The alarm’s still blaring; he’s no help. Another minute passes before you bother to reach your arm over Grace’s body to slam it off. And by then, with half your weight pressed down on his chest, he’s already rustled awake. Caught underneath you, Grace has a weary, half-conscious grin on his face. It’s almost enough to make you livid, the way he’s looking up at you, all glimmery, just past his lashes. Barely awake and far too pleased. Stubbornly, you say, “We’re throwing out the alarm clock.”

Your executive decision comes like a punch to the gut. Grace’s grin falls, and he immediately props up on his elbows. “What? Why?”

You have to rub your eyes. “It’s disturbingly loud—like, fire alarm loud. Adrien has the biodome on a regular twenty-four hour Circadian rhythm, which means we can wake up naturally,” you list off, “And it also doesn’t work.”

“It works.” Grace grabs away at his glasses, taking them up off the bedside table and slipping them on just to argue with you more visibly. Plainly, he states, “I’m awake right now.” “But, it doesn’t wake you up. It wakes me up, and then I have to do the dirty work of getting you out of bed.”

“Whatever this is—” Grace makes sure to jut his fingers around your stomach with a bunch of tentative prods, just about the same as you’d done minutes trying to jolt him awake, “—is not getting me out of bed.” You immediately grab for his hands, trying to pry them away from you. Despite your morning bickering, the back and forth of the two of you tousling against one another doesn’t have a single drop of malice to it. When all is said and done, you’re very, very pleased to be stranded in space with him.

—

“Okay, class. Review time. Who wants to tell me about Newton’s Laws of Motion?”  

Your favorite (and very rare pastime) is accompanying Grace to his science classes. The Eridian younglings seem to be extra jumpy every time you decide to help out and watch Mr. G in his element—pressed to the xenonite glass and rattling away at the sight of you sitting on a tall stool beside his setup. There’s a very large makeshift Newton’s Cradle atop the steel table today, and a chorus of loud chirping, each youngling more eager than the next to impress. Each has their own individualized pattern of: Me. Me. Me. 

The enthusiasm is resounding. Grace claps, a grin growing wide on his face, “One at a time, one at a time.” One very small Eridian at the front of the multitiered formation raises their claw particularly high. One of Rocky’s younglings. Grace throws an index-finger up: “Shoot, Junior.”

Junior shrills: If mate, where younglings?

You can practically see Grace’s soul rise up out of his body. His hands are stilled at his sides. Regret sets in on his face. Of all the things. You swallow, hand coming up to pull at the neckline of your sweater; it’s unbearably hot despite the fog. It takes a moment for Grace to fall back into motion. Sternly, he says, “That is so presumptuous of you and not at all appropriate for you to ask me in a classroom setting.” Stubbornly, Junior thuds himself into a slump on the floor. Grace carries on, “Who’s up next?”

It’s clear that Grace wants to get a grip on the detour quickly and try to steer them all back in the right direction. But, it’s too late. This initial question seems to spiral into a very clear trajectory. More chirps and hums: Tired of human Newton. Want learn human courting ritual. Tell us first meet story.

Grace puts both of his hands up. “We’re supposed to be learning about Newton’s Laws. Not scaring our very special guest.” His objections are met, and vastly overpowered, by the repetitive chorus of the younglings, who are increasingly interested in the same thing: First meet. First meet. First meet.

“Okay. You want me to do first meet.” Grace turns to you, finally, a sorry look on his face and a blush tinging his cheeks red just beneath the rims of his glasses. “They want me to do first meet, hon.” He’s exasperated. You can’t help but grin, because this occurrence is nothing new. You’ve told some iteration of “first meet” to the class about a hundred times—detailing, at length, your chance meeting with Grace. All things considered, it isn’t the worst story in the world.

It takes you a very short amount of time to get yourself set up for the retelling. You sit cross-legged in front of the xenonite glass. The younglings make sure to huddle up as close as possible as you speak. Now, Grace has his cardigan shed, hanging on the corner of his whiteboard, and he’s taken your place on the high stool. You talk, and he listens—along with the rest of his Eridian science class. “Mr. Grace and I met on a ship on an ocean just like this one, but bigger, a very, very long time ago. We were both recruited for a very important mission to save the Earth. We all know this part of the story, right?” The younglings sing with agreement. They know Earth’s prior turmoil as much as they know Erid’s.

From behind you, you pull out two identical, xenonite models. You hold up one, “So, here’s me,” and then the other, “And here is Mr. Grace.” They’ve seen these before, and are sure to brighten up at the sight of the little figurines. “When I first met Mr. Grace, I thought he was… handsome.” 

The word choice sets Grace into a fit, all while the younglings chirp along and stamp their claws on the floor. “Oh, good lord,” you hear him grumble. You peer over your shoulder to see that Grace has his hands buried in his face, unable to look you in the eyes.

“We were assigned to work with one another, which meant we had to see each other constantly. This was more difficult than you’d think. When I talked to Mr. Grace, like this…” You dance your little figurine mini-me towards mini-Grace, and you make sure to pull mini-Grace back. “He’d be a little bit surprised, and retreat into his shell a little. An equal and opposite reaction, kind of like…” you trail off, gesturing to the Newton’s Cradle behind you. The younglings seem to murmur with agreement: Third Law. You nod, “And I’d do the same. We kind of danced around each other for a while, but it all worked out in the end.” Junior waves a claw around: Is true?

Grace concedes, pressing his glasses higher up on his face. You can see the bottom half of his lenses beginning to fog up. He’s absolutely flushed and it’s impossible to conceal. He concedes: “It wasn’t that simple, but for the sake of the lesson, yes, it was just like Newton’s Third Law of Motion.” Then, they erupt into further discussion amongst themselves: Now, mates. Human courting very simple. Human courting like physics. Bond is easier than Eridians.

“Alright, alright,” Grace pipes up again, trying to quiet them down. “If you guys can run me through the other two laws, we can do lunch a little bit early.” 

—

The younglings are only half-willing to accept your departure and listen to the rest of Grace’s motion unit. While Grace teaches the rest of his lesson, you’re due to meet with Rocky on the central quarter of the beach. He’s always making sure to monitor the two of you, a good host tending to his human guests.

You’re not sure how the topic comes up. Maybe, it’s the unintended topic of Grace’s physics lesson, or your nearing one year anniversary of being on Erid. Or, it’s the fact that it’s simply been long enough without verbalizing your particular feelings on the matter. Grace was something to you on the carrier, before either of you had been sent up to space. Acquaintance, then crush. Then, sort-of boyfriend. Definitely boyfriend, by the time he’d gotten the greater portion of his memory back.

Now… all the Eridians like to call you mates, which is altogether too biological for either of you. Partner’s probably better. With all this taken into account, there hasn’t been a very good time to iron it out with him. The two of you have been so satisfied on Erid that it seems sort of pointless to do so. You’re happy. And still, you’re being struck with the sudden feeling that you desperately, desperately want to be married to Grace.

So, you bring this up to Rocky. As the two of you have your daily stroll about the biodome, he’s trying his best to understand the minute details of what a “marriage” is. You make sure to trudge along the sand slowly, matching the pace of Rocky rolling along as best as you can. Human ritual is confusing. Mate asks mate to be together forever, but together already. Futile?

There’s no doubt about it that the proposal thing is futile. It’s futile and outdated already on Earth—and so, it should be futile and outdated all the way on the other side of the galaxy on Erid, where its inhabitants bond so easily. “Well, yes. Obviously, we’re already together, together.” It sounds so immature when you say it. “But, it’s an Earth tradition, you know? Beyond the formality and all, it’s… romantic.” 

Rocky dips only slightly into the seafoam as it approaches and recedes with the tide. Need meaning of word. You have to think about this particular word deeply. Romantic? What’s romantic?

Grace is, even if he doesn’t claim to be. Nobody else would be willing to ration out coffee for you, teach the robot-arm to dance to your favorite songs, and take up handicrafts to make you slightly less bored (his favorite: an army of medical glove dolls). His proudest achievement, by far, has been solving your complaints about having zero reading materials. His idea: taking Stratt’s pirated-everything laptop and transcribing books for you by hand on the back of old lab manuals. It takes you a short minute to collect your thoughts together neatly for Rocky’s understanding. “Humans like to express care for their mates. In a marriage, rings are a symbol of a lasting bond. You wear them on your left hand, here.”

You wiggle your ring finger at Rocky. He rolls a bit closer to you, water flicking off the geometric edges of his xenonite shell. Oh. Understand. Like how Adrian name carved on arm? All Eridian mates do this.

“Yeah,” you nod, “It’s exactly like that.”

I know Grace finger circumference. And I know your finger circumference. His claws are raised into the air triumphantly, as if struck by a stroke of genius. Adrien and I fabricate rings for human ritual. You try to breeze over this fact that Rocky has your body measurements stored in his very extensive Eridian brain. What’s more concerning is the fact that he’s serious about the rings. You almost immediately draw back, raising your hands up and waving them rapidly, with a punchy “no.” Rocky seems to slump in his xenonite casing. You’re far too disagreeable. Why not? Rocky provide easy fix.

“Grace and I haven’t had the talk yet, and I don’t want to rush it.” The truth is that you’re shy to ask. When all is said and done, you’re sure that Grace will say yes. There’s no reason for him not to say yes—one, because he adores you, and two, because you’re basically already married. But, the question feels far too serious for your taste, and you’d rather let him bring it up himself.

Rocky seems to tumble on his back and roll over into the water again. No sense. Not difficult to see—you, Grace, good life. Unnecessary complication. You don’t have much of an argument against him.

—

Your walk back up to the house after Grace’s class is filled with nothing but high remarks. It’s just the two of you again, the younglings back to their respective clans and Rocky back to work.  As you trudge up the hill with Grace, breeze whipping around your hair, he’s still a little bit caught up by the thought of you handling his students earlier in the morning. “Maybe, you can take my job and I can take up something more solitary. Like fishing.”

“It’s not a big deal, Ry.” You have to stifle your amusement. “You short-circuited. It happens.”

Grace tilts his head, blinking intermittently, “Would you really call that short-circuiting? I’d consider it more strategic than anything else.” Grace shoves his hands into his pockets, more mortified than anything else at the thought of his own flustered shock. He doesn’t believe what he’s saying himself, and still, he’s far too prideful to admit otherwise. As the two of you reach the front door, Grace makes sure to skip in front of you eagerly to open it and let you both in. 

“Right. We can definitely classify it as a strategic, intentional lapse in speech,” you tease. While Grace bends over to untie his Converses and kick them off, he seems to hang his head particularly low.

“You’re not allowed in the classroom for the rest of this month,” he tells you. Two and a half weeks. It’s more for his sake than it is his students’. You nod, placing your work boots on the rack right by Grace’s sneakers. 

“In any case, they’re just curious. It isn’t an inherently bad thing.” He doesn’t try to contest that point. Curiosity is never a bad thing, and it’s palpable how much his new class of younglings adores learning from him. What he doesn’t like, admittedly, is how their curiosity extends into your shared dating history. He’s very lucky you haven’t retold how you sacrificially launched yourself into space with him; it would no doubt cause a coup.

It’s clear that Grace is at least overall pleased with your storyelling—because as soon as you shut the door behind you, he seems to stoop down to try and kiss you. His blonde hair tickles at your forehead with the action, glasses slightly askew. It’s with much regret that you have to stop him. Grace comes upon an impasse. He’s kissing the front of your palm, not your lips, and he’s deeply confused. He retracts. “What?” You make sure to duck out the way and keep a straight path towards your writing desk. Grace trails behind you like some kind of lost puppy, “Wait, wait.”

“It’s Friday.” Since the start of Project Hail Mary, you’d been assigned to documentation, and so, on Erid, you thought it would be best to carry on with the work. Fridays—you and Grace had agreed upon sticking to as close as Earth time as possible—were for your weekly log, an ongoing tracker of your settlement on Erid. You tell Grace, dragging your chair back and seating yourself onto it, “It’ll take ten minutes just to type something up.” More like twenty. You’re very thorough, and he knows that. “I’ll make it quick, and then we can do dinner.”

You’re dancing around the fact that Grace very clearly does not want dinner. He nearly keels over at your despondence towards him. “I’ve been waiting all day to get you to myself,” he confesses. Much to his protest, you open the old laptop and click into the usual file. Grace tries again, throwing his cardigan over the back of your chair: “Maybe we can circle back to the log in an hour or so, and work productively on our oxytocin output.” The corporate-scientist talk really kills you.

“Fifteen minutes,” you wager. Grace groans. You know exactly where this tends to go. He gets needy, distracts you from your work, makes it near-impossible to return to. Secretly, you adore when he gets like this—all restless and slightly irritable. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere,” you chuckle, “I mean, physically, I cannot leave the dome.”

“One smooch and I’ll get out of your hair?” he rasps back. You tilt your head to look up at him with a very empty look of exasperation. Grace takes both of his hands and cups them onto your cheeks, before holding you still to plant his lips onto yours. Still seated at your desk, you have to twist your neck oddly to better face him, and when you finally find a comfortable enough way to turn, you make sure to brush Grace’s forearm with your hand. You can feel him smiling into you. It’s almost juvenile, the way he evolves the quick peck into a deeper and more intimate kiss.

You tug on the side-loop of his jeans, and he pulls off of you with a labored breath. “O-kay,” you punch out, “Quota reached. You go work on lesson plans over there, and I’ll do my logging over here.” He lets out another belligerent grumble, and reluctantly obeys. Grace makes sure to press a kiss to your temple, before padding over to the living room to give you space.

Though, you can hear Grace mumbling, out of sight, “Armando, do you see what I have to deal with?” It sounds as if Grace drags a chair out at the dining table and slides himself onto it. Then, silence.

Alone, now, you have ample time to consider what your writings will be made up of. Your log from last Friday reads briefly about improvements to the biodome—perfection of water temperature thanks to Adrian and your attempts to germinate soybeans from the Hail Mary. You’re not exactly sure what to write about for this week. There’s Grace’s lessons with the Eridian younglings, your ongoing efforts to create an English-Eridian dictionary, and today’s extensive talk with Rocky about marriage. The last option, of course, needs to be omitted from the record, on the off chance that your other half checks the file. All things considered, you could be happily un-married to Grace.

—

But you’re pleased, of course, finding that he thinks otherwise.

Only a few weeks pass when the subject crops up again. You’re busy hanging up laundry, while Grace sweeps the floor. It’s one of those more productive weekends in the biodome, and he’s whistling along to The Beatles. The clothesline reaches from one edge of the bedroom to a corner of the dining room on the opposite side. You’ve got a good momentum going, a rhythmic tug and fold of clothes off the line, until Grace asks—or, rather, stumbles into—“Do you remember when I thought we were married? I mean, I thought I was married to you, but I didn’t know that you were you. What am I saying?”

You know exactly what he’s trying to say, and it’s enough to make your hands jittery. Just when you thought you’d be able to flee from the overall concept of marriage, he decides to throw you off your game. You hold up a maroon shirt of his—a worthy distraction. It has a crude illustration of an amino acid with downturned eyebrows and fumes puffing out on either side of it. A-mean-o, the shirt reads. Not very funny, but you’re sure that you’ve stolen it from Grace at least once or twice. You try to laugh it off. “Well, I’d say it’s pretty difficult not to remember,” you tell him, “You’re still a pretty long way from living it down.” 

“Well, I don’t think I’d necessarily want to do that,” he hums. You fold the shirt with an all-too-sharp precision and toss it onto the rest of the old shirts piled on your king bed. Does he know what he’s saying? You can’t tell. The next garment that you grab off the line is one of Grace’s red jumpsuits that the two of you have naturally turned into gardening gear. The act of folding this up isn’t nearly as easy, considering that your hands are stiffening with nervousness.

Grace comes right behind you, one hand brushing against the small of your back as he passes you and bends over to rustle around his side of the bed. He’s very determined to obtain whatever’s been stashed there. You can see his hand slip underneath the mattress, and he makes sure to hold the foreign object behind his back as he turns to face you. “Can I give you a hypothetical? Won’t take too much of a setup.”

“Ryland.” You’re as wary as you are delighted. You try to peer around him to see what he’s got tucked behind his back, but he’s very quick to angle himself away from you.

“Okay, just be patient with me.” He chuckles at your eagerness, one hand coming out to hold you still by the shoulder. Then, he retracts it—chest rising and falling as he looks more soberly over your face. “The first time we met.” Grace stalls, then tries again, “Let’s say, hypothetically, the first time we met, I desperately wanted to talk to you.”

“What?”

“Like after my first astrophage meeting, I saw you eating dinner in the cafeteria on the center-left table, but I was too nauseous from the jet ride over to eat that night. So, I sat there the morning after because I thought you might show up. And you did,” Grace rambles through the explanation, before talking a big breath in. “How would you react if I had done that? Hypothetically?”

“I’d probably call you a stalker, hypothetically.” Your lackluster response makes him squirm.  

“Okay, well, that’s what happened,” Grace surrenders. He only seems half-offended—less so when you seem to start laughing at him. “Okay,” he breathes in, “I’m trying to tell you that I’ve always wanted you around me since forever ago. And I want us to do… this.” He takes your hand to place the object onto your palm. You seem to sober up a little bit, hushed. Grace hands you a small, xenonite box, all cross-hatched. It weighs barely anything.

“This isn’t an ammonia bomb, is it?”

Grace snorts. “I have a sneaking suspicion that you know it isn’t that.” You turn the box over in your hand; you’re sure that there’s some sort of Eridian engraving in it that you haven’t quite mastered yet. “I figured that we haven’t done things very linearly. You basically proposed by coming up to space with me, and I proposed by already thinking we were married. So, the real deal’s in there. Sorry for the wait.”

You don’t even care to open it that moment, too preoccupied with him to even think about the box in your hand. You make a sweeping motion to throw your arms over Grace’s shoulders, chin tucking over his shoulder. With just as much ardor, he brings his arms around your waist. There, the two of you embrace there for the next couple of minutes. In your cottage on Erid, in the middle of space, ages away from Earth. Away from Earth might’ve bothered the both of you once before—but now, it doesn’t seem so bad.

—

It’s a warm night in the biodome. Grace has your hand in his lap, and he’s using his index and his thumb to rotate the wedding band on your left hand. It’s a perfect fit on both of you, some kind of dark metal alloy with what you think is xenonite glass embedded into a middle-layer. The hushed sound of the waves echoes out from down the hill, and the two of you sit on the grassy knoll in one another’s company. You’ve been thinking this all night long, and you’ve got to ask: “Did Rocky tattle on me?”

Grace hangs his head with a grin, “Not on purpose. I went and asked if I could get him to fabricate me some wedding bands. You can imagine the look on my face when I found out he already had them done.” Before he can tease you any further, you make sure to take Grace’s face into your hands and kiss him silly. He seems to chuckle into it a bit, caught off guard by the sheer intensity that you seem to want to press your lips into his. By the time you’re done with him, his glasses are practically at a forty-five-degree angle on his face.

You have to reach your hands up to straighten them out for him. Then: “How long d’you think before your class notices these things?”

Grace groans, leaning his forehead straight onto your shoulder. “I can’t even think about that right now… Half a class period, if I’m lucky.”

“I know what I’m asking and I want you to do it,” you affirm. “You can say that Grace and Yao and Ilyukhina don’t know two cents about documentation,” It’s a good excuse, and you know it is because you’ve spent the past few hours thinking it up. All Stratt needs to do is feed it to the committee. “DuBois would’ve done that job, bless his soul. I can do it in his place. Same job up there as I do down here, and I’m good—you know that. I can be useful.” Utilitarian, first. You know Stratt well enough to cover all your bases.

Decent justifications. You can see Stratt crack just slightly. She shakes her head disapprovingly, “We would have to recalculate for launch to account for your rations and your belongings. It would take an extra week to account for the extra weight. And you’d have to get fitted for a suit.” With an authority as uninhibited as hers, all Stratt needs to do is say yes. All the logistics are not as much of a barrier as she’s making it out to be.

So, you have to be more point-blank: “He might hate you for sending me up, and for a while, he might hate me even more for making you do it.” That part frightens you more than the act of doing it: Grace’s disappointment seeing you on the same suicide mission that he’s been relinquished to. It’s strange, though, that you haven’t felt more sure about something in your whole life. You want to be with Grace. “He has to go up. We all know it, even if he thinks he’s not fit for it.” You glance down at your lap, and back up at Stratt, “You care for him, don’t you?” 

She’s quiet. You push harder, “I know you do, or you wouldn’t go through all the effort to take care of him. I’m asking you to do this for him. Let me do this. He needs me.”

“You’ve only just met,” Stratt counters. For a moment, she sounds like your mother—scolding you for running away, in some juvenile act of defiance. It’s possible that Stratt cares about you even more than she does Grace. You’ve known her for double the time that he has, and worked with her just as closely. Your most generous assumption of her feelings towards you is that of a caring mentorship.

“And it will have been worth it in the end. You have to believe that.” The last thing you’re sure about is that Stratt has seen you and Grace together from the beginning. How you had liked Grace and Grace had liked you. How you’d kept each other company all of those months. How you’d spend all those dull morning meetings passing notes to each other. How, after one of those wistful karaoke nights, you’d been holding hands at the bar seats—Rylan’s cardigan draped over your shoulders.

It’s a set plan. You’ll be missing on the day that Stratt asks him to go up—some excuse about Yao and Ilyukhina needing your informational support after DuBois’ passing. And, inevitably, when she forces him to go up, you’ll be packing your go-box to be loaded onto the Hail Mary. Grace will run out to the field to evade the anesthetic, and you will be nowhere. In the end, he’d have fought harder if he knew you were planning on going up there with him. 

—

When you wake up from the coma, you’re quick to shed yourself of the plastic wrapping, the intubation, and the rest of the IV and tubing with sweaty, frightened palms. It takes you a minute to orient yourself—dead, black air outside the portholes, the bleak whiteness of the ship’s hull. You’re in a bedding unit on the ground floor, accompanied by the automated whirring of a robotic arm. “What is the capital of California?” the computer repeats, “What is the capital of California?” When you look up, the rest of the pods shut, you know clearly what you have to do. 

“Consciousness detected. User 4,” the computer rattles on as you clamber up the ladder, bare in the stark-white underwear they sent you up in. You remember—Stratt, “not enough time to code your information into the ship’s computer”—as glance down the robotic arm spinning on the floor below. When you climb up to slide each of the coma pods open, with no avail—there’s absolutely no one home—you realize that you must’ve woken up a little late. You have to find him. They must be around somewhere, but it’s all eerily quiet.

The hull of the ship is… not exactly what you remember it to be. You’d done only one walkdown with the rest of the crew, and it never once had anything like this. There are these strange crystallized structures mounted up on the walls, lined with dark geometrical frames. “What the hell,” you mutter. You come up to one of the larger structures in the containment room, and tap your hand on the crystalline surface of it. It’s anything but normal, and still, no crew in sight. You feel like you might be sick from the implication.

It’s not before long that you hear a repeated thunking along the floor just outside in the room over. Before long, there’s a smaller version of the structure hurdling in. You feel your stomach drop at the sight. Inside, there’s some kind of spidery thing making its way towards you, appendages rapping closely against the glass shell to wheel along. It feels like something straight out of Alien, and you’re very sure that you need to start running.

“Oh, no. Nope.” You shoot your arms out, looking for anything to throw. If a bunch of these beings have taken over the Hail Mary, and possibly captured the rest of your missing crew of three… it's awfully neat. There’s nothing on the ground, no signs of struggle, and absolutely nothing to throw.

“Grace. Grace. Grace,” an automated voice buzzes out. What? Your jaw goes slack. This thing knows your boyfriend’s—no, you’re not even sure you’d gotten that far—Grace’s name.

There’s a raspy voice echoing down the hall that’s all too familiar: “Rocky, I said I need an extra hand. You’re not still mad at me about the eating thing, are you?” You can already feel the tears welling up in your eyes. You remember clearly how you let Stratt stick you with the syringe. You’d done it for him, and he’s here—and you’re both here. Everything according to plan. Except the alien, of course. Still, he rolls back and forth, back and forth in front of you.

“Grace, friend awake. Grace, come now,” it buzzes again, pressing up flush against the containment of the glass, as if trying to examine you. “Come, come, come, come…” All things considered, it doesn’t appear that this thing wants to eat you.

You have to cough a few good times, massaging at your throat, before yelling out a crackly: “Grace!” There’s a clatter—the sound of something metal dropping onto the floor, glass breaking. Then, rushed steps. He stands in the doorway, hands locked behind his head, eyes wide with his glasses hanging off the edge of his face. You run straight into him, arms shooting around his waist.

“You’re awake,” Grace says. You can feel his arms wrap slowly around you as you press your ear to his chest. Though, for you, it only feels like a long nap since you’ve last seen Grace, you can’t be sure how long it’s been for him.

Rocky, you remember Grace calling him, rolls toward the two of you: “This is hug, question?”

Grace nods, chin coming up against the top of your head. “Yes, Rock—this is a hug,” he looks down at you, astounded, “And… uh, morning. I didn’t think you’d wake up. System advised against taking you out myself, and—”

You can’t be bothered to peel yourself off of him. “Just be quiet a second, Grace. I’m just trying to soak in the fact that you’re okay.” Before they put you under, you’d considered plenty of scenarios about how he’d react to your being on the Hail Mary when you both woke up. His confusion, a possible hint of anger. Now, he’s… rather pacified. You reach up to run your hands through his scruffy blonde hair, nails dragging it on his scalp. He’s watching you check over his face with intent.

“Oh. This is… nice,” he hums, eyebrows knitted together. You must look strange, inspecting him like this—but for you, on that last day you hadn’t been sure that either of you would get up to space safely. Grace is just as handsome as he was when you left him, and the yellow NASA jumpsuit on him reminds you only of his old raincoat.

You have to tilt your head up to kiss him, and as soon as you get remotely close, he seems to straighten up and away from you. “I’m sorry, I can’t—I’m married.” You retract from Grace stiffly. Was he married? No, that doesn’t make sense; he couldn’t have been married, he lived alone—one ex. He had an ex before. And then, he had you. Grace tells you, “I don’t know why I know that, but I’m very certain about it. In here.” He taps his index finger against his right temple. You have to think it over again.

“Right. Sorry,” you say deliberately. It’s a perfect chance to solve it then and there—Are you? or No, you’re not.—but there’s an obstruction, you remember now, Stratt’s words: He won’t remember a single thing about himself. Echoes, if anything. “I’m just… super happy to see that everything’s doing well,” you tell him, “Just got ahead of myself.” Maybe it’s the easy way out, avoiding the truth of your circumstances and his. It’s too immediate, too real. You can see Grace squeeze his hands together in an anxious kind of manner, how you’d seen him do when he had a time crunch on the project and didn’t want Stratt to be pissed with him.

—

Per your lack of actual belongings, Grace lets you borrow a pair of boxers and a t-shirt of his. In the reflection of the windows, black space and your own silhouette, you have to wonder what just the three of you are going to do. No Yao, no Ilyukhina. News of their passing gives you a bout of nausea, to which Grace resolves with a bottled water and an assurance that their burials were nothing but peaceful. Though there’s a lingering sense of urgency for you to be around Grace, you can’t exactly push it. Married? Grace seems flighty around you within the first couple of hours of your waking up from the coma, like he’s frightened to be caught in the same room as you. When you give him your name, he doesn’t seem to react to it in any way. It’s like some odd fever dream.

You figure it all has to be taken in little by little. The two of you agree to have a bit of alone time—if that’s even possible—in the projection room. Together, the two of you settle on a beach ambience, all fog and homely. For a moment, with the digitalized sound bouncing around the enclosed sphere, you can pretend that the two of you are there, sitting on the sand together with your knees pulled up to your chests. Grace starts. “So, your name isn’t on Mary’s manifest. Are you some kind of stowaway?” There’s a commitment to his words, a seriousness just beneath the joke that makes you pull back an immediate answer.

You can’t even comprehend what Grace might think when you tell him—if he’ll be heartbroken that you’re there, if he’ll be made that you martyred yourself for him. So, you keep it vague: “I thought it best fit for the project to be sent up with the three of you. I’m still shocked that I swung it, but I did.”

“They just let you come up?” His skepticism makes you nervous. Maybe, Stratt was right. You aren’t supposed to be on the Hail Mary, and you never were; you were only meant to document and archive and keep track of the information. 

You run your tongue over your teeth. “No, I mean, I really had to sell the idea.”

“Of you joining the suicide mission.” Him and his stupid logical inquiry. You can only give him a sickly sort of nod, and trust that he won’t dig any further into it. After all, if it was as easy as it was for Yao, Ilyukhina, and DuBois to give themselves up for the cause, it’s not out of the realm of possibility for there to be someone else like them. Grace seems to accept this easily. “And, you and I…?”

Would’ve been great together, given time. And now there is time. Instead, you admit a measly: “We knew each other, yeah.”

“And you know about me. Who I am,” he affirms. Grace isn’t quite sure how to ask you how you know him, what you were to each other—friends, coworkers, or otherwise. 

You shoot for as-vague-as-possible: “I mean, as much as you do. We only knew each other for a very short amount of time.” He looks unsatisfied by your answer, but doesn’t seem to prod any further. To him, you appear just as clueless an agent as he is. Guiltily, you hope that he’ll stay that way until you can figure out how to tell him anything different.

—

You decide to put on a puppet show, laying supine in the little pod with little figurines in your hand. Rocky’s doing: he’s made one little miniature of you and one little miniature of Grace. In front of your face, you dance them along with one another, two geometrical forms moving in unison but unable to join together. You can hear Rocky rolling into the room far before he even enters the room, the bulkiness of his xenonite shell knocking across the ground of the hall. When you tilt your head to look out at him, he’s already well jutting into your sleeping pods.

He asks, “Why hide while Grace working, question?” Right about now, Grace should be doing a couple of extra checks on the Taumoeba, and making sure that the Hail Mary’s trajectory towards Rocky’s ship is still on-point. Which means he’s busy. And you can escape for a generous forty-five minutes before he needs a spare hand.

You have to lock the miniatures away in your closed palm, and slide them just beneath the pillow. You scoff: “I’m not hiding. Where’d you get that from?” You click a button off the side of the pod, letting it extend the bed outwards; as you get up, legs dangling off the side, you can see Rocky roll back slightly. 

He insists: “In bed. Make little noise in corner of ship.” It’s all very matter-of-fact.

“I just needed to take a breather,” you correct. In truth, you are very patently hiding from Grace. It’s a terrible habit now that you know that Grace is a pin drop away from recalling who you are.

Rocky pushes again, “Need meaning of word.”

“Breather, like… there’s a lot happening, and I need to rest for a second and think.” It’s the most clean-cut definition you can think up for Rocky. Though, it omits the obvious: you’re terrified to tell Grace and are perpetually delaying the inevitable.

“Think what, question?” As flatly as his programmed voice seems to ring out, Rocky shows a genuine sort of care that you’d find rare among most humans. You can’t exactly reject his attempts. They’re nothing but good-willed.

It takes you another minute or so of silent deliberation before you can figure out how to seek Rocky’s help without giving away too much. Finally, you offer up a decent, analogous-enough hypothetical: “If your mate—if Adrien had come up with you, left Erid, would you be angry with them?”

Disjointed and with much urgency, he responds: “Not angry. Sad. Very sad. Adrien stay on Erid. Stay home. Journey is too high risk.” His response can only send you into a further state of despondency. Rocky and Grace are more alike than either of them would like to admit. Rocky only affirms what you already expect of his response, and by extension, of Grace’s. He must be able to gauge your panicked reaction in the laborious sound of your breathing and the well-engrained frown adorning your face. “Are you sad, question? Thinking of mate.”

“Something like that.” You smile faintly. The thought of calling Grace that—given your absolute lack of time together—amuses you. Still, it’s an endearing thought. You wonder if he’d be as entertained by it as you are.

“Not familiar with Earth mating traditions,” Rocky reminds you. “If talk with Grace, maybe feel better, question?” Rocky has absolutely no clue.

—

Out of the three of you, you happen to have the least painful injuries after Tau Ceti-E—a couple of tender bruises on your back, and a sprained ankle. As you’re still very much in love with Grace, it feels absolutely excruciating to act casually around him. Him flinging himself out of the ship for the bacteria collector was enough to send you into a panic. And, now that everyone’s safe enough—injuries aside—you fall back into an easy enough routine.

And, it’s not as if he’s a blank slate. He’s still plenty identical to how he was when you first met—intelligent, sometimes klutzy, and prone to curiosity. You flock to him like you did then, on the carrier ship. There’s some instances, you think, that Grace must feel it, too—despite how much he strays away from you.

Like now, as you insist on cleaning his wounds up. Though it’s an easy enough job for the robotic aide, both you and Grace have unanimously agreed to let the system cool down after the obvious intensities of your near crash. So, you’re in the lab, Grace is seated on one of the tall stools, whining as you peel off the old patch off his cheek. “Ow. Ow. Ow.”

“This isn’t going to go any faster with you squirming like that,” you say, discarding the papery adhesive on the counter. The gash on Grace doesn’t look terrible, just scabby around the edges. You take up supplies from the open medical kit on the counter beside you both. Your hand grips his chin as you drag an antiseptic-saturated cotton swab across his cheek. His scruff is rough against your fingertips. “Just stay still and let me disinfect it. You’re worse than a kid.”

“You know, I don’t think you’re wrong,” he responds with gritted teeth. You can tell he’s trying, out of embarrassment, to hold in any further disgruntled noises. “Have you been icing your ankle?”

“As much as I can,” you mumble. You can tell that he’s trying to distract himself, hands gripping the seat of the stool.

Grace hums, “Well, if you need to be off your feet for the next couple of days, I’m pretty sure Mary isn’t going to get any worse.”

You lift the swab off his cheek a moment. “Are you asking me to take a break, or are you telling me to?”

“Whatever you’ll agree to more easily?” Grace grins softly. His insistence is so familiar that you almost forget that the half of him that knows you is missing.

You return the swab back against his wound, and he flinches less intensely than before. Softly, you tell Grace, “I’ll think about being off my feet. Don’t want Rocky waking up to a dumpster fire of a ship—you know how he hates messes.”

It isn’t until the new bandage is on his cheekbone that the two of you, at once, recognize the sort of position you’re in. Grace with his hands grasped tightly around either side of your waist, and you wedged in between his parted legs. You must have failed to notice, and clearly he hadn’t either. You swallow soft, face hot. You can see Grace’s eyes flash down to your lips and back up.

“Thanks,” he coughs out, red-faced, “I better go check on Rock now.” As soon as his glasses are shoved back onto his face, Grace dismisses himself with a beeline towards Rocky. You make sure to step aside, making sure to toss the used supplies into the nearest waste bin, before closing up the kit and tossing it back into its usual drawer. Now, the ship feels exceptionally tiny. You can see Grace press his face closer to the xenonite glass of Rocky’s container. His glasses are fogging up, and you can see through the glass that he’s trying his best not to glance up at your direction.

—

While Grace is occupied with taking care of Rocky, you’ve dedicated yourself to restoring the Hail Mary to her prior state. The cleaning is a decent distraction, and gives you a good chance to survey the ship’s inventory. The cockpit has the worst of it, manuals scattered and screens cracked from the interior pressure. You try your best to order everything back into place.

There's a whiteboard discarded in the flight deck lodged behind the chairs, bent in the middle but still largely recoverable. You pick it up gently, as if recovering some kind of ancient artifact. There’s a couple of phrases at a time scribbled neatly in columns: San Francisco? Good with cilantro. I’m a teacher. You can’t imagine what it must be like to be him—bits and pieces of who he was before the launch, trying to sew themselves into something meaningful. Another column: Notebooks? Sweet coffee, no exceptions. Gorgeous.

There are a couple more identifiable things that sell the understanding that it’s all you. Hometown. The names of cafes and restaurants you liked to go to before the project started. That sells it: this side of the board is all about you—detailing in fragments all the time that you’d spent being together all that time on Project Hail Mary before the launch. How you’d like each other from the start over breakfasts in the carrier ship’s cafeteria. How you’d pass notes across the table during those five o’ clock committee meetings.

Open windows. How you’d kissed for that first time before dinner with the team, in your crammed bunk room. You’d had the windows propped open that night to let the open air and sea mist in; he remembered that. He remembered sentiments about you—but he still can’t quite place your name or your face. It’s you who’s clouding Grace’s brain, and he doesn’t even know it. He thinks you’re married. It’s an educated guess that he’s reiterated enough times to think it’s real.

—

It takes quite a bit of thinking over when you decide to confess. While Rocky shows Grace his ship, you’ve decided to stay back and make sure the Hail Mary is in top shape to get refueled. You come up with the courage while he’s gone, and it’s all plotted out thoroughly in your head:

Grace, I haven’t been honest with you. I need to tell you that I knew you more than I said that I did, before this. I need you to forgive me for what I’ve done, and know that it was the best possible choice I could’ve made—even if you might not agree. And anyway, we’re here now and we won’t be going back, so there’s nothing to be done but be together. 

When Grace makes it back in, suit shedded, he doesn’t think twice to collapse onto the ground of the main hull. You find him like that, knees pulled up to his chest, heavy-lidded eyes swollen from crying. He must know now, somehow, how he got there. And, he must have a sneaking suspicion about how you got there, too. The need for your drawn-out confession has evaded the both of you.

There’s the chirps and ticks of the ship’s machinations, the low hum of the Hail Mary cutting through space, and there’s the sound of his muffled sniffling. Oh, Grace. You’re quite aware of the fact that he can see the soles of your shoes right next to his. Your voice falls lower than a whisper: “Are you upset with me?”

“It’s you. Of course not,” Grace grumbles. You let out a little bit of a sigh—seating yourself onto the ground beside him. He hangs his head, “We’re so not married.”

“In your head, I guess we were.”

“That’s so embarrassing,” Grace groans, palm coming up to cover his face. You have to nudge his shoulder with your own. Not that embarrassing, you want to say—but all too shy to do it aloud. He murmurs, “Why did you do it?”

“It was this or slow death. Living with the fact that I wouldn’t ever see you again.” This is a confession in and of itself—admitting to Grace that you cared about him crazily enough for you to leave the planet. “I convinced Stratt before she sent you up, made sure you wouldn’t find out about it. I knew you wouldn’t want me to do it, and I knew you didn’t have a choice.”

“You knew she was going to send me, and you volunteered yourself up to keep me company,” he repeats back to you. He nods with a sturdy, rasped out “huh.” It’s clear that he’s still trying to settle with the fact that he’s known you this whole time—more than known. Grace rubs his fingers gingerly against his forehead.

“Sure you’re not mad?”

To that, he eagerly shakes his head. “I should be. Selfishly, I’m kind of stoked. I mean, I get you all to myself. That’s, like, the dream. I win.” Grace throws a weak, celebratory fist into the air. You have to stifle a giggle. Yes, this is the Grace you knew. “Obviously,” he says, “you get the short end of the stick.”

“Don’t,” you tell him, index finger pointed. “I’m one-hundred percent where I want to be. It’s you and me, Dr. Grace.”

“You and me,” he repeats. He makes a quick swipe at your hand, lips brushing over your knuckles in a quick kiss. Grace makes sure to hold your hand hostage in his own, and the two of you sit there a while, your head leaning on his shoulder. There isn’t a single bit of assurance that the two of you will be making it back to Earth in due time, and still, you don’t feel much of a need to rush.

The first time you meet him truly is ultimately… gratifying. Dr. Grace lives up to expectations. You’re at the other end of the table when Stratt leads him in: a mousy, blonde-haired thirty-year-old man. Glasses askew, and dark-blue eyes blown wide. It takes a lot of will for you not to tilt your head at the sight of him—the way his eyes dart around the room, his unsuccessful attempt to back himself out of it. It’s… amusing–like watching a baby bird get coaxed out of the nest. What comes next is rather productive. You type fast on your laptop: astrophage, single-celled, Venus, high-CO2, breeding, replication by mitosis. You aren’t able to focus much on him, per say. It’s more his words, his cadence when he talks about the discovery—and the following queries that come with debriefing him on Project Hail Mary. He’s cute. And there isn’t enough time in the world for you to think that.

—

The next time you see him is in the mess hall a couple days after. Clearly, Stratt has him settled in—probably placed him in a nice bunk with another one of the old scientists. He sits mulling over a bowl of cereal, looking almost identical to the way that he did in the meeting room. The greatest change, clearly, is his choice in clothing. He’s got a knit cardigan on, over some punny science t-shirt that you can only vaguely read. Dr. Ryland Grace sits alone. And, he’s in your spot.

Your imagination runs its course. Maybe, he likes solitude. Maybe, he’s still facing the fact that this ship is filled with some kind of Sisyphean effort to try and save the planet. You’re very sure, looking at him stirring his spoon pointlessly in the bowl, that this situation is too big for him. He wants to go home. You’ve got your own tray of breakfast—oats and bottled juice. Clearly, you’re not used to the barrack-like quality of the ship quite yet, or else you’d be able to sit down with just about anyone else. The only downside of your job is that you don’t have very much time to talk—buried in screens and stacks of files. You sit alone, too, most of the time, in this very spot that Grace has decided to occupy for himself.

You approach him slowly, waiting for him to notice your presence on the other end of the table. It’s regrettable that he doesn’t, so caught up on the swirling quality of his cereal. You have to knock your knuckle on the edge of the tabletop. “Dr. Grace,” you hum. He retracts his hand from his spoon like it’s red-hot and stands up to greet you.

“Hi,” he says, pulling his own tray back to make room for yours. “Please, please sit down.” You wonder if he’s going to try and reach out to shake your hand—but he’s back down as soon as you swing your leg over the bench. You follow suit, giving him a polite, tight-lipped smile. Grace hums, eyes squinting as he taps his fingers across the tabletop. “I recognize you,” he says, “You had the, uh, fast hands.” The observation comes out of his mouth disjointed and awkward—but, straight to the point.

“Stratt hired me on as a documentation specialist. Fancy title for making sure that everything gets dated and down on paper,” you tell him. You almost want to light up at the thought of him picking you out in that stuff-full room—but you’ve got to keep your cool. “I’ve been assigned to record all research regarding the astrophage.” Which means you’re going to spend a lot more time together.

“Important work. Historians will love you if everything turns out how it’s supposed to,” Grace nods. In truth, you’d never considered your job in that light. In your head, Stratt had simply wanted documentation as a contingency. If all Hell broke loose, there’d still be the logs that you maintained of all the work of the scientists, the engineers, the researchers… You hadn’t been able, in the rush of it all, to consider what it meant long-term.

“Right,” you chuckle, “And molecular biology’ll make a pretty shrine for you, too.” It’s a silly thought—Father of the Astrophage, on a platinum plaque. The flattery makes him shift in his seat, index finger coming up to push up his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. You have to soak it in a little bit, his nervousness up-close. It’s charming.

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, making ample use of your food by using it to keep quiet. Grace has his cereal, and you your oats. It’s easy. You feel like a little kid again, trying to make a friend in the cafeteria; you’re sure that’s what it looks like, too. You take a moment to crack open the lid of your juice, and Grace takes the opening. “Is this where you would’ve wanted it to end up?” he asks, “When… everything, you know—”

“Went to shit? No, not at all,” you huff. It comes up again. What would you do if the apocalypse started? Except, this time, it’s very clear that neither of you have much of a choice. Yes, it’s definitive now. Grace doesn’t know how he got here, still, despite the briefings. He’s in the middle of the ocean, and so are you; he wants advice. “I think most people hope for a conservationist sort of end. Like, in the middle of the redwoods, in a tiny cabin with a stone chimney, or something.”

He lets out a dry chuckle and stifles it quickly with the back of his hand. “Is that what you wanted?”

“No. I mean, I think I’m where I’m supposed to be now. It’s this or slow, slow death.” For an unquantifiable amount of people, you could add. You find it better not to.

“And, your family—?”

“—knows I’m here, if you can believe it. Stratt’s act of kindness. They think I’m doing administrative work for the U.N., which isn’t a complete lie,” you murmur under your breath. He can only nod solemnly. Carefully, you recall: “She told me that you didn’t… have anyone to contact.”

He doesn’t seem phased at all by the inquiry. “No, no. My parents passed away before I finished doing my doctorate. They were older. I moved to the Bay for my tenure track after that. It was the easiest decision I could’ve made, considering—” He doesn’t have to spell it out for you: he bombed his own career with a single dissertation—it was teaching or nothing at all. And, all things considered, Grace really loved to teach. “I lived alone in the end. No dog, one ex.”

Ex. You think it’s probably too soon—and, too much pressure—to tell him that you don’t have anyone else waiting for you at home, either. In some twisted way, you might want him to be curious about it. To wonder if there’s someone waiting for you at the shore, or if you’re hooking up with one of the pilots on-deck. It’s all a bit of harmless fun. Vaguely, you explain, “I had an apartment, too. Nice place. Took forever to hunt for it, lock down the lease, decorate—and then, nothing. Had to surrender the keys after Stratt made it clear she wanted me on-board.”

—

It’s all been a little bit less lonely since Grace’s boarded the ship. You practically have to be glued together on account of Stratt’s orders. “He should rarely leave your sight,” she tells you over dinner one night, in a cleared navigational deck, “It’s imperative that you have his calculations recorded down to the decimal and uploaded to the database.”  Really, it isn’t the hardest task. After that first breakfast, he seems generally comfortable in your company. He floats towards you, seemingly, more than you do him. The greatest tell is his punctuality. Grace makes it early enough to morning meetings so that he can position himself right beside you.

When there’s much more dull conversation being held about different nations providing staff or material, you notice that he has the tendency to get more… distractable. Beneath the table, you can feel his knee brush against yours as he bounces his leg—sole of his sneaker scuffing against the floor. Of course, he doesn’t have nearly as much reason to listen when the conversations turn more diplomatic and less scientific. And, while you’re supposed to pay attention heartily and take your extensive notes, Grace is on the less helpful end of the spectrum.

He likes to pass notes. They vary in topic and seriousness. There’s one particular morning when he chooses to be heavy-handed with them. It starts as soon as the representatives begin to argue. With nimble fingers, Grace slips the note right next to the trackpad of your laptop. Britain is a tool. Britain being the politician from Britain, an older man with too-tight trousers who dissented to almost everything Stratt had to offer. You take the card and slip it between the front cover and the first page of your notebook.

More chatter, and you can already see him scribbling out the next one behind his walled-up hand. You peek over, and he slides it determinedly towards you. Hope they do something other than eggs today at caf. Yes, they’d served it five days in a row. You decided to keep your complaints about it in for the first three days, and broke on the fourth. Grace had heard the bulk of your argument—the grittiness of powdered eggs, and how you’d kill for a stack of pancakes. This note, you slide back over to him. It’s not nearly as taboo as the first, which means he can have it back.

The last one Grace has for you comes a whopping ten minutes later, after he gets pulled into a conversation about laser tech for the breeding tanks. Once that devolves into yet another disagreement, he turns his attention back over to you. This new note, he makes sure to fold in half before lodging it beneath the keyboard of your computer. It takes you another five minutes of conversation lulling for you to open it. You pry the two edges open to read it: What do you do with sick chemists? Helium. What do you do if they die? Barium.

This one makes you snort to yourself too loud for your liking. You brush the index card into your lap with your nose scrunched in realization of how much of a slacker you must look like. This routine of yours is beginning to set itself in most morning meetings, and you’re beginning to wonder if you should start giving him the silent treatment. Grace appears rather proud to have made you laugh, chest puffed out; he tries to hide his smirk by looking down at his lap. If Stratt has an opinion about it, she doesn’t say anything. 

—

You’re staring, and you really can’t help it. Grace has his cardigan shedded and strewn across the nearest lab chair. He’s doing an awful lot of calculations, something on astrophage power output that you’ll have to ask him to spell out for you later. The graphic, of course, is no better than the rest of the shirts he’s worn all week. But, the real kicker is the way that the fabric of his short-sleeves are hugging around his biceps. You couldn't have guessed that Grace would be so… fit. 

You can’t take your eyes off him now, as he takes a black Expo marker to the surface of the whiteboard. The shirt’s tight. You’re checking him out. It isn’t until he peeks over his shoulder at you that you become all the more conscious of it. It’s a fleeting moment; unwillingly, you peel your eyes off of his and onto your laptop on the desk in front of you. You’re supposed to be compiling a folder to send out to the Payload Systems team. Not… this.

“Sorry,” you shoot out mindlessly. You make an exerted effort to examine the inventory list on your screen and cross-check it with another spreadsheet on the tab over. Busywork. It’s better to look like you’re doing literally anything else.

Grace doesn’t take his eyes off the board as he continues scribbling across it. He lifts the marker off the board a moment: “What for?”

You suck in a deep breath. An apology implies that you’ve got something to be sorry about.  You want to leave now—but there’s really no good excuse to. Stratt is off-site, which means that you’re only doing busywork ‘till she’s back with new news. So, you elaborate with an empty “…Nothing.”

“O-kay,” he enunciates. You can’t do anything but return back to your screen with an attempt at dutifulness. Grace stays at the board, head tilted to write some undecipherable combination of greek-letters at the upper-right corner, and you can go back to your previously abandoned work. It’s almost machine-like, the way in which he scrawls the information from left to right, without any hesitation. You write several lines down on the notepad to your left: Hermle centrifuge machine needs replacement. Polypropylene for containment units — CNPC bulk load. And, messily, at the corner of your page, In love with Grace?

It’s difficult to tell. You’re together ninety-percent of the time. You’re clearly attracted to him and his square frames and his dad clothes. He makes you laugh, lets you use his old iPod to listen to Oasis. And maybe it’s  the close proximity speaking, but you feel deeply about Grace in a way that you aren’t sure how to describe. Like now, as he caps the white board marker and slides it into his back pocket, before coming over to check on you with quick steps.

“On a scale of one to ten, how illegible is that?” he asks you. You try not to cave as he rests both of his hands on the edge of your desk, toned arms straining right beside you. You squint as you stare at the board, trying to make sense of the numbers.

“I think I can get everything down except for that bottom-half. It’s not your handwriting, just the formulas,” you admit. You’d never been one for complex mathematics, and you need to make sure you can get the equations recorded exactly as they are.

He hums, “That isn’t bad at all. For now, just note the biomass—circled and labeled it wet weight, in tons. If you need to, you can send the number out to DuBois, see if I got the match right, and I…” Grace trails off, picking up the mug that he has set on the desk next to you. He makes an additional effort to peer into your own empty mug, before picking it up with his other free hand. “Will be right back.” He carries them out of the room without another word. Another plus: he fetches you drinks without any asking.

It’s more quiet when he’s out of the room, presumably at the espresso machine just down the hall. In Grace’s absence, you can actually think more clearly about the situation. You know that Shapiro and DuBois have their own version of a relationship—albeit, more or less casual. At the end of the world, nobody really bats an eye about it. All things considered, it’s actually better for morale. You have to wonder if that’s in the cards for the two of you.

It isn’t long before he comes back with the two mugs. First, he places his a safe couple of inches away from your computer. Then, he makes a slow gesture for you to take your mug out of his hands. “Careful. It’s hot,” he tells you softly, running his hand beneath the bottom of the cup to swipe off the possibility of a wet ring. As he gingerly passes the handle into your hands, your fingers brush against one another comfortably. You note, eyes glancing up from the steaming cup, that there’s a faint blush littering his cheeks. But, he’s too intent on the handoff to take his eyes off the coffee to look up at you. Yes, you think, In love with Grace.

—

Once you figure out that fundamental fact, you start to think it over too much. There’s nothing necessarily wrong with your finding. It’s natural, and probably inevitable, for you to have fallen for him. What’s more anxiety-inducing is what you’re supposed to do about it. Under any other circumstances, you’d be okay keeping your mouth shut and letting the opportunity pass you up. But, considering the timeline of the Earth at present, it seems like there’s no time to waste. At the end of the world, it isn’t the sort of thing you should keep to yourself. You should tell him. And still, you’ve been sitting on the idea of it for weeks.

You really hope that Grace hasn’t figured it out, as observant as he is—but it’s really very clear to everyone else on Project Hail Mary. You can tell by the way they watch you both, like it's morning television. Grace rambles on about astrophysics, and you listen. He goes off on tangents about old and wrong college professors, and you laugh. You talk about your life before the project, and he listens with his chin resting on his hand. He asks you questions about what you used to do, where you used to go—like you’re another thing to learn. And everyone fawns.

It’s a good night when you hole yourself in your bunk room. All the engineers and specialists and to-be cosmonauts are all gathered together for drinks and a movie. The simple act of slipping away, letting people assume that you’ve got a migraine or an extra load of paperwork, is easy. It’s in the comfort of your tiny twin bed that you get to listen to the ocean and wailing ship creaks, window propped open to let in the fresh air. It’s strange to think that this room has been yours for so many months; the gunmetal ceiling of it is familiar now.

You get to enjoy this for upwards of an hour, until footsteps come clunking down the hall. You’re sure you know who they belong to. There’s a couple of soft, metal knocks on your door. “Hey, buddy. You sleeping?” It’s Grace’s muddled voice on the other side of the door. “Dinner’s up and everybody’s wondering where you’re at.”

You raise your head off of your pillow, “Door's unlocked. Just come in.” It’s a quick scramble for you to sit up and toss your legs over the side of the bed. As soon as Grace makes it through the doorway, you give him a sheepish smile and a wave.

“Jeez, it’s freezing in here.” Grace’s cardigan is hanging on his right hand. Another tight tee tonight, vintage tour shirt for The Beach Boys. You have to look away as he tosses it on the desk chair adjacent to your bed and as he comes up to sit right beside you. “You know,” he starts, lowering onto the hard mattress, “If you’ve been feeling overworked, I already told you I’d tell Stratt I could handle my own documentation for a week. It’s lab standard, anyway—”

He’s not making it any easier for you. “No, it’s fine,” you insist. It isn’t very easy to tell him that you’re not overworked, that you just have stupid feelings for him. Your refusal only makes him work harder.

Dismissively, he continues, “You can just sit there and watch me work. Read a book or something. A little bit of downtime isn’t going to be the end of the world. And, yes, I know how it sounds given the current circumstanes—but I think you definitely deserve it with the amount of running around that you do.” He’s getting rather impassioned about you resting, so much so that when you mumble out his name—a soft-spoken “Grace”—he doesn’t even pick up on it. He only marches on, “When you think about it, it’d help my research, too. Because if you’re stressed, I’m stressed. And that’s just no good.”

“Ryland,” you blurt. He halts, lips parting and closing. You never call him that, and now he seems very, very dazed. You explain, “I’m not overworked. I just needed a bit of time to think. Alone.”

“Right,” he cedes. “I’m sorry.” You can see his shoulders slump in the slightest, all guilt-ridden about having disturbed you. Grace leans weight onto his sneakers, clearly in an attempt to get off your bed and dismiss himself. Too easily, you reach for his arm to hold him in place.

“No, I want you,” you retract it just as quickly with a blurted, “Here. I want you here.” Grace looks more puzzled than before, but sits himself more comfortably on the end of your bed. Open to listen. You clasp your hands together, “Okay. I’m going to give you a hypothetical… Say, you have a decent life, nothing crazy. Good job at a library. It’s modest, and you’re happy with it. Go You have a good place, good friends. No… partner.” Maybe, the two of you are more similar than you realize. “And that’s okay,” you add, paying no mind to the way Grace’s eyes soften behind the lens of his glasses.

You carry on: “You’ve been okay with that for a decent amount of time. Then… apocalypse starts. You find somebody by chance, who you’d probably never cross paths with otherwise, and you realize that you like being with them. And, suddenly, because the apocalypse has started, you probably won’t have another opportunity to like another person like you do this one. And you really like the one.” You can feel your palms clam up at the confrontation of it all, the vulnerability.

He blinks slowly once. Then, twice. Grace raises a slow index finger up towards himself, eyes peering just over the frame of his glasses, “That’s me.” He states it out like an educated guess, cut-and-dry.

“No, it’s Yao,” you shoot back. “Yes, it’s you, obviously. Who else would it be?”

“Okay,” he says, hand reaching up to take his glasses off. Grace stands up with a deep breath, hand ruffling through his spiky-blonde hair as he walks further away from your bunk. Again, he mutters out a soft, “Yeah, okay,” not far off from how he looks trying to expand out a calculation. Grace taps his foot on the floor, paces left, then right, rubs his palm over the scruff on his face. A torturous lack of response. Then, finally, he turns around. “So, the whole time you weren’t just really into microbiology?”

You have to gawk at him. “Are you being serious?” He looks completely serious, glasses hanging off of his chin, blue eyes inspecting the irked look on your face with doe-like curiosity.

“Well, can you blame me? You’re gorgeous, and you’re also impossible to read.” Gorgeous? He thinks you’re gorgeous. That’s nice. You can feel the warmth bloom in your chest at the implication—but you can’t help but scoff out of pure offense. He puts his hands up in a haphazard shrug. “I mean, now that I know, it makes a lot more sense why you look at me like… that. I wasn’t totally sure.” Now, it seems that he’s making a bit of a game out of it. You don’t care to ask him to elaborate on what “that” looks like.

Stubbornly, you tut, “I’m taking it back. I’m taking it back, and it was completely hypothetical!” You stand up from your spot on the bunk, walking narrowly past Grace to your desk. Briskly, you pick up his cardigan—disposed of on your desk chair—before bunching it up and shoving it towards him. 

“No, no, no—you can’t take it back. Cat’s out the bag,” Grace insists teasingly, hands clinging to the cardigan. Before you can completely let go of the woollen fabric, he makes sure, next, to grasp his hands over yours. They’re significantly larger and warm, too warm; with your hands plastered to his chest, there isn’t really anywhere for you to go. You think he must feel the nervousness practically radiating out of you, because he seems to slow down: “Okay, I’m being difficult. I can grovel if you want me to.” Grace’s voice lowers down into a rasp.

There’s a cockiness about it that you haven’t exactly seen from him before. You can’t tell if it’s making you flustered or annoyed—both, likely—and in some bout of courage, you get on your tiptoes to press your lips against his. The cold, metal frame of his glasses nudges against your face as the two of you kiss. Grace takes one hand up to cradle your jaw, and you can hear a quiet, satisfied hum come out of him. It does live up to hypothetical expectation, the way his body melds against yours clumsily around the barrier of the cardigan. It’s very him, and it’s very you. 

Grace can barely be convinced, with your hands pushing back against his chest, to let you take a breath of air. Once the two of you split, Grace has a sideways smirk. “I really like you, too. Not sure if I made that clear,” he murmurs. “So, would you come grab dinner with me?”

It's bullshit. Makes you want to punch the daylights out of him — and Ryder, too. Oh, that absolute fucker, taking credit for and leeching off of Colt's talents, skills, injuries with the whole "I do my own stunts" nonsense while he can barely sit in a car in front of a blue screen setup.

It's as if Colt thinks himself invincible. That he's Tom Ryder's best stuntman, that he's the best stuntman there is — which he probably is, to be honest, but he's not immortal. And he acts like you're slapping the unavoidable truth of it in his face whenever you dare to show concern, or God forbid, get upset when he gets injured.

You try to make it work, somehow. It's not like you don't understand not wanting to show vulnerability, changing your approach accordingly so he doesn't take offense to you doing things for him. That it's just because you want to do things for him, and not because you think he's an incapable, worthless piece of shit, or whatever other atrocious thoughts that he's brewing up in his head.

So imagine your surprise when Colt "I-can-walk-off-anything" Seavers fusses over you like no tomorrow whenever you get injured.

The first time it happens, it's a mere papercut.

Yes, a stupid papercut.

The reason why you yelp and then hiss in annoyance is solely because it's unexpected, and while it stings a little for now, you know it'll sting for at least for the rest of the week before it fully heals rather than the actual pain levels it causes.

While you're no Colt (nobody is), you're not that fragile.

"You a'ight?" Colt's head peeks in from the doorway, and upon seeing you clutching your finger with barely a drop of blood pooling at your fingertip, disappears momentarily. The sound of heavy footsteps running echoes in the corridor before he re-emerges with the first aid kit.

The whole kit. You bark out a short laugh at the sight.

"Let me see," Colt gingerly takes your hand in his, gently wrapping a bandaid over your finger, crossing the ends over so it doesn't slide right off, then briefly brushes his lips over your finger, "All good."

Your boyfriend who used to shut you out when you tried fussing over him is unironically kissing a papercut better. With his whole chest — lips, whatever, — even.

Another time it happens, it's more subtle.

You had a persistent ache in your wrist that made it hard to bend your wrist or squeeze things for a few weeks, and the orthopaedist has diagnosed it as a Ganglion cyst — nothing to worry, pretty common really. Here's your pills and spray, don't force it. It's nothing you can't manage, though it flared up occasionally during some menial tasks like chopping ingredients to cook.

Which is an odd time for fully chopped — sliced, diced, julienned and minced, also — ingredients to spawn in your freezer, filling it to the brim.

In Colt's defense, he did wait a few days after he saw you taking small breaks while prepping ingredients, squeezing the physical therapy ball to relax your muscles in between, to execute his nefarious plan.

You don't point it out directly.

"Aww, you might as well roll a red carpet for me to walk on next time," you press a loud, exaggerated smooch on his cheek, and he preens.

"Uh oh, careful what you wish for!" he hums, catching your lips in a soft kiss before you can fully pull away, "You know I would."

This time, you see Colt all but jerk forward as he lunges in your direction when you lose your balance.

He manages to catch your upper arm in a firm grip, though your knee is already grinding against the pavement. You grit your teeth as you scramble to get up through the stinging pain.

Fuck, please don't be a wardrobe malfunction. It's not like you planned on falling on gritty pavement when putting on the thin, breezy pants to combat the heat, but please, please, please, don't be a wardrobe malfunction.

"Thank you," you mutter to whoever is helping you up from the side. As soft of a fall as it was, you can't bring yourself to look at them, and with Colt ushering them away with a surprisingly assertive "I've got her, man," you don't have to face them after all.

"I've got you, baby," This time, it's directed towards you, voice considerably softer, though before you can utilize the hand you have on his shoulder to finally stand upright and thank him, your feet are swept off the ground.

A small noise of surprise rips from your throat as you wrap your arms around his neck on instinct.

Eyes flicking down momentarily, Colt clicks his tongue, yelling to no one in particular as he picks up his pace, "Can we get a medkit in my trailer?"

"On it, buddy!" You hear Dan call from a distance.

Looking down also, there is more than just a wardrobe malfunction in this situation.

Ignoring the giant hole in the knee of your pants, the flimsy fabric flapping down pathetically at the sides of a wound, there is a trail of blood that is quickly travelling down to your ankle, the red a stark contrast to the light cloth that absorbs it.

Colt pushes the door handle down with his elbow and shoulders the door to throw it open, promptly seating you on his bed, ushering the guy who brought the first aid kit to hand it over before shooing him away, slamming the door shut right after.

"Oof," he kneels in front of you, carefully lifting the fabric to get a closer look at the wound, brows furrowed with concern, opening the first aid kit with practised ease. "That looks like it hurts."

"It probably looks worse than it is," you murmur, "It was quite a soft fall, really."

Colt doesn't seem satisfied with the answer, the crease between his brows deepening as he gives your pants a light tug. "Need these off so I can clean it off before the bandages."

"Mister Seavers," you gasp, clutching your pearls in mock horror, "What scandalous requests are you making..!"

Colt fixes you with a look. Despite not wanting to play along, it seems like he doesn't have it in him to scold you, either.

Tapping your knee, "Can you lift yourself up a little?" he asks, fingers already at your waistline, undoing the button and zipper before sliding your pants off your legs, letting the fabric pool around your ankles before dabbing antiseptic on some cotton, lightly pressing it to the wound, mumbling "Sorry," the moment it touches your skin.

It's odd, seeing him this fussy over a bit of blood. It's not like you're playing hero or whatever; it really was a soft fall, and while there is arguably a lot of blood, you can tell it's merely a nasty scrape.

"You're fussing," you offer lightly, running your fingers through his hair.

That seems to help, seeing as his shoulders sag when some of the tension leaves his body.

"Obviously," he huffs, "I don't like seein' you hurt."

"Knee scrapes are nothing compared to what you go through every day when shooting."

He looks up at you through his lashes, gaze a mix between exasperated and fond. Mostly exasperated, because how dare you compare the two.

"You look pretty," you speak up before he can, trying to diffuse the situation. You've made your point, he knows.

"You're so full of shit," he cackles, throwing his head back, "I know for a fact you're not concussed. Bit late, but I caught you, remember?"

"Yeees," you drawl, "All the more reason for you to believe I'm speaking with my whole chest, pretty boy."

"Uh-huh," he nods, sporting a wide grin as he finishes bandaging up the wound.

"Looking for Tom Ryder's stunt double for scene 43."

"Ugh," both of you groan, glaring at the walkie-talkie on the counter as if it personally offended you.

A moment of silence passes before Colt speaks up.

"I'll be right back after my scene," he nudges your bare thigh, just above the bandages with his nose, "Don't you go anywhere."

"Doubt I'm gonna walk around the set without pants on, babe."

"Fair point." He nods, pointing to the door with his chin, head hanging low since he has to leave you. "I'll bring the actual medics along to take a look just in case, okay? ... And a pair of sweatpants, or whatever I can find for you to wear."

Falling back on the bed, you reach your hand out dramatically towards him as he turns around, wheezing out a sickly; "You must continue your journey without me..."

"Easy," He laughs as he opens the door, "Kung Fu Panda."

"Try not to use skadoosh on Ryder, handsome."

The house you're in is alive with bustling movement. Drunk and drugged bodies are grooving to disco music, base thumping loud enough to be felt in your chest. If Holland could smell the weed permitting the place, he'd be horrified.

He looks over at you, eyes squinting as if that would make it easier to hear you. "What?"

You cup your hands over the sides of your mouth. "Find more clues. Talk to more people. Split up!"

Holland finally understands. His mouth opens into an 'o' shape, a hum falling from his mouth. He nods. "We can do that. I'll, uh, go over there!"

When you follow the direction he jutted his chin in, your eyes fall to the bar and woman dancing on the counter top. She was wearing next to nothing. but you knew she wasn't who Holland was looking at.

You look back at him, brows furrowed. You weren't surprised. "Focus on the case. Don't drink too much."

Holland rolls his eyes, moving his hand to pat your shoulder. "I won't. This is detective work, sweetheart. You know I'm good for it!"

You weren't sure.

But he's an adult. One who has a steady job, so, it would be rude of you not to believe him. You offer a nod before walking in the opposite direction.

While you were gone, you'd been able to talk to three people. Two girls and a guy. They were all related to Victoria Shnaps, the daughter of a dangerously wealthy local politician, who's recently gone missing. The girls were her sisters while the guy was her cousin. Two days before she went missing. None of them gave you viable information— except for her youngest sister, Jazalyn. She's seen her sister talking to some guy called Steve.

You only knew she was being honest because she's got quiet after she said that. Like she wasn't allowed to. Her words had faltered, mouth hanging open, before closing and forcibly clearing her throat. She wasn't media trained. And that was a slip up if you've ever seen one.

When walking through the throng of bodies, your eyes glaze over the room in search of your partner. It doesn't take you long to find his dirty blonde mop of hair.

He's not at the bar.

But even from a distance, you can see him swaying on his feet. It looked like he was being subjected to a gentle breeze like a hung up piece of linen. He's talking to someone. That's good.

When you walk up behind him, your fingers graze his back. Just a gentle way to announce your presence. A soft smile captures your lips when you gaze up at him and glance to the woman he's talking to.

Holland startles, looking down at you with hazy eyes. It takes a minute for him to realize who's touching him and to feel comfortable. His eyes light up when he recognizes you.

"Oh!" His voice sounds like water running over rock. He motions to the woman standing in front of him, amber liquid sloshing out of the rim of his glass. "T—This is her! My partner.. in detective work. Told you 'bout her, yeah? Best—" Holland cuts himself off with a hiccup. "In the country, no, world."

The woman glances down at you, utterly perplexed.

You offer a tight smile.

The woman standing in front of you both was Cassandra Nettles. Long blonde hair, silk wrapped body, and a string of pearls around her neck that costs more than the budget for a presidential campaign. She's a person of interest.

And he's talking to her about things that don't matter— even if they are sweet.

"Okay." You splutter, taking the glass from his hand so he wouldn't spill any more of it. "My apologies, ma'am, it's been a long night."

Holland huffs. "We got here an hour ago." He looks back at the woman, eyes narrowing. "Wait, do I know you?"

Your hands fall to the small of his back and onto his bicep. The hand on his arm squeezes hard enough to shake him, not to be painful. "No you don't. You're drunk as a skunk— and you need to rest."

Holland relents, tearing his gaze from the woman fully. He looks down at you. Red-rimmed blue puppy eyes. Just a single look at the slight frustration in your eyes makes him quiet.

After an apology is given to Cassandra, you practically guide him by the scruff like a mama cat towards the door.

"M'sorry." He murmurs on to way to the car.

"We were here for Intel." You sigh, pointing in the direction of the car. "Not to drink."

"I know." He murmurs quieter this time, like those words coming from you hit harder.

TWO - The Time Holland Lost His Gun

"We'll be back later tonight." You're crouched on the ground, speaking to Holly with a soft smile on your face. "I left twenty bucks for pizza and cookies— don't tell your dad about the sweets."

Holly rolls her eyes. "He won't care. He doesn't."

You frown down at her. "He does care, kid. I promise. He'll be sad if he knows you got cookies without him."

She shrugs, standing from her criss-crossed position on the rug and walking away from you. She turns the corner down the hall towards her room.

A sigh leaves your lips, chest feeling the dull ache from the implications of her words. She didn't think Holland cared. You knew it wasn't your place to say anything more than 'he does'— but gosh, you really wanted to.

But you'd only joined the Nice Guys Agency a few months ago. You weren't enough of a permanent person to have any precedent in their lives.

So, you force yourself to stand up and walk towards Holland's room.

He'd been in there for the past twenty minutes, supposedly getting ready for a stake out. But he'd been in there for a little too long. Your knuckles wrap against his half-opened door to push it open further.

Holland is pacing around the room, dirty-blonde hair mussed and shirt half unbuttoned. His fingers rake through his hair. When he sees you, he stops in his tracks. An annoyed huff leaves his lips.

"I can't find it!" He grunts.

"What?" Your hands fall to your sides, head tilting slightly.

"My gun." Holland turns around, hands jutting out to rip the comforter half-off his bed. There's nothing there. So he moves on to demolishing the pillows.

"Your gun?" Your voice rises, unable to curb the surprise that gets frayed with panic. Your throat works around a swallow. Then, softer. "You lost your gun?"

"Lost?" He breathes, turning to look at you. "Misplaced. It's just... not here."

A silent curse falls from your lips. Your hands find purchase on your hips. "Where'd you leave it?"

Holland shrugs his shoulders, a frustrated noise leaving his mouth. "If I knew that, I wouldn't be looking for it. Would I?"

His words land harder than they should. You physically recoil, taking a step back to look at him with widened eyes. There was no reason for him to have been rude.

"Shit— I— sorry." His voice quiets, head dipping down. "I'm frustrated. I can't— I can't just have a gun laying around the house."

You nod. Being sensitive was something you understood. Especially when you were on a time crunch and lost something important. "I know. I'll go look— just, please, lets find this quickly. Healy's gonna be pissed if we're late. We'll find it."

Holland runs his palm down over his mouth. He hums.

On a whim, you turn to walk down the hall. The bathroom was just a few doors down. You'd seen him go in there a few times in the mornings you came by to pick him up for work. Maybe, if you were lucky, you'd find it in there.

The bathroom light is turned off, the room bathed in darkness. It takes a few seconds of whacking your hand on the wall to find the switch. When the room is emerged in golden overhead light, the first thing you notice is the Jack Daniels.

It's practically empty— say for the sliver of brown liquid barely coating the bottom of the bottle. There's an empty glass next to it.

Walking into the room, you step on a balled up towel. The sudden change in flooring startles you, almost taking a tumble. A ghost of a smile twitched at your mouth. Getting scared over a towel. Yep, seemed like you.

You bend down to grab it when you see it. The glinting metal. Half shoved under the bathroom sink, like it had been kicked by accident. It was Holland's gun. You could tell by the 'H' poorly etched into the handle.

The towel drops to the floor. You grab the weapon and stand back up.

Your eyes once again drop to the empty bottle of booze. It didn't take a genius to put two and two together. As much as you adored March— he had a problem. Enough of one to make him forget where he 'placed' his killing machines.

"Hey, March." You call his name, trying to keep the frustration in your chest from fraying your words. "Come here for a second?"

There's a moment of silence.

Then, his feet pattering down the hall.

He slides into the door frame, hand grabbing at the wall to stop himself from tumbling. He looks at you with big, hopeful eyes. "Did you—"

"It was kicked under the sink." You say softly, trying to keep your voice down. So Holly wouldn't hear you and he didn't think you were accusing him of anything.

Holland pauses. His brows furrow like he was confused— he raked his brain for the memory of even bringing his gun into the bathroom. Just to come up empty.

"How the.." His gaze drops to the empty bottle.

Oh. That.

Holland's cheeks heat up. His arm bends to scratch the back of his neck, chuckling softly. "Guess I must have had a bit too much last night."

"I can't believe you're legally allowed to carry this." You sigh, looking at him with a disappointed expression.

Your words sink into his skin. His mind immediately puts him on the defense, arm dropping back to his side. "Christ, c'mon now—"

"Holland." You whisper-shout his name, shaking your head. Your voice stays a fevorent whisper. "You can't leave this for Holly to find."

Holland gapes at you, trying to find some way to come back to that. There wasn't much. He puts his hands on his hips, grasping at straws. "She knows how to handle a gun."

You stare at him.

He looks at you.

Holland wants to flinch. It sounded terrible to admit out loud. What other twelve year old little girl knows her way around a gun? Most girls were probably drawing rainbows in their notebooks and listening to the beetles.

You just keep looking, waiting for something. Like he'd take back his words. But he doesn't.

You inhale a deep breath to keep yourself grounded. "That doesn't matter. She shouldn't be around this stuff— you know that."

Your voice is quiet, almost a plea.

Holland's lips press into a line. He glances down at the floor, like the tiles turned into the most interesting thing in the world.

He's quiet for a minute.

"I'm a good dad." He says quietly.

Your guard falls at his words. The gun gets placed onto the counter, your arms falling to your sides.

"Of course you are." Your voice is gentle, filled with conviction. "I never said you weren't. This—this is an accident. It happens. It doesn't mean I'm calling you a bad dad—I'm telling you to be more careful."

Holland absorbs your words, sniffling.

He nods.

"You're a great dad, Holland. Okay?"

"Yeah."

THREE - The Crisis That Leads To Cuddles

The more time you spent with the March's, the more glaringly obvious it became that Holland had no idea how to handle a teenage girl.

His approach to more sensitive topics was that of a man's: meaning, if Holly was upset about something, he'd ask her if she was getting her period. He'd have such a straight face when he did it too. Then, of course, he'd wonder why she got even angrier.

Holland tried. Don't get him wrong. He'd bend over backwards for his daughter in a heartbeat, no matter how he acts. Being in any kind of argument with Holly felt like his chest was being ripped apart.

That leads you to tonight.

You came over to make them dinner— something you did on Friday nights. It started a few months ago when you joined the Nice Guys Agency. Holland made a passing comment about not having a real home cooked meal since his wife passed, and you decided then to make sure he and his daughter had a slice of familiar domesticity. Even if it was once a week.

Over those few months, you and Holland got closer. There would be laughter drifting through the kitchen, the occasional mini-food fight, and even, if he was feeling bold, hands trying to take bites of the food before it was set. That always got him a chaste whack to the hand.

For a while, Healy would come too. It would be all of you sharing a meal after work. Eventually Healy didn't come as often. He had other arrangements on Fridays. So, it would just be you, Holly, and Holland.

Tonight was different. Holly was sitting at the counter, swiveling in her chair. The two of you were talking about school and whether or not she was excited about the next year. Her answers were less vague than they used to be— she was coming out of her shell around you.

When Holland came into the kitchen, he'd have to swear his brain turned off. There was just something about seeing his daughter comfortable with you. It was a glimpse back in time to what used to be. His heart broke a little when you told her a story about your 8th grade graduation. Holly threw her head back like a little kid and let out a big belly laugh.

He hadn't heard that laugh in over a year.

He walked up behind Holly, palm pressing against her back. He leaned over himself to press a kiss to the top of her head. "Hey, ladies."

Holland made his way around the counter top, acting on pure instinct. The floral pattered button up he was sporting was less buttoned than usual— with no glinting ring strung around his neck.

You look over to watch him advance towards you. The scent of aftershave and pine filled your senses. It was unmistakably Holland, earthy and cozy. His hair was damp like he'd just gotten out of the shower.

"Hey, dad." She muses, leaning over to grab a piece of pepper you'd cut up.

Holland wraps his arm around your shoulders like he'd done it a hundred times. The warmth of him instantly bleeds into your skin. The proximity makes your pulse jump, throat working around a swallow. You fit perfectly against his side when he pulls you into his side.

Then, he presses his lips to your temple.

It's gentle. Loving.

Holly watches the interaction, expression falling. She blinks. Almost like she couldn't even begin to believe what she'd just witnessed.

"How are my girls?" He questions as he pulls back, a genuine smile gracing his face.

You look up at him in disbelief. Holland had never been so affectionate— especially in front of Holly. You were used to winks and side hugs when leaving. Or the occasional thumb swiping across your cheek if you'd wiped flour on yourself by accident. This was uncharted territory.

"We're fine." Your voice comes out heavier than you intended it to. "Uh, tacos are almost ready."

"Smells good." He nods, thumb rubbing a circle into your shoulder. When he finally drops his arm away, he looks over the both of you with a small smile on his face.

The smile doesn't last long.

Holly stands from the chair, offense clear in her eyes. "Where's your ring?"

Holland's head snaps to his daughter, her harsh tone startling him. His ring? His hand goes to his neck, finding only the neckline of his undershirt. He wasn't wearing his ring.

He splutters for a second. "Honey, it's just upstairs. I took it off to shower—"

"You're never supposed to take it off!" Her voice rises, hurt fraying her tone. It sounds like there's something in her throat. Like the words are physically painful for her to speak.

She turns and stomps off, her hands going to her face before turning the corner.

Holland stands there absolutely stunned. His jaw is hanging open, eyes wide, and palms facing upward like he'd just gotten smacked.

You didn't even need to be observant to know what that was about. A dull ache forms in your chest for Holly. She must feel betrayed— like her father was replacing her mother with you. And that's not your intention at all.

With a flick of your wrist, you turn the stove knob down.

"What the hell was that about?" He questions, turning to look at you.

"Go talk to her." You breathe, glancing in the direction she ran off in.

Holland bites his lower lip, hands taking purchase on his hips. "I don't understand. I just forgot to—"

"Holland."

He quiets at the serious tone of your voice.

You watch as his shoulders deflate, slouching in on himself. A somber expression takes over his face. You can see the gears turning in his mind, replaying exactly what happened.

"She's sad." Your words come out soft. Almost gentle. Like he's fragile and you're horrified of breaking him. "You should go talk to her."

Holland absorbs your words.

He lets them sink into his skin and roll around in his mind. Finally, he nods.

"Alright." He shakes his head, reluctantly turning on his heel and following in Holly's footsteps.

Your palm flattens over your chest, trying to soothe the ruminating ache. There was no way you could imagine just what she was feeling. You weren't in her mind.

Minutes pass.

Or, what feels like minutes.

Your fingers drum against the counter top. Anxiety starts to creep up your throat. There's a second where you think it would be best to leave.

Then you hear it.

The unmistakable muffled sound of Holly shouting 'I hate you'. You flinch. Your eyes close and a sigh leaves your lips, head dipping down. This was not how you envisioned your Friday night going.

Glancing at the half prepared chicken tacos, you give leaving some extra thought. That's what's probably best. To do it quietly, maybe make up their plates before you do so. But you were probably the last person Holly wanted to be near.

You're about to grab your purse. It's hanging right on the edge of the counter chair. It almost glows like an exit sign.

Holland sulks back into the kitchen. He looks like a smaller version of himself. Slouched shoulders, trudging steps, and gaze tilted to the floor. Your name falls from his lips like a plea.

A curse enters your mind.

Then, you get a good look at him. His eyes are glassy like he's about to cry.

One thing about Holland that most people don't know: he values his daughter's opinion more than anyone. Losing his wife was terrible. But if he even thought Holly had a negative view of him? His whole world shattered.

"I don't understand." His voice sounds paper-thin. There's a lost look in his eyes, like he was a second away from falling off a cliff. It broke your heart.

"Hey." You murmur, motioning for him to come over. Moving around the counter, you tentatively step towards him.

"She... she.." He clears his throat, head turning away to blink roughly. Try to stop the tears that threatened to fall. "Am I bad dad?"

A frown tugs at your mouth.

"No." You say quickly, shaking your head. Certainty drips from your lips like honeysuckle. "She doesn't mean that, March."

His gaze stays on the ground.

He blinks hardly.

"She does." He whispers.

You want to hug him and slap him at the same time. Once he gets an idea into his head—good or bad—he's a damn bull. Too stubborn to avoid tunnel vision.

Is this even your place?

It's not like he's your boyfriend or anything— though those professional lines have been blurring. And that kiss definitely meant something. But do you even have any place here? If anything aren't you just his kinda-situationship?

Maybe it was best to have left.

But now you're here.

And you feel like you're being ripped in half knowing some of your favorite people in the world are hurting.

So, you outstretch your arms and motion for him to come in.

Holland accepts. He walks slowly towards you, arms snaking around your waist. His nose gets buried into the crook of your neck. Little droplets land on your skin. Your arms wraparound his back and give him a gentle squeeze.

Silence envelopes the two of you.

There's a moment where you just let Holland soak up your embrace. He shakes a little, sniffling to hold back the mess of tears that threatened to fall.

"You're doing your best." You whisper, voice barely audible. "Kids don't come with manuals, right? Even the best of the best make mistakes."

Holland slumps against you. Like a giant dog jumping onto your lap, thinking he's smaller than he actually is.

"Mhm." He mumbles, pulling away from you to wipe at his face. His movements were quick— like you'd suddenly burned him. Or he realized he was leaning on you and got embarrassed.

"You're a good dad." Veneration wraps your words. "Say it."

Holland huffs. "I'm a good dad."

"Little louder. Like you mean it." You offer a gentle smile, rubbing at his arms for motivation.

Despite his saddened expression, the ghost of a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. "I'm a good dad."

"There he is." You murmur, chest warming a little.

Holland wipes at his eyes with his wrist. He blinks and gazes down at you. Eyes hazy, he looks like a kicked puppy.

"I still don't know what I did to make her..." He trails off, cutting himself off with a sigh.

There's a moment of silence as you try to gather your thoughts.

There wasn't any good way to say this. Especially since you and Holland weren't together.

"I think she's feeling a little betrayed." There's a softness to your words. "You usually wear your ring. Tonight, you didn't. And these past few weeks I've been coming over to cook for guy—"

"I don't see why that means—"

"Let me finish." Your correction is gentle, keeping your voice calm.

Holland closes his mouth. He nods and mumbles an apology.

"She might think you're replacing her mother." You opt to get straight to your point, trying to cushion the blow with your tone. "Having me here, cooking for you guys. You even kissed me tonight, Holland."

For the first time ever, he's quiet.

"I know that's not your intention." You watch for his response, trying to see how he was taking your words. "But she doesn't. She sees me doing things her mom did— and that makes her feel some kind of way."

Holland darts his tongue out to wet his lower lip. His head twitches in a half-nod, like he's barely able to move anything. Like he's frozen.

Silence settles.

It's the uncomfortable kind of silence. The kind that worms into your ribs and presses against the walls of your bones, stabbing at your lungs when it tries to make space for itself.

Holland sighs.

"What should I do?" He asks gently, puppy eyes boring into yours.

"Give her some space. Then listen to her." You raise a brow at him. "Really listen to her. Then talk with her."

"Okay."

You tuck some of your hair behind your ear. "I'm gonna.. uh, get out of your hair. I feel like I've outstayed my welcome." A soft chuckle leaves your lips. "Dinner's ready. All you've gotta do is assemble the tacos."

Holland's brows furrow, taking in your words. "No." It tumbles from his mouth quickly, hands jutting out to grasp at your wrist. But he drops his hands, teeth sinking into his lips. "You... you could never overstay your welcome here."

Your heart flutters at his words. "I know." You offer a smile to reassure him. "But I think it's best for Holly to be alone with just you."

Holland eventually accepts it. That was what was logical, after all. You were always right about things like this.

"Okay." He scratches the back of his neck. "Thank you... for everything tonight. I'll see you in the office tomorrow?"

You nod, turning to collect your purse. "You will."

Holland follows after, gingerly grabbing your coat and handing it over to you. He watches you slip yourself into it. There's something stirring in his chest. Something he hadn't given much thought to.

He did kiss you. Pressed his lips to your temple like it was nothing. Called you his. He wasn't sure what that meant. Though, he knew he'd have to dissect it to know.

The two of you walk towards the front door. He opens it for you, standing at the threshold to make sure you get to your car okay.

"Have a good night, March." You say with a small smile, waving your fingers at him.

He does the same. "Yeah. You too."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is nice,” Ryland whispered.

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

“Same time tomorrow?”

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

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

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

thank you for reading, God bless <3

“You’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!’

That morning on your way to work, you unfortunately found yourself in the middle of a massive attack in town. A monster the size of a two-story house, appeared out of nowhere on your commute. Out of fight, flight, or freeze, you froze when the monster ran towards you. Completely froze. The gigantic creature’s claws swooped right at you, but your feet might as well have been made of lead. Closing your eyes, you braced for impact, and tensed every muscle in your body. 

The impact never came. Instead, you opened up your eyes to the city street far below you. Superman made it just in time, wrapping you in his arms and flying you away from the scene at lightning speed. As quickly as he picked you up, he placed you back down on a rooftop nearby. “T-thank you,” you stuttered between panicked breaths. 

His voice was deep and calm as he spoke. “Sit down, and take some deep breaths. You’re safe, now.” Superman flashed his signature grin before he flew back down to finish off the creature. That smile has stuck with you ever since; the pictures of him don’t do it justice.

You snap out of your thoughts and run over to open the balcony door. The balcony isn’t in total ruin.  He narrowly missed the glass pane table during his crash landing. Two of your flower pots, however, were not so lucky. Dirt and shards of pottery cover the floor. Not to mention the concrete beneath him is cracked. 

This is not the Superman you typically see close up on TV, or the one that saved you two weeks ago. Right now, his suit is covered in dust, dirt, and who knows what else. Cuts of various depths and sizes cover the skin of his face. Instead of that bright smile, he grimaces with a busted bottom lip as he clutches at his side.

“Superman? Are you—are you okay?” It’s a stupid question. You realize that the moment it slips out of your mouth, but what else are you supposed to say?

He coughs to clear his throat. “Peachy,” he rasps. You walk closer to him, avoiding the pottery pieces to kneel at his side. Pain paints over his face as he moves his head to look at you. “Sorry about the pots. I’ll, uh, get you some new ones.”

“Don’t worry about that—what on earth happened?” For Superman to be this banged up, it must have been a major incident.

“Metahuman—a very strong one. Packed one heck of a punch,” he winces as he shifts to sit up. “I got some good blows before it launched me. The justice gang’s got it from here.”

“Here, let me help you inside.” You offer him your hand, and try to lift the very tall hero to his feet. Once he’s up, you throw his arm over your shoulder and direct him inside. “You know, it’s kinda funny. This is like a total role reversal,” you ramble as you both step over the threshold into your living room. 

“What do you mean?” he asks, stumbling onto the couch as soon as he reaches it. 

“Oh! You rescued me two weeks ago—from that giant monster thing in midtown. I thought I was going to get shredded by its claws, but you saved me just in time.” Heat grows in your cheeks as you retell the story. 

“Gosh, yeah. I remember you—Sorry I never caught your name. I was kinda in a rush,” he smiles. Although his bottom lip is completely busted, he still has that same smile, dimples prominent as ever. You try not to dwell on the fact he remembers you, but a small grin slips past your lips at his words. 

There’s a small lull before you speak again. “Can I do anything to help you? At least clean you up a bit until you feel strong enough to leave?”

“I don’t want to intrude—” He moves to sit up straighter on the couch, ignoring the pain in his side.  “I’ll get out of your hair in just a couple of minutes—” 

“I really insist,” you interrupt. “It’s the least I can do. You quite literally saved my life.” He lets out a deep exhale, before nodding in agreement. “Do you need me to help you up again?” A chuckle leaves his lips. It’s quick. Easy to miss.

“I think I can manage,” he replies. In the next moment, he’s up. “Where do you want me?”

“My first aid kit is in the kitchen,” you say, motioning towards that direction. 

“Don’t people normally keep those in the bathroom?”

“My horrible knife skills made me move it. I’ve cut my hand more times than I can count,” you explain. Superman follows you as you step into the kitchen. You grab one of your barstools and place it beside the kitchen sink, before opening a cabinet to grab the first aid kit. “Okay, you sit on the barstool, and I’m going to get a washcloth really quick,” you direct before walking down the hallway to the bathroom.

He does as he’s told, sitting down on the stool. He takes in your apartment, looking at the pictures you have on the wall, and the way you’ve decorated the place. It’s only a few moments before you return with the wash cloth in hand. 

You turn on the water faucet to wash your hands before you get started. “I know you have healing abilities or… whatever, but cleaning you up can’t hurt right?” The interlude in conversation is killing you a little bit. “Well, it might sting a little” you trail off, lathering soap in your palms. 

“I heal from the sun. It’s why I’m not healing right now. No sun, and the moon doesn’t have enough sunlight to work,” he elaborates sheepishly. He’s not used to this much conversation while being in the suit, let alone having a stranger help him instead of the other way around.

“So you’ll be completely better as soon as the sun comes up?” you ask as you reach for a paper towel to dry your hands.

“Pretty much, especially since this isn’t that bad.” 

You finally turn towards him with a pensive look on your face. His height will make this a challenge to actually reach his face. Even while sitting down, he’s practically looming over you. “Um—can you reach under and press the paddle thing? On the bottom of the stool?”

“Oh, sure,” he responds. He reaches for the wrong side at first before he finds the lever. When he presses it, the stool lowers quickly, catching him off guard. 

“There. That’s much better.” You’re at eye-level with him, now. The brighter lights in the kitchen illuminate the damage on his face. A bruise begins to bloom on his left cheek, and the gashes look much worse than you originally thought. “Man—if you’re this rough I can’t imagine the other guy,” you marvel.

Superman laughs again, but this time it’s louder than before; a deep belly laugh, which is followed by a wince as he grabs his side. He knows his ribs are bruised. The pain isn’t sharp enough for them to be broken. He recovers the conversation quickly. “Trust me, he’s much worse. This is nothing,” he insists. 

A comfortable silence develops between the two of you. Turning back to the side, you wet the rag under the warm water and squeeze out the excess to start on him. The dirt is what you tackle first. Careful of the gashes, you wipe away the dirt covering his skin, rinsing out the rag between every few passes. His eyebrows are caked with dirt and blood, taking multiple passes to get clean.

You reach up to hold his head gently, directing him to lean his head back so you can get the grime off of his neck, too. Superman’s glad you can’t hear his heart pounding inside of his chest. Butterflies form in his stomach at your touch on his skin. Your hands are so careful with him, like you could hurt him more somehow.

“So what do you normally do when you get beat up like this? I’m assuming crashing into apartments isn’t a regular thing for you,” you ask, breaking the silence. 

“I’m not beat up. The other guy is beat up,” he counters.

“Sorry—sorry. What do you do when you get… slightly wounded like this?”

His throat bobs before he responds. “Uh—let’s just say I have a place to go to when it gets bad. like I said earlier I can get out of your hair if you need me to—I can probably fly now with no problem.”

Immediately, you hold the side of his face between both of your palms and tilt his head down to meet your eyes. “This isn’t a bother. I would tell you if it was.” He nods, gaze diverting to the ground. Your hands leave his face to rinse the rag again. “Okay— I’m going to start on the actual cuts now. This will probably sting.”

The gash on his forehead catches your eye first. It extends all the way from his temple to his hairline; The wound is deep, concerningly deep. With brows furrowing in concentration, you wipe along the wound, getting off the dirt and dried up blood. “Sorry,” you whisper, seeing him grit his teeth together. 

The longer this goes on, the harder Superman finds it to ignore how pretty you are. Your genuine care for him, and how your eyes search over his face is not something he’s ever experienced before. When he’s at the Daily Planet, he blends into the background, and when he’s Superman, he’s more focused on other people than caring for himself

If he’s honest, he’s thought about you quite a lot since that day. After disposing of the monster, he went back up to the rooftop to check on you, but you were already gone. He assumed within a couple more weeks he would forget about you. Fate had other plans. Ones that included crash landing at your apartment.

Your voice interrupts his train of thought. “Are you sure you don’t need stitches for something like this? Or at least steri-strips? It’s a really deep cut, and it’s still oozing a little bit of blood.” You step back for a moment, reaching back to the med kit on the counter. “I think I have some in here—“

Superman catches your wrist, halting your movements before you start digging through the supplies. The action is simple, gentle even, but you can’t ignore the sheer strength of him. If you wanted to break free from his grasp, you wouldn’t be able to. “I promise I’ll be fine. I don’t want you to waste them on me,” he asserts, letting go of your wrist. You miss the feeling of his hands on you the moment it’s gone. 

His eyes overwhelm you. Such a deep blue color that you could drown just by looking into them. It feels like he can see right through you. Sighing deeply, “If you say so, Superman,” you quip, getting back to the task. 

He has another cut along his cheek. This one is not as deep as the gash on his forehead, so it won’t take as long. You repeat the same motions, wetting the rag, squeezing it out, and cleaning off the dried blood and dirt from around the cut. As you work, his dark, long eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, making perfect contrast with his blue eyes.  

“So, how did you end up in the middle of that mess a couple weeks ago?” He asks. It’s the first time he’s initiated conversation since getting here. 

“Well, it’s a boring answer. I was heading to work. I picked up the shift from one of my coworkers so she could go to a doctor’s appointment. Just my luck.” 

“Getting to be saved by Superman is pretty good luck though—not everyone can brag about that,” he says through a smile. 

“You know what? That’s a good point. I was telling people about it all week long,” you confess. After a few more passes, you finish the cleaning cut on his cheek. All you have left is the area you’ve been dreading the most, his busted bottom lip.

Superman has no idea where to look, especially not when your eyes focus so keenly on his lips. The rag brushing against his lip should hurt, but he’s too distracted to really feel the pain. He doesn't mean to listen in so closely, but he does. The sound of your heart pounding in your chest resounds in his ears, much faster than it was ten minutes ago. 

Meanwhile, you're doing everything in your power to avoid eye contact, keeping your gaze focused on the task. You’re close to him. Probably too close. Every breath he takes hits your skin. The dried blood on his lip is particularly stubborn. You turn the facet to be warmer, hoping the temperature change will help.  

His leg bounces steadily while you press the near hot cloth against his lip. The nervous energy has to escape him somehow, especially since he can’t mumble his way through conversation. 

Finally, you pull the rag away, toss it in the sink, and turn off the water. You don’t move other than that, standing between his parted legs. “There. All finished,” you whisper. He stays leaned forward, eyes locked into yours. He doesn’t dare move back. The tension is palpable, so thick you can barely breathe. You’re not sure if you’re imagining the way his eyes flicker to your lips and back your eyes. 

The magnetic pull towards him becomes unbearable, eating at you from the inside out. All the inhibition you have left is wearing thin. Screw it. You fall forward, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to his mouth. The pressure against his lips is light, not wanting to hurt him. You pull away from him quicker than you leaned in to kiss him.

Your eyes are wide, like you’re shocked at your own actions. “Shit—I don’t know why I did that. I’m so sorry. That was so not cool of me to do—“ 

Superman doesn’t let you finish your sentence. He replies by kissing you back—hard. The last thing on his mind is his busted lip. It might as well be healed with how he’s kissing you. Both of his hands wrap around your waist and tug you to him, moving you with hardly any effort. Within seconds, he’s on his feet, causing you to stumble backwards. The barstool falls to the floor and you gasp at the loud clatter. Taking the opportunity, he presses his tongue into your mouth to deepen the kiss. 

With nowhere else to move, you walk backwards. Superman mirrors your every step until you run into the wall behind you. Leaning down, his hands slide to the back of your thighs, and he lifts you. His body is all encompassing, completely overwhelming you. The only thing that stops your head from hitting hard against the wall is his hand cupping it. Your hands travel to his hair, threading into his dark curls, while your legs wrap around his waist.

He kisses you in a way that tilts the world on its axis.The act is messy. His hands are all over you. Respectful, but still all over you. One of his hands grips your thigh tight. Tight enough to bruise. With his other hand, he holds your side, and inadvertently nudges up your shirt in the process. Rough and callused fingertips clutch your bare skin.

He licks into your mouth, tongue pressing against yours. The kiss is messy. His lips slotted between yours. You both alternate between who gets the bottom lip. If his busted lip was hurting, you wouldn't know from the pressure against your mouth. A faint taste of iron hits your tastebuds when his saliva mixes with yours. 

Overwhelmed, you break away for a moment. You don’t risk looking into his eyes, burying your face in his shoulder instead. Superman is sensitive. That’s clear to you the second your lips touch his neck. His hand tightens on your hip as his head falls back. The action exposes more skin for you to kiss. “Jeez Louise—" he pants. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt anything like this. Your lips are hot against his skin as you mouth all over him. 

You’re only stopped from going lower by the collar of his suit. When you suck at his pulse point, he groans. Loudly. The wanton noise should embarrass him, but he’s lost the ability to care. His heart hammers in his chest, pulse throbbing under your tongue. Your hands tug gently at his curls. The soft noises he lets out only encourage you to pull harder. You feel the vibrations in his throat from all the moans he’s holding back.

There’s a voice of reason in his head trying to convince him to stop, or at the very least slow down. He tangles a hand into your hair and pulls you back from his neck, while his other hand cups your face. Your pupils are huge, completely darkened in comparison to before. Looking at him with wide eyes, you pant through your parted mouth, desperately trying to catch your breath. 

Without thinking, his thumb moves from where it rests on your cheek. The digit runs across your bottom lip that was now covered in his spit and swollen. He’s on the verge of speaking before you move.

It’s too close for you to resist. You open your mouth and wrap your lips around his thumb as you take it deeper. He's completely exasperated. “Oh my goodness.” His pupils dilate as your tongue presses against the pad of his thumb. The moment doesn’t last long. The way his eyes bore into you makes you lose nerve fast. 

After you release his thumb from your mouth, you start examining his suit closely. Your hands slide down his frame, touching at his sides. You can’t feel any of his skin, the tough fabric prevents that. The separation is driving you crazy. You want to touch him. You want to feel his skin. "How do you—how do you get this suit off?” you ask hazily. 

He pauses, dead in his tracks. The gravity of the situation is catching up to him all too quickly before he sets your back down. “I-I really don’t think this is a good idea—we shouldn’t—I shouldn’t.” He takes a small step back from you with his hands held up in surrender like he had done something wrong. 

“Why not?” You don’t mean for your voice to sound so desperate, but he’s awoken something in you. His chest aches at the sound of your voice. 

“B-because I’m Superman. I rescued you  like two weeks ago…” he stammers. He takes a moment to rub his temples in an attempt to relieve the building stress. “This has to be an inappropriate power dynamic,” he sighs. “It just wouldn’t be right.”

“I’m a fully grown adult if that’s what you’re worried about,” you contend.

“That’s—“ he pauses and huffs, almost frustrated. “No that’s not the issue here.”

“Superman’s not allowed to have some fun every once in a while?” You tread lightly, taking small strides to close the distance. This time, you corner him against the counter and tilt your head to meet his eyes. Your hand falls to his abdomen, wandering dangerously close to the part of him that’s aching, that’s been aching ever since your lips touched his.

“Gosh—you’re making this really hard,” he gulps, voice almost pained. It's taking all of the strength he has in him to resist. More strength than he used to fight the meta human earlier

“Yeah, I can tell,” you taunt, glancing down to the fabric of his trunks. 

“Not like that!” he protests, eyes going wide with bashfulness. His presses his eyes closed as he pinches the bridge of his nose 

“Please? I don’t kiss and tell if that’s your concern. I won’t run off to the daily planet to tell everyone,” you continue.

“I just— I don't want to take advantage…” he begins to argue, but you’re not having it. Your hand trails from his abdomen to palm him over the trunks, placing enough pressure to make him gasp. 

“Please? I’ll be good,” you beg. Superman’s last bit of resolve disintegrates at those words. 

“Shoot. Gosh. O-okay. There’s uh—a zipper in the back.”

“I was expecting something more elaborate than that,” you giggle. You reach for his hand, interlacing his fingers with yours. Nerves pulsing in your skin, you guide him down the hallway to your bedroom. He looks at you longingly as you stand in front of the bed, which only makes your nerves worse. “You wanna turn around?” you ask. 

“Oh! Yeah. Yes,” he stutters. Without a word, his hands reach up to detach the cape from his suit. When he turns around, you spot the zipper running down the middle of the suit. As you unzip it, the broad muscles of his back come into view. His creamy skin is covered with bruises from the fight. You allow your hands to explore the expanse of his back. The rigid muscle of his shoulder blades tense under your touch. 

When you take your hands off of him, he instantly turns back around. He begins the task of getting the rest of the suit off. He’s not off to a great start, nearly falling over while pulling his boots off. You help him with the rest of it, tugging the fabric down his body, and onto the floor. 

Entranced by the newly exposed skin, your hands roam over his chest. The suit hides most of his muscle definition. Superman melts into your touch. He can’t remember the last time anyone traced over his skin with such reverence. Your fingers are careful not to apply too much pressure over any of the bruises. You smile when you notice the goosebumps rising on his skin. 

A particular bruise stands out to you, right below his pec over a rib. It’s already a dark purple, despite the fight being less than an hour ago. Your head moves before you can think, pressing your lips gently over the bruise. Almost as if a kiss would make it better. 

Superman’s almost convinced it does make it better.  His mind is racing. He’s never done anything like this before, ribs aching in his chest, lip throbbing. He pushes the feeling down, much like he pushes your sweatpants down. 

The adrenaline takes over for him. He steps towards you again and leans down to attach his lips to your neck. He’s practically making out with your neck. Indulging in the taste of your skin as his tongue glides against your carotid artery. A whine leaves your lips. 

You overwhelm his senses. He can feel your heart pump under his tongue. He can taste the salt on your skin. He can hear the blood traveling through your veins. All the while, he’s touching you like you might disappear. A hand in your hair. Around your waist. Cupping your cheek.

It’s not long before his mouth trails up your neck, to your cheek, and lands back on your mouth. Superman kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s been poisoned, and you’re the only antidote that can save him. It’s so messy—spit threatening to drip off of your lips. 

You exchange groans and moans between each other as he lays you down softly on the bed. When he breaks the kiss, the look of desire in his eyes almost melts you into a puddle. His gaze examines you, looking at the skin of your legs he couldn’t see before. 

Now that he’s out of the suit, you’re finally able to get a good look at him. He’s in a pair of black boxer briefs. They hug his skin, showing off his strong thighs. His happy trail catches your eye. Dark black hair disappears underneath the band of his underwear. He’s broad. The way he’s standing in front of you while you’re laid back on the bed should be daunting. His abdomen is taut, but he’s not obnoxiously ripped.

You're still in a shirt and underwear, laying back on the bed. “I- I don't think I can handle much more of the staring,” you mumble. Superman doesn’t say anything, not at first. Instead, his hand skims the hem of your shirt, pushing it up to reveal the waistband of your underwear.

His eyes, while blown out and dark, are comforting. You feel safe under his gaze. “Can I—“ he pauses, fighting the voice on his shoulder telling him this is a bad idea. “Can I touch you?” He’s trying to keep eye contact, but his eyes keep flickering back and forth from your eyes, to the damp spot on your underwear. His breathing picks up at the sight of it. Your legs spread wide for him, knowing exactly what he’s looking at.

You nod your head eagerly. “Want you to touch me.” 

He begins over your underwear, finger dipping just enough under the elastic waist to make it snap lightly against your skin. “These are pretty,” he says, looking back up at you.The underwear is from a multipack you bought at Walmart, not exactly what one would typically describe as pretty.

You stifle a laugh, “Funny joke.”

“I’m being serious.” His eyes are locked on the space between your legs as he traces down your slit. You take in a sharp breath as he finds your clit through the fabric and presses gently. “The pattern on them is pretty—I like them.”

His finger drifts lower. “You’re so wet,” he mumbles as he reaches the damp spot. “You’ve soaked through these.” His voice is one of awe, like he’s surprised he warrants this much of a reaction. He presses a fingertip over your entrance through the fabric. The action grows the size of the darkened fabric. Superman’s eyes flicker to yours for a brief moment, and the heat in your cheeks increases by tenfold. 

“Can I take them off?” You answer the question for him, lifting your hips and pushing the fabric hastily down your legs. The urgency brings a smile to his face. “Eager?” he asks.You nod, not trusting your voice to answer. He helps you pull them all the way down and off your ankles before discarding them to the side of the bed. “Scoot back for me,” he mutters.

Clumsily, you move back on the mattress, leaning against the pillows on your headboard. You watch him through hooded eyes as he sinks to his knees on the bed, before resting on his chest between your legs. His body just barely fits on the mattress. 

Both of his hands rest on one of your thighs, engulfing your skin in his grip. His calloused thumbs rub gentle circles into your thigh as he watches for any signs of discomfort. When he finds none, he guides your legs to spread open. The act is incredibly vulnerable, especially with the way his gaze dissects you. 

Without thinking, your legs close, or at least try to close. “Don’t need to be shy with me,” he whispers, voice thick with desire. Superman keeps your thighs spread open, letting him take in the sight of you in front of him. “Pretty here too,” he mumbles. It’s quiet enough that it probably isn’t meant for you to hear, but you do. Loud and clear. 

The comment makes your cheeks burn with embarrassment. Your hands reach up instinctively to cover your face, muffling your voice as you speak. “You can’t just say stuff like that.” His deep chuckle doesn’t help calm the fire burning on your skin. 

“M’just telling the truth,” he remarks. “Take your hands off your face.” You listen, stomach feeling warm at the command.

One of his hands slides up your inner thigh, making you shiver at the touch. In the next moment, he takes his thumb and spreads your folds, looking like he's about to devour you whole. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he’s going to do just that. He breathes in sharply when he sees the wetness at your entrance, threatening to drip down onto the sheets.

He removes his thumb, only to let his pointer finger slide through your folds. The touch is featherlight, sending electricity through your veins when he nudges your clit before stilling at your entrance. His bright blue eyes dart back up to you. “Need to stretch you out a little bit… is that okay?” he asks, voice gentle.

The words weigh on you for a moment. Stretch you out. Evidently you weren’t hallucinating the massive bulge in his boxers. Still, you nod eagerly, “Y-yeah. Mhm.”

He circles around your entrance first, collecting the wetness on his finger. He watches your face as he eases his middle finger into you slowly. Even just one finger causes all the muscles in your body to tense as you whimper. Meeting resistance, he eases back out before trying to sink deeper into you. “Relax for me.” His head rests against your thigh, curls splaying on your skin. The sight is enough to send another pulse through you. His gaze is caring, bordering on full adoration. 

You relax enough for him to sink deeper into you. He’s slow and careful, pressing in all the way until his knuckle. You pulse around him when he, just as slowly, pulls his finger back out to the tip. He watches your little gasps. The way that your hips grind ever so slightly with each thrust of his finger. He’s not in a rush, letting the rhythm of the slow steady strokes continue for a couple of minutes. It’s obvious the goal right now isn’t to get you off. He’s prepping you for him. 

“Can I add another?”

“You can do whatever you want,” you whine.

“Careful, sweetheart. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” he warns. 

“You’re Superman—I trust you.”

His heart tightens in his chest. You trust him. The voice deep down screams at him to stop, that he shouldn’t be doing something so depraved, but your voice is louder. His pointer finger easily joins his middle finger inside of you. 

It’s the rare time he takes his eyes off of your face. He’s too entranced by the way your entrance accommodates the stretch. “Wish you could see this. Taking it so well.” His face is concentrated, and the movement of his fingers is intentional. He doesn’t rush for a single second, slowly working you to take both fingers as deep as he can press them inside of you. 

When the tip of his ring finger slips into you, you feel the stretch. The movement is unhurried, letting you take him in at your own pace. Your head lulls back into the mattress. “Oh, God,” you whimper as all three fingers fully sink into you. 

His head still rests against your thigh as he watches your reaction. “That’s it… there you go…” he coddles before turning his head to press a sloppy kiss against your thigh. Now that he’s managed to fit three fingers inside of you, his goal shifts again. He needs to make you fall apart. 

He sets a pace with his hand, not too fast, and not too slow. You whimper, the sound desperate. Rolling your hips against him, you reach down to hold his other arm. You need a touch to ground you. “I know, baby. I know,” he whispers. There’s not an ounce of condescension in his words. 

You jolt when his fingers stroke against a specific spot. He grins wide. “There it is,” he says under his breath. “That’s the spot isn’t it?” When you don’t immediately reply, he continues. “Talk to me, baby. Is that where it feels good?”

“Y-yeah—yeah. Feels s’good. R-really good.”

He curls his fingers to nudge against the spot repeatedly, and your reaction is instantaneous. You buck against him, but his strong arms keep you from moving away from the stimulation. “Can feel you pulsing around me. Doing so good f’me.” Once his thumb drifts to circle over your clit, you’re done for.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train as your head falls back against the pillows. Your hips spasm in his grip, muscles tensing with pleasure, Superman continues pistoning in and out of you throughout the waves. You’re too distracted to notice his own hips grinding against the mattress.

He slows down the pace of his fingers as your orgasm fades. He lifts his head from your thigh to place a chaste kiss to your pulsing clit, before he finally removes his fingers from you. You whimper at the loss. 

He stands again at the foot of the bed, looking down at his hand and spreading his fingers . Superman’s fingers glisten in the dim light of your bedroom, strings of slick between them. He doesn’t give it a second thought before he pushes his fingers into his mouth to clean them off. He’s confident with it. The way he licks them clean like it’s no big deal almost makes you mad. Key word, almost.

“Oh my God,” your jaw drops.

His eyebrows raise as he pops the fingers out of his mouth. “What is it?” he asks. If you didn’t know better, you would think this was an act. 

“You just—“ your eyes flicker to his hand that’s now damp with saliva.

“Oh—golly. M’sorry if that was—weird.” Superman is shy in front of you. Actually shy. The blush scattered over his cheeks and nose grows more vivid by the second.

“Don’t apologize. I think that’s one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen,” you reassure him. He’s within arms reach, so you grab his hand and pull his body closer to the bed. Looking up at him with wide eyes, you palm him through his boxers. His length is solid underneath your hand. He chokes back a groan at the pressure, head falling back.

When you take away your hand, his eyes are instantly back on you. You reach down to the hem of your shirt to tug it off of your skin. Your sports bra follows quickly afterwards. He gets starry eyed the second he sees the skin

He lets a gentle hand cup your breast, thumb tracing over your nipple. Slowly, he trails feather light finger from the base of your collarbone, all the way down to your nipple. Goosebumps rise in the wake of his finger. It’s almost like he’s forgotten where he is—how hard he is right now. He’d be content enough to stand here and study you if you’d let him. 

His lips follow the trail of goosebumps, leaving sloppy kisses over your skin. He takes your nipple into his mouth, letting his tongue swirl around it while his other hand grasps your other breast. Your hands tangle into his messy black hair as his mouth works on your chest. When you think he’s finished, he switches to your other breast instead.

You tug on his hair, trying to get him to stand back up. He takes the hint, giving your nipple a slight graze of his teeth before standing. Both of your hands press against his abs. “Wanna see you, too,” you plea. There’s no care in the way he strips his underwear off of his body, leaving himself bare to you. 

You can’t hide the way your eyes widen in shock. “You’re really big…” you mutter breathlessly without even thinking. The words tumble out of your mouth, and it;s much too late to take them back. 

He turns red. Tomato red. You’ve seen him a million times on tv in the midst of battle, soaked with sweat and blood. Yet, you’ve never seen him as flushed as he is in front of you. His hair, usually so put together and styled, sticks up in all directions from your hands running through it. His curls become more prominent from the sweat of his skin. 

“I’m sorry. We don’t have to do anything—we can stop.”

“No, no! I didn’t say that, I just—never taken anything like that before.” He’s trying, really trying to not lose his mind at your words. You're not making it easy. 

“I’ll be gentle—say the word and I’ll stop. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.” He doesn’t move immediately, and you can basically see the gears turning in his head. “Do you have any condoms?”

“Shit, uh—no.” “But I’m on birth control if—if that’s okay with you?”

He gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing. He knows what the answer should be. He should scramble to put back on his suit and fly back over to his apartment to grab the sealed box of condoms that have been collecting dust in his drawer. It would take less than five minutes to make it there and back. 

Patience is not his strong suit. Especially when you’re laid out in front of him like this, with your thighs spread wide. He watches how you pulse around nothing. He can hear how your blood pulses, rushing down to your core. He tries to calm down, but the pure desire drips off of him as he speaks. “That’s fine with me.”

He strokes himself a few times, precum leaking from his tip. He kneels on the bed between your legs. His free hand softly lands on your knee, thumbing your skin. He’s staring at your entrance like he’s trying to figure out how he’s going to make this work. Your voice interrupts his thoughts. 

“Um.” You push yourself up a little bit on your elbows. “I’m realizing I don’t even know what to call you… I can’t call you Superman while you’re inside me, that’s just weird.”

The bluntness of your words makes him cough on the saliva collected in his mouth. “Goodness, uh,” he stutters, stopping the movement of his hand on his dick. He’s breaking all kinds of rules right now, so why not another? Lex’s video already published it to the world. 

“Call me Kal-El,”

“Kal-El?”

“Y-yeah.” He hasn’t heard another person call him that before. It lights a fire in his stomach.

“Okay. Please, Kal-el. Want you.”

His eye contact is too much. Way too much. His gaze somehow makes you feel more naked. The feeling in your stomach from his beautiful eyes looking into yours grows to be too much. When he lines himself up, nudging at your entrance, you let your gaze fall to the ceiling. Without missing a beat, his hand grasps your jaw, capturing your chin between his thumb and fingers. His palm rests on the front of your neck. The grip is gentle. He’s barely applying any pressure. He tilts your chin. “Keep looking at me.”

“O-Okay.”

You’re glad he makes you look, because the sight of him sinking into you is heavenly. He’s gorgeous. His eyelids flutter for half at second, and his mouth falls open. The groan that leaves his mouth is downright sinful, and causes you to pulse around him. You gasp at the intrusion.

He moves slowly, filling you up inch by inch. Kal-El’s hips jolt, accidentally pushing in faster than he meant. You wince at the stretch, letting your nails dig into his back. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbles. As if to prove his apology, he presses kisses all over your face, before moving to your hairline, and then your forehead. The action is so incredibly affectionate, making your heart tighten in your chest. 

It’s around the half way point when you really start to struggle with his size. 

“Shit—so much. Too much—”

“Shh—you can take it. It’ll fit,” he coos. One of his hands comes up to stroke your side to soothe you. “Breathe, baby. Take a deep breath for me, yeah? Let me in.” He praises you the second you steady your breathing, taking one large breath to calm yourself down. “That’s it. Can I keep going? I can stop if you need me to.”

The idea of stopping nearly sends you into panic mode. “No, no—no. Please, don’t stop. Want more.” Your hands grab at his back, trying to keep you as close as possible. He twitches inside of you at your words. It’s clear that you’re struggling to take him, but you want more. You want to make him fit. 

“O-Okay sweetheart. Calm down. M’not going anywhere.” He kisses you to keep you distracted while he eases himself into you, urging you to open up for him. “Being so good for me,” he mumbles in between kisses. His hand engulfs your neck, wrapping around it to hold your jaw and keep your lips on his. 

Your nails claw into his back when he bottoms out inside of you, scratching down his skin. It’s almost too much, like you’re nearly being split in half. “Kal-El—fuck. Oh, fuck. You’re so deep. Oh my god.”

“I know baby—” His eyes are closed tight above you. It’s clear he’s holding back, and it’s taking everything in him to do so. “Golly, you feel so good. So warm. Gosh, gosh, gosh,” he rambles. 

When he finally opens his eyes and sees you underneath him, the expression on your face melts him on the spot. Your eyes water at the stretch. The sight shouldn’t stroke the fire in his stomach, but it does. He did this to you. Taking your face in his hand, his thumb swipes away the tears that escaped your eyes. He leans down to press soft kisses to your lips, swallowing every sound you make.

“Did so good, baby. I’ll wait as long as you need me to wait,” he mutters against your mouth. His lips drop down to press at your neck. The kisses are sloppy, mostly his tongue licking at your skin, tasting the salt that’s accumulated there. The care in his words makes you dizzy, and him sucking into your neck doesn’t make you feel any less lightheaded.

He sticks to his word, not moving an inch inside of you. At least five minutes have passed before you speak up. “You can—you can move. Please move.”

The pace he sets is just as slow as he moved his fingers earlier. He doesn’t want to do too much too quickly. The ache fades the more he grinds into you, pleasure replacing it. Kal-El’s blue eyes remain on you, looking for any sign that he needs to stop. 

Every stroke of his cock inside of you sends stars across your vision.  “Feel you—feel you in my stomach—” you whine. You look down through glassy eyes at the sight of your bodies connecting. Seeing just how thick he is between your legs makes you whimper.  Your gaze is drawn elsewhere, though. It’s slight, oh so slight, but you can see it. The subtle bulge right above your mound that moves with every thrust. “Kal, look—” you whimper. 

He leans back onto his knees, no longer hovering over you like before. It makes the bulge even more visible this way, with your ankles wrapped around his back. “Jeez—goodness sake—” He’s completely speechless, watching the way it becomes more prominent the deeper he thrusts. 

Your hand moves, slipping between your bodies before resting over the bulge. When you press down, you feel him moving from the outside. Fireworks explode across your vision. Heat bubbles in your veins. You can barely breathe. 

“S-See?”

“Yeah—” he swallows. “I see it, baby.”

You want him to feel it, not just see it. Grabbing his hand from where it holds onto your thigh, you move it to rest over the spot. He groans deeply. Desperately. He presses down, hard, grinding his hips to thrust against the top of your walls. “Feel so full—s’full,” you gasp, barely able to get the words out.”

“Shh—I know. Taking it like you’re made for it.” You nod your head at that. Like you want that. Like you want to be made for him.

“D-do you like that? Like the idea of that?”

“Please—please, please, please,” you beg. You’re not sure what for, but Kal-El moves like he knows. 

“I’ll give you what you need, baby.” He unwraps a leg from around his waist and throws it over his shoulder. You gasp at the change in angle, and your hands grab at his skin. His thrusts become slow and calculated, like he’s teasing you. In actuality? He’s trying to hold himself together, because he knows the sooner he cums, the sooner this whole thing ends. The last thing he wants is for this moment with you to end because he can’t control himself. 

Kal-El watches as you fight the pleasure growing in your belly. He counters this by finding your clit with his thumb. While his thrusts are gentle, his thumb circles your bud at a pace so fast your head spins. “Let go, baby. Let go for me,” he encourages. The heat bubbles in your stomach, releasing through your veins as your orgasm hits you. Your body shudders with each wave of pleasure. You murmur his name over and over again like it’s the only work you know.

He stops circling your clit, but he doesn’t stop the pace of his hips. Your leg falls from his shoulder as he presses his forehead against you. He cages you in with his body, forearms at the side of your head holding him up. Your legs wrap tightly around his waist, trying to get him as close as possible. 

“So pretty. So gosh dang pretty,” he moans. Your eyes are weepy and red. Your swollen lips are covered in spit. Sweat collects on your forehead... But gosh, you’ve never looked more pretty to him. Completely coming undone for him. Being so vulnerable with him. 

People aren't vulnerable with him, especially not as Superman. Though, you have no problem showing him your weaknesses, showing him the spots that make your eyes roll into the back of your head. You're more than happy to show him your achilles heel if it means you get to stay in this haze for a little while longer. 

He’s getting close, dangerously close. His thrusts grow erratic and powerful. The force behind them jolts you in the bed. You’ve reached the point of pure overstimulation. Broken whimpers and moans leave your lips. He wants to keep you grounded, to keep you focused on him. He grabs your hand, and pins it beside your head, fingers interlacing with yours. 

“Want you to cum again for me. You can do it, sweetheart. Know you can.” He’s moved on from thrusts to deep grinds. His pelvis nudges against your clit. You shake your head at his request.

“C-can’t. It’s too m-much,” you whine. He doesn’t let up on the pace, snapping his hips roughly against you. 

“Wanna see you cum for me one last time. So beautiful when you do. Please? Be good for me.” You sink into pleasure as your third orgasm overtakes you. Your cunt pulses around him, squeezing tight. You shake in his grasp, muscles completely out of your control

“Oh gosh, gonna—where can I—” 

“Inside—p-please,” you say in the most hazy, fucked out voice he’s ever heard. With a few more calculated thrusts, he spills inside of you. You whimper with every pulse of his cock inside of you. You cling onto him like a lifeline.

He falls against you, pressing every inch of his skin to yours. You’re almost asleep when speaks. “Gotta get you cleaned up. C’mon, sweetheart.” He’s lifting up off you, urging you to sit up. 

“Sleepy—Don’t wanna move,” you mutter, trying to hold onto his arm. You hear a faint chuckle above you. Kal-El takes matters into his own hands. He finds your bathroom, and brings a warm, wet rag to wipe between your legs and your thighs. You barely acknowledge the touch, drifting into a deep sleep.  The last thing you recall is the feeling of a shirt slipped over your head. 

The first time you wake up, it’s when the sun is just about to rise over the horizon. Your curtains are open. The light just starts to hit your face as your eyes flutter open. Around your waist, you feel the weight of his arm holding you close to his chest. He has you tightly against him, legs entangling with yours. You’re practically engulfed by his warmth. You let sleep take you once again, content to stay as long as possible in his arms. 

The next time you wake up, the curtain across from your bed is closed, and the space next to you has gone cold. It’s silly to feel disappointed, but you can’t help the frown on your face as you sit up in bed, trying to rub the tiredness out of your eyes. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a neon sticky note pad on your nightstand. The writing on it is slightly messy, like he left in a rush. 

Unfortunately, Superman has a secret 9-5 job. I couldn’t bring myself to wake you up before I left… you looked too peaceful. Thank you for fixing me up the best you could. The sun finished the job this morning. See you around. 

-S

As usual, Clark finds himself very late to work four weeks later. Extremely late. He can’t even blame it on Superman. He just forgot to set his alarm. He decides to go to a bakery that opened up a couple months ago near the Daily Planet. If he’s going to be this late, he might as well bring donuts. 

He’s not paying much attention, reading the paper in his hands as he stands in line. He glances up when it’s finally his turn, and instantly becomes a deer in headlights when he sees you. It takes him way too long to remember the glasses—you have no idea who he is right now.

Despite his very awkward pause, you don’t lose the smile on your face. “Can I get you something?”

“Oh uh—hi yes. Can I get um—a dozen assorted donuts and…” Clark barely manages to pull himself together as he blabs out his, Jimmy, and Lois’s order from muscle memory.

“Of course! What’s the name for the order?”

“Will you stay still?” You huff, annoyance fraying the edges of your words. 

Holland, who’s still drunk as all hell, looks up at you with a dopey smile. He’s perched on the lid of the toilet like a bird would on its favorite telephone wire. Cozy but unaware of dangers. Like being electrocuted. Or in Holland’s case, leaning too far to the left and cracking his head open on the tub. 

The two of you had been in here for the last ten minutes. Most of that time consisted of you trying to get him to sit up straight, hands moving every which way to make sure he didn’t fall over, and constantly checking over your shoulder while you fished the first aid kit out from under the sink. It made you feel like you were back to your babysitting job. The only difference now was instead of a toddler, you had an even worse grown man. 

“M’trying.” He slurs his words, barely sounding like actual English. 

“Try harder.” You deadpan back.

A quiet giggle comes from him. Of course he’d find it funny—the frustration unfurling through your veins. The guy was gone. He probably didn’t even have any recollection of how he got into the bathroom. 

How did he get in the bathroom?

Well, that was a long story. The short story being this: March ran after a ‘suspect’ while drunk and ended up rolling down a hill. Flailing limbs and all. Healy had helped you get him back up the hill, into the backseat of the car, and carried in here. All that for the ‘suspect’ to have been a mannequin. 

Typical. 

“Look up at me.” There’s a vacant kind of tone to your voice, like you’d said these exact words a hundred times over. And you had. Holland was an injury magnet. 

Holland tries his best, chin jutting up to look at you. His big glassy eyes train themselves on your gaze. If you weren’t so preoccupied with tending to his wounds, you would have made a mental note of how pretty he looked. 

A trickle of dried blood drips down his cheek. He’d gotten a small gash near his temple. When you’d found him at the bottom of the hill, your assessment proved he hadn’t needed stitches. Miraculously. The guy had fallen and tumbled like a roley poley. 

“Hey.” He grins a lopsided smile as you get close to his face, bringing a wash cloth to the blood. 

He wiggles his eyebrows at you. 

Jesus Christ. 

You dab at the frayed skin around his wound, touch featherlight. Just to collect the coagulated blood. He inhales sharply, eyes pinching shut. Holland’s hands messily jut out, grasping onto your waist. 

“Shit, sorry.” You murmur, removing the wash cloth from his skin like you’d been burned. A frown captures your glossed lips. Hurting him was not the intention. “I know, sorry.”

You gently blow at the cut, hoping to provide some sort of relief. The washcloth had been dabbed in a water and peroxide mixture. It was the best way to clean out a wound—usually it hurt the most, too. But there were no bubbles. It wasn’t infected nor filled with any bacteria. 

“Mhm.” Holland slowly softens his expression.

His hands are warm against your waist. Big and strong despite his altered state. The heat of his hands radiates through your skin, warming you from the inside out. His grasp doesn’t falter. It makes your heart beat faster—for reasons you still refused to confront. 

“Alright.” You pull back, dropping the washcloth on the side of the sink. 

Most of the blood had been cleared off, anyway. All that was left was to bandage him and check if he had a concussion. It was unlikely, but you’d be damned if you ended up having to drag his drunk ass to the free emergency room across the city. 

“Y’know..” he slurs, head tilting slightly as he watches you. There’s a moment where he just watches you take out a band aid from Holly’s package. He was too drunk to comment on the fact it was Hello Kitty. “You’re pretty. Ver—so—pretty.” 

He hiccups halfway through his rambling. 

That wasn’t entirely too off par for your relationship. Holland would get drunk and loosen his lips around you, slipping off comments about how kind or pretty you looked. It was something you’d grown accustomed to rolling your eyes at him about. 

“Okay, casanova.” You don’t pay much mind to his words, walking back to press the band aid against his skin. 

Leaning down, your tongue wets your bottom lip. For some reason it helps you concentrate. Or, that’s what you like to think. Your fingers work it onto his swaying head. 

He still wasn’t staying still.

“Holland, please.” You implore, sighing. “Stay still. It’ll be crooked if you don’t.”

“Not moving.” He protests, body gently swaying like he’s on a boat. He looks up at you, blue irises sparkling under the bathroom light above. 

There was no helping him. 

“Okay.” 

Battles were meant to be picked. 

It takes another few minutes before you start working him up. There were a few things you remember from your first aid class. Really, just the essentials—concussion testing and drowning things. Thank god you still did. They proved to be very useful around holland.

He didn’t appear to have any sensitivity to light. And he wasn’t more confused than he normally was—and you were using the drunk variable indefinitely. He seemed perfectly fine.

“You’re all good.” You grin, mouth twisting upward into something comforting. “Nothing to worry about.” 

You’re still standing between his outstretched legs, closer than you normally would be. Especially since his wounds had been tended to and you ruled out any possible issues. Though, your mind couldn’t quite get your legs to move away from him.

Even if he smelled like stale beer and whiskey. 

Holland does something then; something you’d never expect. His arms wrap around your waist. Your muscles lock frozen as he clings onto you like a child would. The side of his face smushes into your chest as he hums. 

“Thanks.” He whispers, voice wavering like he was about to cry.

Your arms slowly rest on his shoulders, palms flattening on his back. Confusion overtakes you. Then, there’s a warm fluttering feeling starting in your chest. It makes your pulse skip and breath stutter. 

“Uh, anytime.” Perplexity lilts your tone, words coming out slow.

“M’love you.” He mumbles, arms tightening around you.

Warmth creeps up your neck.

“Time for you to go to bed.” The words tumble out quickly, flustered and barely leaving any space for breath. 

“No.” He protests, squeezing you against him. “Stay here.”

He’s worse than a child.

And too close. And too warm. And your partner. 

It’s getting harder to breathe. His arms are starting to feel more like vines rather than structures holding you up. The territory was all wrong. Somewhere you’d never been with Holland—even if he was only saying the things he was because he’s drunk as a skunk. It was overwhelming. 

Words crawl up your throat but die on your tongue. There were so many things passing through your mind it blended into a hum, silencing the world around you. It felt like your brain was short circuiting. 

Holland—he’s Holland. The guy who trips over his own feet. Who makes his daughter drive for him after getting his arm broken. Screeches like a banshee when there’s a bug in his room. And… who holds onto you like you’re his saving grace. 

A lump forms in your throat. 

“You don’t mean that...” Your voice sounds foreign in your own throat, words paper-thin.

He nods against you. “S’do. My girl. Best girl.”

You’re not breathing anymore.

“Holland.”

“Have I told you that?” He slurs, moving his head to look up at you. His chin rests in the valley above your chest, glassy eyes twinkling. “S’good to me. And Holly—Healy too. Dealin’ with.. My drunk ass. Never got around ta’ tellin’ ya..”

"You're drunk." You whisper.

Holland blinks. "Kiss me."

The ground beneath your feet opens and swallows you whole. Those are the words you'd never have thought to hear from him. A lot of things about tonight were things you wouldn't expect.

Was it a full moon?

"C'mon." He whines, looking up at you with those big eyes. "Jus' one. Go to bed after... promise."

Were you really gonna do this? You couldn't, right? He was drunk. Impaired. Surely, that meant he couldn't be making decisions for himself. If you asked he probably wouldn't be able to tell you what day it is. You'd be taking advantage of him if you kissed him.

You shouldn't do it. Couldn't do it.

"Okay." You breathe.

Damn it! Bad girl! This was not what you talked with yourself about!

Holland's face brightens as a five-watt smile captures his expressions. His eyes crinkle and sparkle. They look like twinkling stars in the night sky. Endlessly beautiful.

You find yourself bending down, head tilting as you press your lips against his. His mustache tickles your skin. The kiss lasts for maybe a second—maybe less. But it feels like an eternity. Fireworks pop behind your eyes and it steals away whatever breath you had left.

Holland's hands tangle in your hair, holding you close to him as he milks the kiss. Even in his inebriated state he still kissed you gently.

You pull away first, one hand coming up to catch his wrist. His skin feels warmer than it had a few minutes ago.

Heat travels through your veins. The familiar ache settles somewhere deep in your abdomen. But you force yourself to shake it off. Kissing him was way out of line—the thoughts creeping into your mind were borderline blasphemous.

"Now it's time for bed."

Holland rolls his eyes like a sassy toddler.

"Not good enough for you?" He mumbles, sarcasm lilting his slurred words.

Your mouth opens to spit out a quip. But nothing comes out. Your tongue turns to stone in your throat, the words in your mind dissipate, and suddenly your neck feels warm. He just said that. There was hesitancy in his words. They came from his mouth like an early spring breeze.

Somehow, they felt like a challenge.

Any of your inhibition flew out the window.

Self-preservation? Who's she?

Your movements are charged with electricity, shock waves licking up your spine. Your hand grabs at his collar in jest. Fingertips dip into the soft cotton, using it as leverage. Holland lets out a surprised gasp as you yank him towards you.

This time, there's nothing gentle about the kiss.

It's messy. Clashing tongue and teeth, lips bruising as they move against each other. He tastes like Jack and coke. The flavor tingles on your tongue, dripping down your throat like honey. He smiles against you, all cocky and all too happy.

He wanted that.

And you gave it to him.

You break apart from him, panting. A string of saliva connects the two of you. Sarcasm and mockery glues itself to your tone. "Good enough for you?"

Holland looks up at you with glasses over eyes, stupid grin blanketing his starry expression. "Yes—Absolutely."

It annoys you how a smile threatens to curve your mouth.

"Now it's time for you to go to bed."

"Happily. You comin' with?" He wiggles his eyebrows once more, this time with more sync. The alcohol was slowly depleting in his system.

"Don't press your luck." You murmur.

Getting him to bed consisted of hauling his arm over your shoulder and dragging him down the hall. Every few steps he whined about not being tired. The complaints were mainly centered around you not coming to bed with him. You had to cover his mouth a few times when his comments became vulgar, which only made him talk louder and laugh like a hyena.

You silently thank the gods his daughter wasn't around to hear his mouth.

And that Healy had left.

Which did mean it was only the two of you.

Holland's hand rests on your waist, fingertips trailing beneath your shirt. Every graze of his skin against yours leaves fire in its wake. You were seriously beginning to have more pros than cons about sleeping with him.

When he drops onto his bed, his fingers haphazardly dip into the loops of your jeans. He yanks you down in the same way you grabbed at him a few minutes earlier.

A gasp leaves your throat, hands going out to catch you. One palm flattens against the bed beside his head. The other plants firmly on his chest—the rest of you falling on top of him. Your thigh slots between his legs while the other straddles his thigh.

He lets out a soft grunt. His head thumps against the mattress, a chortle leaving his throat. That wasn't the plan but he's more than happy with the outcome.

You try to scramble away from him, but you feel a hard pressure against your thigh. And it's not something in his pocket. Every muscle in your body freezes. Shock settles in your system, squirming between your ribs and making a home there. He's bigger than you'd ever let yourself think about.

You're too flustered to let out any sound.

Holland's hands find your hips, touch feather light. He squeezes at the covered flesh. The contact makes your pulse skip a beat. A trickle of desire drips from your abdomen to your thighs, radiating between them.

He stares at you.

You stare at him.

"Stay?" He asks, voice barely above a whisper.

"Holland—you're not sober."

He huffs, shaking his head. "I am." His tone makes it sound more like a plea than a reassurance. "I want this—you. Shit, baby, can you feel me? Need you so bad."

Your head feels like it's swimming. There was a line you refused to cross with anyone, and Holland was straddling it. But he was coherent enough to string his words together. They weren't being slurred anymore. His eyes weren't drooping to make him look sleepy.

"You sure?" Your words are wrapped with barely contained need.

"Fuck." He grumbles, eyes closing for a moment. "Straining against my pants here. Yes, m'sure."

That wasn't a lie.

You could feel him twitching against your thigh, even beneath his clothing.

"Alright." Your words are far away sounding, like you were lost in a daze. "Okay we can—I'll—fuck, just take your pants off."

He chuckles, watching with a goofy grin as you flop onto the bed beside him. There's no hesitance in the way his hands fly to his pants. His thumbs hook into his waistband, using all his strength to rip the article off. A huff leaves his throat when he kicks off the bunched fabric and lets it fall into a ball on the floor.

The boxers he's wearing do nothing to hide the rock hard bulge. There's a dark spot bleeding through the fabric, pressing against the line of his tip. You can see the thick length of him now.

Holland rolls over on his tummy, large hands grabbing at you. He's quick to guide himself between your legs. Shaking fingers pull down the zipper of your bell bottoms. It's like he can't get them off fast enough—like they've personally offended him and he's holding back his frustrations.

They get tossed across the room by him, mumbling something that sounds like 'finally.' An audible whine rips from his throat when he's faced with your satin panties. It's the final layer between him and the rawest part of you—a part he intended on worshiping for as long as he could.

"Oh God." His voice is soft, almost like he's surprised he's nestled between your legs.

His thumb runs up your clothed slit, pressure just enough to buck your hips into his hand. Just a simple touch sent electric currents licking up your spine. You felt like a live wire, just teetering on the edge of becoming explosive.

Your fingers grip at his sheets, awaiting his next delicious assault on your cunt. The bedsheets smell like him. Whiskey, cigarettes, and soap. They blend together to create something that makes you lightheaded; dizzy in the best way.

There's a part of you that wanted him to just get on with it. The need racing through your veins made you as sensitive as a bomb. Though, the other part of you wanted to see his chin glistening with your juices and the way he looked up at you from between your thighs.

Holland's tongue flattens against your covered cunt, licking a stripe up your panties. The arousal that had soaked through the fabric lands on his tongue. He groans low in his throat, eyes fluttering shut. His nose bumps against your clit as he licks at you.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, head angled down to watch him. His arms have snaked around your thighs, hands holding you open for him. Every few moments you notice him rutting into the mattress. The sight alone is better than a sunrise—it makes a moan bubble up in your throat.

Holland opens his eyes, huge pupils dwarfing his blue eyes. There's barely even a ring of blue around them. All that's left is desire and lust. He tugs your panties to the side, forcing them from his way.

When his eyes drop down, he fucking whines. Like just seeing how wet you were for him was better than being touched. Or it had the same affect. There's not even a second for you to breathe—he dives right in like a starved man.

His lips immediately attach around your clit, sucking it into his mouth. His tongue rolls over the sensitive nub until you cry out. A content hum makes his lips vibrate around you. The assault on your body doesn't end there. He pulls off your clit with a 'pop', flattening his tongue to drag through your folds.

He eats you like you're the juiciest fruit freshly picked from a tree. Slurping, sucking, and licking at you. His facial hair gets wet within a minute. Probably less. The entire bottom half of his face is glistening, dripping with your essence.

Every drag of his tongue feels like heaven brought to you. His hands hold down your bucking hips, humming every time you moan out his name. It's so messy and dirty but that just turns you on even more. He alternates between sucking your clit and licking into you, collecting the sweetness dribbling out of you.

It's easy to see that he does this for his own pleasure as much as yours. There's a certain hunger in his eyes you've never seen from any man. It's in the way he pays special attention to what makes you whiter against his mouth.

When your hands thread through the soft locks on his head, his eyes fly open. The stare he gives you makes or heart drop. Each little tug on his hair makes him suction against you harder. The coil in your tummy is tightening every second, gaining momentum to spring back.

You can't push him away when it becomes too much. He doesn't look it, but Holland is strong. His arm settles over your hips, using his free hand to hold you open for him. There's not even an ounce of recollection when you push him away. He just ignores it.

Fingertips dance at your entrance, easing in nice and slow. The stretch around them feels overwhelming. It steals the breath from your lungs, feeling like a punch to the chest. Your thighs try to close around his head but he doesn't allow them to.

The stimulation from his fingers and mouth creates a crescendo, pushing you off the edge. White explodes across your vision. The coil in your tummy snaps, walls spasming around his digits. Holland moans into you, noise muffled by your cunt.

He's rutting into the mattress, moaning as he licks up whatever juices he can. His fingers pull out and slick drips down his wrist. He laps at your entrance, grinning as you shudder. His hand gently whacks at yours when you try to push him off.

"Holland!" Your voice is frayed, orgasm still making you light headed.

"Taste s'good." He's getting onto his knees in an instant. "Can't wait to feel—oh, shit—let me feel it, baby. Feel you wrapping 'round my dick."

His words make you whimper, head nodding fast enough to give you whiplash.

Holland's palms wrap around your thighs, yanking you closer to him."This pussy's fuckin' heaven. She ready f'me?"

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“Baby, baby, baby—” Holland hangs his head as you grind it against the ashtray on the kitchen counter. He eases up his grip on you as you go to throw the cigarette butt straight into the trash bin. You win. Holland throws his head back with a sigh; you’ve been doing this more, lately, trying to get him off smoking. He lets you, aiming to please. The only caveat, really, is when you use it against him as punishment for when you’re mad.

And now, you’re mad. “You’re pissing me off, March.” You’re not trying to be too loud about it, not wanting to rouse too great of a suspicion from Holly or Healy. But Holland can see the way that you’re glaring at him. It isn’t an over-exaggeration.

“Honey, I’m just trying to give you options.” Holland frowns, “Maybe, you don’t want to go and you’re just too polite to say so. I don’t know many hot, twenty-somethings who’re opting to spend their Friday night attending middle-school productions of The Sound of Music.”

“I’m trying to be supportive!” You hiss, “Now, stop being a wuss and let me attend Holly’s show.” You can see the hair hanging over Holland’s forehead swaying as he looks you up and down. He’s getting distracted. Clearly, he’s enjoying the sight of you pissy a little bit too much. So not the time. You’re inclined to snap your fingers at him; the sound jolts his attention back up to your face.

“Okay. Fine,” Holland yields. He’s trying to run through the night in his head. The two of you in the car, enjoying each other’s company up until the top-of-show, where you’re watching those stupid, little middle-schoolers perform and suddenly find yourself wanting to break up with him. Holland, the perpetual single father. He grits his teeth, “If you want to go, then we can go. I’ll pick you up after I drop her off, and we’ll watch it front-row.” 

“Good.” You stand up straighter, expression much brighter than before. Even if he’s so terrified by the thought of you coming to Holly’s play, Holland can only really aim to please you. If this is what he has to do, then so be it.

“Happy?” Holland asks cautiously, glancing over your features with a tilt of his head. You’re much more touchy now, a good sign, hands coming up to fix his collar.

“You’re in the safe-zone for now,” you tell Holland. Without further delay, he’s bending down to give you a sloppy kiss—pointer-fingers pulling you by the belt loops. You’re grinning wide as he moves upwards, laying a kiss on your nose, and then your forehead. All is right in the world.

Healy’s muttering carries over into the kitchen. “Jesus. It’s like they can’t go a minute without touchin’ each other.” His acute observation causes Holly to begin twisting her head with naive curiosity—but he stops her with a tap to the shoulder and a shake of his head. “Don’t look, kid. S’gross.”

—

On Friday night, Holland’s five minutes early—double-parked on the street of your apartment with the convertible roof down. The two of you are already well-agreed on the attire for tonight. Not too casual, not too formal, just charming enough to impress. As soon as you’re outside and locking the door behind you, Holland is beaming. “Hon, you look perfect.” But, as soon as you turn around, he’s dead quiet. Holland’s very caught off-guard, you think, by the large bunch of carnations cradled in your arms, all wrapped up in cellophane and ribbon. Holland gawks as you approach the car, open the side-door, and plop yourself onto the seat behind him. “Is that a bouquet?”

You shut the door and adjust the carnations carefully above your lap. It’s difficult to navigate where to put them exactly; the petals are rising out of the plastic film in generous bunches of off-white and fuschia. The bouquet’s big; you don’t know where to put it. “It’s for Holly. Opening night’s always a big deal, and I’m sure that all the parents are gonna have these kinds of things, too.”

Holland’s looking down at your lap like you’re carrying some kind of contraband. “Did you buy it? When?” He’s acting absolutely clueless, as if he’s never even seen a flower before in his life.

“There’s a florist a few blocks down,” you explain to Holland, half-distracted. “Would you hold it for me?”

He ushers the bouquet towards him with his hands. “Of course, baby. Give it here.” As soon as Holland takes the bouquet off your hands, he’s glancing down at your hands. You’re pulling a 35mm Canon from your side, pulling the thin leather strap over your head and placing it gently for a moment on the dash. “And you brought a camera. Of course.” Once the camera’s secure enough, you’re taking the bouquet out of Holland’s hands and putting it gently in the backseat. You can feel Holland watching you—particularly, the backside of you—as you make an exerted effort to secure them with a seatbelt. His entertainment is cut short as you sit back down in the shotgun with him. He’s restless, hand coming down to adjust his pant leg.

“You really need to keep up, March. Momentous occasion calls for momentous effort. Once I get them developed, they can go up on your fridge or something.”

Holland revs his car up a little bit, before rolling the car slowly down the block. “You’re running laps around me. I’m being… bested,” he says, palm hitting the steering wheel softly. As stumped as he sounds, you can see right through the facade.

You lean over for a quick second to kiss Holland soft on the cheek. “That’s how you like me, right?” And, unfazed, you slide back to plug your seatbelt in. Though Holland’s making a grand show of checking both sides of the street before he turns, you can see the way his lips twitch up into a smile.

—

This middle-school performance of The Sound of Music, though prepubescent in nature, has its charm. During the intermission, you spend a resolute amount of time conversing with Holland about Holly’s lighting prowess. He can only listen and nod, seeing as he doesn’t understand anything about the technical. But he is happy to be there—has a little bit of a frame of reference with the Christmas show—and just knows that his daughter’s somewhere in this auditorium, behind the handlebars of a giant spotlight, buzzing with excitement.

After the bows, it’s very easy to find Holly. She’s all the way up in the lighting booth, first. Then, skipping down the stairs, she’s running her way down to the two of you. Dressed in all show-blacks, Holly’s light blonde hair pops. She sticks out like a sore thumb amidst all the other families, bouncing around, hand shot straight in the air to flag you. She’s practically hopping up and down at the sight of you and her dad, shoulder-to-shoulder. “You came!” Holly exclaims, hand reaching to squeeze yours.

“Of course I came. I said I would come, didn’t I?” you tell her. Then, you’re tugging soft on Holland’s sleeve. “Flowers, baby.” Holland pulls the bouquet out from behind his back with a soft “ta-da,” holding them right in front of Holly’s face. She takes them heartily, looking straight down into the carnelians with a giddy look on her face.

“That’s for being the best kid offstage tonight.” Holly won’t stop saying ‘thank you’ over and over, and so, you’ve got to wave your hand and nudge her towards Holland. “Go stand next to your dad with those. I wanna shoot a picture of the both of you.”

The sight before you in the viewfinder is lovely. Holland is standing just behind Holly with both his hands on his shoulders; she’s holding the bouquet up for you to get a clearer shot. There’s the same wide grin shared between the two of them, and you can feel your heart just swelling at the sight. As soon as the camera clicks, Holly’s peeling off of Holland in an instant. “I’m supposed to go help put the spotlights back in the storage, and I’ve got to say bye to Jess. Can I meet you outside?” she asks you, bright-blue eyes blinking rapidly.

Holland decides, maybe too eagerly, to respond on behalf of both of you. “We’ll go warm up the car. You take your time.” You cast him a sidelong glance—the tone alone telling you that he’s too excited to rush out of the auditorium.

Upon further inspection, Holland is jumpy. He’s checking for his keys in his trouser pockets, fixing his already-straight tie. It’s like watching an old German Shepherd wag its tail. His daughter can only narrow her eyes with a scrunch of her nose. “Gross,” Holly says. “Meet me in twenty minutes near the flagpole.” Holly’s always getting dropped off there in the mornings; it’s a solid landmark. The two of you watch as she skitters away from the both of you to go close up for the night. Holland is turning to face you, hand finding the small of your back with a feathery, brush of your spine. It’s going to be a very short walk to the car.

—

Holland insists on bringing the roof up on his convertible for the sake of privacy, though his windows are fish-bowled and you’re sure that anyone within a couple of yards can see you both. Still, he seems very urgent about ushering you into the shotgun and the both of you sitting there for a moment before swinging the car around to grab Holly. Once he’s able to toss the bouquet in the back, he’s taking your hand up; his mustache brushes against your knuckles as he kisses them. “You’re getting sappy on me.”

“I’m not used to bringing anyone to these things,” Holland tells you, “Besides Healy, maybe.” Not the time. He shakes his head and tries again, placing your hand back down onto your lap. “It’s pretty nice having you come and support Holly. You, uh… make great backup.”

You’re turning to face him. In the dimly-lit lot of the middle school, you can only barely see the antsy look on his face. Softly, you chuckle, “It isn’t a case, Holland.” He nods. You’re right, as per usual.

“Right.” He finally cracks. “I’m not used to this. And I love it, baby, I do. It’s more than I could possibly ask for.” Holland had only been burning through the occasional one-night stand before he met you. And before that, there’d only been his wife. You’re steady, and it’s not what he’s used to. It’s really all as new to you as it is to him. That last thing you want is to impose on the March’s home life—but the closer you get to Holland… It's starting to resemble a family.

“I just want to make sure that you know that you’re not running it alone. It takes a village, or whatever.” Warily, you confess to him, “And I wanna be good for you and Holly.”

“Oh, honey.” He’s giving that same old look that he always does, pupils blown, lips parted. He just can’t help it. “You’re perfect,” Holland assures you earnestly. There’s an irresistible urge for you to plant a tender kiss on his jaw. As soon as you do, he doesn’t let you get much further away from him. Holland tilts your chin up with his thumb, leaving a gentle peck on your lips. He’s always impatient when it comes to you, never able to keep it short and sweet. Quickly, Holland is bringing his hand up to your neck, calloused fingers pushing against your pulse point. He’s following the trace of his fingers with hard kisses, then capturing your lips again with a fluttery groan.

“Holland,” you whisper. You have to pull back from him, though you’d really kill to carry on. He’s muttering “already?” under his breath and you have to insist with a squeeze of his knee. “She’s going to be out any minute now.” Holland drops his head onto your shoulder, taking in a deep breath. Then, he grabs for your seatbelt, clicks it into the lock, and gives you one last smooch on the cheek.

“Okay. I’m gonna treat the kid and you out to a nice dinner tonight. Ice cream after. She can’t go without ,” Holland nods. He sits up straight, raising his arm over the back of your seat to pull out of his parking space. “And next weekend, we’re gonna go take a drive, you and me—find a hotel room and make good use of that film camera of yours.”

With a swift swat to the arm, you mutter, “You’re such a perv. Go pull up to the flagpole.”

He's dressed sharp - definitely more put together than any one man in the church. The three-piece navy suit he's got on is fancy enough that he could be a member of the wedding party.

The suit jacket, waistcoat, and trousers are a deep, navy blue to contrast with your dress. He dons a crisp white button-up with a light blue tie hanging around his neck. The shade matches perfectly with your dress and makes the bright blue of his eyes pop.

Jacob - your date - is also scouring the incoming guests as he unbuttons his suit jacket, a thoughtful look pulling on the corners of his mouth. He leans over to you, still glancing around as he murmurs, "It's better to be overdressed than underdressed in situations like this."

He subtly motions to a couple across the church, and utters, "Look at that older couple. They know proper etiquette for wedding attire." The couple a few rows down from you are wearing standard semi-formal clothing, and it makes a sigh fall from your nose in defeat.

You shuffle slightly as you move your purse to your left, a wide gap in the seating keeping you from being close to the aisle. Jacob sits on your right, and no one sits on the other side of him.

The two of you sit alone in a pew on the groom's side - a mere 15 minutes before the wedding is supposed to begin. The bride's side of the church is packed, with friends and family bumping each other's shoulders to all fit.

You glance back at Jacob, uncertainty still pulling your brows taut. The blonde gives you a charming smile, then leans closer yet and murmurs, "You look great, by the way."

There's a soft glint in his eye as he briefly lets his gaze flit over your frame, taking note of the way your body is tight and on edge. You can feel an intense wave of heat rush over you - the compliment floats easily from his mouth and ruffles the last of your nerves.

You part your mouth to brush him off, but you catch sight of a woman holding a camera over Jacob's shoulder. You make eye contact with her and give her a soft smile of recognition.

"Hi! Would you two mind moving closer to the aisle? This side looks a little too empty in the pictures," she explains as she motions to the empty spots next to the aisle. Jacob quickly turns to glance over his shoulder at the sound of her voice, and once she finishes speaking, looks at you expectantly.

A quick wave of panic floods over you at the thought of being trapped between the decorations blocking the end of the pew by the aisle and Jacob. You brush off the thought, instead giving her a tight-lipped smile and a dip of your head, replying, "Yeah, absolutely-!" -fucking not, you finish internally.

She moves just a split second later, thanking you, and you grab onto your purse, sliding to your left. There, you are subsequently trapped. There is a drapery of white roses hanging from the ends of the pews, lining the edges of the seating area from the front of the church the entire way to the back.

Jacob moves in time with you, smoothly sliding across the slick finish on the wooden seat. The close proximity of the blonde makes your heart race, and your mind goes blank. He seems calm as a cucumber next to you, lazily watching people shuffle in last minute with minor interest.

His calm, confident demeanor reminds you of the night you met him.

- - -

The bar was almost empty tonight. People lingered at lush seating areas away from the main serving area, secluded in their own little worlds.

You were no different - dolled up just to sit alone and nurse a watered-down soda while contemplating the recent events fate seemed to throw your way.

You listened to the music sinking through the air, catching the lilts and lifts of horns and the distinct ping of a steel guitar. The sound of the music was both soothing and heartbreak-inducing. It reminded you of the reason you were seeking solace away from the comforts of your home.

A soft cough draws your attention away from the swirling ice in your drink, and you glance to the side to see a sharply dressed blonde man wearing a suit standing nearby.

"You took my breath away with just one look," his smooth voice hums out over the dull noise of the bar. You shoot him an unimpressed look and raise one eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

"Hi," he offers a wide, charming grin, and then offers you his hand, "Jacob Palmer." You watch him silently for a moment, and then you lean forward and offer him your own hand.

With a silent swagger, the blonde, Jacob, moves closer and gently clasps your hand in his much larger one. He then releases it a moment later, and motioning to the seat next to you, inquires, "Mind if I sit?"

You shrug nonchalantly and take a sip of your soda, then sigh out, "Be my guest." Jacob's smile widens again at hearing the sound of your voice. It's a sweet sound - a voice that he can tell needs company.

"What's a beautiful girl like you doing in a bar all alone on a Tuesday night?" Jacob asks as he settles onto the couch cushion across from you, unbuttoning the front of his suit jacket. He's natural about it - his whole demeanor has an air of confidence.

You chuckle dryly as you glance from Jacob to your drink, swirling it in your hand. "Same as everyone else," you eventually reply, your voice soft and distant.

Jacob's confident expression melds into something more understanding, and then he states, "I could change that for you." Your eyebrow raises in question again, a light expression dusting your features as a twinkle starts to return to your gaze.

Jacob notices it almost immediately, and you can almost see the way his chest puffs out in pride as he responds, "We could get out of here, get some dinner. Maybe head back to my place."

An ungraceful snort slips out before you can stop it, and you blink at him in disbelief before huffing, "Really? That's the best you've got?" This doesn't offend the blonde, though. Instead, you see him lean toward you and murmur, "This is only the beginning."

The two of you stare at each other for a moment, but then Jacob breaks it, "Oh, come on. You aren't going to regret going out with the hot guy from the bar one time. If you hate tonight, you'd never have to see me again."

You giggle at his gentle persistence - the playfulness to his voice and the curl to his lip have made a part of your brain curious. You take a breath and then shake your head side to side with a tight-lipped grin, "Sorry, Jacob, I don't think I'm the girl for that."

The blonde watches you for a moment, his face dropping to contemplate his options, but then his smile is back. He leans back against the couch cushion, his arm coming to a rest on the pillow next to him.

"Tell me about him," Jacob stalls, his voice to the point but also full of open curiosity. Your eyes widen and your drink comes to a rest on your lap as you stutter, "W-what? How, how did you-" "I can see it in your eyes," he butts in.

He motions to you gently and then pushes, "Tell me about the guy that's dulled a doll like you." You blink at him, both in shock and slight embarrassment. He read you like an open book.

Your mouth gapes open and closed a few times, but then you're gushing out, "There's this wedding." Your subconscious is appalled that you are being this willing to be honest with a stranger, but there's something about him that makes you want to talk.

Jacob's eyebrows shoot up with interest as he repeats, "A wedding? Don't tell me you're the bride. Although you would make a beautiful one." The compliment is earnest, his blue gaze flitting over you appreciatively, but also with respect.

It makes your cheeks heat up again, and you try to ignore it by shaking your head as you explain, "No, not the bride this time." You glance back down at your drink and sigh, "Maybe in another life."

The man across from you is quiet, carefully watching you as his brows draw together. You swallow thickly and offer, "It's an old friend. I've known him since we were kids. Always thought he was cute."

You shuffle uncomfortably as memories dance in your eyes, and you continue, "Then, last summer, he started talking to me. Saying all the right things, offering to take me out, saying we needed to catch up."

Jacob nods along quietly as the words seem to fall out of your mouth, one after the next, the weight slowly lifting from your shoulders. You clear your throat as a lump begins to form, and you manage to murmur, "Then he did."

A sad smile curls on your mouth as you glance at Jacob, your (colored) gaze misty as you dryly chuckle again. You take a deep breath to help center yourself before you state, "He took me out to this cute little restaurant in his hometown."

Jacob quips light-heartedly, "Sounds nice enough." You flash your gaze at him as you give him a watery smile, "Yeah, it was. He did all the right things. Held the door, helped me sit. We made great conversation, he paid, walked me to my car."

You blow a heavy breath out of your mouth as tears threaten to slide down your cheeks, and sniffling, you rasp out, "I was ready for him to lay one on me right then and there. Instead, he gave me a big, sweet hug. No big deal. He texted to make sure I got home."

You cough once to clear your throat again, and with your voice thick and full of emotion, whimper out, "And then he ghosted me. Got engaged to this girl a few weeks later after disappearing. Now he's getting married."

A thick silence washes over the two of you, Jacob stunned. He watches you with shock and anger lacing his features. No man should ever treat a woman like that.

"You were the other woman and had no idea," he replies faintly, his voice full of understanding. You nod in response, wiping at your cheeks as you take a shaky breath.

"And now I'm going to his wedding. Because even after all that, he still sent an invite," you mumble. You can see a look on Jacob's face, but before he can say anything, you cut in, "Yes, I know. But we were friends for years before this. I have to go, but I don't think I can do it alone."

The blonde nods along silently, and the pensive look on his face slowly starts to spread into a smile. You furrow your brows at him and ask, "What's that look for? A girl's pain is funny to you?"

Jacob shakes his head as a chuckle falls from his mouth, and then he replies, "No, of course not." He finds your gaze evenly and then states with conviction, "Let me be your plus one."

You go to scoff, but Jacob's quicker, "No, hear me out. I want to take you out on a real date, let that be known. But, I can understand if you are weary given the situation."

He sits forward again, that charming smirk on his lips as he urges, "Let me be your plus one. You don't have to show up to the wedding alone and you can show that jackass what he's missing. Plus, you'll get to know me a little better, and if you hate me by the end of the night, we never have to see each other again."

His blue eyes dance over you before he finishes, "Or, if there's a slim chance you actually enjoy yourself, I get to take you out on a real date afterwards."

Your eyes narrow as you mull over his words. It wasn't a horrible proposition. He was... attractive. Charming, to say the least.

"It would only be believable if you acted like a boyfriend, though," you mention, butterflies starting to flutter deep in your stomach. The blonde's smirk glints in the dim lighting of the bar, and he replies, "Easy. Do we have a deal, Miss...?"

"Y/n," you reply quickly, a smile of your own tugging on your lips. "And yes, Mr. Palmer. We do."

- - -

The deal seems a little silly now that he's here, sitting next to you in the bright light of the church. You can see his angled features even more clearly - the slope of his nose, the curve of his smile.

It makes your heart race.

Before you can say anything else, your attention is drawn to the pianist at the front of the church. The gentle tune that had been playing for the last few minutes switches to a song that radiates what can only be described as love.

It immediately makes your stomach turn as heavy as lead, and you hear the church grow quiet a moment later. Instinctively, you look up the aisle, and there, you can see the groomsmen walking in.

One by one, the men filter down the aisle, and at the last one, you feel your body run rigid. There, you see him. His suit is a pleasant cornflower blue with a white shirt and a light blue tie hung around his neck.

Your heart seems to flutter in your chest. It was the first time you had seen him since he ghosted you. You catch the corner of his gaze, and you swear you stop breathing. Then, before you know it, he's looking straight ahead and making his way to the front of the church.

A warm hand settling just above your knee distracts you, and you glance to your right to see Jacob carefully watching you. There's an understanding look in his eye - he can see the heartbreak dancing in your (colored) gaze.

He gently squeezes his digits over the material of your dress and offers you an encouraging smile and nod. Then, he's glancing away as everyone around you begins to stand.

His hand slips off your thigh, and the loss of its warmth makes you almost lurch. Your hands tremble at your sides as you glance up the aisle to set your gaze on the bride.

When your eyes do land on her, you have one immediate thought: she couldn't be any more different than you. Her dress is long and simple, her arm wrapped around her father's as she slowly picks her way down the aisle.

Your fingers twitch again as you glance over her bouquet, taking note of the white roses amongst the baby's breath and pleasant greenery. Emotion runs thick in your throat as you watch her pass, and just when you think your throat is going to give in, you feel something press against your hand.

It takes a second to realize what it is, but you instantly know Jacob has threaded his fingers through your own. You lean into his side unknowingly, clasping your fingers tightly around his as you tear your gaze away from the bride.

They settle on him, waiting at the altar. You carefully note the way he's watching his bride walk down the aisle. You let your gaze flit over the way she's looking at him.

And suddenly, a wave of what can only be described as relief washes over you. I'm glad that's not me, the thought hits you like a freight train. It releases a weight from your shoulders you didn't know you were carrying, and suddenly it feels like you can take a full breath.

There's a gentle swipe of Jacob's thumb over your hand, and then he's gently drawing you back down to the pew as everyone sits.

Truly, the ceremony goes by in a blur. There are a few things your mind bounces between - that you're glad it's not your wedding, you aren't sure if the bride and groom even like each other, and that in another life, maybe you could have been her.

Nothing was wrong with the ceremony. Everything went exactly how they probably planned it. That is, until the bride and groom reappeared after their exit to release each pew, their way of individually thanking the guests for coming.

One by one, they unclasp the string of roses decorating the exits of the pews closest to the aisle, and it makes your heart race with anticipation. You are sitting next to the aisle.

You and Jacob are still the only ones in your row, so you sit anxiously as you watch them release a row of guests from the bride's side. They are hugged and congratulated by family members, but unknowingly, the bride's veil is stepped on.

You and Jacob quickly glance at each other as you watch it get tugged out of her hair and land on the ground. Well, shit. You glance back at the bride and groom, who are undoing the roses on your pew.

Delicately, you release Jacob's hand and stand up, the blonde following your lead a half second later. You catch sight of the groom opening his mouth to say something, but you anxiously bring one hand up to your face and point with the other to a place behind the bride.

"Your veil is falling," you rush out, your voice full of remorse and urgency as you motion to the veil on the ground. You try to make the statement as genuine as possible, and the bride just laughs and rolls her eyes, saying, "Oh my gosh, thank you!"

You clasp your hands tight to your chest as she grabs at the lace, and you turn toward him as he laughs out, "Thanks, Y/n/n!" He opens his arms for a wide hug, which you step forward and accept.

The interaction is brief, but it's enough to drive the spear through your heart even deeper. It was the way he so casually used your nickname. It was the way he gave you a hug despite ghosting you and shredding your heart to pieces months ago.

It makes you want to cry, vomit, and knee him in the balls all at the same time, but you refrain. Instead, you draw away and step over the gathering roses on the ground, leaving room for Jacob behind you.

The blonde offers him a firm handshake and a respectful nod to the bride, and then he's on you. Jacob's hands find their way to your waist, cupping you gently and pulling you up the aisle and away from the newlyweds.

Your heart all but shatters as you walk up the aisle, leaving both your dreams and childhood love behind. Despite the pain and anguish coursing through your veins, in that fleeting moment, Jacob's touch grounds you and provides you just enough strength to make it out of the church.

A large hand waits for you as your car door swings open, the warmth of the afternoon flooding into the air-conditioned vehicle. It takes some mental willpower, but you reach forward to carefully take Jacob's hand, pulling yourself out of the car with a sigh.

You can see the white reception tent just up ahead - it is massive. Jacob steers you out of the doorway of the car and shuts it a moment later. He had been fairly quiet on the short ride from the church to the reception, and so had you.

The events and exhausting feelings of the day were making your head spin, and you were trying your best to keep up a happy facade. Jacob knew that much, and he didn't want to say something that might set you off.

Now, he watches as you smooth out the skirt of your dress, (colored) eyes longingly flitting over the white tent across the field. His voice is soothing and quiet as he asks, "Are you doing okay? You were pretty quiet in the car."

Your head swivels to look at him, and you know you've been caught at the pointed look in his eye. You take a deep breath and let it out through your nose, shrugging, "I think I'm good."

Your fingers dance up to your hair to brush a (colored) lock out of your eyes, your gaze flitting over Jacob. A slightly unimpressed look settles on Jacob's features, and he takes a step closer to you.

He glances around quickly to make sure no one is listening in, and then murmurs lowly, "Y/n, I may not know you that well, but I'm not blind. Are you sure you are feeling up for the reception? We can always leave, no questions asked."

Despite the brutal honesty of his words, you know he means them in the nicest way. There's no judgment in his blue eyes, just an open understanding. No questions asked.

This time, a sigh of defeat slides from your nose as your hand moves from your hair to straighten out his tie. The movement is simple, but you can feel how solid and built he is under your touch.

Your heart flutters for a moment before you squash the feeling, and you look up to meet his gaze with a sad smile. "It was just hitting me that that could have been me. But it wasn't," you opt to say, your voice staying quiet.

Jacob nods again, a smile of his own starting to curl on his lips. A moment passes, and then he quips coyly, "Yeah, and now you've got me sticking around."

A scoff pulls from your mouth, and you're smiling up at him, rolling your eyes. You point at him and, wiggling your finger, whisper, "Remember, this is all a ruse!"

Jacob easily brushes your comment off with a huff and shuffles on his feet as he locks the car. His reaction makes you giggle, and then he's smiling at you, chuckling, "I'm pretty sure we'll be going out after this wedding is over."

You just roll your eyes at him again, your chest feeling a little lighter as you watch the blonde's gaze flit over yours. He regains eye contact with you and then murmurs, his voice soft, "You're good, though?"

You step forward and grab his suit-covered arm, murmuring, "I'm good. Now, lead the way, boyfriend." And Jacob does just that.

You and Jacob must have been pretty quick getting out of the church - there aren't that many people at the tent despite the large setup. You had seen the newlyweds sneaking off to get photos after the ceremony, and you figured all of the guests would slowly trickle over to the reception.

There's a drink vendor set up outside the tent, and both you and Jacob grab your complimentary drinks before finding your table near the edge of the tent. Your seat, in particular, was directly in line with the wedding party's lengthy tables, positioned so that you are right next to the cake.

You try to ignore it the best you can, focusing on Jacob sitting next to you, sipping at his fizzy drink. He leans over to you after setting his drink down, and with a puzzled look, murmurs, "What kind of people have a wedding this big with no booze?"

You have to stifle a laugh at the blonde, and you shrug, taking a sip of your own drink. You clear your throat, a smile curling on your lips as you reply, "These ones."

The sound of people laughing and carrying on from across the tent grabs your attention for a moment, and you can see couples carrying gifts and cards to a small table on the side of the tent. Quickly, you motion to Jacob, urging, "Oh shoot! We forgot to put the card up there!"

Jacob nods and takes another quick sip from his drink, and then offers, "Want me to walk up with you?" You can't help the smile that spreads across your lips, nor can you fight the butterflies that bloom deep in your stomach at his sweet response.

Shyly, you give him a nod as you reach for the card in your purse. Jacob stands up a moment later, shucking off his suit jacket to drape it over the back of his chair. Then, when you straighten up, he carefully pulls out your chair and offers you a hand.

Yes, he's opened doors and held his hand out for you to take, but it still makes your heart skip a little, and Jacob notices the slightly dazed look in your eye. He can't fight the swell of pride he feels seeing you look at him like that.

You manage to gently clasp his hand in yours, and he guides you around the bunch of tables to where other guests were dropping their stuff off. You make quick work of sliding the card in with the others, and a gentle squeeze on your hand has you blinking up at Jacob.

He motions to an adjacent table, murmuring, "Looks like they have a photo booth set up." You glance over to the table, and curiosity gets the better of you. A few shuffling steps bring you to meet a book beginning to fill with small Polaroids. You glance at the blonde and shrug, "Want to get one?"

The blonde just gives you a smile and replies, "Only if you want to." You return his smile and hastily grab a camera, moving to get in line behind another couple getting their picture taken.

You tap a lone woman on the shoulder and ask timidly, "Hi! Would you be able to take a photo for us?" The woman spins around, sipping a soda of her own. When she sees the camera in your hands, she rushes to set her drink down, gushing, "Oh my goodness, yes! Of course!"

With a bashful smile, you pull Jacob in front of the small display, but then quickly release his hand. You rest your left hand on his chest as your right arm wraps around his waist. Jacob, with impeccable timing, wraps his left arm around your waist and tugs you close to his side.

The woman gives the two of you a smile and then lifts the camera to her face, giggling, "Alright! Big smiles! 1, 2, 3!" The flash goes off a second later, and you start to pull away from Jacob.

He has a firm grip on you, though, and doesn't release his hold on your waist. Instead, his gaze is focused on the woman with the camera, and he questions, "Would you mind taking one more for us?"

The lady shakes her head as she grabs the first photo, and then replies, "No, not at all!" She quickly sets the developing photo onto the nearby photo table and then resumes her place in front of the display.

You shoot a confused look at Jacob, who doesn't quite meet your eye. Brushing it off, you look back at the woman with the camera, resuming your previous pose.

"Alright, again, big smiles, and 1, 2-", and before she can say the third number, Jacob pulls you flush against him, and wrapping both arms around you, whips you into a dip. You can't help the surprised giggle that escapes your mouth, and just as the flash goes off, you can feel Jacob's lips land firmly on your cheek.

A wave of butterflies crashes over you at the feeling, but just as quickly as he dipped you, Jacob is pulling you up gently. You know a dazed smile covers your face, but you can't seem to bring yourself to care as the woman walks over to you and hands you the camera and newly developing photo, gushing, "You two are just the cutest!"

You know heat is flooding your cheekbones, nose, and throat - it's coursing through your body and making your nerve endings sing. You can't even bring yourself to thank the woman, but Jacob has that covered as he chuckles out a thank you and plucks the photo from your hand.

A smug, satisfied grin coats Jacob's face as he looks down at you, and you can only stare up at him in an embarrassed, shy awe. He shoots you a sharp wink before glancing at the developing image, and before you can say anything, tucks it into the pocket of his waistcoat.

Smoothly, Jacob spins you around to face the photo table, easily clearing the way for more couples to take photos. The wink, the feeling of Jacob's hands on your waist, and the memory of his mouth landing on your cheek have your brain short-circuiting.

You know your mind is running a million miles a second, so it takes all of your focus to set the camera down as gracefully as you can. Then, you are reaching for the first photo the woman took, Jacob's hands continuing to dance along your waist. Just as you get a good look at the image, he murmurs into your ear lowly, "You should sign it, 'From the Future Palmer's'."

The low timbre of his voice has chills shooting up and down your spine and goosebumps rising on your arms. When the meaning of his words set in, you can't help but huff out a laugh and lean into him, giggling, "Yeah, yeah, I should."

And you do. You sign the picture as neatly and quickly as you can, carefully shoving it into the book while other couples mingle around you, waiting for their turn.

Before you know it, Jacob is whisking you away from the gift and photo area, across the dance floor, and back to your table next to the cake. Suddenly, the day doesn't seem to be as focused on the bride and groom. Not with the way Jacob is treating you.

If you thought he was being over the top at the photo booth, once he helps you settle into your seat, he's offering, "Do you want me to get some food from the hors d'oeuvres table?"

You almost melt in your seat at his proposition, but you just offer him a nod and another bashful smile, mumbling sweetly, "Thank you, Jake." The nickname rolls off your tongue before you can stop it, and you see Jacob's eyes twinkle mischievously.

Then, he's slowly leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, whispering pointedly, "Anytime, angel." This time, you can't help but swoon, ducking your head in embarrassment, and Jacob chuckles lightly in your ear before pulling away.

Then, he's walking away from the table, just as charming and confident as ever. You glance away from him to meekly look at the other people sitting at your table. Mutual friends of yours and the groom's.

One girl's jaw is slack as she watches Jacob saunter away, and then she's leaning forward, gushing, "Girl, where on earth did you find a man like that?!" You just giggle shyly as you tuck a strand of hair out of your face.

You delve into the fake story you and Jacob had handcrafted on your drive to the wedding - how you met, what your first date was, how he asked you out. All of it - fake.

The ladies sitting at your table eat up every second of it, oohing and awwing at every scrap of faux sweetness. They all beg you to keep him; he is hot, first of all. Sweet and caring next. And he wants to do anything he can to make you happy.

Thankfully, the heat is quickly pulled away from you as they start bickering to their husbands about how they wish their men would act like Jacob. The whole interaction makes you laugh - if only they knew.

But then there's movement beside you, and from the corner of your gaze, you catch sight of Jacob's navy blue suit pants. You turn to face him with a sweet smile, noting the two small plates of appetizers.

"Here you go," he mumbles quietly, setting one of the plates in front of you before sitting down and messing with his own. You lean over to him, nerves twinging in your stomach, and murmur, "Thank you."

Jacob's gaze flits over to meet yours, and there's a twinkle in his eye as he nods in response. He doesn't get the chance to say anything, as one of the ladies from your table states loudly, "Look! The wedding party is here!"

You instinctively turn to face where the lady is pointing, and your gaze lands on the bridesmaids and groomsmen forming a line to enter the reception tent. Just behind them, the bride and groom.

It's an instinctual thing, the way your heart sinks and your good mood seems to shrivel up. You can see the bright smile on the bride's face, the seeming look of content on his.

You don't notice Jacob's hand finding its way to the back of your chair, but you do notice when he gently cups your shoulder with his fingers, rubbing soothing circles over your exposed skin.

There's something about his touch that lets the sigh fall from your nose and a part of the tension in your body fade. But there's a remaining ache that pulls at your heart as you watch the newlyweds swing onto the dance floor for their first dance.

The DJ says a few words, none of great recognition or importance, and then the music is floating through the speakers, soft and slow. The song isn't one you can place a name to, the chords and lyrics are nothing you can recognize.

For that, you are happy.

But as you watch the groom twirl his new bride around the dance floor, laying gentle kisses on her mouth and staring into her eyes, you can feel your heart splintering. You don't mean to, but you can't help but retreat further and further into your shell.

Watching them makes everything more real.

You know heartbreak dances in your eyes, there's no way it couldn't be. You know there's a look of longing and pain pulling on your brows and tugging sadness onto your smile. You know that.

Jacob knows it, too; his blue gaze is set on you. He knows there's not much he can do to ease your pain or distract you from the happy couple. But he does know he needs to change things around and get the sparkle back in your eyes.

The first dance ends after what seems like a year of time passes by - the couple immediately fluttering off to cut the cake next to your table, the wedding party giving their speeches, and a quick blessing before dinner.

The meal was fine. The food was mediocre at best, and the desserts worse yet. Jacob didn't say anything about it, but you could see the way his jaw clenched with every bite he took. That alone lifted your spirits a little bit, knowing that his taste in food was a little more lavish.

The reception starts to pick up a bit as the sun sinks further into the afternoon sky, with music that's more lively humming through the air, inviting people to start dancing. The whole time, you and Jacob opt to sit at the table and make conversation, answering questions about your fake relationship and listening to long-winded rants from the other couples.

That is, until one of your favorite songs starts streaming through the air, slow and sweet as those dancing begin to unwind and grow tender. You can see couples piling in from both sides of the reception tent to flock to the dance floor, a longing in your gaze as you watch them.

Then, there's that familiar, large hand in front of you. Waiting. On the other end of the hand, Jacob is standing patiently, a soft, charming smile on his lips. Quick realization settles over you, and your eyes widen in surprise before filling with horror.

No, no, please! They seem to scream as they flit between Jacob's bright blue ones. In response, his smile only widens. You can feel the entirety of your table watching in anticipation, but then Jacob is the one to break the silence.

"May I have this dance?" The words are easy and light, with no real pressure behind them. He's flashing a million-dollar smile at you, and you can hear the sound of the ladies cooing in admiration around you. Then, before you can stop yourself, you're resting your palm in his, and he's whisking you off to the dance floor.

Thankfully, Jacob has some mercy on you and tries to find the least crowded spot on the floor. Directly in front of the wedding party's table. Your heart lurches at the thought, but you try to will it away as Jacob tugs your arms to hang around his neck.

He's taller than you, which gives you something to focus on. Your hands have to reach ever so slightly in interlock around his neck, the distance between your bodies rapidly closing. Butterflies bloom low in your stomach as his hands respectfully rest on your hips, large and warm on your waist.

It takes willpower to hold his gaze, your cheeks burning with a heat you haven't felt in a long time. Jacob, on the other hand, easily smiles down at you, leading the way as he gently spins you in circles, holding you close.

"Why are you doing this for me?" you eventually mumble as your gaze flits away from his to stare at the tie hanging around his neck. The question is almost lost in the sound of the music, but Jacob doesn't miss it.

"To show him what he's missing," is his only response. Before you can ask him what he means, he spins you around a little quicker, and just as the two of you face the bride and groom, Jacob leans into you.

One of his hands slides from your waist down the silky fabric of your dress to cup your ass, tugging you flush against his chest. Then, his hand on your hip is sliding up to grab the back of your neck, tangling in your (colored) locks to tilt your face up to meet his.

You swear your heart is going to burst as butterflies shoot through you at the smoothness of his actions and the domineering warmth his hands bring. Then, his lips are landing on yours, dizzyingly slow.

Initially, it startles you. But then, you feel the softness of his mouth on yours, and you can't help the way your eyes flutter shut, and you instinctively kiss him back.

Slowly, one of your hands releases from around his neck to cup his jaw, slightly tilting your head to deepen the kiss. Jacob somehow pulls you closer to him, and the outside world seems to fade away as his mouth slots over yours.

Or maybe... It's the sound of the song ending. Either way - it doesn't matter, because God, this man knows how to kiss.

Jacob is the one to pull away, but he doesn't go far. He tenderly pulls you back up, his hands resuming their place on your waist. His forehead leans against yours, his nose bumping against your own.

Your mouth is parted, and your brain is foggy as you blink up at him, dazed. His blue eyes are half-lidded as he looks down at you, flitting across your blissed-out features.

"He's missing out on one hell of a girl," he whispers earnestly against your lips. An embarrassed smile tugs on your mouth, and you're ducking your head away from his to tuck it into his chest.

A sweet chuckle falls from Jacob's lips as he runs his hands up and down your back, his head unknowingly turning to face the wedding party's table. There, he catches sight of the groom watching the two of you.

His smile twists from pleasant to smug, and then he's turning back to face you. Jacob is gentle as he murmurs, "Ready to go sit down?" You can hear a slightly teasing tone to his voice, and you just groan playfully into the navy blue material of his waistcoat.

The blonde snickers lightly at you, but starts to tug you to the edge of the dancefloor as the music picks back up to something more upbeat. Just as you arrive back at the table, you can see several of the ladies from your table getting ready to leave.

"Aw, are you guys leaving already?" you ask as you glance over the few people standing. One lady gives you a nod and replies, "Yeah, it's a long drive home, and we've got to let the dogs out."

You nod in understanding and turn toward Jacob to gauge his reaction. The blonde just glances down at you and then shrugs, "Are you ready to go?" A quick look around the rest of the reception is what finalizes your answer.

"Yeah, I am," you reply with a slightly clipped smile. With a quick grab of Jacob's jacket, the two of you follow the other people from your table to say goodbye to the bride and groom, hanging back to give them their space.

Then, you're up. The bride is distracted by the table behind her, so you are left to face him alone. He gives you a tight-lipped smile and opens his arms for another hug, saying lightheartedly, "Thanks for coming, Y/n/n!"

The sound of your nickname falling from his lips makes you want to cry, vomit, and knee him in the balls all over again, but again, you refrain. Instead, you pat him on the back and state firmly, "Yeah, of course!"

You pull back from the brief interaction, tucking yourself close to Jacob's left side. The blonde offers the groom his hand, and the groom takes it with another tight-lipped smile. You can see the veins bulging on Jacob's hand, and you can't help but internally snort at the firm grip.

Jacob shakes his hand and with a smile, claims, "We had such a lovely time, isn't that right, baby?" You just look up at him and give him a silent nod, resting your hand on his chest before turning to face the groom.

At your touch over his waistcoat, Jacob's pecs tighten before relaxing. You must have caught him off guard. But then he's releasing the groom's hand and guiding you away from the reception tent.

It's quiet in his car. You've only been on the road for a few minutes, nothing in comparison to the hour-long drive that awaits. You hadn't said much since leaving the party.

You couldn't say much.

Your mind was spinning at the heartbreak of the whole situation - seeing the bride and groom for the first time, watching them dance, and kiss. The groom calling you by your nickname? Jacob spinning you around, kissing you like that?

You couldn't keep up. So you stayed quiet.

Jacob didn't want to push; he knew it was a lot for you to handle. He did, however, want to make sure that you were alright.

So as twilight settles over the hills and fields Jacob drives through, he clears his throat and prompts, "Y/n?" You snap out of your daze, turning to face him with interest in your eyes.

"Yeah?" you breathe as your eyes flit over his concentrated features. You can see him glance over at you before focusing on the road again, but then he asks, "Are you alright?"

The question isn't meant to probe or be annoying - there's genuine concern lacing his voice as he eases the car down the road. A heavy pause floods the air as you glance away from him, your eyes catching on the black and white figures of dairy cows out the window.

"Yeah," you mumble indistinctly, "I am." Your eyes sink to half-lidded, lost in thought for a moment before you explain, "Everything I saw today made me realize that I'm happy it wasn't me getting married to him."

You can hear Jacob take a deep breath next to you, and cocking his head to the side, he sighs, "Yeah, well, that's good." Silence fills the car again, but this time, it's not as tense.

Your gaze is drawn to Jacob, and that's where you see a smirk growing on his mouth. It makes an unsure smile start to spread on your own, and then his voice sounds out, "So when do I get to take you out on a real date?"

A huff pulls from your mouth, and then you're chuckling, "Well, Jakey, I don't think you're off-duty for the evening yet. You're my boyfriend for the day, right? You still have to walk me to my door and say goodnight."

The nickname floats from your lips teasingly, and you can't help the giggle that follows your words. Jacob's smile grows, but he scoffs playfully, "Oh, that's easy work."

Suddenly, the thought of the wedding seems to disappear to the back of your mind. Because then, Jacob is silently offering you his right hand, and you're delicately sliding your fingers through his own.

And with the weight of his hand in yours, you can't help but think that maybe Jacob's hand fit yours better than his ever could.