sam.ᐟ☆

You don't really know how you got into this situation, well, you do, but it was a blur of adrenaline and pure unadulterated panic.

You wiped a bead of sweat from your forehead with the back of your sleeve, sighing as you stared into the open maintenance panel of the secondary oxygen. The wiring looked like a nest of multicolored snakes, and none of them seemed to want to cooperate.

"Hey, Ry?" you called out, your voice echoing slightly in the cramped corridor. "Did you re-route the primary bypass to the starboard grid, or am I looking at a ghost current here?"

From the lab area a few meters away, a head of messy, blonde hair popped out from behind a microscope. Ryland Grace blinked at you through his smudged goggles, his glasses in one hand and a half-eaten pack of sour skittles in the other.

"I didn't touch the starboard grid!" he called back, his tone carrying that characteristic blend of manic energy and mild exasperation that you had come to associate with him. "That was Rocky! He said the Eridian equivalent of 'if it ain't broke, make it shinier.' Don't touch the blue wire unless you want a face full of static!"

"Fascinating. Thanks for the warning after I almost grabbed it," you muttered, leaning a bit further into the access hatch.

You were the third wheel on this bizarre, suicidal, savior-of-the-galaxy unicycle. When the Hail Mary mission had been scrambled together by Eva Stratt, you had been shoved into the extra bunk as a jack-of-all-trades technician—someone to keep the ship from falling apart while the brilliant Dr. Grace did the actual science. You hadn't expected to wake up from amnesia alongside him, and you certainly hadn't expected to become best friends with a five-legged, rock-hard alien who spoke in musical chords.

But here you were.

You reached deeper into the panel, trying to snag a loose zip-tie that was dangling dangerously close to the main power terminal. Your fingers brushed the plastic. Just a little further...

Snap.

It didn't happen in slow motion. It happened in a fraction of a heartbeat. A heavy, spring-loaded titanium tension bar—one that hadn't been properly secured during the rush to launch—snapped out of its housing like a steel trap.

It struck the back of your right forearm with a sickening, heavy thud.

The force of the blow tore a sharp, choked gasp from your throat. Your arm violently jerked back, scraping against the sharp, raw edges of the metal hatch casing. The pain didn't hit immediately; there was just a terrifying, numb coldness, followed instantly by a white-hot, throbbing agony that made your vision go entirely black around the edges.

"Ah—! Shit! Shit! SHit!" Your voice cracking as you stumbled backward out of the corridor, your knees giving out beneath you. You hit the deck plates hard, clutching your right arm against your chest.

Within seconds, the heat arrived. A deep, agonizing throb pulsed through the bone of your forearm, and when you looked down, a jagged, angry tear in your jumpsuit was already blooming a dark, stark crimson. The metal hatch had sliced a deep line from your wrist halfway to your elbow, and the skin beneath was already swelling and turning an ugly, bruised purple from the impact of the bar.

"Hey! What happened? I heard a—"

Ryland’s voice cut off abruptly as he rounded the corner. The casual, exasperated scientist vanished in a fraction of a second, replaced by the ghost of the man who had survived a suicide mission by sheer force of will. His eyes went wide behind his glasses, staring at the blood pooling on the deck and the way you were curled into a ball, trembling.

"Oh, Jesus—[Name]!"

Grace dropped his glasses. It hit the floor with a loud clatter that echoed through the ship, but he was already moving, sliding on his knees across the metal deck to your side. His hands hovered over you, trembling slightly, before his training—or maybe just his frantic, protective instincts—kicked in.

"Don't move, don't move, let me see, let me see," he muttered, his voice climbing an octave into pure panic. He gently but firmly grabbed your shoulders, guiding you so you were leaning back against the bulkhead rather than slouching into your own wound. "Where hurts? Just the arm? Did you hit your head?"

"Just... the arm. God, Ryland, it exfuckingcruciating ," you wheezed, using a ridiculous amalgamation of words because your brain couldn't quite process English correctly through the haze of pain you were currently experiencing.

"Okay, okay, exfudgingcruciating isn't a word, you're shocky," Ryland babbled, his hands finally settling on your upper arm to stabilize it. He looked at the deep gash, his face paling. "Okay, that's a laceration. A deep one. And that swelling... man, that bar hit you hard. I think it might be fractured. Fudge. Okay. Breathe. Just breathe."

Before you could reply, a frantic tapping sound echoed from the Xenonite partition wall.

Clack, clack, clack-clack.

Through the thick, transparent barrier that divided the human atmosphere from the hot, high-pressure Eridian environment, a dark, rocky figure scrambled into view. Rocky’s five legs moved in a blur, his carapace clicking against the floor as he rushed to the window. His small, sensitive radar organ on top of his body was spinning frantically, scanning the scene.

A series of rapid, high-pitched musical notes erupted from his vocal organ. The translation software on Ryland’s computer lag-ly groaned to life a second later:

“What is noise? What is leaking, question? Friend is leaking! Grace! Why is friend leaking red?!”

"They snapped a tension bar, Rocky!" Ryland shouted toward the partition, not looking up as he frantically ripped open a nearby emergency medical kit. "The arm is broken! Or cracked! And cutting! There's a lot of blood!"

Rocky’s musical chords turned into a chaotic, discordant screech—the Eridian equivalent of a scream. “Bad! Bad! Friend is broken! Fix it, Grace! Apply glue! Apply pressure! Do not let friend empty!”

"I'm trying!" Ryland yelled back, his hands shaking as he pulled out a bottle of antiseptic and a roll of sterile gauze. He looked at you, his eyes softening with an immense, heartbreaking amount of worry. "Okay, [Name]. This is going to sting. Like, a lot. I'm so sorry."

"Just do it," you choked out, squeezing your eyes shut and bracing your head against the wall.

When the antiseptic hit the open cut, you couldn't stop the loud, pathetic sob that escaped your lips. Your whole body tensed, your good hand clawing at Ryland’s shoulder for an anchor. You hated crying, hated feeling vulnerable, but the pain was an absolute inferno.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry, you're doing great, just look at me," Ryland murmured frantically. He didn't pull away from your grip. Instead, he leaned closer, using his body to shield you from the sight of the wound, his voice dropping into a soft, soothing cadence that sounded distinctly like a teacher comforting a terrified child. "Look at me, [Name]. Focus on my voice. You're okay. The Hail Mary isn't crashing, the astrophage isn't exploding, you just had a fight with a piece of metal and you lost. It happens to the best of us."

Behind the glass, Rocky was pacing back and forth like a caged animal. His heavy, metallic claws scraped against the Xenonite wall.

“Grace! Give comfort! Press friend close! When pebbles break carapace, we hold them in the center! Why Grace not holding friend?!”

Ryland shot a wild look at the glass. "I'm trying to bandage the wound, Rocky! I need two hands for this!"

“Bad response!” Rocky chimed angrily, his chords buzzing with deep, resonant vibrations. “You are bad! Bad parent! The pebble is weeping! Hold the pebble!”

You let out a weak, watery laugh through your tears, the absurdity of the situation piercing through the pain. "Did... did he just call me your pebble?"

Ryland paused, a strip of medical tape held between his teeth, his eyes wide. "Uh. I think he did." He quickly finished wrapping the gauze, securing it tightly enough to stop the bleeding but loose enough not to aggravate the potential fracture. He then carefully lifted your arm, placing it gently into a soft sling against your chest.

Once the arm was secured, Ryland didn't step back. True to Rocky’s frantic demands—and honestly, probably driven by his own skyrocketing anxiety—Ryland shifted his position. He sat down flat on the deck plates right next to you, wrapping a heavy, protective arm around your uninjured shoulder and pulling you firmly against his side.

You didn't protest. You leaned your head against his shoulder, letting out a long, trembling breath as the initial shock began to fade into a dull, exhausted ache. Ryland’s chest rose and fell in a steady, exaggerated rhythm, giving you a pace to match your own ragged breathing.

"There," Ryland muttered, his hand gently patting your upper arm. "See? Not emptying. Contained. You're good."

Rocky finally stopped pacing, pressing his front two legs against the glass, his radar organ focused entirely on the two of you curled up together on the floor. A low, purring chord emanated from him—a sound of deep relief.

“Good,” the translator droned. “The stone protects the pebble, statement. The leakage is stopped. The small one is resting against the big one. Is correct biological behavior.”

Ryland sighed, rubbing his temple with his free hand. He looked at the partition. "Rocky, buddy. We need to clear something up. [Name] isn't my pebble."

The translation software paused for a moment before outputting a sharp, quizzical note. “Contradiction. You share small vessel. You possess greater age and mass. You protect. You provide nutrients. You scold when they touch the blue wire. They are your genetic continuation.”

You snorted, a little bit of blood-tinged adrenaline making you feel slightly giddy. "Yeah, Ryland. Why did you scold me? Bad dad."

"Oh, shut up, you," Ryland said affectionately, nudging your head with his cheek. He looked back at Rocky. "No, Rocky. Humans don't just travel with our children. [Name] is a grown, independent adult human. Well... mostly adult. Sometimes they eat dry cereal out of the box at three in the morning, but legally, an adult."

“An adult?” Rocky’s chords sounded profoundly confused. “But they are so small. Their skin is smooth. They do not have the grey fur on head like you. They make the high-pitched distress noises of a juvenile.”

"Hey!" you protested weakly from Ryland’s shoulder. "I'm [your age]!"

"And I have grey hair because of stress, Rocky, not just because I'm old!" Ryland defended himself, though he couldn't help but chuckle. "Look, in human biology, [Name] is not my child. We do not share DNA. My genetic code did not combine with another human to create them. We are completely unrelated."

There was a long silence from the Eridian side of the glass. Rocky stood perfectly still, his radar organ slowly tracking back and forth between you and Ryland. To an Eridian, who lived in a deeply communal, strictly biological caste and family structure, the concept of two unrelated individuals forming a tight, protective bond was completely foreign.

“Not genetic?” Rocky asked softly, his tones low. “Then... why do you care? If the small one breaks, your genetic line does not fail. Why does your heart beat fast? Why do you weep from eyes when they are hurt?”

Ryland’s arm tightened around your shoulder just a fraction. The playful banter died away, replaced by a profound, heavy warmth that filled the small corridor. He looked down at you, his eyes incredibly soft, full of a fierce, quiet devotion that didn't need a bloodline to justify itself.

"Because," Ryland said quietly, his voice carrying clearly through the intercom to Rocky’s side. "Humans have this thing. We don't just love the people we're born with. Sometimes, we find people in the middle of a dark, terrifying universe, and we look at them, and we decide 'You're mine now.' We adopt them into our hearts."

He looked back at the glass, smiling gently at the little rock alien.

"Think of it like an adoption, Rocky. [Name] isn't my biological child. But they are my family. I am responsible for them, and I care about them just as much as if they were my own blood. When they hurt, I hurt."

You felt a lump form in your throat, a sudden wave of emotion that had absolutely nothing to do with the physical pain in your arm. You squeezed Ryland’s waist with your good hand, burying your face into his shoulder for a brief second to hide the fresh tears prickling your eyes. Waking up on this ship with no memories had been terrifying, but finding Ryland—and Rocky—had given you a home in the middle of nowhere.

Rocky’s radar organ spun in a slow, beautiful circle. He didn't speak for a long time, processing the complex, beautiful concept of human chosen family. When he finally played a chord, it was a sequence of notes that sounded like a lullaby—warm, harmonious, and deeply respectful.

“Chosen offspring,” the translator read. “A beautiful concept. Eridians do not have this. We only love the hive-blood. Human mind is strange and soft. But good. Very good.”

Rocky then tapped the glass gently, right in front of where your head was resting against Ryland.

“I also choose,” Rocky stated firmly. “If Grace is the sire of choice, I am the uncle of choice. I am Uncle Rocky. I will make a hard carapace for the chosen offspring's arm so it does not break again.”

You couldn't help but burst into a genuine, bright laugh, the sound echoing happily down the corridor. "An uncle? Rocky, I would love to have you as an uncle. But please, no Xenonite armor on my arm, I still need to be able to lift things."

“We will discuss armor design later,” Rocky replied primly, his chords vibrating with amusement. “Now, Grace. Take the chosen offspring to the sleep-bunk. They require rest and hot liquid food. I will monitor the ship. I will not touch the blue wire.”

"Thanks, Rocky," Ryland said, a massive grin breaking across his face.

Carefully, with an immense amount of gentleness you weren't used too, Ryland helped you stand up. Your knees were still a bit shaky, but he kept a firm arm around your waist, bearing most of your weight as he guided you away from the maintenance panel and toward the living quarters.

As he tucked you into your bunk, pulling the thick blankets up to your chin and handing you a warm bulb of re-hydrated broth, Ryland hovered over you, checking your bandage one last time.

"You okay, kiddo?" he asked softly, a teasing smirk playing on his lips.

"I'm fine, 'Dad'," you smiled back, your eyes heavy with exhaustion. "Thanks for patching me up."

Ryland rolled his eyes, but the sheer, unadulterated affection in his face was impossible to hide. He gently patted your head, smoothing down your messy hair. "Anytime. Now get some sleep. Tomorrow, your Uncle Rock is probably going to try and teach you how to eat heavy metals, and I need you fully rested to say no."

As you drifted off to sleep, wrapped in the safety of the blanket and the rhythmic, now comforting hum of the ship, you realized that being lost in space wasn't so bad. Not when you had a father-figure to hold you when you leaked, and a rock alien uncle keeping watch in the dark.

HOPE U GUYS LIEK THIS. OK BYE

The kitchen of Eva Stratt’s temporary, heavily secured estate in the suburbs of Geneva smelled like caramelized onions, roasting garlic, and the sharp, unmistakable tang of a vintage red wine that cost more than Ryland Grace’s monthly teaching stipend used to.

There was no Astrophage. The sun was not dying. The Petrova Line had turned out to be an anomalous, beautifully complex, but ultimately harmless solar phenomenon—a cosmic hiccup that required a massive, global task force to investigate, only to culminate in a collective, international sigh of relief. The world wasn’t ending.

But Earth’s most chaotic, brilliant, and mismatched group of scientists and bureaucrats had already been thrown together under Stratt’s iron thumb, and by the time the "apocalypse" was officially canceled, they had realized something utterly baffling: they actually liked each other. Or, at the very least, they couldn't function without each other's specific brand of madness.

Thus, the monthly Petrova Taskforce dinners were born.

You stood by the kitchen island, a glass of white wine resting between your fingers, watching your boyfriend, Ryland Grace, passionately explain the cellular structure of a specific type of mold to Olesya Ilyukhina. He was using a breadstick as a pointer.

"I'm telling you, Olesya, if you don't control the humidity in the incubation chamber, the whole culture turns into a tragic, fuzzy soup. It’s basic biology!" Ryland’s eyes were wide, his hands moving in those frantic, expressive arcs that you had fallen deeply in love with. He was in his element—entirely safe, entirely nerdy, wearing a soft, slightly faded shirt that you had stolen from him at least three times this month.

Olesya, lounging back on a barstool with her boots resting casually on a rug, scoffed and took a long swig of her beer. "Grace, you worry too much. In Russia, we let the mold grow. Sometimes it makes the cheese better. Sometimes it makes the vodka stronger. You are too delicate."

"I am not delicate!" Ryland protested, though his cheeks flushed a faint pink. He looked over at you, practically begging for backup. "Tell her, honey. Tell her I’m not delicate."

You chuckled, stepping closer and leaning your shoulder against his. The warmth radiating off him was an instant comfort. "You cried last week because a stray cat wouldn't let you pet it, Ry."

"It looked hungry!" he defended, a pout forming on his lips, though he instinctively reached out to wrap an arm around your waist, pulling you against his side. His thumb brushed sweet, rhythmic circles against your hip through your sweater. "And it had very expressive eyes."

"You are a soft man, Ryland Grace," Dr. Martin DuBois chimed in, walking into the kitchen with a platter of perfectly seared steaks. The French scientist looked relaxed, his usualy stiff posture softened by a few glasses of wine. "But we love you for it. Or, at least, we tolerate it."

"Thank you, Martin. I think," Ryland mumbled, though he couldn't hide the soft smile playing on his lips. He pressed a quick, affectionate kiss to the top of your head, his breath warm against your hair.

The dining room table was a massive oak slab, large enough to seat the entire remnants of the task force. At the head of the table sat Eva Stratt. Without the weight of saving the human race on her shoulders, she looked younger, the sharp lines of tension around her eyes mostly faded. She still wore her suits, and she still possessed an aura that could make a grown military general weep, but tonight, she was currently engaged in a heated debate with Yao about the logistics of international shipping lanes.

"I’m just saying, Yao," Stratt said, slicing into her steak with terrifying precision, "if the Chinese maritime authority worked with the European sector on those specific routes, we’d cut transit times by four days."

"And I am telling you, Eva," Yao replied, his voice calm, measured, and entirely unbothered by her intensity, "you cannot legislate away a seasonal typhoon. Nature does not care about your logistical spreadsheets."

Across from them, Dr. Lokken and Annie Shapiro were deep in their own world. Lokken was sketching something on a paper napkin with a stolen eyeliner pen, while Annie leaned over her shoulder, pointing out flaws in what looked like a satellite orbital trajectory.

"If you angle the solar arrays like that, you lose 3% efficiency on the pivot," Annie pointed out, taking a sip of her sparkling water.

"Yes, but you reduce the mechanical stress on the primary gear by 12%," Lokken countered, not looking up. "I will take longevity over a 3% dip any day."

You watched them all, a deep sense of contentment settling over you. Next to you, Ryland was happily piling mashed potatoes onto his plate, his eyes scanning the spread with genuine joy. There was no dread here. No countdown clocks. No looming starvation of the human race. Just a bunch of incredibly smart, incredibly weird people eating dinner.

"Hey," Ryland whispered, leaning close to your ear so his voice wouldn't carry over the din of Lokken and Annie’s debate. "You doing okay? Not too overwhelmed by the circus?"

You turned your head, your nose brushing against his cheek. "I love the circus. Especially the lead clown."

He gasped, a dramatic, offended sound, though the crinkles around his eyes gave away his amusement. "I am a respected scientist, I’ll have you know. A former academic! A man of letters!"

"You have mashed potatoes on your chin, mr. respected scientist," you teased softly.

Ryland immediately froze, his eyes darting sideways as he tried to wipe it away with his sleeve. You caught his wrist, laughing gently, and took a napkin to dab away the rogue food. He stayed perfectly still, his eyes softening as he looked down at you. The look in his hazel eyes was so intensely fond, so completely devoted, that it made your chest ache in the best possible way.

"What would I do without you?" he murmured, his voice dropping to a sound meant only for you.

"Probably die of a preventable lab accident," you whispered back.

"Fair point. Entirely accurate."

As the dinner progressed into the dessert phase—a magnificent chocolate tarte that Martin had brought from a local bakery—Stratt tapped her wine glass with a silver spoon. The sharp clink-clink-clink instantly silenced the table. A habit was a powerful thing; when Eva Stratt signaled, people listened.

She stood up, looking around the table at each of them. Her gaze lingered on Yao, on Martin, on Olesya, Lokken, Annie, and finally on Ryland and you.

"Four years ago," Stratt began, her voice carrying that familiar, commanding weight, "we were all locked in a vat, staring at data that we thought meant the end of the world. We were miserable, overworked, and sleep-deprived."

"You threatened to throw me in a military prison, Eva," Ryland pointed out cheerfully.

"And I would do it again, Grace, don't interrupt my speech," Stratt said without missing a beat, though there was a rare, genuine smirk on her lips. The table erupted into soft chuckles. "My point is, we were brought together by a crisis that didn't happen. By all accounts, this task force should have disbanded, and we should have gone back to our respective corners of the globe, never speaking again."

She raised her glass. "But we didn't. Because apparently, none of you have any other friends who understand your specific brands of insanity. So, to the Petrova Taskforce. Long may we argue over dinner."

"To the Taskforce!" everyone echoed, glasses clinking across the table.

Ryland clinked his glass against yours, his fingers intertwining with your free hand under the table. His grip was warm, solid, and reassuring. When he drank his wine, he didn't take his eyes off you.

"So, Grace," Olesya called out, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table. "Now that the world is officially safe, and you are no longer a glorified high school teacher, what is the next big project? Are you going to finally cure the common cold, or are you still playing with your little Petri dishes?"

Ryland set his glass down, pulling his shoulders back defensively. "Hey! My 'little Petri dishes' are currently mapping out a highly resilient strain of deep-sea bacteria that could revolutionize bioremediation in oil spills. It's actually incredibly cool."

"It sounds like a lot of sitting and waiting," Annie teased, a mischievous glint in her eye. "You should come over to the aerospace division. We’re launching a new atmospheric probe next month. Real engineering. Real explosions."

"No explosions!" Ryland said, pointing a finger at her. "I like my eyebrows exactly where they are, thank you very much. Besides, I have a very busy schedule. Teaching my university classes, running the lab..." He glanced down at you, his expression softening instantly into something so sweet it could cause cavities. "...and taking care of my favorite person."

"Ugh, look at them," Olesya groaned dramatically, though she was smiling. "They are like two puppies in a basket. It is sickening."

"Jealousy doesn't suit you, Ilyukhina," Martin chuckled.

"I am not jealous! I am a creature of iron and winter. I do not do... mushy." Olesya shuddered jokingly, taking another bite of her chocolate tarte.

A few hours later, the dinner party began to wind down. Yao and Stratt were sitting on the plush leather couches in the living room, a chess board between them, playing a game in absolute, intense silence. Lokken and Annie had moved to the balcony, watching the distant lights of Geneva and speaking in low, quiet tones about funding grants. Olesya was sprawled out on an armchair, fast asleep with an empty dessert plate resting on her stomach. Martin was in the kitchen, meticulously rinsing the wine glasses because he "simply couldn't trust Eva's dishwasher to do it correctly."

Ryland had steered you toward a small, secluded alcove near the back of the house, where a massive bay window looked out over a darkened, manicured garden. A soft rain had started to fall, the tiny drops drumming a peaceful, rhythmic beat against the glass.

The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by the ambient glow of the hallway lights and the occasional flash of distant sheet lightning. It was warm, quiet, and completely removed from the brilliant minds arguing in the other room.

Ryland sat on the wide cushioned window sill, pulling you down between his legs. You leaned your back against his chest, sighing happily as his arms immediately wrapped around your waist, pulling you securely against him. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his soft curls brushing against your cheek.

"You smell like vanilla and that fancy soap Stratt keeps in the guest bathroom," he murmured, his voice a low, rumbling vibration against your back.

"It's expensive soap, Ryland. I had to make the most of it," you whispered, tilting your head back to look at him.

He smiled, a slow, lazy thing that reached all the way to his eyes. He leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It tasted like sweet chocolate and red wine. When he pulled back, he didn't go far, keeping his face inches from yours.

"I'm really glad we came tonight," he said softly.

"Me too. Even if Olesya spent half the night making fun of your biology rants."

"Hey, she respects my intellect. She just expresses it through aggressive teasing. It's a cultural thing, I'm sure of it." Ryland chuckled, shifting his weight slightly so he could tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered on your jawline, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "But seriously. Looking at them... looking at you... I just feel incredibly lucky."

"Lucky?"

"Yeah." Ryland looked out the window at the falling rain, his eyes reflective. "Think about it. If that stupid solar line had actually been a threat, we’d probably be in some tin-can spaceship right now, crying over freeze-dried food, praying we don't accidentally blow ourselves up. I would have been pulled out of my classroom, thrown into some terrifying government black site, and I might never have met you."

You reached up, placing your hand over his where it rested on your waist. "You think you wouldn't have found me?"

"I think I would have looked for you," he corrected gently, turning his gaze back to you. The intensity in his eyes was staggering, filled with a profound, unshakeable certainty. "In every universe, in every timeline, I think my brain would just naturally gravitate toward yours. Like a homing beacon. But I'm really glad we got the universe where we just get to go to dinner parties, teach students, and come home to a bed that doesn't rely on zero-gravity tethering."

You twisted around in his embrace so you were facing him properly, draping your arms over his shoulders. "You're a hopeless romantic, Dr. Grace."

"I am a man of science," he countered, though he was already grinning, his hands resting comfortably on your waist. "And scientifically speaking, you have a highly measurable, statistically significant effect on my dopamine levels. It’s basic chemistry."

"Oh, really? Is that a peer-reviewed study?"

"I'm currently conducting the long-term trials," he whispered, his eyes dropping to your lips. "The data is very promising. Highly repeatable results."

"Show me the data," you challenged softly.

Ryland didn't need to be told twice. He leaned in, closing the distance between you with a kiss that was entirely different from the quick, playful ones from earlier. This one was slow, deep, and thoroughly intoxicating. He pulled you flush against him, his hands sliding up your back, his fingers gripping the soft fabric of your sweater as if anchoring himself to you.

The sound of the rain outside seemed to fade into a gentle hum, swallowed up by the warmth of his mouth, the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against your chest, and the absolute safety of his arms. Ryland kissed you like you were the center of his universe—not a dying star, not a world to save, just you.

When he finally parted from you, both of you were breathing a little heavier. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, a breathless, blissed-out smile on his face.

"Yeah," he breathed, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your sides. "The data is definitely conclusive. You're stuck with me."

"I think I can live with that," you smiled, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He smelled like laundry detergent, rain, and the faint, comforting scent of the outdoors. You let your eyes close, completely content to just exist here, wrapped up in him, while the brilliant minds of the Petrova Taskforce bickered softly in the next room.

By midnight, the gathering had officially dissolved. Yao had won the chess match (much to Stratt’s quiet, simmering annoyance), Olesya had woken up long enough to demand a ride from Dr. Lokken, and Annie and Lokken had finally stopped talking about orbital mechanics, now, Annie and Martin are the ones to argue about who was paying for the Uber.

Ryland was holding your hand as you walked out to his modest, sensible sedan parked in Stratt’s driveway. The rain had slowed to a gentle, misty drizzle, making the asphalt shimmer under the streetlights.

"Do you want me to drive, Ry? You look exhausted," you said, noticing the slight droop in his eyelids as he unlocked the car.

"No, no, I got it," he said, opening the passenger door for you with a dramatic bow. "A gentleman always drives his brilliant partner home. Plus, I like watching you listen to your true-crime podcasts in the passenger seat. Your concentrated face is very cute."

You rolled your eyes but climbed in, laughing as he closed the door safely behind you.

The drive back to your apartment was quiet and peaceful. The heater hummed a warm, steady stream of air against your ankles, and the dashboard glowed a soft green. True to his word, Ryland kept one hand on the steering wheel while his other hand remained firmly planted in yours, resting on the center console. Every now and then, when the traffic slowed, he would lift your hand to his mouth, press a soft kiss to your knuckles, and then return it to its resting place.

When you finally reached your apartment, the clock was nearing one in the morning. The apartment was cool and dark, a stark contrast to the lively, brightly lit estate you had just left.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, Ryland kicked off his shoes, shed his heavy jacket, and immediately slumped onto the living room sofa with a dramatic, full-body sigh.

"Oh, thank science," he groaned into the cushions. "My couch. My beautiful, beautiful couch."

You walked over, standing above him with an amused smirk. "You act like Stratt's house wasn't equipped with literal luxury furniture."

"It's too fancy," Ryland said, turning his head so his cheek was pressed against the fabric, looking up at you with big, sleepy eyes. "It expects too much of me. This couch knows I am a goblin who likes to eat cereal out of the box at two in the morning. It accepts me."

"And do I accept you?" you asked, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead.

"You tolerate me, which is even better," he grinned, reaching up to snag your wrist. With a gentle tug, he pulled you down onto the sofa with him. You yelped in surprise as you tumbled onto his chest, but his arms were already locked around you, rolling the both of you over until you were tucked securely against his side, his long legs tangled with yours.

"Ryland, we need to brush our teeth," you complained, though you weren't making any move to get up. The couch was incredibly comfortable, and Ryland was essentially a human radiator.

"Five minutes," he mumbled, his eyes already closed as he buried his face in your neck. "Just five minutes of gravity simulation. Then we brush teeth."

You smiled, letting your body relax completely against his. You listened to the steady, slowing rhythm of his breathing, the soft patter of the remaining rain against your own bedroom window down the hall, and the utter, beautiful silence of a world that was completely, boringly, wonderfully safe.

"I love you, Ryland," you whispered into the dark room.

He didn't open his eyes, but a soft, deeply contented smile broke across his face. He squeezed you just a little bit tighter, holding you close to his heart.

"Love you more," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. "To the moon and back. Or, you know... just right here. Right here is perfect."