cunt, sighing into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He’s been teasing you long enough that when he presses two fingers along your folds, teasing the resistance of it, they sink in easily. He hooks them up, pressing up against the spongy wall and pulls another moan from your lips. 

You're not sure how long Ryland spends between your legs with your hands in his hair and name on your lips, but it’s got you dizzy, clenching around his fingers as he strokes them inside you, languid and slow as he lays gentle kisses over your clit. His stubble scratches against your thighs in a way you’d expected to hate, but are getting rather fond of. 

It’s a slow build that crests with you moaning his name and clenching around his fingers as his tongue slows, your hips twitching a little with overstimulation post-orgasm. He moves his kisses to the inside of your thigh, the one not hooked over his shoulder as you catch your breath and it’s highly plausible that he’s leaving another hickey there.

When he does pull back, Ryland is just as breathless as you. Cheeks flushed and chest stuttering as he licked his lips clean. His pupils are blown wide, so much so you can hardly see the blue as he gazes up at you. “You said I could fuck you, right?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, throat scratchy and dry. “You can.”

With your head still spinning from the attention and care he’s taking with you, it’s a moment before you realise his hands are back at your hips as he shuffles you around the bed, up until he can fit his palm behind your head and lift it onto a pillow that smells like him. 

Ryland’s above you, propped up on one elbow and a knee to keep his weight off your body. You can feel each heavy exhale on your cheek. “Like this?”

“Just like this.” You say, nodding hand reaching up for his cheek to pull him down into another slow, languid kiss. 

He leans in close, whining against your mouth as you part your legs for him to set his between and get a hand on the small of his back, pressing until he gets the hint and grinds downs. It has you both moaning and panting against each other. 

You’re getting impatient, and while he must have ditched the pants somewhere between eating you out and repositioning you right side up on the mattress, he’s still got his briefs on and you’re still wearing your underwear. 

“Off,” You grunt, hand pulling at the waistband of his briefs. 

Ryland’s head drops to the space beside yours, just above your shoulder as he reaches a hand down to pull his underwear down over his cock and down his legs, kicking them off somewhere at the end of the bed. 

He gasps, a shaky exhale hitting your skin as you wrap your hand around the length of him. 

Warm and heavy in your palm, he’s bigger than you’d expected. When you slide your hand up, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, there’s so much precum that it pools on your thumb pad. You give him a slow pump, slide eased by the wetness. 

Ryland mouths at the skin of your shoulder, and the hand he’s not using to keep himself above you finds its way to your hip, slipping under your panties, pulling at them. 

“Condoms. I need-” He cuts himself off with another groan, biting into your skin then kissing it softly like an apology. “I need a condom.” 

His hand slips out from your underwear and he gets his knees up either side of your hips to reach over, straining for the nightstand. You take the moment to kiss along his collarbone, using the hand that’s not wrapped around him to tug your panties down, wriggling them off and down your legs. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed, and he drops the condom wrapper somewhere beside your head as his gaze whips back to your face. “I was going to do that.”

He sounds a little bit thrown, like he’d really been looking forwards to pulling your panties off. 

“You were also going to fuck me.” You prod, giving his cock another languid stroke, watching his face contort with pleasure as he groans. He eases himself back over you, legs between yours and his weight pressing down in a way that has you sighing in contentment. 

“Not fair.” He pants, forehead dropping against yours. A hand, so gentle and far too tender comes up to brush the hair by your temple, away from your eyes. “Next time, you let me take my time, okay?”

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We’ll take turns.” 

The condom wrapper crinkles in your fingers and you pinch the edge of it between your teeth and rip the corner off, splitting it open with your thumb. Ryland whines, louder and needier than you’d heard him all night, when you roll it over his dick, hips bucking into your hand and cock bumping against your stomach. 

He gets his hand down between your bodies, runs three of his fingers through your folds, making your breath hitch. Then he nudges your hand out of the way and runs his cock though them next. You whine, high pitched and stuttered. 

It’s a slow steady push when he slips inside you, one that draws out a long moan from your lips. Ryland moans your name, panting and kissing at your throat.

“God,” he pants. “You feel so good, baby.”

A broken whine sneaks past your lips, one hand reaching up to slide around the back of his neck, to lead his face back to yours so you can kiss him all over again. 

This type of slow kissing might have been your new favorite, Ryland’s tongue teasing the seam of your lips before you slip them apart, tracing the line of his teeth with your own tongue. He rolls his hips, grinding down in a slow motion. The curve of his cock drags along your walls, along that spongy spot before bumping so deep inside that it must hit your cervix. 

You hook a leg up around his waist and it has his stomach pressing up against your clit when he moves again. Moaning into his mouth, you see stars. “Fuck, that’s perfect- so good.”

Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling in a way that earns you a whine and a jerky thrust of his hips. “Y-yeah?”

“Yeah Ry- perfect. Feel so full.” The praise kicks him into gear and his slow occasional grinds turn into a building pace, hips pushing against yours and he buries himself to the hilt with every thrust. 

You kiss at the line of his jaw, mouthing and biting at the stubble there. He moans, sharp exhale hitting your cheek. “‘M not gonna last much longer, sw-swetheart.”

“S’okay. Let go, baby.” You murmur by his ear, free hand slipping down to press against your clit. 

The pressure alone is almost enough to tip you over the edge, pussy spasming around him. Ryland groans, loud and unrestrained, his rhythm falling apart as you do. 

When he does come, he manages a couple more thrusts, shallow as they nudge up against that perfect spot inside you. Ryland whines, shaking a little with over stimulation. 

“Couple more.” You moan, fingers winding tight little circles over your clit. “Almost there.”

Your spine goes stiff and a drawn-out whine slips out as you cum, clenching around the weight of him. Ryland stills inside, buried deep as he pants. 

Slowly, he eases himself down over you, the gentle pressure of his weight relaxing. Ryland only takes a few moments there though, before sliding an arm under you and around your waist, slowly rolling you both, so he’s sprawled out with his back on those sage green sheets with you draped over him. 

He kisses your temple, mumbling your name like a prayer. “‘S a good kissing booth. Might be a repeat customer.”

You push up a little to look at him, hands either side of his chest, and a hitched breath sputters out of his lips as you shift, his cock still inside you. “Might? What happened to ‘next time’?”

He smiles at you, hands reaching for your hips as he draws slow lines up and down your skin with his thumbs. “Well, I don’t wanna push my luck.”

“You’re not pushing anything.” You murmur, leaning back down to kiss him proper. 

Once the aftershocks of your orgasm have faded and the idea of being empty no longer pulls painfully at your chest, you raise your hips up and let Ryland’s now soft cock slip out. He exhales heavily, and you lay beside him, eyes on the slow spinning ceiling fan.  

He sits himself up not long after, slips the condom off and wanders off to the tiny door that you now know is his bathroom. He comes back with a damp cloth, smiling at you shyly as he cleans you up, gentle swipes over your core and along the inside of your thighs. 

Ryland walks over and pulls some boxers on, then returns to the bed to slide a pair over your hips too. “You want a shirt?”

You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to smother a grin. “Only if it’s one of your nerdy ones.”

He kisses the smile off your lips and wanders back over to his wardrobe, throws a shirt in your general direction then goes about fixing the sheets. 

You admire the sight. It had never occurred to you how nice his arms were, you want them around you again. He pulls the sheets straight, then up over you before he crawls in beside you. 

“This okay?” He asks, pulling you over to lay up against him. 

“More than okay.” You snuggle closer, cheek pressed against the warm plane of his chest. “Been thinking about this.” 

The confession slips out in a rush of endorphins, like you’re so happy to be wrapped up in his arms and sheets, smelling like him, that you just can’t help but let him know. 

You can hear the confusion in his voice when he speaks. “Having sex with me?”

No. You almost say, even though you had. It wasn’t where you were trying to go with this though. “Sleeping in your bed. With you.”

The rise and fall of his chest, of a heavy exhale, moves beneath you. “Oh.”

“I think our next date should be trivia.” You declare, a quiet sort of smile on your lips as his fingers trace slow little circles on your back between the waistband of your borrowed boxers and the ridden up hem of the shirt. “So we can get it right this time.”

“Deal.”

[ Masterlist ]

You don't remember the exact moment they pulled you out.

That's the first thing you'll tell Ryland and Simon much, much later. You'll tell them that the memory is a hole in your head, a black spot where a chunk of your life used to be. One moment you were in the escape pod after three days without sleep, without food, without anything except the sounds of screams and murder and cries and howls echoing in the mothership you'd left behind, and the next moment you were surrounded by light.

Not human light. Not the harsh, flickering fluorescents of the space stations you'd grown up on. This light was warm, almost organic, pulsing in frequencies your eyes hadn't evolved to process. And the shapes moving through it —Eridians, you'd learn later, though at the time you thought you were dead and this was some kind of alien afterlife—were so incomprehensible that your brain simply refused to process them.

You passed out.

When you woke up, you were inside a transparent ball. Xenonite. Though you didn't know that yet.

The Eridians had been gentle. That's the part that fucks with your head the most, looking back. They had no reason to be gentle. You were a strange, soft, small creature that had drifted into their territory in a piece of salvage that was barely holding together. They could have ignored you. They could have dissected you. Instead, they'd built you a climate-controlled bubble: warm, pressurized, filled with a thin but breathable atmosphere. Instead they'd transported you across however many light-years to their homeworld.

You don't remember the journey. You remember dreams. Fragments. Your crewmates' faces, one by one. The thing that moved through the corridors of the Gethsemane, a smell like copper and rot and something else, something wrong. You remember being the last one. Not because you were brave. Not because you were smart. Just because the creature had to kill someone first, and then someone second, and then someone third, and then someone fourth, and you were the fifth.

Someone always has to be last.

It had been your turn to be last.

You open your eyes.

Ryland Grace has been living on Erid for approximately two weeks when he hears the news.

He's sitting on the warm sand and he's staring at the stars through the curved xenonite wall of his habitat. It's a dome, massive and circular, built specifically to house a single fragile human being on a planet where the atmosphere would liquefy his lungs and the gravity would crush his spine. Rocky designed it. Rocky built it. Rocky checks on him every few hours, despite Grace's protests that he's fine, he's okay, he doesn't need a babysitter.

"I am not a babysitter. statement." Rocky says, his voice translating through the device they built together, the harmonic bridge between Eridian chirps and human phonemes. "I am a friend. Are you eating. Question."

"I'm eating."

"You are not eating. I am observing. You are pushing the food around."

Grace sighs and looks down at the bowl of algae-paste in his hands. Rocky is right. He's been pushing it around for twenty minutes, not because it tastes bad but because he's been thinking about Earth. About Stratt. About the Petrova line and the astrophage and the billions of people who are, by now, either dead or alive or something in between.

He doesn't know. He'll never know. That's the part he can't accept.

"Rocky," he says. "can I ask you something?"

"You are asking. Statement. I am listening."

"Do you ever think about—"

The door to the habitat opens.

Grace flinches. The door isn't supposed to open. Not without warning. Not without his say-so. He's the only human on Erid. He's the only human within fifteen light-years, at least, probably more, unless there are other survivors out there, which there aren't, because the Hail Mary was the only ship and he was the only—

But the door is open.

And through it, pushed by a team of Eridian scientists whose segmented bodies are pulsing with what Grace has learned to recognize as excitement, come two xenonite spheres.

They're smaller than the one he arrived in. Transport pods, maybe. Temporary housing. Each one is filled with a breathable atmosphere, and each one contains-

Oh no.

Grace stands up so fast he drops his bowl. The algae-paste spills onto the sand. He doesn't care.

"Rocky." he says, his voice very quiet. "Rocky, what is that."

The translation device crackles. "Those are humans. Statement. Two humans."

"I can see that they're humans, Rocky. Why are there two humans in my habitat."

"They were rescued. Statement. One human was found in a damaged submersible vessel in the blood ocean of a moon in a nearby system. Second human was found in an emergency escape pod. Both humans were recovered by Eridian science vessels. Statement. Both humans require an environment suitable to human biology. Statement. This is the only environment on Erid suitable to human biology. Therefore-"

"Therefore they're staying here?" Grace's voice cracks. He can hear it. He doesn't care. "Rocky, you can't just- you can't just drop two random humans into my habitat without asking me first! I'm not—I'm not equipped for this! I'm not a zookeeper!"

"You are not a zookeeper. Statement. You are a human. They are humans. They require-"

"I know what they require! They require oxygen and warmth and- and therapy, probably, look at them, Rocky, look at them!"

He points at the two xenonite spheres, which the Eridian scientists are now gently positioning onto the sand with one of their huge transportation claws that they use to put things inside his habitat without entering. Inside the first sphere, a man. He's huge, muscular. His hair is dark and matted, hanging over a face that's all sharp angles and shadows. He's wearing what looks like a prison uniform, faded and torn, and his hands are scarred. Knuckles broken and healed, broken and healed, broken and healed until they look like knots on a tree.

The man is sitting in the center of his sphere with his knees drawn up to his chest, and he's staring. Not at anything specific. Just staring. His eyes are dark and flat and wrong in a way that makes Grace's hindbrain start screaming predator.

Inside the second sphere, a woman. You are that woman.

You're younger than the man, he notes. Early twenties, maybe. You're wearing the remnants of a uniform: a patch on the shoulder that Grace can't quite read from this distance, a name tag that's been scratched out. You're not curled up like the man. You're standing. Standing still, your arms at your sides, your head tilted slightly to one side.

And you're looking.

Not staring like the other man. Looking. Your eyes are moving, tracking, cataloging. Every few seconds, your gaze flicks to the xenonite walls, then to the sand, then to the artificial sun-lamp in the ceiling, then to Grace, then back to the man, then to the Eridian scientists outside the dome. You're not blinking enough.

You looks like an animal that's been cornered and has given up on running and is now waiting to see which direction the killing blow will come from.

"Rocky." Grace says, his voice barely a whisper. "Rocky, no."

"Explanation. They are your same species. Statement. They need the same environment. Therefore-"

"Rocky. Look at them. They don't look- they don't look civilized. That one" He points at the man "looks like he's going to murder someone. He looks like he's done murder."

"Humans are a violent species. Question. You are also a human. Does that mean Grace is violent. Question."

"I'm cuddly compared to that guy, Rocky! I'm a teddy bear! I'm- I'm a middle school science teacher who makes beanbag toss jokes! I'm not equipped to handle whatever that is!"

Grace doesn't like this.

His hands are raised. His palms are facing you and Simon. It is a universal sign of peace, of I am not a threat, but his face tells a different story.

His face says: What the fuck have they dropped into my living room.

"Rocky." he says, trying a different angle, "some humans don't like other humans. Some humans are dangerous. I'm not- I'm not comfortable with this. I didn't sign up for roommates. I didn't sign up for- for whatever this is."

Rocky is quiet for a long moment. Grace can see him through the xenonite suit, his clawed hands twitching in that way they do when he's thinking hard.

Then Rocky says. "They are same species. Statement. They need a suitable habitat. Statement. You are not allowed to refuse."

"I'm not allowed?"

"Clarification. The habitat is Eridian property. The Eridian science council has authorized the placement of these humans in this habitat. Statement. You do not have veto power. Statement. I am sorry."

Grace opens his mouth to argue. Closes it. Opens it again.

"Rocky-" he says, very quietly, "I'm going to say something, and I need you to listen very carefully. Those two humans are not normal. They are not okay. Something has happened to them. Something bad. And I don't know how to help them. I don't know how to be around them. I'm a science teacher, Rocky. I teach kids about photosynthesis. I don't- I don't do trauma. I don't do whatever that is."

Rocky's claws twitch again. "Observation. You also experienced trauma. You also were not normal when you arrived. Statement. I helped you. You helped me. Statement. You will help them. Or they will help you. Or you will help each other. Statement. This is what living beings do."

"That's not—"

But Rocky is already turning away to approach the wall of the dome, speaking to the other Eridian scientists through the wall in a rapid series of chirps and clicks that the translation device doesn't catch. And the scientists are moving, their claws reaching for controls.

They're going to open the xenonite balls.

They're going to open them right now.

"Rocky!" Grace says, panic rising in his throat. "Rocky, wait! Rocky, please. At least give me a warning. At least give me- give me a heads-up or something so I can—I don't know, prepare mentally???"

The spheres open.

The xenonite spheres retract like flower petals, dissolving into the sand.

For a moment, nothing happens.

The man (Simon, Grace will learn later) doesn't move. He stays curled up, his knees to his chest, his head down. He looks like a spring that's been compressed too tight, waiting for the pressure to release.

You don't move either. You stand exactly where the sphere deposited you, your arms at your sides, your breathing shallow and controlled.

Grace raises his hands higher. He's not sure why.

"Hi-" he says. His voice comes out too high. He clears his throat and tries again. "Hi. Hello. Um, Welcome. I'm- I'm Ryland. Ryland Grace. I'm a—I'm a human. Obviously. You can see that. I'm human. We're all human here. Ha. That's- that was a joke. Because we're all human. In this habitat. Which is for humans."

Simon looks up.

Oh, Grace thinks. Oh no.

Simon's eyes are wrong. They're not just flat, they're burning. There's something behind them, something hot and hungry and angry, and it's looking at Grace like he's a problem to be solved. Like he's an obstacle. Like he's prey.

Simon stands up.

He doesn't do it slowly. He doesn't do it gracefully. He unfolds, all at once, like a trap being sprung. One moment he's curled on the sand, and the next moment he's on his feet, his shoulders hunched, his hands curled into fists, his head low.

He's looking at Grace.

No, he's looking past Grace. He's looking at the xenonite walls. At the artificial sun. At the sand. At the stars beyond the dome. His lips are moving, but no sound is coming out. He's mouthing something.

"This is- this is my home. Sort of. The Eridians built it for me. And I'm sure you're both very—" He stops. His eyes dart between you and Simon. "...very.. something. But I need you to just. Take a breath. Both of you. Nobody here is going to hurt anybody."

You do not move.

You have learned not to trust people who tell you that nobody is going to hurt you. The last person who said that was your captain, three hours before the thing ripped him in half.

Your eyes seem to convey your distrust.

Grace takes a step back. "Okay," he says. "Okay. Let's all just- let's all just take a breath. Nobody needs to- nobody needs to do anything rash. We're all friends here. We're all-"

Simon turns his head.

He's not looking at Grace anymore. He's looking at you.

His head turns. The motion is slow, mechanical, like a turret swiveling to acquire a target. His eyes find yours. And you see it: the shift, the calculation, the recognition. A potential threat. A variable he did not account for, and variables get people killed.

And you're looking back at him.

Something passes between you. Grace doesn't know what it is. He doesn't want to know what it is. All he knows is that Simon's posture changes: his weight shifts, his center of gravity drops, his hands flex, and your posture changes too. Your shoulders square. Your chin lifts. Your trembling hands stop trembling.

"Okay," Grace says, backing up another step. "Okay. That's- that's a look. That's a look you're giving each other. That's a concerning look. Can we talk about the look? Can we just- can we just use our words—"

You do not know what your face is doing. You have lost the ability to control your face. Somewhere in the three days you spent hiding in the Gethsemane's air vents, listening to the creature drag your crewmates' bodies through the corridors, your face stopped being yours. It became a mask. A flat, wide-eyed, unblinking thing that sees everything and betrays nothing.

Grace sees this. His hands go higher.

Simon moves.

It's not a charge. It's not an attack. It's something more akin to a lunge, a leap, a launch. He crosses the distance between himself and you in less than a second, his arms outstretched, his hands reaching for your throat, your shoulders, your face, anything.

It happens too fast for Grace to react. One moment Simon is standing still, his head turned toward you, his breathing shallow. The next, he is on you. His body crashing into yours, you both hit the sand hard, the wind knocked out of you, and then instinct takes over.

You do not scream.

You have not screamed since the Gethsemane. Screaming attracts things.

But you fight.

Your knee comes up between you and Simon, catching him in the stomach. He grunts but doesn't stop. His fist connects with your jaw, not hard enough to break bone, but hard enough to make your vision white out for a split second. You twist, using the leverage of the sand, and suddenly you are on top of him, your forearm pressed against his throat.

He roars.

It is not a human sound. It is something primal, something scraped out of a throat that has forgotten how to speak. He throws you off with a strength that scares Grace shitless, and now you are both scrambling, both clawing, both grappling. Silent on your end, vocal on his, a symphony of rage and survival and something that sounds like prayer.

Grace is frozen.

He's standing ten feet away, his hands still raised in that useless gesture of peace, his mouth hanging open, his brain refusing to process what he's seeing.

"Rocky." Grace hisses, his voice cracking. "Rocky, do something!"

Outside the xenonite dome, having went out just before the spheres dissolved, Rocky is watching.

His claws are twitching in a pattern that Grace has learned to recognize as excitement. He's chirping to the other Eridian scientists, his voice rapid and almost joyful.

"Rocky!"

"Is this the human mating ritual. Question."

What.

"Rocky, this is NOT a mating ritual!"

"Statement. I am observing. They are gripping each other. They are making sounds. They are exchanging physical contact. Question. Is this not how humans reproduce."

"Rocky!"

"Clarification. I am not understanding the problem. They are mating. This is good."

Grace wants to scream. He wants to tear his hair out. He wants to shake Rocky until his faceted eyes fall out of his head.

"They are not-" Grace chokes on his own words. "They are not doing a mating ritual! They're fighting! They're hurting each other! This is bad, Rocky! This is the opposite of good!"

Rocky's claws stop twitching.

"Oh." he says.

Silence.

"Oh." he says again. "Statement. I may have made a miscalculation."

"You think?"

"BUT THEY ARE SAME SPECIES. EXPLANATION. WHY DO SAME SPECIES TRY TO KILL."

"Because humans are-" Grace stops. Rethinks. "Actually, no, that's a fair question. I don't have a good answer. We just do that sometimes."

"THAT IS BAD. STATEMENT. VERY BAD. BADBADBADBADBAD." Rocky's legs move in an agitated pattern. "THEY ALONE. THEY NEED COMPANY. GRACE DO SOMETHING. COMMAND."

"What do you want me to do?" Grace hisses. "They're either highly trained in combat or they've gone completely feral—I can't tell which—and I am one middle school science teacher. I am not equipped for this. I was equipped for Astrophage. I was equipped for saving the sun. I was not equipped for interpersonal conflict resolution between two traumatized murderers."

Simon has you pinned again.

"EDEN!" Simon howls, and his voice breaks on the word. "EDEN TOOK EVERYTHING! EDEN AND THE- THE GETHSEMANE. THE GETHSEMANE DISAPPEARED AND THIS PLACE-" He punches the sand next to your head, deliberately missing. "THIS PLACE HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH IT! I KNOW IT DOES! I KNOW!!"

You stop fighting.

Just like that. Your body goes limp beneath him. Your arms fall to your sides. Your eyes, still wide, still unblinking, find his face.

Simon freezes.

His fist is still raised. His knuckles are split, bleeding onto your collar. His chest is heaving. His eyes are wild. But something in your stillness has reached through the red haze, because he doesn't hit you. He can't hit you. Not like this. Not when you are looking at him like that.

"How," you say, and your voice is a ruin. It hasn't been used in days. Maybe weeks. You have forgotten the shape of words. "How do you know about the Gethsemane."

Simon blinks.

His fist lowers, slowly, like a machine winding down. He is still straddling you, still pinning you to the sand, but the violence has drained out of his posture. He looks confused. Lost.

"I'm.. from Eden," he says, and the words come out rough, hesitant, almost questioning. Like a little kid's. "The—the colony. Eden."

"I'm from the Gethsemane," you say, and your voice is shaking now, cracking at the edges. "The ship. The one that went off the grid. My crew- my crew spent years trying to find you. Trying to get back. We were looking for you."

Simon's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"You're from Eden." you repeat.

"Yes."

"You're from Eden."

"Yes."

"The Eden."

"I'm from Eden." Simon repeats once again. His voice is harder now. Defensive. "I was there. They sent me on some suicide mission to pay my penances and you-" He looks at your uniform. At the patch on your shoulder. At the scratched-out name tag. "You're from The Gethsemane."

"I'm from The Gethsemane."

"So you did not die."

"Not when you stopped getting the signals." Your voice breaks again, and this time it's not fear. It's grief. "We were stranded for years after a collission. We tried to search for you. And then—" You stop. Swallow. "And then the thing came. The creature. It got them. It got everyone except me. That's when we died, well, they died. I'm still here. as you can see."

Simon is quiet.

His hands are still wrapped around your wrists. He is still pinning you. His face is still inches from yours.

But something has changed.

His weight shifts. His grip loosens. He's not holding you down anymore. He's holding you still. Like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.

"The Gethsemane." he says slowly. "You were on the Gethsemane."

"I was."

"And you were looking for Eden."

"We were."

Simon makes a sound. It's not a word. It's not a laugh. It's something between—a groan, a sigh, a release.

And then he moves.

Not to hit you. Not to hurt you.

He rolls off you, onto his back in the sand, and stares up at the artificial sun. His chest is heaving. His face is bloody. His hands are shaking.

And you're sitting up.

You're looking at him.

Your eyes are still wide, still haunted, but there's something else there now. Something alive.

"You're from Eden." you say again, like you're testing the words.

"I'm from Eden." Simon says.

You throw yourself at him.

Not to fight. Not this time.

You collapse onto him, your arms wrapping around his neck, your face pressing into his shoulder, your whole body shaking.

Simon makes a sound like he's been punched.

Simon, for his part, looks like he has been struck by lightning.

His hands hover in the air, uncertain, trembling. He does not know what to do with this. He has not been touched in kindness—or anything resembling kindness—in longer than he can remember. But his body knows what to do. His arms close around you, slowly at first, then tighter, until his hold is almost painful.

"GRACE."

"What."

"THEY STOP FIGHTING. OBSERVATION."

Grace turns back to look.

He's standing ten feet away, his hands lowered now, his mouth still open, his brain screaming.

"What." he says to no one. "What the fuck."

"THEY TOUCH," Rocky says, and there is something in his tone that Grace has learned to recognize as wonder. "THEY TOUCH AND DO NOT FIGHT. IS THIS... COMFORT. QUESTION."

"Yeah, Rocky." Grace's voice softens. "That's comfort."

"HUMANS NEED COMFORT. QUESTION."

"Yeah." Grace says, and for a moment, he forgets that he was panicking. For a moment, he just watches two broken people hold each other on the sand, and he thinks about the months he spent alone, about the nights he talked to a wall because he needed to hear a voice, about the first time Rocky touched his hand and he cried because he had forgotten what contact felt like. "Yeah, we do."

Grace approaches slowly.

He's not sure why he's approaching. Every instinct he has is telling him to stay back, to give you space, to not get involved in whatever the hell is happening. But his feet are moving anyway, carrying him across the warm sand, closer and closer to the two broken humans tangled together on the ground.

Simon sees him coming.

"Okay," Grace says, and he takes a step forward. Then another. "Okay. I'm going to- I'm just going to come over there. Very slowly. With my hands where you can see them. Because I am not a threat. I am the least threatening person on this planet. I am probably the least threatening person in this solar system. I once cried because I ran out of coffee. So. You know. Threat level: zero."

You watch him approach. Your head turns to track him, but your body stays still. Simon's head turns too. His eyes narrow.

Grace stops when he is standing over you. He looks down at Simon. Simon who is still laying on the sand, who is still holding you, who is looking up at Grace with an expression that Grace can only describe as proprietary.

Simon's arms tighten around you.

It is not subtle. His biceps flex. His hands press into your back. He pulls you closer to his chest, and his eyes never leave Grace's face.

Grace blinks.

"Okay." he says. "Wow. Okay. Possessive much?"

Simon doesn't even know he's doing it. But his whole body has shifted, curling around you, covering you, like he's protecting you from a threat.

From Grace.

Simon does not answer. He does not loosen his grip.

"I'm not going to take her from you," Grace says, and he means it to be a joke, but it comes out softer than he intended. "I'm just... I'm just going to sit down. Over here. Away from you. Where I am not a threat. Because I am really committed to not being a threat."

He sits down in the sand, cross-legged, a few feet away. Far enough to give Simon space. Close enough to talk.

For a long moment, nobody speaks.

Simon glares at him.

It's not the same glare from before. That glare was hostile, dangerous, predatory. This glare is something else. This glare is possessive.

And you're still clinging to him.

Simon's expression softens. Just a fraction. Just enough.

And then he looks up at Grace.

"Where are we." he says. It's not a question. It's a demand.

Grace swallows. "Erid"

He then makes a gesture, motioning over to the wall behind of which there are a few Eridians congregated. Simon follows Grace's gesture.

He looks at Rocky.

Rocky waves.

Simon's expression doesn't change.

"An alien colony." he says flatly.

"Friendly aliens." Grace corrects immediately when he sees the way you tense in Simon's arms. "They're- they're nice. Mostly. They're just curious. They saved you, by the way. You and-" He looks at you. "your friend."

You blink at him.

Simon is still looking at Rocky. His expression is calculating. He's trying to understand. Trying to process.

"The aliens brought us here." he says slowly.

"Eridians." Grace says. "And yes. They brought you here. To my habitat. Because apparently I'm the only human on this planet and they thought I needed roommates."

Simon looks back at Grace.

"You're alone here." he says.

"I was alone here." Grace corrects. "Now I'm not alone. For better or worse."

Simon is quiet for a long moment.

Then he looks down at you.

"We're not leaving." Simon says, it's a question.

"Doesn't seem like we have any options here" you answer.

Grace sighs.

"No," he admits. "No we don't."

You and Simon finally separate.

"I'm from the Gethsemane." you tell Ryland, as if testing the words. "I'm the only one left."

Simon's jaw tightens. "I'm from Eden."

The three of you form a rough triangle on the warm sand. The artificial sun is dimming, mimicking a sunset that doesn't exist on this planet. The xenonite walls are glowing softly, casting long shadows across the dome.

Outside, Rocky is still watching.

He's not alone anymore. Other Eridian scientists have gathered, their segmented bodies pressed against the xenonite, their faceted eyes fixed on the three humans sitting in a circle. They're fascinated. They're observing. They're taking notes, probably, in whatever way Eridians take notes.

Grace tries to ignore them.

"You're both from the same system." he says, rubbing his temples. "That's- that's something. That's a coincidence. Or maybe it's not. Maybe the Eridians have been looking for humans. Maybe they found you because they were trying to find you."

Simon snorts. "They found me because I was drowning in a submarine full of blood."

"They found me because I was drifting in an escape pod." you say quietly. "I didn't even know they were there. I didn't even see them. I just.." You stop. Swallow. "passed out. And then I woke up here."

Grace nods slowly.

"The Eridians are rescuers," he explains. "That's- that's kinda what they do. They find things. They save things. They're curious. They wanted to know what you were. They wanted to help."

Simon's jaw tightens. "I didn't ask for help."

"You didn't have to."

Simon glares at him.

Grace holds up his hands. "I'm not saying- look, I get it. I didn't ask for help either. I was forced onto the Hail Mary. I didn't want to be here. I wanted to be on Earth, in my classroom, with my students. I wanted to live."

"But you're here." Simon says.

"But I'm here." Grace agrees. "And I'm alive. And so are you. And so is she." He looks at you. "And maybe, just maybe, that's something. Don't you think?"

You look at Simon.

Simon looks at you.

You both look back at Ryland.

"Eden." Ryland sais. "Tell me about Eden."

Simon's expression shifts. The anger doesn't disappear, it's still there, simmering beneath the surface, but something else rises to meet it. Longing. Grief. Hope.

"Eden is a colony." he says slowly. "A survivor colony. After the stars in our sollar system went out, after the Quiet Rapture, the stations started falling apart. People started dying. But Eden—Eden held on. We had resources. We had leadership. We had-"

He stops.

His hands curl into fists.

"We had a religion." he says, the word bitter on his tongue. "A cult. They said- they said the stars went out because humanity had sinned. Because we had reached too far. They said the only way to survive was to repent. To sacrifice."

Your eyes widen.

"The Gethsemane ship," you whisper. "That's- that's where the name came from. The Bible."

Simon nods. "The ship was named after the covenant. It was supposed to be a pilgrimage. A mission. They sent it out to find—I don't even know what. Salvation. Redemption. Something."

"And you were on it?" Asks Ryland.

Simon laughs. It's a hollow sound.

"I was on it, alright." he says.

A beat of silence.

"So.. this is your place." you say. It is not a question.

"It's... temporary." Grace says. "The Eridians are building a ship to take me back to Earth. But it's going to take a while. Astrophage engines are fast, but they're not instant. So I'm here. Living in a bubble. Talking to a rock."

"And how did you get here?"

Simon looks at him.

"Um- my sun was.. dying, the main star of my solar system y'know and they sent.. me and a few other people to try and fix it." he says. "long story short, those people died and i was alone until Rocky found me, his star was also dying, so we worked together."

"I assume something went wrong."

Simon inquires.

"You assume right." Grace admits. "Things went south in Rocky's ship so I sacrificed my return to earth to get him home safe, and he brought me with him so.. here I am."

A beat.

"I have so many questions to ask you two. But I'm not going to ask them. Because I feel like that would be rude."

Simon snorts. It is the first sound he has made that is not angry or confused. It is almost... amused.

"Rude." Simon repeats. "You're worried about being rude."

"I'm a scientist living in an alien zoo," Grace huffs, a sound almost mimicking an exhasperated sigh. "Manners are all I have left."

Something passes between you and Simon. A look. A shared recognition of absurdity. You are sitting on alien sand, beneath an alien sky, next to a man who talks like he's hosting a podcast, and somewhere outside the dome, a rock spider is watching you with what you can only assume is fascination.

Outside the xenonite dome, Rocky turns to the other Eridian scientists.

"Statement," he says proudly. "Humans are doing the mating ritual."

The Eridians cheer.

Grace doesn't hear them.

And maybe that's for the best.

“How are you feeling convict?” The voice hangs on that word, as though it feels out of place, “Ready to do some good?”

Does it matter? Whether this turns out to be helpful or not it gains him his freedom, that’s all that really counts. Yet he replies anyways, “Yeah.”

The voice turns back to procedural, he’d hardly recognized the shift. Speaking to him, it wasn’t the stern tone from before. It wasn’t drastic, whoever on the other end certainly wasn’t a friend, but it existed. It was nice, a sliver of empathy in this situation.

“Cruising depth in two minutes.”

Another jolt comes as the submarine continues downwards.

“There seems to be some voltage irregularities with the instruments so keep an eye out for sparks, flames, those kinds of things.” The shift in tone happens once more as the voice over the radio talks to him. But even that change can’t hide the fear the warning brings.

“Flames?” He speaks up, “Why would there be flames?”

A small sigh, then a response, “We don’t know, but I thought I should warn you.”

“You did test this thing, right?”

Another voice cuts through the line, it's irritated, and suddenly Simon realizes just how much warmth the other person possesses in comparison.

“This is the test. Now stop with the questions and focus on the mission.”

There’s a rustling on the other end as he assumes the microphone is being passed back. There’s a scoff, a muffled argument, and then the original speaker comes back.

“Sorry, that was our captain. She doesn’t really appreciate questions.”

“You aren’t the captain?”

A laugh, real, quiet, but real. And then, “No, I’m just the radio operator but don’t be fooled I’ve been here just as long as her and know just as much. I’ll be leading you through this.”

That’s helpful. At least he assumes it is.

“Okay, you’re approaching cruising depth. We’ve welded you in as tight as we can, and the ship is basically a tank, but be cautious about how deep you go. It can take some pressure but there’s a limit, the terrain is unpredictable but try not to wander too far into the red. Got it?”

“Yeah I understand.”

“Alright, there’s going to be several points where the radio cuts out. We don’t have a strong enough signal to reach everywhere you’ll be going, but I will do my best to stay with you as long as I can.”

He doesn’t know if he should be reassured or not. But judging from the fact that he has no clue what he’s doing, and whoever is speaking to him seems to, he chooses to be content with it.

“Closing porthole shielding.”

He watches as the glass in front of him is slowly covered, questions arising in his mind the longer he sits. “What is it exactly that I’m looking for? No one’s told me what it is.” He asks.

The captain’s voice comes back, harsher than before, “We don’t know. You’re the first one down, all we have are surface scans. Which is why you’re there.”

He turns to the control panel, it doesn’t look like rocket science, but some training sure would’ve been nice. The captain’s voice continues to disrupt his thoughts.

“You know we salvaged that glass from Filament Station? Not a scratch on it. Pretty lucky. Funny how some things survive and others don’t.”

It felt mocking, as if every word was chosen deliberately to bring him down. Luckily it isn’t long before the radio operator takes over.

“Approaching maximum depth. Find the coordinates on the map, document as instructed. You’re entering a dead zone so we won’t be able to reach you for a while. Good Luck.”

Some of the words get garbled because of what he assumes is a bad connection but there’s no time to focus on that. The sooner he starts this expedition the sooner he can be released.

The ship groans under the pressure of the sea, it echoes off the walls and makes everything feel hollow, empty. The sound reminds him that he’s alone, trapped at the bottom of an ocean, for god knows how long.

It’s the next day when the voice comes back.

“Convict? Are you there?”

There it is again, the evident distaste at how they refer to him, at what he is: a convict.

Simon hesitates at first, he knows what he’s doing, any distractions waste time he can spend on his mission. But whoever is on the radio is there to help, to inform, he has no reason not to respond.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“Good,” they say, a short sigh coming with it, followed by a yawn.

“You sound tired.” He points out, unsure as to what this conversation is supposed to build towards. But he figures he might as well engage with it, it’s not like he gets any other interaction down here.

A chuckle mixes with the static of the speaker, “Thanks for noticing, I didn’t sleep much last night. I was too worried.”

Simon checks the angle of the submarine before he speaks again. “Worried? Why? Is something going wrong?”

“No, no, I mean nothing drastic,” the voice reassures, “It’s just that we were supposed to be able to make contact with you again yesterday and our signals never came through. I was worried something may have happened to you.”

That’s…confusing. Why would they be worried about him? Isn’t that the whole point of sending down a convict? Because they’re disposable?

“Me? Why would you guys be worried about me?”

It couldn’t have been that they were concerned for him. The photographs maybe or whatever evidence he’d gotten from being down here, but not him surely.

“Well they weren’t, not as much as they should’ve been anyway. I don’t know. I guess, for me, the idea of sending anyone into an unexplored ocean of blood is nerve wracking. I’d want them to come back safe, convict or not, we’re all people.”

He takes in every word, thinks them over, as if trying to find some kind of dishonesty. No one in the C.O.I. cares about the convicts, it’s that simple. And yet whoever was on the other end of this did care. They cared immensely from the sound of it. It’s strange, it’s been a long time since Simon could say someone cared about him.

“So you stayed up all night worrying about me?” He wonders aloud.

“Yeah, I guess I did.”

At least someone was looking out for him. But even so this conversation wasn’t furthering the mission in any way, which is what he assumed they were supposed to help with.

“Hey, so, when this oxygen meter hits the last light that means I still have like a quarter left right? That’s not zero is it?”

“Right.” The voice responds, “The ship has enough air to last one person a good while, but try to get the mission done soon. You don’t have a lifetime supply or anything.”

Good to know. He’d wished he’d known it sooner, but that was the case for basically everything.

“I’ve found some interesting stuff down here,” he continues, “I don’t know if you guys can see any of it but I think you should take a look.”

“The photos upload to us after a little while, how close are you to completing the mission?”

So they can see what he’s found, interesting.

“I have a few spots left to investigate but hopefully it’ll be over soon.”

“I’ll make sure to add that to my report. You’ve done some good work, I’ll check in again soon but keep it up.”

With that the line cuts out and he’s left alone again. He thought these conversations were supposed to be about information and nothing more, so why is it that without that voice the submarine feels darker than before?

Whatever, it doesn’t matter, the voice will be back again soon but the ocean that surrounds him isn’t going anywhere. He has to seek out his assignment or he’ll never be free. He needs to focus, and not on the sudden loneliness the silence brings.

By the time the voice comes back it’s the least of his worries. A skeleton unmarked on the map, the ship shaking, everything feels unstable. He’s ready to leave, freedom be damned. He just wants to live.

The voice fills the space, it's nervous, falling over their words as they rush to check in with him. “Hello? Are you okay? What happened? What’s your status?”

He groans, being flung around in a tight space doesn’t feel great, “I’m here.” He mumbles, pushing himself up.

“Okay…okay.” They breathe a sigh of relief, “Is the ship damaged at all? What happened?”

“I don’t know,” he replies.

A disagreement comes from the other line, what he makes out of it is someone concerned about the ship's hull integrity, and the other is concerned about him. Eventually one voice, which he assumes is the radio operator, gives up and the captain’s voice takes their place.

“Convict, is the ship damaged? Is the hull okay?”

“I don’t know! You never told me anything would be down here!”

“Is there a problem with the ship? We have to know before we send you back down.”

Back? What does that mean? No way in hell was he going back after experiencing that.

“No fucking way! I’m done! Bring me back up, throw me in prison, I don’t fucking care! I’m not doing this.”

He starts to get angry, talking over every point the captain tries to make, ignoring everything that comes over the radio. Ignoring everything until it turns back to the operator's voice. “Hey, hey!” They start, gaining his attention, “I need you to calm down and listen to me, okay?”

“I’m done.” He mumbles again.

“Alright, we can talk about that in a minute. I need you to investigate the ship for hull damage, because if you fell, and if there’s damage, that means leaks. And leaks mean you die. So, can you please calm down and look?”

He takes a breath, listening and looking around. No alarms go off, no blood floods in, everything seems stable, everything except himself. “Yeah,” he hesitates, “everything seems fine. I think.”

“Okay,” they say, a breath of relief is hidden as they pull away from the microphone. A mumbled conversation comes from the other side as the situation is relayed to everyone above, “We’re going to check on your progress well everything settles.”

“Settles?”

“Remember what I said about the terrain? How its unpredictable? That’s because it isn’t rock, it’s not solid, just congealed blood and some gas bubbles.” Behind their words is some kind of chaos, overlapping voices, speaking about who knows what. But the radio operator stays on the line with him. “Are you okay? A shift like that can damage the hull but also the people inside the sub, any injuries?”

“Maybe a few bruises.” He speaks up, looking himself over.

“Nothing's broken?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good.”

Something about their tone, their voice, their words, is comforting. Maybe it has something to do with being down here alone for so long. Or maybe they’re genuinely growing on him, either way he couldn’t think of any one else he’d want on the other side of this right now.

Though just as soon as that realization comes the captain’s voice takes over the line once more. “Convict, did you find a skeleton?”

“Yeah.” He mumbles.

A conversation is still held on the other end, orders are given, questions are asked, but eventually the attention is directed back to him. “Convict, are you absolutely sure it was a skeleton?”

“I mean, yeah, I’ve seen a skeleton before. How stupid do you think I am?”

Silence for a moment. Not even a sound comes from the radio before her voice comes back.

“We’re pulling you up. Standby.”

The ship shakes, moves, and he’s tossed around a bit more as garbled words take over the other end of the radio.

The next interaction he has is face to face, the porthole shield lowers and in front of him is the captain. Questions are asked, answers are given, and she turns to discuss with her crew. But the decision is made to send him back down.

“You’re not listening to me!” He argues, “There’s something else!”

She turns back to him, analyzing his desperation.

“It’s not like I don’t want the deal, I want it. But it’s not worth it. Not for me, and not for you.” He reasons, “You’re not hearing me when I say there’s something else. Something alive.” Simon takes a minute, thinks over his words, what he knows, who he knows. “Where is the radio operator? I want to talk to them, they’ll understand.”

“No can do.” The captain responds, “This is my crew, and you report to me, this isn’t a call you get to make. You’re going back down. We’re putting an attachment on the front, all you have to do is point it in the right direction, it should grab on to something.”

“So what do I do? Just ram it?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

An argument ensues, this isn’t right. He’s done his part, he’s done more than his part. They need to uphold their end of the deal. And they just aren’t listening.

But the camera, the x-ray, wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know. They couldn’t have expected him to.

“Drop him.”

And it was done, quickly, without any adjustments or hesitations. It jostled the sub and tossed him down. A voice came over the radio, a new one, unfamiliar. “Calmed down yet? You can’t be too upset, not after the stunt you pulled.”

Simon groans as he pushes himself up from the ground, “Who are you? Where’s the operator? I want to talk to them.”

“No can do. They’re helping to take Jack, you know that guy you irradiated? To the medical staff, so you’re stuck with me.”

Great, sent back down to hell with an unfamiliar navigator and a death wish of an objective. Whatever, get the sample, get out, and then he’s free, surely.

No matter what some fucked up message from another pilot says. He’s making it out of here alive.

A voice cuts through the static after his discovery of a missing skeleton. This time it’s familiar, welcoming, at least the operator is back, not everything has gone wrong.

“Hello?” They start.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

“Yes, yes I can hear you. What’s going on?” They ask.

“You mean why am I moving away from where the skeleton is supposed to be?”

“That among many other things, but we’ll start there.”

He takes in a deep breath, analyzing the map against the control panel. “This is going to sound made up.” He murmurs, “But the skeleton is gone.”

“Gone?”

“I’m at the coordinates but all it is is a big hill. Maybe it got buried, I don’t know.”

“Hold on.” The voice disappears for a few moments, and he waits. A few pictures are taken, to double check or just to pass the time, he isn’t sure which. “We’re picking up something a few meters ahead of you.” The voice chimes back in, “Just keep heading that way.”

“Roger that.” He says, and silence overtakes the sub once more. Condensation builds on the walls and drips down to the floor. “Can I just ask something?”

“Fire away.”

“Why is it so damn hot in here?”

There’s a laugh somewhere on the other side, “I’m not completely sure. I bet there isn’t any kind of air circulation or conditioning in the sub so that probably has something to do with it. But also an ocean of blood is warmer than one of water so it’s likely the heat from outside is affecting the inside as well.”

Simon groans in response, that means there’s no way to fix it. Not besides removing a few layers. The movement must catch the attention of the operator because now they take their turn to ask a question. “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean? I’m still heading towards the skeleton?”

“Yeah, but all I can hear is rustling on your end. Is everything okay?”

He laughs gently, “Yeah, everything’s fine. I’m just taking off a few layers. If there’s nothing I can do to fix the heat I could at least try that.”

“I guess that’s true.” They start, “But you’re not like completely stripping down, right?”

He laughs then, fully, for the first time in a long time. “No,” he reassures after a moment, “No, we haven’t reached that point quite yet.”

“Good. Because if we pulled you up after this and you were completely naked it would be quite the first impression.” They give, sharing in his soft laughter.

“First impression? Does that mean I’m actually going to get to meet you when they pull me back up?”

There’s a silence on the other end, a quiet internal debate. “Yeah.” They respond finally, “You’ll get to meet me. And I’ll get to meet you.”

Simon can’t help the smile that comes to his face, the thought is nice, something new to look forward to. Until it’s interrupted by the controls beeping, warning of an upcoming obstacle.

The skeleton. Right. The mission.

But the picture is wrong, this isn’t how it was before. And no amount of ground shifting could have caused it.

“What do you mean?” They ask.

“It just doesn’t look right.”

“Okay, well,” they hesitate, “can you still get a sample?”

He looks over the picture again, “Probably. But this doesn’t feel right.”

“I know, I know. But if you come back without a sample they’ll send you right back down. So just, gather what you can, they’ll have to deal with that.”

“Then I’m free?” He asks.

“Yeah, then you’re free.” They reassure.

And hearing it then, from them, a direct answer. Fills his chest with something lighter than hope. If this is really it. If this is all he has to do. To be free, to meet whoever’s been leading him through this, it’s well worth it. But there’s something else, one other worry that plagues him. “Even after what I did? With the radiation?” He worries aloud.

“That wasn’t your fault, besides you upheld your part of the deal. It’s time for us to do the same.” They reassure.

“I am sorry. I never meant for that to happen.” He continues.

“I know. I don’t blame you.” They start, their words catching, as if they want to say something more, dig a bit deeper, expose more of themself to him. But instead, “Let’s get this over with, yeah?”

He sits back down, staring at the controls, “So what? I just ram into this thing at full speed?”

“I guess so. I’m no engineer but the hull is expertly welded, it’ll hold, and it should take most of the impact. So just go for it.”

He sucks in a breath, nothing about this seems thought out, but it’s the quickest way to being a free man. So he pushes forward, the coordinates spike up, the lights blink faster. There’s an impact, and then? Nothing.

“I think I got it.” He speaks up, hesitant.

“Are you sure?”

“Let me check.” He backs up and takes a picture. Nothing much has changed aside from a hole in the jaw. “I think I got it, there’s a hole in the jaw.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, at least I’m pretty sure.”

“Okay, good.” A conversation is muffled on the other end before the voice comes back, “Hold onto something, we’re bringing you up. See you on the other side.”

The line cuts off into static and he sighs, he’s finally done. He glances back to the picture. Looking it over, but in the top corner, hidden behind the skeleton is a blur of something else.

He tries to speak up, to warn them, but it’s too late. They begin pulling him up.

“Hold on! Something else is down there!”

The voice cuts back in, “What do you mean “something else”? Something alive? Are you sure?”

“Yes! Yes! It was looking directly at me.”

He hears a gasp on the other end, but it’s the least of his worries as the sub begins to rock and resist ascending.

“Something’s got me!”

“Okay hold on!” The operator says, and he overhears an argument between them and the captain. They want to cut the line, release the sample, save him. But the captain argues the sample is too necessary to lose. The argument fades away as the sub rocks harder, flinging him against the walls once more, knocking him out cold.

By the time he wakes everything is dark, echoing with groans from the hull, it's eerily more lonesome than before.

He can’t keep track of how much time passes, not between mapping his area, discovering things he shouldn’t, and having experiences beyond belief. No, time is the least of his worries.

When he finally makes contact with someone again, it isn’t right, it isn’t true, it isn’t real. A light of hope given to him just to be extinguished in the end. Perhaps it was symbolic, a look into what lies ahead for him.

He’s abandoned, alone, besides the creatures that have clawed their way into his mind. The things he’s seen, heard, and lived are everything but true. Or perhaps they are real, and everything outside of what exists miles deep in an ocean of blood is what’s false.

His mind can’t keep up, his heart races, trying to come up with anything to keep him sane. And that’s when he hears it.

The voice that’s guided him for so long. Through the dreary darkness of this sea, and into the light of their words. The radio operator from before. The only one to care, to empathize, to make him laugh in such a dire time.

“Hello?”

But how could he believe it’s real, how could he buy into that after everything? What if it’s just his mind playing tricks? Attempting to give him exactly what he wants before it’s finally over.

“Is that really you?”

Maybe it’s better not to respond. To ignore it until it passes. Maybe that’s what he should’ve done before.

“Are you there?”

But it’s so much easier to allow yourself to snap under the weight of it all, “Stop fucking with me.” To let it out on whoever crosses your path, real or not. “I’m done, I’m done being fucked with. The radio is broken, you aren’t there, you aren’t you.”

The line goes quiet, contemplating, but the person on the other side continues. “I don’t understand how you survived. It’s been days, you should’ve run out of oxygen ages ago.” The voice chokes up from gentle sobs, he’s alive, somehow.

There’s a rage that builds within the submarine, a rage that builds within him. “What did I do in the hangar?”

“What?”

“What did I do? How many people were there?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Just tell me!” He pushes.

“Three! Okay? And you used the camera which blasted them with an immense amount of radiation.” The voice steadies, “How are you alive?”

“You’re lying,” he continues. This isn’t real, not after everything else, “It’s not possible.” The radio is unbroken, still completely intact. But how could that be true? “What’s my name?” He whispers, a broken kind of whisper. The kind that reveals damage, but only to those who care to look, and they were certainly that kind.

“I’m so sorry,” they hesitate, stumbling over their words, “I don’t think I ever asked for your name.”

“You sent me down here to die without even knowing my name.”

The sentence is painful, mostly because it holds the truth, “I never wanted you to die. I don’t think that they cared, and I should’ve spoken up for you, I should’ve tried harder, but I don’t want you to die. I never have.” That’s true too, at least he thinks it is. They’ve only ever shown compassion, only ever tried to help. But even so he’s still trapped. “Look, I don’t know how you’re alive. We all thought you died days ago, I mean you shouldn’t have enough oxygen for this. I’m glad you’re still here. But how are you still alive?”

“I really don’t know, I don’t know. But I think I’ve done enough. I just want to go home.” He begs.

“I know,” the voice cuts in, calm, caring, “just hold on. Let me talk to everyone and we’ll come up with a plan.”

He tries to compose himself as he listens in, hearing only a dispute on the other side but not being able to make any of it out. He assumes it’s between the operator and the captain, as usual, which means it can’t be anything good. It seems harsher than usual, more intense in the way it carries on. Whatever is happening, whoever is arguing, neither is backing down.

After a long while of muffled arguing someone finally speaks to him again. This time it’s the captain, “Convict?”

“Yeah. I’m here. So what’s the plan? How am I getting out of here?”

The line goes quiet and then, “I don’t think that’s going to be possible.”

It’s a punch to the gut. After everything, all that he’s gone through, all that he’s learned, he’s just another sacrifice they’ve chosen to make. “Not worth it”. Never enough, not until he has what they really want. Information. Information from SM8 that they couldn’t recover otherwise.

It’s foolish that this is what it takes. What it takes for them to care enough about him. But it works and the deal is made.

But it goes wrong, so wrong, even in comparison to everything he’s already gone through. More blood is claimed to the sea, whispers turn to screams, and he’s faced with a choice bigger than himself.

When he returns from the crawl space, drenched in blood with the black box in hand, the radio operator’s voice greets him. “Hello? Are you there? What’s going on?”

Even with the desperation that laces it, the concern in the tone, the nervousness behind each word, it still takes a weight off his shoulders. Let’s him breathe as if it’s his first and last time.

“Hey.” He greets simply, slipping to the floor to fasten the life vest around the black box.

“Oh my gosh, you’re alive.” The anxiety fades into relief, “I was so worried, what happened? Where did you go?”

“The crawl space, I needed to get something important.”

“Okay, well, are you alright? The thirty minutes is almost up, are you at the meeting point?”

“I don’t,” he hesitates, choking on his words as if he himself doesn’t want to believe it, “I don’t think there is a meeting point. I don’t think I’m getting out of here. I don’t think I was ever supposed to.”

“What? What do you mean?” The anxiety comes back in a wave of concern and questions. Questions he can’t answer.

“Can you, just talk to me? Please.” His voice is tight, close to tears. And it melts away everything else entirely.

“Yeah,” they respond carefully, “I can do that. What do you want to talk about?” It’s kind, gentle, so much of the little he’s felt in life. It’s all here, from a stranger. No, not a stranger, but someone who’s turned into something far more.

“Tell me about yourself. We never shared our names, I’m Simon.”

“Simon,” you test the name on your tongue, and it feels more natural than anything you’ve ever said. In turn you introduce yourself. You don’t know what’s happening, not in the safety of your spacecraft. But you care enough to stay, to console him. “What else do you want to know?”

“What do you look like?” His voice cuts in, “I don’t want to die without imagining it.”

That’s a hard one, how do you describe yourself to someone? What would he notice first? What would he care to know?

“Well, I’m wearing this shitty required uniform from the C.O.I. that looks exactly like everyone else’s. Because apparently individuality is a sin around here.” His laugh comes in, it’s soft, perfect. You’d only heard it once or twice but you’d never get over the way it made you feel. You think for a moment, and remember the files aboard the ship, “Simon, next to your chair is some binders. In the blue one is an overlook of everyone you may speak to on your mission. If you find my last initial you’ll see my page, and a picture of me. You won’t have to imagine anything.”

You hear movement, slow, deliberate. Then pages turning over until that too stops. The line is quiet, and you aren’t sure what to make of it.

You don’t see how he’s mesmerized by your smile, how his fingers trace the edge of the photo like it’s sacred. And maybe in this moment, maybe to him, it is.

“You’re beautiful.”

Your heart skips a beat. It’s genuine, full of an adoration you’ve never heard before. And you aren’t quite sure how to respond. Luckily he speaks up again.

“Have you ever seen me?”

You look at the files on your desk, and the first thing to meet you is his mugshot, then medical records, and several other reports of either photographs with him or words about him. Since the beginning of this expedition you were supposed to know him inside and out, not personally, not as a human, but as a criminal. But even still it didn’t take away how you felt, how he made you feel.

“Yeah, I’ve seen you.”

“What do you think? Someone you’d maybe let take you on a date?”

“A date?” You chuckle, “Where would we go? There aren't many places since the quiet rapture.”

“I’ve never liked the idea of something flashy anyway, I’d much rather just talk with you. Maybe make dinner together. Simple, sweet, easy. As long as it’s with you it wouldn’t matter.” He explains.

“That sounds nice.”

You smile, it really does. And if you close your eyes tight enough. If you shut out everything besides him. You can almost see it, the two of you, together. You don’t realize that he’s doing the exact same thing.

“You never answered my question, would you even go with me?”

“I would, you look like someone I’d be happy with, really happy. ”

You hear him sigh, grateful to hear your true feelings.

“If I’m going to die,” He speaks up again, “I think you deserve to know, that I think I’m in love with you.” He laughs at his own words, as if realizing how unbelievable it sounds.

You suck in a breath, “Simon.” You gasp out, voice tight.

“And I know that’s crazy to say considering we’ve never met face to face. But you’re the only person that’s ever made me feel like me. Not The Butcher, or The Convict, just Simon. So, I love you.”

You hear the ship groan on the other side, something is causing movement, something is coming. You hear as he moves around, preparing himself.

You don’t see how he tucks your picture close to himself, don’t see how he struggles against the blood ocean overtaking the sub. Or how he gives one last smile at your choked out, “I love you too.”

All you hear is the silence that comes after. There’s no static, no radio to pick up on, there’s no one on the other end. Just you, alone, and the memory of a man you’ve never even met.

Falling in love with a voice isn’t the best decision one could make. It’s a hopeless feat. But when that voice is the only thing to bring light to the darkness of yourself, you stop caring about how realistic the end goal is. Especially when surrounded by a vast ocean of blood and they exist as your only salvation.

I had this idea since I first watched the movie but honestly I don’t know how to feel about the final product. I’m most definitely going to revisit this if Iron Lung comes out on streaming or physically because I’m sure I can make this better if I could analyze the movie. This is actually based on the several times I’ve gone to see it, so it should be pretty accurate. In fact one time was solely dedicated to making sure this followed the plot well enough. So hopefully you guys enjoy this belated Valentine’s gift, I’m also working on requests right now but that’s a whole separate thing.

“You’re staring at me.” You announced groggily, eyes still closed yet your boyfriend’s gaze burned into your skull; piercing through bone and settling in your frontal lobe.

“What are you gonna do, sue me?” His response coerced you into slowly opening your eyes, lashes fluttering elegantly as you did so. “I don’t know how good the legal representation is here.”

His voice was gruff, but he looked wide-awake, all bright-eyed and ready for the day ahead. His glasses sat askew on his nose, loving eyes peering over them; his fox cardigan was pulled over the top of his clothes, indicating that he’d likely been on a walk already.

Instinctively, you shuffled closer to him; laying your hand against his chest, head eagerly coming to meet its placement. Your leg lifted over his body to cage him in and shove him further onto the other side of the bed, a motion provoked by the feeling of being far too close to the edge on your own side.

All of a sudden, you felt yourself tumbling onto the floor — taking Ryland with you as your body thumped off the ground, causing Ryland to let out a yelp from underneath you. His hands shot to your hips, steadying you on top of him so you wouldn’t continue rolling across the harsh-floor.

“I forgot about that.” You admitted embarrassingly, feeling how Ryland’s hands now caressed up and down your hips to your waist, smiling up at you before he cocked an eyebrow.

“You forgot about the best night of your life?”

You laughed at his outburst, hands coming to playfully steal his glasses from his nose to which he protested, a small pout playing at his lips as you held them above your head — swinging them like a pendulum, enticing him to come and get them.

“Oh, you break the bed once and now you’re mr cocky, is that it?” You teased, narrowing your eyes while you looked down at him, watching as his expression twisted into something you rarely saw from him; a confident kind of mischief.

A few moments passed between the two of you as cogs seemed to turn inside Ryland’s head.

“No.” He spoke simply with a shrug, shooting upwards to sit you in his lap; hands coming to harshly tug at the bottom of your thighs to pull you closer to him. He bit down on his bottom lip at the friction, letting out a brief noise of struggle.

A small yelp left your lips, followed by a giggle as you settled into his lap; watching how he leaned in closer, eyes scanning all over your face.

“Technically, it’s Dr.” He smiled cockily, bringing a hand to travel up your arms to retrieve his glasses, settling them back onto the bridge of his nose as he pushed them up with a single finger.

Before you could get too carried away, there was a hurried knocking on the door — causing Ryland to gently lift you off him, standing up tall and kindly offering you a hand to get up aswell.

Fearing his already-inflated ego, you swatted his hand away jokingly whilst rolling your eyes, scrambling up from the floor as Ryland left the room for a moment, coming back in with Rocky trailing just behind him in his xenonite ball.

“Good morning, humans of Erid!” Rocky announced energetically, clicking his claws. “Grace come to me early, say needed fix—“ He seemed to trail off as he noticed the odd-silhouette of the bed with his limited vision, unnaturally caving to one side, sheets and pillows now discarded over the floor.

Ryland wasn’t paying too much attention to Rocky, only staring at you with a knowing look that made you nervous, knees almost buckling with desire.

“I see problem.” Rocky sounded out, rolling over towards the broken bed, seemingly inspecting the break. “This is made of Eridian strongest material. How this happen, question? Eridians made to withstand great force!” He continued, turning back in his ball to face you.

You suddenly felt scrutinised by the alien, feeling like you’d just been accused of a heinous Eridian crime you didn’t know existed — and Ryland was no help, his previous cocky demeanour shifted into a wave of apprehension and embarrassment when Rocky began questioning the ‘how?’ of the situation.

Immediately, a smirk fell on your face noticing how Ryland turned sheepish, an idea popping into your head to tease him even further for his ego-fuelled activities from minutes before.

“Well Rocky.” You began, crouching down to match his height as your hands steadied themselves against your knee caps ready to explain the whole process to the unsuspecting alien.

You practically felt Ryland freezing up beside you, the air in the room shifting.

“Sometimes when two humans love eachother very much, they get this feeling.” You looked to Grace for a moment, watching as he seemed to turn red in the face, silently begging for you to stop; but you wanted to see how far you could take it.

“Feeling!” Rocky repeated in confirmation, evidence that he was hanging on every word.

“It’s a very strong feeling, an urge to—“

“Can you just fix it? Rocky. Please.” Ryland sounded out urgently, his hands coming to gesture aimlessly in the air, before his hand came to aggressively press against his forehead in frustration.

A smug expression overcame your features, standing up proudly with your hands firmly pressed against your hips in a sassy stance as you turned to Ryland.

“Grace have attitude problem! Grace need human-sleep-box fixing. Maybe then will be nice to Rocky.” The alien seemed to grumble, begrudgingly following behind Grace on his adventure of apologetically picking up the discarded sheets and pillows.

You smiled obnoxiously at the two, leaning against the wall whilst letting out a pleasant sigh of contentment as your plan had worked.

Although, Ryland didn’t allow much room for you to revel in the blissful, prideful moment — immediately tossing a pillow to bounce off your chest, softly falling to the floor as he mouthed sarcastically.

‘Oops!’

You watched as Ryland pried the pen from his teeth, scribbling a few things on the paper in hand, before stamping it with a sticker from his extensive pile he had collected throughout the years, with your help of course. It was when he went to grab the next paper to grade from the pile with a gruntled groan that he noticed you standing at the door.

“Ohh, hey honey!” his voice was instantly more chirpier, a shine had appeared in his eyes, that smiled, following suit to the movement of his lips, watching you make your way closer to him. He had already rolled his chair to the side, your eyes drawing to the way his legs parted instinctively as an invitation, which you answered eagerly by straddling his lap, your arms wrapping around his torso and your head settled in the crook of his neck.

“Let me keep you company?” you questioned, but it was more of a statement because you had no plans to leave him alone at this point, and your husband wouldn’t want to have it any other way.

It wasn’t long after that Ryland had found himself buried inside of you, the ungraded papers long forgotten, as he partially begged you to fuck him, and when you finally did, it had him seeing stars. You felt so good, your body burning hot against his own. His hands gripped onto your hips, helping guide your movements, but also just tight enough that it would leave marks afterwards, in an attempt to keep himself grounded.

“Baby,” he groaned, the sounds of his pleasure growing louder as he was getting close. And it wasn’t long before you felt his body go stiff, as he came inside of you, filing you up full. However, your movements didn’t stop, chasing your own pleasure as you overstimulated the poor man under you.

“Honey,” he voiced, his words trailing into a moan, as he threw his head back against the chair. You looked down to see your husband’s face contorted in pleasure, cheeks flushed red, beads of sweat forming on his forehead, causing a few stray stands of his tousled, blonde hair to stick to the skin. God, was this man beautiful.

And when you saw his half lidded eyes look up to you, with a dazed look, and smirk coming to tug at his lips, it sent you over the edge. Your motion came to a halt as your back arched, pressing your chest up against Rylands, as you finally reached your high.

You felt his soft lips trail kisses down your neck, as your chest still rose and fell with heavy breaths, helping to calm your accelerated heart beat, before Ryland came to rest his head in the crevice of your flush breasts.

Ryland felt as if he was about to fall asleep, lost in the warmth of your body, before he felt a sticky adhesive press against his cheek, under the pressure of your thumb.

He pulled his head back, looking up at you, with a little hum of confusion leaving him, only to come face to face with a grinning you. His hand reached up to feel a plasticy, star shaped item on his face, coming to the realization of what it was as he saw you grab the sticker sheet off the table.

“Baby?”

“What?Just thought to give you a sticker for what a good job you did,” you told him nonchalantly, watching his eyes narrow at you, before a small pout settled on his lips. You watched as his hand reached up, pointing to a glossy, red heart spaced cutout on the sticker sheet in your hand.

“This one too, please,’ Ryland voiced out, causing a small laugh to leave your lips, before he face ended up with not just one more but many other stickers littered on his face.

ryland didn’t even look up. “option one: we open it and potentially discover advanced human knowledge. option two: we don’t open it and i slowly lose my mind wondering what’s inside.”

“option three,” you added, “we don’t open it and you will forever be curious about the content but hey, at least you'd still be alive!”

he glanced up at you with a grin that immediately told you he was not going to pick option three.

“ryland last time you said ‘this’ll probably be fine,’ we almost suffocated.”

“counterpoint,” he said, straightening and placing a hand on the latch, “almost.”

you sighed.

“i just don’t like it,” you said for what was probably the fifth time.

ryland made a thoughtful humming sound that meant the exact opposite.

“you don’t like anything that comes from rocky.”

you crossed your arms without taking your eyes off the object. “that is objectively untrue. i like the parts that don’t explode, corrode, or attempt to rewrite the laws of physics.”

“so.... none of it?”

“exactly.”

pause.

just when ryland reached for the cylinder, you spoke out again.

“and just for the record....” you said, voice flat, “i am deeply against whatever you’re about to do.”

“come on. what’s the worst that could happen?”

you dragged a hand down your face, already bracing for disaster. “okay, i need you to understand that that phrase is cursed. like, historically cursed. civilizations have fallen after someone said that.”

he ignored you.

of course he ignored you.

the seal popped before you could argue more. the cylinder hissed open with a soft, pressurized sound.

for a second, nothing happened.

you leaned forward slightly, squinting, peering into the opening, expecting.... something. a device. a sample. anything.

“okay.... maybe it’s empty—”

poof!

a burst of fine gold dust shot out of the container in slow motion, catching the light as it drifted upward and outward, directly into both your faces before either of you could react.

“oh— come on—!” you coughed immediately, stumbling back and waving your hands uselessly through the air. “why is it always airborne—”

“i didn’t—” ryland coughed too, turning his head and blinking rapidly. “i didn’t know it was going to do that!”

“it’s a mysterious alien container, of course it was going to do that!”

the dust settled almost as quickly as it appeared, vanishing into nothing. no residue, no smell, no visible trace that anything had even happened.

you both stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other.

“....okay,” you said slowly. “status report.”

he blinked a few more times, then patted his arms, his torso, like he might find damage. “uhhh.... lungs: functioning. skin: not melting. vision: normal.”

“define normal.”

“i can see you glaring at me, so, yeah. normal.”

you exhaled. “great. fantastic. we inhaled space dust and survived. love that for us.”

“see?” he said, already relaxing. “nothing to worry about.”

you pointed at him sharply. “you do not get to say that. you lost that privilege the moment you opened it.”

“fair.”

then there was a beat.

“so.... that’s it?” you asked.

he peered into the cylinder, turning it upside down. only the residue of the dust fell, nothing else was inside.

“that’s it.” he confirmed.

“okay,” you said finally, though your voice carried a thin edge of disbelief. “either that was completely harmless, or we just inhaled something that’s going to kill us slowly and mysteriously.”

“statistically,” ryland said, already turning back toward the console, “it’s probably the second one.”

“great,” you muttered.

“yep.” he clicked his tongue and made a double finger gun. “nailed it.”

only for a while.

only for a while, it actually seemed like he was right.

you two ran scans, double-checked the air composition, monitored your vitals like you were waiting for them to spike into something dramatic and undeniable. everything came back normal. no toxins, no foreign pathogens, no radiation spikes, nothing that explained the golden dust or what it was supposed to do.

it should have been reassuring.

it wasn’t.

because about an hour in, you noticed something off.

not dramatic. not alarming. but subtle enough.

you shifted in your seat, tugging slightly at the collar of your yellow jumpsuit. the fabric suddenly felt too close, too warm against your skin.

“hey,” you said, not looking up from your screen. you were in your station in the lab, your back facing ryland. “did the temperature go up?”

ryland glanced at the panel beside him. “nope. holding steady.”

“huh.” you leaned back, frowning. “feels warmer.”

“maybe you’re just stressed.”

you snorted. “yeah, because inhaling unknown alien particles was such a relaxing experience.”

you tried to ignore it.

it didn’t work.

because by the second hour, it got worse. worse enough that it distracted you from doing your job.

you were restless now, shifting every few minutes, hyper-aware of your own body in a way that was getting increasingly distracting.

“okay, nope. something’s happening.” you said, standing up. you zipped down your suit. it pooled around your waist and left you in nothing but a dark green tank top you wore underneath. now you looked like a formula 1 driver walking around the garage in the middle of a malaysian heat.

except you were pretty sure that the heat in malaysia was tolerable enough and the drivers were used to it.

this, whatever this was however, was far from it.

“i'm sure it's nothing—” ryland finally turned but then paused.

“what?” you asked as you tied your hair into a ponytail.

he was sitting still. too still. his posture was stiff, shoulders slightly tense, like he was holding himself in place. his jaw tightened and his eyes that were currently fixated on you slightly dilated.

“....ryland?”

he flinched, snapping back to the present. he fixed his glasses while his eyes withdrew, focusing on somewhere else but you.

“yeah?” his voice came out a little too quick. a little too tight.

you narrowed your eyes. “you okay?”

“fine. totally fine.”

“you don’t look fine.”

he let out a short laugh that didn’t sound entirely natural. “well, looks can be deceiving.”

“you’re flushed.”

“it’s warm,” he said immediately. “i’m…. internally warm.”

“....that’s not a thing.”

“it is now.”

you crossed your arms, studying him.

“you’re acting weird.”

ryland scratched the back of his neck. you did not miss the way he licked his lips. and there was a faint flush creeping across his face, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears, subtle but unmistakable once you saw it.

“nothing. nothing. um—”

you frowned. “are you okay?”

“yes, yes,” he cleared his throat while still staring at a very specific spot on the floor, like he was avoiding your eyes.

“okay....” you turned, walking back to your station, trying to not let his sudden weird behaviour get to you. it's ryland. he was always a bit odd, even back on earth when you first met him on the ship.

by hour three, thankfully you finished your work quickly because the heat was no longer tolerable.

“fuck....” you muttered under your breath, standing up and started pacing around.

ryland was still busy with his duct-taped-computers, probably working on the algorithm to translate rocky's melodic language.

he stopped typing on the keyboard and grabbed his notebook, writing something there now.

your paces halted. and unfortunately your brain decided that right now was the perfect time to let your eyes wander to his arms out of all places.

you didn’t know why but it just happened.

you didn't get to stop yourself. you brain drifted, catching on the absolute ridiculous size of his biceps. since when did he work out? the thought of middle school science teacher ryland grace going to the gym and working out during the weekends got more ridiculous the more you think of it.

you should have stopped. should have sat back down and worked or went to take a nap or— oh my god his veins—

you flinched.

jesus, what the fuck?

since when the fuck did you notice that?

nope. absolutely not.

you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose like that might reset your brain.

it didn't.

you sighed, audible enough just to your ears. your gaze flicked, just for a second, and then immediately snapped back to somewhere else.

that was a mistake.

because now you knew, and knowing made it harder not to look again.

your brain, completely unhelpful, decided to supply additional commentary. since when does he have arms like that? it asked, again, like this was new information, like you hadn’t been working side by side with him for months.

you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose. get it together. this was ryland. your crew mate. your friend. the only other human being alive within literal light-years.

and yet—

“oh, for fuck's sake,” you cursed under your breath.

“what?” ryland immediately turned, ears sharp enough to hear you. he looked concerned for a bit.

“nothing,” you said quickly. too quickly.

he adjusted his glasses. “that did not sound like nothing.”

“it’s nothing.”

ryland tilted his head. a hint of amusement decorating his face.

“you were staring at me,” he pointed out.

you jerked your gaze away. “i was not.”

“you absolutely were.”

“i was not,” you insisted sharper, which would have been more convincing if you hadn’t immediately glanced back at him again.

he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “wow. okay. so it’s not just me. good to know.”

you pressed a hand to your forehead, giving up on your pretenses. “no, it is definitely not just you.”

you paced again a few more steps, trying to shake it off, but it didn’t help. if anything, it made you even more hyperaware of everything. your breathing, the air, him.

and by the fourth hour, denial was no longer an option.

“okay, that's it.” you said, pacing now because sitting still felt impossible, “we need to figure out whatever the hell this is.”

“yep,” ryland said, standing up simultaneously.

“define what you’re feeling,” you asked.

he hesitated. “uh, okay. so, scientifically?”

“obviously.”

“i feel.... distracted,” he started, frowning slightly as he tried to articulate it. “like my brain keeps derailing. and also—” he stopped.

he looked at you and held his gaze for a second too long.

“ryland.”

“....also very aware of you,” he finished.

pause.

“define 'aware'. like when you were staring at me?”

“i wasn't—” he stopped, then frowned, like he was trying to catch his own thoughts mid-escape. “okay, maybe i was.”

you crossed your arms. “why?”

“i don’t know,” he said immediately, which somehow felt worse than any actual answer. “i just— looked up and— there you were.”

“i’m always here!”

“yes,” he said, a little too quickly. “i am aware of that. conceptually. but right now it’s.... more noticeable.”

you stared at him.

“more noticeable.” you repeated.

he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “that sounded weird.”

“it sounded very weird.”

“i meant it in a normal, non-weird way!”

“there is no version of that sentence that is normal, ryland!”

“you were staring at me too!” he reminded.

you opened your mouth, then shut it again, abandoning whatever argument you were about to attempt. he got you there.

then you sighed. you realized that you both seem to be doing that a lot today.

“you know what? nevermind. just— are there any other symptoms? like what, hormones? perception? impulse control?”

“all of the above, probably.”

you exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to think. maybe it was—

“the dust,” you said suddenly, stopping in your tracks.

he went still. “what?”

you pointed at the cylinder. “it has to be that.”

“yeah,” he said, nodding slowly like he just pieced all the puzzles together now. “yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, that makes sense. mysterious alien substance, unknown effects, sudden onset of—” he gestured vaguely between you “—this.”

you raised an eyebrow. “'this?'”

“i don’t have a better word!”

“well, find one!”

“i’m a scientist, not emily brontë!”

you dragged both hands down your face. “oh my god.”

“okay,” you continued. “let's not panic. let us all calm down. so, we agreed we got exposed to an unknown particulate substance.”

“yep.”

“we’re experiencing.... thermal dysregulation.”

“yep.”

“and—” you hesitated, “—behavioral anomalies.”

he made a small, distressed noise. “that is a very scientific way to say that i cannot stop staring at your lips.”

you frowned. “you were staring at my lips?”

“and you were staring at my arms! we can do this all night!” he said defensively.

“did you just quote the sequels— nevermind. not important.”

you pressed your lips together. which, unfortunately, made his eyes drop there again.

you both noticed, and you both looked away at the same time.

“okay,” he said, pacing once, like movement might fix this. “okay, okay, okay, okay, we can figure this out. we always figure things out.”

“right,” you said, latching onto that. “we analyze.”

“we observe.”

“we hypothesize.”

“we do not panic.”

“we are absolutely not panicking.”

you were both very clearly panicking.

“let’s list everything again.” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “all symptoms. no judgment.”

“no judgment,” you agreed.

“elevated body temperature.” he started.

“check.”

“heightened sensory awareness.”

“check.”

“uh....” he hesitated, visibly struggling. “increased.... focus on.... specific.... features?”

you folded your arms tighter. “check.”

“compulsive attention,” he added weakly.

“check.”

he swallowed. “and a— a noticeable shift in, uh—”

“attraction?” you said bluntly.

he closed his eyes. “yeah. that.”

the word hung there, heavy but accurate.

you both went very still. because once it was said like that, clean, clinical, undeniable, something in your brain clicked into place.

not just the symptoms.

the pattern.

your mind started pulling threads together, faster now. the dust. the delivery method. the lack of any visible organism. the immediate onset being minimal, then escalating over time.

you frowned, thinking harder.

“okay,” you said slowly. “if this were any known terrestrial system, particulate exposure with delayed onset behavioral changes would suggest—”

“toxins,” he said automatically.

“but there’s no impairment,” you countered.

“cognitive function is intact. motor function is intact. we’re not disoriented.”

“right,” he said, catching up. “so not a neurotoxin.”

“and not a pathogen,” you added. “no immune response. no inflammation.”

“so it’s not attacking us.”

“it’s affecting us.”

you both went quiet again, thinking.

he ran a hand through his hair, pacing again, faster this time. “okay, so— delivery system: aerosolized particulate. effect: behavioral modification. targeted toward—”

he stopped.

you watched it happen. the exact moment the realization hit him.

his entire posture went rigid.

“....no,” he said.

your stomach dropped. “what?” you asked, even though something in you already knew but refused to acknowledge it.

he looked at you. then away. then back again, like he wished reality would swap out for a better option.

“no, no, no, no, no, no,” he muttered, shaking his head. “that’s— that’s not—”

“ryland,” you said, sharper now. “what.”

he gestured helplessly toward the empty cylinder. “there were no organisms. no plant matter. nothing visible. which means whatever this is, it doesn’t rely on traditional biological structures.”

“okay....?”

“which means,” he continued, words picking up speed like he couldn’t stop them now, “it could be a synthetic analog. or an alien biochemical system that doesn’t follow earth-based taxonomy. something that mimics a known function without the same physical form—”

“ryland.”

he stopped and looked at you.

you held his gaze.

“say it.”

he hesitated. like if he didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be real.

“....on earth,” he started, carefully, “there are airborne particulates that influence behavior in very specific ways.”

your chest tightened.

“they’re typically produced by plants,” he went on. “released into the air. inhaled. they trigger physiological responses that.... alter attraction. increase reproductive drive. reduce inhibition—”

your breath caught.

he exhaled, defeated.

“....pollen,” he finished.

silence.

thick.

absolute.

you stared at him.

he stared back.

“that’s not possible,” you said, even as your brain was already connecting it. "that's not fucking possible. what the fu—”

“i know,” he said quickly. “i know. there were no plants. there’s no visible biological structure. it doesn’t make sense.”

“so it’s not pollen.”

“it’s not plant pollen,” he corrected weakly.

you both paused.

“but it’s doing the same thing,” you said.

“yeah.”

another silence. longer this time.

he let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “that’s— wow. okay. that’s just— fantastic. amazing. incredible. we got hit with alien.... pseudo-pollen that—”

he stopped himself.

you finished it for him. “that makes people.... like this.”

he nodded, looking like he wanted to walk directly into space.

you swallowed. your skin still felt too warm. thoughts still kept drifting back to him.

to his hands. arms. the way he was looking at you right now.

you dropped your hands. wanna know the worst part of this? it's that now that you understood it, it didn’t make it stop. it just made it clearer.

“we’re in trouble,” you said quietly.

he nodded, equally quiet.

“yeah,” he said. “we really are.”

“and rocky just gave it to us with no warning?”

“to be fair,” ryland said, “he might not have known humans would react like this.”

you stopped pacing. “react like what, exactly?”

“like this,” he said weakly. “he probably thinks this is how humans reproduce. like, 'here, have some breeding dust, make more crew for the mission!'” ryland continued.

“oh, jesus.”

another pause.

longer this time.

he shifted his weight. “okay. solution-oriented thinking. we just.... wait it out.”

“wait it out,” you repeated.

“yep. it’s a chemical thing, right? it’ll metabolize, wear off, we go back to normal, and we never speak of this again.”

“not even a little bit.” you agreed quickly.

“not even in a funny anecdote way.”

“especially not in a funny anecdote way.”

he removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes shut tight while his other hand was gripping the edge of his desk for dear life. firm, almost rigid, like it was the only thing anchoring him in place. “good plan. great plan. love that plan.”

you stopped pacing and looked at him properly.

really looked.

the flush hadn’t faded, it had deepened. his breathing was just slightly off, not enough to be obvious unless you were paying attention, but you were paying attention now. and the way he was holding himself. tense, contained, like he was actively stopping himself from—

“ryland,” you said slowly.

“yeah.” he did not look at you.

“why are you holding onto the table like it’s about to float away?”

he let out a short, strained laugh.

“because if i don’t,” he said, voice tight in a way that made something in your chest twist, “i might do something incredibly stupid.”

your stomach dropped. “define 'stupid.'”

his eyes flicked up to yours, and whatever you saw there made your breath catch.

“i think,” he said quietly, “you already know.”

pause.

you stole a look at him. ryland had gone very still, hands braced on the edge of the console, head bowed like he was trying to think his way out of this. he looked just as wrecked as you are. tense, flushed, jaw tight like he was grinding through it.

the lab suddenly felt too small, like the walls had inched closer, like the air had thickened into something you had to push through just to breathe. you were still standing too close to each other. close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. close enough that every tiny shift felt amplified. and neither of you seemed able to take that one simple step back.

you both pretended to think. which would’ve been easier if your thoughts weren’t constantly derailing.

“okay,” ryland said finally, too quickly, like he’d been holding the word in his mouth for a while. he wasn’t looking at you. he hadn’t been looking at you for a solid minute now, which somehow made it worse. “solution. we need a solution.”

you nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “yeah. yeah, obviously.”

he paced once, twice, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “we don’t know the duration of the effect. could be hours, could be longer.”

“right,” you said, your voice coming out tighter than you meant.

“it might not get worse,” he said quickly.

you both paused.

“it’s definitely getting worse,” you said.

“yeah,” he admitted. “yeah, that’s fair.”

another stretch of silence followed, thick and charged and deeply unhelpful.

another beat. he stopped mid-pace, suddenly locking eyes on your lips again as you bit the lower one in concentration. a visible shiver ran through him.

you, meanwhile, were transfixed by the way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he breathed. arms. shoulders. that stupid little strand of hair falling over his forehead.

it was ridiculous. you were both adults. professionals. stuck on a ship light-years from home with an entire species depending on you not screwing this up.

and yet.

both of you looked away at the same time.

he continued pacing, then he straightened slightly, like he’d latched onto something solid. “okay. i’ve got it.”

you perked up. “yeah?”

“isolation.”

silence.

“what?” your voice came out small.

“we isolate,” he repeated, more firmly now, like saying it again would make it more reasonable. “separate areas of the ship. minimal contact. we wait for the effects to wear off.”

you stared at him. “you’re kidding.”

“i’m not kidding.”

“ryland, that’s not a solution. t-that’s— what if it gets worse? what if it doesn’t wear off?”

“then we reassess,” he said, easy. “but right now, the safest option is distance.”

you laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “distance? on this ship? we share literally everything. systems, controls, workload—”

“yeah,” he said, gaining momentum, talking faster now. “we separate. different sections of the ship. minimal contact. we only communicate over comms when absolutely necessary. reduce exposure to.... stimuli.”

“stimuli,” you repeated flatly.

he made a small, helpless gesture. “i’m trying to keep this clinical.”

you stared at him. really stared this time.

“ryland,” you said slowly, “we are on a single-crew mission with two people.”

“yes.”

“yao and ilyukhina are—”

“i’m aware.” his voice was tighter this time, jaw clenched.

“we barely manage everything together on a good day.”

“we’ll adjust.”

“adjust?” you let out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking your head. “we’re already compromised. you said it yourself. attention issues, cognitive interference. you think splitting up is going to make that better?”

his jaw tightened. “it removes the trigger.”

“it removes the only person who can help when something goes wrong,” you shot back. “we don’t have backup. we don’t have a third crew member to pick up the slack. if something breaks, and something will break, we need both of us functional.”

“we are functional,” he insisted, but it came out strained, like he didn’t fully believe it.

you took a step closer without thinking.

his entire body reacted.

it was subtle. so subtle you almost missed it. but it was there: the way his shoulders went rigid, the way his breath hitched just slightly, the way his hands curled like he was holding himself in place.

that alone made your point for you.

you gestured between the two of you. “this is not functional.”

he didn’t answer.

you softened your voice, just a little. “we don’t know how long this is going to last.”

“it could wear off in a few hours,” he said, but it sounded more like hope than certainty.

“or it could be days,” you said quietly.

he didn’t argue.

“or weeks or never at all!” you added, pushing it, because you needed him to really think about it, not just cling to the best-case scenario.

“it’s the only plan that doesn’t make things worse. it’s better than the alternative.” he replied.

you stilled. “what alternative?”

he didn’t say anything.

which, unfortunately, was an answer.

you exhaled slowly, your chest tight. “okay. no. we’re not doing this vague shit. we need to actually say it.”

“we really don’t,” he said quickly.

“we do,” you insisted. “because if we don’t, we’re just going to keep circling around it and nothing gets solved.”

he dragged a hand down his face. “no.”

“ryland—”

“no,” he repeated, firmer this time. “we are not— no. that is not the solution.”

you stared at him. you've never heard his voice went that rough. that low. “it’s the only solution that makes sense.”

“it’s not a solution,” he shot back. “it’s—” he stopped, jaw tightening. “it’s not something we should even consider.”

“we both know what this is doing to us,” you pressed, voice low but steady now. “it’s not just going to fade if we sit in separate rooms pretending we’re fine. it’s getting worse.”

“i said no,” he repeated, sharper this time.

“and what happens if it peaks while we’re in the middle of something critical?” you continued anyway. “a maneuver, a repair, a calculation— what then? we just hope we can think straight?”

“we will think straight,” he snapped. “we’re not animals.”

“no, we’re worse,” you shot back. “we’re aware of it and still can’t stop it.”

he looked away first, jaw flexing, like he was trying to clamp down on something.

“we are not going to make a decision like that under the influence of alien—” he gestured helplessly, “—whatever this is.”

“we might not have a choice,” you said.

“we always have a choice.”

“do we?” you asked. “because right now it feels like we’re both in agony and pretending that distance is going to fix it.”

he flinched. barely, but enough.

“you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, quieter now. steadier. like he was forcing the words into place. “okay? whatever this is, it doesn't make that decision for us. you don’t—” he stopped, swallowing. “you don’t owe me anything. not for survival, not for the mission. nothing.”

your expression softened for half a second, before hardening again.

“this isn’t about owing anyone anything,” you said. “this is about reality. about what’s actually happening. we can’t function like this, ryland.”

“we can,” he insisted. “we will.”

“you don’t believe that.”

he didn’t answer.

you stepped closer without thinking. his shoulders tensed immediately, like proximity itself was dangerous.

“look at me,” you said.

he did.

“you’re telling me to isolate,” you said, softer now, but more intense. “to stay away from you, to fight this out on our own, when we both know exactly what would make it stop.”

his breath hitched. just slightly, but he held his ground. “knowing something doesn’t mean we should do it.”

“why not?” you asked. “if it works, if it stabilizes us, if it lets us actually do our jobs.... why not?”

“because that’s not a choice,” he said, the words coming out sharper than he meant them to. “that’s a reaction. that’s the pollen making the decision for us.”

“or it’s us making the best decision with the situation we have,” you countered.

“no,” he said, shaking his head, stepping back now like he needed the space. “no, that’s not the same thing.”

you followed without realizing.

“then what is?” you demanded. “we wait it out and risk compromising the mission? we split up and hope nothing goes wrong? how is that better?”

“because at least it’s ours,” he snapped.

the words hung there. then he froze, like he hadn’t meant to say it that way.

you frowned slightly. “what?”

he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “if we— if we do this, it shouldn’t be because we’re backed into a corner. it shouldn’t be because some alien dust messed with our heads and left us with one option.”

“it’s still us,” you said. “it’s still our choice.”

“is it?” he asked quietly.

that got you. because there was something in his voice now. something deeper than just logic. something personal.

“i don’t want that,” he went on, more quietly now, but more intense for it. “i don’t want.... something like that to happen because we had no other way out. because we were trying to survive it. i don’t want it to be something we look back on and think, ‘we didn’t really choose that.’”

you stared at him.

he looked away again, jaw tight.

“that’s not—” you started, then faltered. “that’s not what this is about.”

“it is for me,” he said.

there was a beat.

“we don’t have the luxury of waiting for perfect conditions,” you said, more gently now. “we have a mission. we need each other functioning.”

“i know,” he said. “i know that.”

“then stop pretending this is something we can just outlast.”

“i’m not pretending,” he said, voice rougher now. “i’m choosing the option where you don’t wake up later and regret it.”

pause.

you blinked at him. your voice came out quieter than you intended. “you think i’d regret it.”

“i think,” he said carefully, “that this isn’t exactly a clear-headed situation.”

you opened your mouth but no argument came out. because he wasn’t wrong.

“i’m just saying that it might fix the problem.”

“at what cost?”

a beat.

he stepped closer. just one step, but it closed the gap enough that the heat surged again, sharp and immediate, both of you feeling it.

his hands flexed at his sides like he was actively resisting the instinct to do something else with them.

“you think you won’t regret that?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “you think we won’t look back at this later and realize we only did it because we didn’t have a choice?”

you didn’t answer right away.

he shook his head, almost to himself. “that’s not…. that’s not how that should happen.”

there was something else in his voice then, something quieter, buried under all the logic and resistance. something that didn’t quite belong to the situation at hand.

“if we’re going to—” he stopped, jaw tightening, then tried again. “if something like that ever happens, it shouldn’t be because we’re trying to survive some alien.... whatever this is. it should be because we actually—”

you watched him cutting himself off. the way his shoulders were locked, the way his whole body looked like it was braced against something internal, something he was refusing to let slip.

“isolating wouldn't work,” you said quietly. “we can’t do this alone. not here. not now.”

“maybe not,” he admitted.

“then—”

“i’m still not doing that,” he cut in.

you blinked. “ryland—”

“i’m not,” he repeated, firmer now. “we’ll figure something else out. we’ll manage it. we have to.”

“even if it makes things harder?”

“yeah,” he said. “even then.”

you searched his face. trying to understand. trying to find the line he wouldn’t cross.

“you’re really that set on this,” you said.

“yeah,” he said quietly.

another pause.

“fine,” you said at last, though it didn’t sound like agreement so much as reluctant acceptance. “we do it your way.”

he nodded once.

“we isolate,” you added. “but if it gets worse—”

“we reassess,” he said immediately.

neither of you moved.

just stood there, separated by a few steps and a whole lot of tension, both of you very aware of how fragile that distance felt.

like it could disappear in a second.

like he might cross it.

like you might let him.

his jaw tightened.

his shoulders went rigid again.

and for a split second, he looked like he might—

but then he turned away.

“i’ll take the lab first,” he said, voice a little rough. “you can have the cockpit.”

you swallowed. “okay.”

“we’ll.... check in. over comms.”

“right.”

—

you weren't sure what time it was, but two things for certain: you were going crazy because sleep refused to come and the ceiling was mocking you.

you had been lying in bed, tangled in your sheets for what felt like hours but was probably just twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, flipping from one side to the other like a rotisserie chicken. the gold dust still simmered under your skin, turning every shift of fabric into slow torture. your tank top clung to your damp chest. your shorts felt too tight, too rough, too everything. you rolled onto your stomach, then flopped onto your back again, kicking the blanket off with a dramatic groan.

“this is stupid,” you muttered into the dark, dragging a pillow over your face like that might solve anything. “this is so fucking stupid. i am the pilot of the hail mary. i’ve navigated black holes in simulations. i should not be this horny because of some stupid alien dust.”

another wave of heat rolled through you, settling low and insistent between your legs. you whimpered softly, pressing your thighs together, but that only made it worse.

your brain refused to calm, looping the same thoughts over and over again.

ryland’s voice.

ryland’s face.

ryland's arms.

ryland's hair.

just him in general. the way he’d looked at you before you separated. the way his voice had tightened. the way his shoulders had gone rigid like he was holding himself together by sheer force.

you groaned softly into your pillow, pressing your face into it like that might smother the thoughts.

with a frustrated sigh, you shoved the covers off and swung your legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor a brief relief against overheated skin. you sat there for a second, breathing, trying to steady yourself before started pacing.

“isolation,” you scoffed under your breath, pacing faster. “yeah, great plan, ryland. fantastic plan, ryland. terrific plan! it was never gonna fucking work.”

you sighed again before stopping to take a deep breath.

“okay,” you said to yourself. “it's fine. it's fine! you're okay. you're doing good. just— breathe. it’ll pass.”

you closed your eyes and tried to focus.

in.

out.

in—

“mhmmph—”

pause.

you blinked an eye open.

what—

“mhmphhh— fuckk—”

—the hell was that?

you tilted your head slightly, listening.

at first, nothing. just the low hum of the ship, steady and familiar. long enough you were starting to think that your brain was playing tricks on you.

but then—

“oh, please— please—”

it was soft and faint. slightly uneven. and came from the other side of the wall.

and the other side of the wall was ryland's room.

you froze. you heard it again. a low, muffled whimper drifted through the thin wall

unmistakenably ryland.

he was in the room next to yours.

awake.

and very clearly not handling this any better than you were.

he was trying so hard to stay quiet, really committing to the bit, but failing miserably. another whimper followed, shaky and desperate, quickly bitten off. the faint, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. a muttered curse. your name, whispered like he was cursing the universe for putting him in this position.

heat flooded your face so fast you probably matched the emergency lighting. you stood there, mouth slightly open, ears straining despite yourself.

is he—

no.

no way.

no fucking way.

another moan, softer this time, but unmistakably him. he was doing a terrible job at being stealthy. the wall might as well have been paper.

you paced faster, hands flapping uselessly at your sides like a malfunctioning robot.

dilemma time. big, stupid, pollen-fueled dilemma.

option #1: stay in your room. be responsible. respect the isolation plan he’d suggested earlier like the noble scientist he was. suffer in dignified silence until the dust wore off. maybe meditate. or count rivets in the ceiling. very professional.

option #2: march over there, bang on his door, and finally deal with whatever this is, together.

you stopped, pressing your ear against the cool wall, right where the sounds were loudest. another whimper from his side. your stomach flipped. your body voted very enthusiastically for option two.

“but he said isolate,” you argued with yourself in a harsh whisper. “he was all ‘we’re professionals, we can handle this.’ what if i go over there and he freaks out? what if it gets awkward? what if he opens the door with his dick in his hand and we both just scream?”

you frowned at the mental image. not very flattering thing to think about.

“fuck, no. i’m strong. i’m a pilot. i’ve done evasive maneuvers in asteroid fields. i'm on a mission to save earth. i can handle one night of alien-induced horniness without climbing my crewmate like a tree.”

you resumed pacing, arms crossed tight over your chest like that would somehow contain the fire. three steps. turn. three steps. the sounds from his room continued. another low moan, a bitten-off “shit” that sounded way too sexy for your sanity.

you stopped again, staring at your door like it was the airlock to certain doom.

your hand hovered near the door panel. you yanked it back like the button burned.

“no. professional boundaries. we have a mission. we have dignity. we—”

a particularly broken moan cut through the wall, followed by a muffled thump like he’d smacked his head against something.

you groaned, dragging both hands down your face. “okay, fuck it. i’m weak. i’m so fucking weak. if he doesn’t want this he can yell at me tomorrow when the pollen wears off.”

a beat.

“if.... it ever wears off.” you added.

before you could talk yourself out of it again, you marched to the door, heart hammering like a faulty thruster. you raised your fist and banged on his door, loud, impatient.

no turning back now.

inside, everything went dead silent. then frantic shuffling. something clattered to the floor. then the door finally slid open.

ryland stood there, flushed crimson, hair a disaster, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. his glasses were crooked. shorts wrinkled, barely even on, one hand still guiltily hovering near his waist. his eyes widened comically when he saw you.

you didn’t give him time to speak.

you grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him forward, and kissed him hard.

he made a surprised noise that got immediately swallowed when you kissed him, the door sliding open the rest of the way as he stumbled back into the room.

for a second, he didn’t move. just froze, like his brain had short-circuited.

then his hands came up instinctively, one landing on your waist, the other tangling in your hair as he kissed you back with pent-up desperation. you stumbled forward into his room, mouths still locked, and kicked the door shut behind you with your heel.

the kiss was messy at first. noses bumping, tongues fighting. but neither of you cared. you poured every ounce of frustration and heat into it. his back hit the wall and he pulled you closer, hips pressing against yours so you could feel exactly how affected he still was.

after a long, dizzying minute you forced yourself to pull back just enough to breathe.

“wait, wait,” you said, out of air. “you were the one who wanted to isolate. if you want me to stop.... say it. we can pretend this never happened—”

“no— no, no, no, no. don’t you dare,” he said immediately.

you blinked. “what?”

“don’t say we can stop and then actually mean it,” he said, like that was a personal attack. “that’s— no. absolutely not.”

you huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “you were literally the one arguing against doing this.”

“i know,” he said. “i was wrong. past me was— misguided. naive. deeply out of touch with current events.”

“current events,” you repeated.

“yes,” he said, nodding once, very serious about this. “new data has come to light.”

“and that data is?”

“i need you.”

a beat.

“please.” he stared at you, eyes dark and glassy, lips swollen. his hands flexed on your hips like he was scared you’d vanish. for a heartbeat the only sound was your ragged breathing and the low hum of the ship.

“i tried— i really fucking tried to be good. but this dust is evil and you were just right next door and you look too good in that tank top and i’ve been losing my mind for hours. please.”

you raised an eyebrow, smirking. “oh, so that's what the staring was for earlier?”

“i.... well, i mean— yeah.” he stammered, realizing there is no point of pretending anymore.

you couldn't help but chuckled. “yeah, okay. the feeling's mutual.”

“yeah?” he laughed too.

“yeah.”

“can i kiss you again then?”

you smiled. “thought you'd never asked.”

this time it was him who surged forward, kissing you slower this time, deeper, letting the burn build deliberately. his glasses fogged up immediately, the lenses clouding over from the combined heat of your breaths. he didn’t take them off. didn’t even reach for them. just kept kissing you through the haze, like the fog made it somehow hotter. your fingers traced his jaw, his neck, the rapid flutter of his pulse. he shivered under your touch.

you walked him backward toward the bunk without breaking the kiss. when his knees hit the edge he sat down heavily, pulling you with him so you straddled his lap. the new position pressed you right against the hard line of him, making you both gasp into each other’s mouths.

slowly, you started undressing each other. your hands slid under his shirt, palms mapping the warm, flushed skin of his chest. he lifted his arms so you could tug it off. you tossed it somewhere behind you, leaving him in only his glasses. he returned the favor, peeling your tank top up inch by inch, kissing every new strip of skin he revealed. your stomach, the underside of your breast, your collarbone, until the fabric was gone.

his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. you rose up on your knees so he could slide them down your thighs along with your underwear. you kicked them away. then you focused on his shorts, tugging them down slowly, savoring the way his breath hitched when you freed him.

naked now, you settled back onto his lap, skin to skin. the contact was electric. you took your time, rocking gently against him without taking him inside yet, just feeling the slide and heat while you kissed him lazily, tongues tangling in slow, filthy strokes.

you reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around him. he groaned loud, head tipping back, the sound vibrating through his chest. “fuck— your hand feels so good,” he breathed, hips twitching up into your grip. “please don’t tease me— been dying for this.”

“you sure about this?” you murmured against his lips between kisses, giving him one last out even as your hips rolled in a slow, teasing circle.

“never been more sure of anything in my life,” he breathed, hands gripping your thighs.

you laughed softly into his mouth, the sound turning into a moan when he shifted his hips just right. one of his hands slid between your bodies, fingers exploring with gentle, curious touches until you were trembling.

only then did you reach down, wrap your hand around him, and guide him to your entrance. you sank down inch by torturous inch, both of you moaning at the slow, perfect stretch. when you were fully seated you stayed there for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in while your bodies adjusted.

then you started to move.

slow rolls of your hips at first, savoring every drag and press. ryland’s head tipped back, exposing the long line of his throat. you leaned in to kiss along his jaw, his neck, sucking lightly at his pulse point while you rode him with deliberate, unhurried patience. his hands roamed your back, your sides, your breasts, learning every curve like it was new data he needed to memorize.

gradually the rhythm built. your movements grew deeper, harder. the bunk creaked steadily. soft gasps and moans filled the small room. his fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your rhythm falter and your breath catch.

“ryland— fuck, just like that—”

“you feel so good,” he panted, voice breaking on the words. “oh, baby— don’t stop, please—”

it hit you like a solar flare. you cried out his name loud, clenching around him hard, hips stuttering through the waves. he followed right after, burying himself deep with a broken, guttural moan.

“yes— fuck— coming— inside you— god, you’re perfect— take it all—”

you collapsed against his chest, both of you trembling, hearts hammering in sync. his arms wrapped around you tight, holding you close while the aftershocks rolled through, glasses still fogged and slightly askew on his nose.

for a long moment, neither of you said anything.

you were half sprawled across him, one leg tangled with his, your arm draped somewhere over his chest like you’d both simply.... collapsed and decided to stay that way. the room was quiet except for your breathing, slowly evening out, though not nearly fast enough to feel normal.

ryland was staring at the ceiling.

very intently.

like it had just revealed the meaning of life and he was still processing it.

“....so,” you said eventually.

“so,” he echoed.

another pause.

you shifted slightly, propping your chin on his chest so you could look at him. “on a scale from one to ‘we should never speak of this again,’ where are you at?”

he didn’t look at you.

“....i’m considering faking amnesia.”

you snorted. “wow. rude.”

“i’m kidding,” he said quickly, then paused. “mostly.”

“mostly,” you repeated.

“okay, no, that sounded worse than i meant it,” he said, finally turning his head toward you, eyes wide like he was trying to fix it in real time. “i don’t regret it. i do not regret it. i just—” he gestured vaguely with one hand, which was difficult considering you were partially pinning him down, “—need a second to emotionally catch up with my own life choices.”

you raised an eyebrow. “your life choices led you to space.”

“for the record, i did not consent to that.”

fair, but you ignored him. “and then to alien pollen.”

“unfortunately, yes.”

“and then to me.”

he hesitated.

“that part i’m less willing to categorize as a mistake.”

you stared at him for a second.

then narrowed your eyes. “that was almost smooth.”

“thank you,” he said. “i panicked halfway through it.”

“i could tell.”

another stretch of quiet settled in, but it was different now. looser. like the tension that had been buzzing under your skin all day had finally burned itself out, leaving something softer in its place.

“....for the record,” you added after a moment, “your ‘being quiet’ plan earlier? terrible.”

he made a strangled noise. “oh my god.”

“like, impressively bad,” you continued. “i heard everything.”

“you did not hear everything.”

“ryland.”

he covered his face with both hands, cheeks heated up. “i would like to be ejected into space now.”

“denied,” you said immediately. “we need you for the mission.”

“please, just kill me already.”

“also,” you added, very seriously, “for future reference, the wall is not soundproof.”

“i have gathered that,” he said into his hands.

“just making sure.”

he peeked at you through his fingers. “....are you going to bring this up again later?”

“oh, constantly.”

“i walked into that one.”

“you really did.”

another quiet moment passed.

you could feel his breathing steady under you now, less uneven, less strained.

“....hey,” he said after a while.

“yeah?”

there was a small pause before he spoke again, like he was choosing his words more carefully this time. “are you okay?”

it caught you off guard.

not the question itself, but the way he asked it. steady. grounded, like he needed the answer to mean something.

you blinked, then nodded. “yeah,” you said, softer. “i am.”

he turned his head then, just enough to look at you properly, like he needed the visual confirmation to go with it.

“okay,” he said finally, the word carrying more weight than it should have. “i'm glad.”

you nudged him lightly with your shoulder, a small, grounding kind of contact. “you?”

he let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck somewhere in his chest for a while. “yeah. i think so. which is honestly surprising, given.... everything.”

another quiet stretch settled over you, but it wasn’t awkward. not really. just calm, in a slightly surreal, post haze kind of way.

eventually, the exhaustion caught up with you. real, actual exhaustion this time. not the restless, jittery kind from before.

you shifted closer without thinking, your head settling more comfortably against him.

he stilled for half a second then relaxed. his arm tightening just slightly around you.

“also,” he added, voice softer now, almost drowsy, “for the record…. i don’t regret it.”

your chest tightened. you didn’t lift your head, didn’t look at him. just let the words settle somewhere quiet inside you.

“…me neither,” you murmured.

that was the last coherent thing either of you said.

This adorable menance child had been told at least seven times not to draw on the walls, and yet somehow the living room currently had a giant crayon drawing stretched across it anyway.

The funny part? The drawing looked suspiciously familiar. You sighed deeply and crouched near the wall with a wet duster in your hand, beginning to wipe away Luna’s latest act of artistic rebellion.

“She is exactly like her father,” you muttered under your breath, as you started to rub the walls with the duster.

Right on cue; as if Leon across the city heard his daughter getting punished, he came home.

The floorboards creaked softly behind you, and before he even spoke, you already knew Leon was home. Then came his voice “Hey, honey—” Warm and smooth that slipped straight past every barrier around your heart, making something deep in your chest squeeze painfully with familiar warmth.

“DADDY!” Luna gasped dramatically from the living room corner like a victim finally seeing her rescue arrive.

You immediately pointed the duster toward Luna without turning around. “Nope. Stay there.”

Luna groans immediately and before you could form any other sentence; Leon walked fully into the living room looking completely confused, car keys still dangling from his fingers. “Wow, okay… what exactly is happening here?”

You continued scrubbing the wall without turning to look at your husband. “Your daughter is being punished.”

“Honey, our daughter,” Leon corrected automatically.

You snorted instantly. “Not today, today she is your daughter.” you dramatically emphasised the word “Your”.

Leon blinked once and twice; then you stopped wiping the wall and turned slightly to look at him; and you realize he looked ridiculously good for a man who was out in danger; his blue eyes were locked on yours as he gave you a biggest grin before looking toward Luna who was standing sadly in the corner hugging her teddy.

And the moment Leon’s eyes landed on his daughter, you instantly knew you were doomed. His entire expression softened almost immediately, blue eyes melting with warmth as he looked at her standing dramatically in the corner. Leon Scott Kennedy had absolutely no resistance when it came to his daughter as he pocketed his keys. “Aw, c’mon,” he complained softly pushing the keys deeper inside his pocket, “Why’s she in the corner?”

“Because,” you replied slowly, turning your attention back towards the wall as you start wiping it again but god the stains were as stubborn as your husband; “someone decided the living room needed redecorating.”

Leon frowned slightly before his eyes drifted toward the wall. His brows narrowed at the scene but as he took in the drawing and all he could mutter was, “…Oh.”

The wall was covered with giant crayon drawings stretched messily across the paint. Basically there was a stick figure who had blond hair, and in his hand a very large gun; and big sunglasses on him covering his eyes; oh she also added a stupid grin that your husband always wore.

Exactly that was your husband; drawn by your six year daughter.

Leon stared at the drawing for a second too long before his shoulders suddenly twitched, and then he started laughing almost instantly.

“Oh, this is—” he exclaimed excitedly, clearly far too impressed by the situation.

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Don’t.”

Leon looked at you innocently. “I didn’t even finish my sentence.”

“Don’t you dare help her,” you warned, pointing the duster at him with exaggerated strictness despite the smile threatening to betray you.

Luna slowly turned her head from the corner. “Daddy?” she called softly, her tiny voice so pitiful it made your chest ache with sympathy, forcing you to quickly turn your attention back toward the wall before your resolve completely crumbled.

Leon at his daughter's voice walked closer toward her before crouching slightly beside her dramatically. “Yeah, baby?”

“I’m innocent.” Luna complained.

“Mhm, sure” you mutter under your breath.

Leon coughed into his fist to hide his laugh, then whispered toward Luna like he was part of a secret FBI operation. “So, you drew me?”

Luna whispered loudly back, “Yes.” “With your gun and sunglasses.”

Leon voice turned impressed as he pointed toward the wall proudly. “That’s actually kinda—”

“Leon.”

“—detailed,” he finished weakly.

You slowly stood up from the floor holding the wet duster in your hand while staring directly at your husband.

Leon immediately raised his both hands slightly. “Okay, in my defense—”

“There is no defense.” you said.

“She captured me perfectly!” Leon exclaimed.

“She vandalized the wall.”

Leon looked toward Luna again. Luna looked back at him with the saddest expression she could possibly create.

As you see them exchange unsaid words you realized it was absolute manipulation. GOD. These two truly shared the same DNA.

Leon sighed dramatically. “Honey… maybe let her off with a warning?”

You stared at him and scoffed, “You know what?” you said.

Leon immediately knew that tone. “…What?”

“You can stand there too.” you said firmly.

Leon blinked at you in confusion. “What!?”

“You heard me.” you said crossing your arms in front of your chest.

Luna gasped loudly from the corner. “DADDY’S GETTING PUNISHED TOO!?”

Leon pointed at himself in disbelief. “For what!?”

“For interfering.”

“I was negotiating!”

“You were encouraging her!”

“She’s creative!”

“She drew you on the wall!”

Leon looked genuinely touched and smiled turning towards Luna, and speaking proudly “That’s my girl.”

“Corner. Now. Leon. Scott. Kennedy”

Leon stared at you like you had personally betrayed him, but he also knew when you said his full name he was in big; big; trouble.

“That’s insane.” leon scoffed dramatically.

“Nope.”

“This is abuse.”

“You get fifteen minutes.”

“WHAT?!”

Luna giggled from the corner and chirpily said, "Daddy I only got ten!”

Leon placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “This is unfair.”

You raised your brow at leon; “If you want to intervene, then you take the punishment too.”

Luna immediately reached her tiny arms toward him. “Daddy, come here.”

Leon sighed heavily like a man accepting defeat before finally walking toward the corner beside his daughter.

But instead of standing normally and holding her hand; this absolute silly man bent down, and picked Luna up, making her teddy fall onto the floor with a soft thud and slowly leon settled her onto his shoulders.

“Leon!”, you gasped, seeing him picking your daughter.

“What?” he asked innocently while Luna burst into giggles above him, her tiny hands clutching tightly into his blond hair.

“We’re still being punished, mommy,” Luna whispered happily.

“exactly, baby,” Leon whispered back. “But now we are both being punished, the more the merrier.” Leon chuckles grimly, as he says that.

You stared at them quietly in utter disbelief, the two of them standing in the corner. Luna giggling uncontrollably. Leon trying not to laugh at himself.

Both of them acting like the timeout corner was some kind of family bonding experience. While you crouched there again; wiping the rest of the crayon off the wall, occasionally glancing at both of them; and your chest softened painfully at the sight before you.

Your husband standing there with your daughter perched on his shoulders. Her little laughter filled the room.

Leon glances back at you with the tiniest smile tugging at his lips as he mouths; “I love you, honey”, like you surprised him with something precious he always wanted and despite the “punishment." They both were actually happy.

And despite yourself, you shook your head as a quiet laugh slipped past your lips, your heart filling with a kind of warmth and love that felt almost too big to hold inside your chest.

“Fine,” you sighed softly and stood up; turning your attention towards them. “Punishment’s over.”

The second the words left your mouth, Leon grinned triumphantly before lifting Luna off his shoulders and pulling her tightly against his chest, making her burst into happy giggles. Then slowly, the two of them made their way toward you together.

And the moment they reached you, Leon didn’t hesitate. One arm stayed wrapped securely around Luna while the other slid around your waist, pulling you into him effortlessly until all three of you melted together in one tangled embrace. Instantly, Leon’s familiar scent surrounded you, warm woodsy cologne mixed with the lingering cold from outside, so achingly familiar it made your chest tighten.

Luna laughed softly between both of you while her tiny arms wrapped around your shoulders, and Leon rested his chin lightly against the top of your head for just a second. And in that moment, holding both of them close like this, you realized something that settled deep into your soul with absolute certainty.

This was home.

The sun had long laid below the horizon, a few stray stars glimmering through the light pollution fogging Raccoon City’s rainy skyline.

You were honestly just trying to get home from college and back to your apartment as fast as possible so you could finally take a hot shower and forget about the shit day you just had.

Mayybe you were working the accelerator a little too much, the needle on your dash spiking from 1,000 to 3,000 rpm every time God blessed you with His slowest driver and you had to rapidly switch lanes.

You normally wouldn’t speed, but considering there weren’t a lot of people on the long stretch of almost neverending highway on this weeknight and there weren’t any cops hiding in the shoulder lanes, you figured going 10-15 above the speed limit wouldn’t hurt…right?

You were just about a mile away from your exit…to home, to your boiling hot shower and satisfying skincare routine, to lounging in bed and unwinding, when you saw the cursed flash of blue an red light up your rear view mirror.

“Shit,” you muttered, heart skipping a beat as you quickly turned your hazards on and pulled over to the shoulder lane, the cop car behind you following suit.

You took a deep breath, rolling down your window and remembering to place your hands on the wheel to prevent any accusations for ‘reaching’, hoping you didn’t look to your left and see some Sergeant SquareJaw from bumfuck nowhere and a defective body cam hovering outside your window.

You dared to glance in the rear view mirror. You could almost make out two figures sitting in the squad car behind you.

Behind the wheel, a more matured silhouette. In the passenger seat, an officer with a more boyish frame.

The older officer seemed to be explaining something as the younger one nodded intently.

You tapped your fingers against the wheel and stole a few impatient glances at the clock on your dash, “Take your time…” you huffed.

Almost on cue, a sandy haired officer hopped out of the car.

Oh shit, he’s kinda cute, you thought, squinting to discreetly get a better look.

Much to your suspicion, he was young, maybe around your age. He was pretty tall too, 5’10 maybe with a nice muscular frame.

You took another shaky breath in as he approached your drivers window, hoping he would go easy on you.

He smiled politely when he met your nervous features,

“Hi ma’m, how are you doing?” He asked, the warmth and air of sincerity in his voice catching you off guard.

He really was cute. Up close, his face was kinda doughy and adorable, a stark contrast from all the other officers you’ve seen milling around.

His steel blue eyes were soft and curious, the police lights casting a glow on his profile that accentuated the outline of his face, like the slight cleft on his chin and bottom lip.

Maybe he was a rookie?

That would explain him taking a few reassurance-seeking glances back at his partner every so often.

“I’m good,” you responded, voice laced with nerves, “How’re you doing?”

“I’m doing alright,” he chuckled softly, the sound making you chest flutter a little, “So uhm, where were you headed tonight?”

“Oh, I was just…heading home from college.”

“Okay,” He gently nodded.

It was only then you realized the poor guy was just standing out in the rain.

“Oh, do you want an umbrella?” You offered, “I have one in my car.”

He shook his head, “Oh I’m good, thank you. This uniform had me overheating earlier anyway,” he shrugged with a chuckle.

You nodded, and could see the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped, adjusting his stance, seemingly growing a little nervous himself.

“So, do you know why we pulled you over tonight?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it shut again.

“To…chat in the rain?” You murmured with a shrug, not wanting to admit to your minor offense just yet.

The tension on his face melted as he broke into a soft and amused laugh. Your shoulders unfurled at the sound, death grip loosening against the wheel as you couldnt help but quietly chuckle yourself.

He cleared his throat, trying but failing to wipe the grin off his face as he regained his composure.

“That too,” he said, “But the reason my partner pulled you over was because you were going 65 in a 50 mile per hour zone,” he explained calmly.

“Oh okay,” you gulped, fiddling with the loose seam on your steering wheel.

“Can I see your license and registration please?” He asked.

“Of course! Can I reach for my bag and the glove compartment?” You hesitated, “…everything’s in there.”

“Go for it,” He gave you a reassuring nod, his fingers tapping idly against your car where his hand leaned against.

You got your license out first, hands still a little jittery as you then rummaged through the glove compartment, before pulling out a small stack of papers.

You honestly didn’t know which was which, but you hoped he could atleast figure it out.

He grinned softly, taking it from you, “Thanks ma’m, I’ll go ahead and scan these real quick, just sit tight.”

You nodded, but his steps faltered and he turned back to hand you the top most paper on the stack.

“Oh—don’t wanna steal your notes,” he chuckled, handing you a folded piece of handwritten notes from one of your classes.

“I don’t even know how that ended up in there, I’m so disorganized today.” You huff.

“Oh I get it, trust me,” Leon hummed, waving a dismissive hand, “My cars a mess. I’ll be lucky if I can even see the flooring under all my stuff.”

The both of you chuckled, before a comfortable silence lulled over you. Maybe he was just being vigilant, but you still felt a little shy at the way his soft gaze flitted over your face.

The both of you jolted at the sound of a short honk.

He glanced back at the cop car where his partner sat behind the wheel and blinked as if he remembered he was on duty.

“Oh right—“ He said, you tried not to giggle at the flush rising to his ears, “I’ll just go ahead and—yeah,” He sputtered, before beelining back toward the squad car.

You sure hope your grin isn’t wiped off your face if he comes back with a fat ticket.

Man, you should’ve just eased off the gas, you really can’t afford a ticket right now.

After a few moments of anxious waiting, you see him get back out of the car.

And yay, that cute little grin on his face told you that you weren’t in trouble. You hoped.

He gently handed you back your belongings, “Since everything came back clean, I’m just gonna let you go with a warning. Sound good?”

You sighed in relief, slumping against your seat, “Thank fuck.”

The rookie snorted, and your eyes widened once you realized what you just said.

Cursing in front of an officer isn’t illegal…right?

Of course it isn’t.

Whatever, you’re so damn tired.

“I-i mean thank you officer…” you squinted trying to read his name tag.

He straightened, looking down at his slightly tilted badge and fixing it, “Oh, it’s Kennedy—Leon Kennedy.”

“Okay, have a nice night and stay warm Officer Kennedy.”

“You too,” he grinned, “drive safe alright?”

“Sir yessir,” you nodded.

He chuckled, shaking his head before heading back to his car.

Once you finally pulled onto the road, you made damn sure to stay on the speed limit.

You certainly didn’t wanna meet that blue eyed officer cutie again…you think.