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NAVIGATION;

*everything i make uses ZERO ai. if i accidentally use graphics or dividers which were created with ai, please let me know and i will remove them.

PHM (MOVIE)

-first date scenario w/ ryland (fem!reader, wc 2.1k)

-you’re ryland’s partner when he’s chosen to help w/ PHM (gn!reader, wc 4.3k)

-pt. II for above fic !! (gn!reader, wc 7.5k)

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

DANONATION

Edward Nashton:

-reader discovering edward is the riddler (gn!reader, wc 1k)

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

SUPERMAN (2025)

Lex Luthor:

-thoughts on being his gf (fem!reader)

-attention hungry reader (fem!reader, wc 1.5k)

-bored reader (fem!reader, wc 1.4k)

-public appearances w/ lex (fem!reader, wc 1.8k)

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

interested in requesting? please visit this link for info !!

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CRED INFO: all dividers will feature the creator's tag at the bottom of each post !! any photos i use will be from pinterest.

AB ME;

hiya! i'm cade !! i use any pronouns

i'm an aspiring filmmaker and have a passion for magazine creation and graphic design! i've always loved writing and coming up with stories, and this blog is sort of serving as a creative outlet along with a place to get over my fear of sharing my stuff.

some of my favorites !!

films - 28 Days Later, The Royal Tenebaums, Little Miss Sunshine, Fargo, and Prospect !!

bands/artists - Los Campesinos!, Elliot Smith, LCD Soundsystem, Jeff Rosenstock, and IDLES !!

thanks for hanging out (´｡• ◡ •｡`) ♡

(!reader fic info under the cut)

pairing: Ryland Grace x gn!Reader

wc: 7.5k

cw: angst, hurt w/ minimal comfort, MAJOR film spoilers, needles, discussions of death, mentions of su!c!de mission, vomit, implied panic/anxiety attack(s) (reader CANNOT catch a break.)

a/n: aaaand here is part two !! i apologize to anyone who was looking forward to getting to the heartbreak with part one, i ended up getting so insanely busy but still wanted to do this thing justice. this entire fic was born out of that few second clip of Grace on the roof after being told he has three hours and wondering what he was thinking ab.. needed something to itch that angst scratch

“Have we ever talked about going on a cruise?”

It was late in the night and you were both stuck awake by Ryland’s insistence on finishing his perusing of a report. Despite your quarters being tucked deep into the heart of the ship you could still hear the faint sounds of the waves slapping against its hull. Your head lay on your boyfriend’s chest, lazily reading along with the paper, squinting at the tiny letters. The lamp beside the stiff bed was switched on, set to the lowest setting for both your eyes’ comfort. His glasses sat low and crooked on his nose, chin tucked while he focused on finalizing his corrections before falling asleep. 

Seemingly focused—because clearly his mind was elsewhere if he was asking questions about hypothetical cruises.

“I feel like now would be a good time to start talking about it. Get a feel for it while we’re here. Maybe we can convince Stratt to wine and dine us a little for the real experience.”

With a scoff you shifted off of him and flopped onto your own side of the thin mattress. If anyone could make light out of being stuck on an aircraft carrier while simultaneously tasked with saving the world, it would be Ryland.

“Careful or she’ll make you walk the plank,” you mumbled, voice heavy with tiredness and muffled now that your back faced him.

You had been on the ship only a month now, but it had begun to feel like your entire world. Your time was split between trailing Ryland or hulled up in the quarters so as to keep out of people’s way. Ryland made it clear he preferred the former, though. It was as endearing as it was embarrassing how much of an effort he made to keep you included in the going ons of the ship. Obviously you couldn’t attend any meetings, but you’d spent enough long hours beside him in the ship’s lab to get the gist of the mission.

Your brows furrowed then as the tired haze cleared from your head and you were reminded of an upcoming engagement, turning to better project your voice in his direction.

“Don’t you have that demonstration tomorrow? With the astronauts?”

He nodded, clearing his throat in a sound of affirmation.

“Yeah. It’s a big deal. Been trying not to think about it,” you knew Ryland, though. And you knew that when he was “trying not to think about something”, he was actually only thinking about that thing.

“I think it’ll work. I hope it will. We’ve run the calculations over and over–if it doesn’t...”

“Ry–” you sighed, rubbing the heels of your palms into your eyes so that fuzzy constellations danced in the darks of their lids.

“It’s not just me, y’know? I’ve got this whole team now working ‘till their eyes are bloodshot. I’d be letting all of them down, it’s this pressure. And the more I work with it–the Astrophage–I just can’t wrap my head around the power these tiny things store. I mean, Stratt never really explicitly said why we were on this boat, but with the energy output… The risks–”

“Ryland,” you broke through his haze of tension finally, fingertips trailing the growing stubble at his chin, “It’ll be alright. I’ve seen how thorough you’ve all been. This will work out.”

His lips parted, ready to protest, but you’d propped yourself up enough now to use both hands to cup his cheeks. They felt gaudier than you remembered them.

“I’m serious. Stop worrying so we can both get some sleep.”

It took him a moment, his tired eyes searching yours, the pools of blue suddenly impossibly deeper with something unspoken. Something you couldn’t comprehend just yet. But then it dissipated, and he nodded slowly.

“...Will you stay in the room tomorrow? Until the demonstration is over,” he mumbled, setting the papers he’d been reviewing on the shelf near the side of the bed.

“Sure. Whatever you need.”

He watched you for a few moments longer as you shifted in a futile attempt to get comfortable. You could feel his eyes following your movements, the angles of you, the space you took up beside him.

He did turn off the light eventually, letting you slip the crooked glasses from his nose and plant a goodnight peck on his lips. You listened as his breathing evened out into that familiar hum of calm, your hand which rested atop his chest memorizing the steady rise and fall of it, the slow thump of his heart. 

You were half asleep yourself when you heard the stifled sniffles. 

You stayed silent as you felt the heat of his tears when he lifted your hand to press a soft kiss to the back of it; to your thumb, pointer, middle–his lips lingering at your ring finger.

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

Ryland had left by the time you woke, the sounds of the ship bustling with morning life bleeding into your quarters enough to rouse you. With a yawn you turned, glancing at the clock atop the shelf where the papers from last night still sat. Nine AM. The demonstration had probably already begun–or had at least set up.

The astronauts must be on board now. The notion hit you with a wave of giddy excitement.

During your time on the ship you’d made your own connections, particularly with the astrophysicists whose schedules contradicted your boyfriend’s. Many of them were aiding in the construction of the ship–at least the parts that could be done on Earth. You’d learned much of the structure would be completed on the ISS, a particularity that had garnered your fascination.

The mission itself, beyond Ryland’s hand in it, had your mind wrapped around its massive finger. Perhaps it was the morbid curiosity regarding the “one way” aspect of the trip–of the people selfless enough to give their lives for the planet’s survival. Upon seeing your passion, Ryland had promised to give you an introduction once the astronauts had a free moment.

So, assuming today would likely be the day, you busied yourself with looking somewhat presentable. It was easy now, after several weeks to get comfortable in your new “home”. You’d begun to be able to go about your mornings in such a habitual way that you could shut your eyes and imagine yourself back at the apartment. You’d slipped on a sweater just as the knock came on the metallic door.

“You decent?” Ryland’s voice slipped past the barrier.

Upon your sound of confirmation he entered, all smiles with arms outstretched to scoop you up, giving you a little spin and a few eager pecks on the cheek.

“I take it the demonstration went okay?” You snickered, giving him a kiss at the corner of his mouth in return after he’d set you down.

“Better than okay,” he beamed, fixing his glasses after your nose had bumped them askew. “Everyone was really impressed, nothing exploded…”

“That was a possibility?” you interjected, pulling back to give him an incredulous look. You watched him deflate slightly, the excitement and, dare you say, relief melting off him to reveal the underlying tribulation.

“Sarcasm,” he shrugged, but his voice wavered.

You didn’t press it for his sake, even though every bone in your body that wanted you both to not explode screamed for you to.

“How about the crew?” You took it upon yourself to turn the course of the conversation.

“What crew?” He mumbled dumbly, clearly still deep in thought.

“Of the Hail Mary?”

“Oh,” he brightened (if only slightly) at your reminder, “they all seem great. I mean, as great as people who are gonna get blasted to space on a suicide mission can be. Really smart, capable… Brave,” he lingered on the last word. “DuBois–he’s the scientist–he’s really excited to learn. So you’ll probably see a lot of him, with him shadowing me and everything.”

“And the others?”

“Yao and Ilyukhina. They seem… really level-headed. Like, ‘joking about the method by which they’re gonna die when the mission is over’ kind of calm. I dunno, I just can’t wrap my head around it. How casual everyone’s being about the whole one way trip part of this.”

You nodded slowly, considering his position. It was odd, you agreed–but necessary nonetheless. In the grand scheme of things, what was three people sacrificing themselves for the other eight billion? Ryland always talked about “numbers games,” but those numbers felt different when they were real people looking you in the eye.

“I can introduce you at lunch. They seemed pretty held up with Stratt, though–you know how she is. I didn’t wanna drag them away for something ‘unnecessary’,” his hands moved from your middle to make exaggerated air quotes.

You did know how Stratt was. 

In your month aboard the craft you’d spent far more time with the woman than you’d expected to. It wasn’t because you were necessarily helpful (not that you couldn’t be–there was just a reason your boyfriend had been assigned to this mission and you hadn’t). Rather, you seemed to be a breath of fresh air aboard the ship. Someone with enough clearance to hear the basics and get around, but without the responsibility to feel the same crushing weight of expectation as everyone else. You could sympathize–with Ryland, with the other scientists he worked beside, and with Stratt and her position. And, for as cold as Stratt came across, she could use that sympathy.

“Alright. I can be patient,” you forced down the small pang of genuine disappointment brought on by yet another wait. But you put on a smile, leaning in when he bent to place a quick kiss to your forehead.

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

Ryland kept his promise… sort of. Some emergency meeting was called around lunch time–you were used to those by now–and Ryland had been swept away while mumbling apologies to you, simultaneously voicing his personal frustrations with having only finished half of his premade cafeteria sandwich. So, instead of at lunch, he introduced you to the crew of the Hail Mary at dinner. You’d briefly been acquainted with DuBois in passing, but Yao and Ilyukhina were still strangers.

“Sorry if I’m interrupting,” Ryland meekly stepped over to their table, offering a tiny wave, "I just wanted to introduce you both to my partner.”

The two astronauts looked up from their meals, both giving a smile and wave in greeting. 

“It’s good to meet you,” Yao rose from his spot at the table to supply you with a more formal “hello,” “you are a scientist?” 

You winced at his question, sticking out your hand to shake.

“No, no—just… morale, I guess.”

Yao and Ilyukhina exchanged a look, but when their attention returned to you and Ryland, their expressions weren't unkind. Just curious.

“It’s good,” Ilyukhina shrugged, “we could use it. It’s a big project. Big mission.”

Ryland nudged you then, giving you a small smile, something that silently said “See? I wasn’t that crazy to have Stratt bring you aboard.”

From then on, outside of the time you spent in and around the lab with Ryland, you spent your hours with the astronauts. They were busy, sure—everyone was always busy—but in the time you got with them, you learned they were real in a way no one you’d ever met before was.

They were some of the most interesting people on the planet, and soon they’d be blasted off to space never to be seen again. You thought you might as well savor your time with them, if only to be another person to preserve their memory.

They had no concerns aside from the mission. They were… peaceful. The knowledge of their upcoming sacrifice seemed to have broken them down to their purest forms. Yao, who always appeared so serious, would openly crack at Ilyukhina’s quips. Ilyukhina talked frequently about her excitement to be one of the first people to witness deep space firsthand (even if she wouldn’t be able to come home and tell people about it after).

“It’s incredible,” you murmured one night to a half-asleep Ryland, who, in recent evenings, had developed a pattern of passing out the second his head hit his stiff pillow.

“What is, hun?” You’d noticed a few months into the relationship how the pet names–terms Ryland typically strayed away from–slipped out more freely in his exhaustion. You smiled, shifting against the mattress so you were facing him.

“How… at peace they both seem with it. Ilyukhina and Yao,” your eyes searched his weary expression, “does DuBois seem that way? I mean, when he’s not busy in the lab.”

Ryland hummed as he raised a heavy arm to swipe across his eyes, their lids too tired to open fully.

“I mean, he’s making the most of his remaining time on Earth, if that’s what you mean. He and Shapiro have been hooking up.” His nose scrunched at the last few words. You couldn’t help but snicker at his disdain.

“Not in the lab, right?”

Ryland groaned. This was a nightmare scenario he clearly had not considered before.

“Gosh, I hope not. I mean, I really hope not. That’s just… wrong.” 

Despite this rather personal knowledge, you still developed a painfully amiable relationship with them. Yao, for all his sternness, softened after your first few conversations with him. He talked a lot about the mission–mostly about the mission, in fact–but sometimes you would catch him in a contemplative mood. It had been maybe a month since he’d boarded the carrier when he showed you a picture of his children. He was a little younger in the photo with two kids, maybe aged three and four, hanging off his sides. They were likely older now, but not by much.

“Stratt allows me to call them every night, under supervision, of course. So I do not reveal anything sensitive,” he’d said, running a finger over a worn edge of the photo before handing it to you, “I have not told them that I will not be returning.”

You could see in the two children’s expressions, in the way they smiled at their father’s reflection in the camera, that he was their whole world.

“I do not know yet which will be worse; telling them a lie or the truth.” You looked up at him from the picture, carefully giving it back. He tucked it into a small pocket over his heart.

Truthfully, you didn’t know either. To lie would be giving them the hope he would one day return. To explain the reality of his situation would be telling them that he willingly left his family to go on a suicide mission. At that point, it didn’t matter if he was doing it to save them and the rest of humanity or not.

“I believe I will know by the time I have to leave.”

You could only wish him luck on the impossible task.

Ilyukhina, at least, kept things lighter. She often filled your restless evenings with stories of her home country, her studies, her friends, and of course, her antics. And, boy–did she get up to some unsavory things. You were suddenly grateful you were on a Chinese ship rather than a Russian one, should someone overhear these conversations.

She’d gifted you her prized possession two months before the scheduled launch–a photo of her sneaking into the Kremlin. You grinned at it, slipping it into your pocket and making a mental note to put it back into her bag for the trip.

“It’s not fair, y’know. You can’t be hilarious and this cool,” you bumped her shoulder with your own, “it’ll be a major loss to Earth once you’re gone.”

She considered the notion for a moment before shrugging.

“Maybe. But I’ll be dying in space. And with a bit of heroin mixed in with the lethal injection. That’s very cool. Cooler than what most people get.”

Again–she kept things light.

And DuBois was… DuBois. You couldn’t help but keep a little bit of distance after the Shapiro revelation, if only to avoid any uncomfortable conversations.

Suddenly almost a year had passed, and at the same time, no time had passed at all. Your days were filled with a healthy mix of monotony and chaos, and the presence of Ryland at your side was never a given. As the launch date drew nearer, the anxiety on the ship grew. It was a palpable thing–like a dense fog sweeping across the deck. And Ryland, as the leading astrophage expert, bore the brunt of it. 

He’d gotten noticeably thinner in the past few months. The softness of him never dissipated, but it did change, with his energy being entirely redirected to his research. Still, there was something deeper hidden underneath, an unrelenting guilt for involving you in the mission in the first place.

“I never meant for it to be like this,” he’d mumbled one night, already half asleep. It felt like most of your conversations now happened when he was dancing that line between the waking and sleeping world. 

“If I’d known it would be like this… that it would take this long… Be this dangerous…” he yawned, eyelids finally sagging shut, “I would’ve jus’ told you to break up with me…”

You watched as sleep took him, a pang twisting at your heart. You knew he meant it, too–that if he had the hindsight, he’d have asked just that.

The room felt impossibly smaller then, and with a long breath, you slipped out of the bed. You threw on your shoes, digging around for a sweater before you headed out onto the ship. Only once you were free from the confines of the sleeping quarters, when you could feel the crisp ocean air bite at your face, did the ache in your chest loosen.

It would’ve been just the respite you needed, were Stratt not also out on the deck.

She was leaning against a misty railing, a freshly lit cigarette pinched between two fingers. She’d already spotted you, watching you with a carefulness you’d come to expect from her by now. 

You walked over to her, waving a dismissive hand when she wordlessly offered you a drag.

“You needed air too?” You peered over to catch a glimpse of the mask that was her expression.

“Something like that,” she mumbled, turning her head so you could no longer make out her face, “something is troubling you?”

Damn her for being as perceptive as she was.

“I just feel… weird here. I guess I never started to feel like I belonged, even a year in.” You sighed, face scrunching as the lapping of the waves against the hull sprayed you lightly. “Then we got into this mess, and… I dunno. It made me realize things about Ryland.”

“You do not want to be partners?”

“No! God, no—” you corrected quickly, “it just has me thinking.” You watched as the smoke filtered from her cigarette and blossomed into the inky ocean sky. 

“I met him after he left academia. Or, after the paper and everything. He seemed so… content with how his life played out. With the middle school and with the apartment and San Francisco. But now we’re here and I’ve never seen him more… in his element. Even if he is stressed as hell.”

A quiet lull fell over you both as Stratt took another lingering drag, likely using it to delay having this more emotionally loaded conversation. She wasn’t entirely apathetic—not at all. These kinds of talks just weren’t exactly her forte. And when you were as qualified of a person as Stratt was? Doing something you weren’t confident in could be a deeply uncomfortable experience.

“He is an incredible scientist,” she began, shrinking into her long coat, “being so does not make him inhuman, though. He is passionate about his teaching and the children. He complains often about missing the comforts of his home. He likes you well enough to implore me to include you in this mission.”

She turned to face you finally.

“I do not think he is settling in his happiness, if that is your question. Besides, I have learned the scientific world can be a very unhappy place–he likely is at greater peace after moving away from it.”

You smiled, eyes shifting back to the waves below, watching the insistent lapping of the dark masses.

“You should try to rest. The science team is being relocated tomorrow morning.” 

You glanced over to her at the sudden revelation.

“Does Ryland know?”

“I do not believe so, no.”

You nodded slowly, beginning to imagine Ryland come dawn. You could easily picture his impending confusion and grumbling. At least you’d have some semblance of what was going on–that could serve as a comfort.

“Where are we moving?” You weren’t confident you’d actually get an answer to your question, but you decided it was worth a try.

“That is confidential.”

“Right. Shouldn’t have expected anything else.” You sighed, allowing your head to tip back as you watched the murky stars above. They looked identical to how they had your first night on the ship, as if your stay had you trapped in time. And after as long as you’d spent here, you might as well have been. You bet they’d look the same on land, too. 

You started across the dark hull, back towards the quarters, feeling the beginnings of tears well up in the corners of your eyes at the thought. Thank god you’d walked away from Stratt when you did, she’d definitely raise a brow at you getting emotional over the simple prospect of touching dry land again.

You slipped back into the room, the sounds of Ryland’s tired breathing filling the tight space as you slipped off your shoes and slowly climbed into the bed. He shifted, mumbling something unintelligible, before burying his face in the pillow.

You slotted in beside him, pushing a bit of hair from his hidden face to keep him more comfortable, watching the way it splayed across the pillow like a halo. 

You were asleep before you knew it.

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

The sun was still low with the sleepy rise of morning, the dew from the cool night leaving a condensation that drooped the blades of grass. They were a deep green—almost the same color as in San Francisco in the rainy months if you squinted.

You and Ryland had been on land for a little over three weeks now, and it had been as pleasant as it could be. You’d been moved into a trailer with a few other people—so not nearly as private as on the ship. The mattress was about the same, too–unfortunately no difference there. But at least you were on land. Land with green grass.

“Humans can see more shades of green than any other color,” Ryland’s offhanded factoid came back to you at that moment, “probably for evolutionary purposes. Everything is about evolution. Our cone sensitivity, the very structure of our photoreceptors…”

You let the memory wash over you, eyes following the billow of steam that still plumed from Ryland’s forgotten coffee, staying warm despite the morning chill just outside. He’d hurried out the door maybe twenty minutes ago–Stratt needed to run something by him–and he’d forgotten the caffeinated drink in the process. You were sure he’d come in through that entrance any minute now, grumbling about his forgetfulness and resulting fatigue.

You were lingering on the hypothetical when a deafening boom shook the earth beneath your feet.

It was something deep, like a rumble of thunder right above the trailer you sat in. Something that left your bones rattling and your body stuck in a primal freeze.

You were racing out the door the second you’d recovered.

The smoke was already covering up the low morning sun, the flames reaching higher into the sky as the distant fire grew at the influx of oxygen. People were yelling and rushing past you, walkie-talkies crackling while you grabbed wildly at passing arms, desperate for some kind of explanation. Finally, someone stopped at your shout, the stranger rambling about an explosion. 

An explosion at the science building.

The building Ryland spent the majority of his time in. 

The weight of Ryland never telling you where Stratt was taking him hit you in a sudden, agonizing wave.

You didn’t panic–not immediately. The adrenaline that pumped wild through your veins was too intense to allow for that yet. All you could do was force your way through the panicked crowd, heart pulling you towards the raging fire and scattered debris in the distance. 

You weren’t sure how far you’d made it when a heavy hand on your shoulder halted your movement.

“You can’t go any farther, they’re putting out the fire then taking a look at the damage,” you turned to see Carl at your side, a radio clutched tight in the hand that wasn’t holding you back.

“Ryland—?” You started, but Carl cut you off by raising the radio to his mouth.

“Do we have eyes on Dr. Grace?” You both waited, struggling to keep your heaving breaths as quiet as possible until the scratchy response came through.

“Dr. Grace is secure.”

You let out a choked sound at the confirmation, body slumping forwards, held sturdy only by Carl’s support. The line hadn't quieted, though, and whoever was on the other end continued.

“DuBois and Shapiro are unaccounted for.”

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

You’d wanted to cry when Ryland was finally let out from the containment cell (Russian orders as they investigated potential terrorism), but your tear ducts just couldn’t do it. You blamed it on the lingering adrenaline and assumed you’d crash soon.

And crash you did the second you were alone with him and he was soothing back your hair, softly reassuring you that he was okay. That he was there. 

You cried into his shoulder for a long while, tears soaking the fabric of his cardigan. It was a vicious feedback loop—every breath you took allowed for oxygen to flood your brain, providing you a moment of panicked clarity.

DuBois was dead.

Shapiro was dead.

And, worst of all, the crew of the Hail Mary no longer had a scientist. 

And it was just a few days from launch.

“What will Stratt do?” You finally forced out something understandable between you sniffling, voice hiccuping a little under the weight of your sobs.

“She’s smart. She probably planned for this–she definitely planned for this. She’s always been aware of every single possibility,” Ryland continued his comforts, letting his head rest against the top of yours. 

You trusted the notion. You knew Stratt—she was the most capable, thorough person you’d ever met. She could make the hard decisions no one else could and was ready to face the consequences, whenever those came. You remembered her telling you once about the thousands of scientists, engineers, and astronauts who had volunteered the second the mission was announced. 

She could just call on one of them.

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

“I’m not an astronaut.”

Ryland knew Stratt didn’t care. He was the leading expert in astrophage. If there was anyone to replace DuBois and Shapiro, it was him. She’d even brought in Yao and Ilyukhina to soften the blow–that scamp.

Ryland was given three hours to make his decision. Just three hours to make perhaps the hardest choice anyone had ever had to make–that being between a suicide mission to save his species or his own survival. 

Clear-cut on paper, maybe, but humans were notorious for wanting to survive.

He knew he should’ve immediately gone to you—tell you what was happening. Talk through his (limited) options with you. 

But something stopped him. 

Instead, he found the most isolated place possible (a roof—the base was busy and it was the best he could do), put in his earbuds, and turned on the Beatles. It was dumb, it really was, and no way to address the issue at hand. But he was tired. And as the chorus of “In My Life” rang softly in his ears, he cried.

He didn’t think about the three hours, or his dead friends, or the mission. Instead, he thought about his parents, who filled his childhood with the 60s bands he still frequented. He thought of his early high school years and the bands he’d listen to then. The ones you and him still debated about, silly things like whether 90s Britpop was better than the American bands who were gaining momentum around that time. 

He realized, then, that he wanted to keep having those dumb arguments with you. That, in space, a dozen lightyears away, he wouldn’t hear the way your voice grew a little louder as you defended a favorite band of yours. That he wouldn’t feel the wind pulling at his raincoat like it was now, wouldn’t feel the cool mist of the cloudy day against his skin.

He sought you out at the second hour. He felt guilty, giving you the facts after the panic you’d experienced just a day earlier after the explosion. But you, more than anyone, deserved to know. 

He found you in the shared trailer, feeling more eyes on himself than usual as he entered. He called your name, and as you met his gaze, you could feel the way he soaked you in. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, but it wasn’t an atypical look for him as of late. Neither was him ushering you out towards one of the base’s surrounding fields in search of privacy.

What did surprise you were his words. 

He’d barely finished explaining the situation when you interrupted, already grasping at straws as you tried to force logic into a decision so rooted in emotion.

“You have the choice, though,” you started, brows furrowing as you watched the grass ripple at your feet, your arms curled around yourself, unaware of Ryland’s hand inching closer, seeking yours to hold, “she would’ve just locked you up or something if you didn’t. But you’re here. So it really can be your choice.” You were already rambling a bit, but he let you, too busy watching the way your expression subtly shifted after every word. Too busy feeling the breeze kiss his skin and the grass under his fingers.

“You’re not going, right?” You turned to face him finally, a flash of panic behind your eyes before you schooled it. “Or–you are? It’s humanity. Our species. I couldn’t get mad if–” He shook his head, and you fell quiet.

“I can’t do it.” Simple, concise. You felt the vice grip on your heart loosen.

“I don’t belong in space. I’m a teacher. My place is in the classroom, with the kids. On Earth, with you. I just can’t do it.” The tears that he thought he was dry of welled up again, and he leaned into your touch as you swiped them away.

“Okay,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his brow, “okay. She’ll understand. I understand. It’s okay.”

“I’m scared. And I don’t want you to… to think less of me because of it. But I can’t.”

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

Ryland’s feet pushed hard against the earth, the adrenaline masking the pain in his ankle he’d gained from evading the men who now kept pace just a few strides back. He wasn’t thinking of much, his mind whittled down to its most primary functions. There was one intelligent concept lingering just deeper, though. It was the knowledge that, if he could force himself to run a little faster, if he could avoid the men behind him a little longer, he would reach the trailer. He would reach you.

He didn’t know what you could do to fend off his “attackers”. But it was a comfort, at least, that he could exist in your proximity for what would likely be the last time. That he could see your face instead of some Russian agent before the needle pierced his flesh and unconsciousness consumed him.

He rounded a corner, legs still working harder than they ever had before, and the trailer came into view. A little longer, just a little more…

A rough shove sent him tumbling to the earth, begs and pleads spilling out of his lips the second his nerves detected the contact.

“No, please— please don’t do this, no—“ he writhed for a moment beneath someone’s heavy knee, finally stilling when he recognized it was no use. It was three against one. All he could do was look around wildly for someone who might help.

He shook, heaving breaths rattling his ribs at the sight of the syringe being brought carefully, coldly towards his restrained arm. Turning his head, he saw his nose lay maybe a foot away from the shoes of a familiar figure. But not you–the person he’d slept beside for the last two years. Not the person he was silently begging for with his face shoved against the grass.

“Carl, please— I can't do this— Can’t do this to them, I can’t—“

“They know who you are. You're gonna do great.”

His nails dug into the dirt as he cried out, head twisting around again. He could see the trailer, could imagine you inside. He tried to rein in his breathing while the needle made contact, wincing as he tried to picture you. You’d be waiting for him to come in, to catch you up on Stratt’s new plan. Maybe you’d made him a coffee and it was still steaming. Maybe you’d look out the small window to see if he was on his way back yet. But you didn’t. And as the darkness flooded the corners of his vision, he thought it was for the best.

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

Your head turned when you heard Yao call your name from the trailer door. 

Ryland hadn’t returned, but you weren’t particularly worried–whoever had been chosen in his place for the position required extensive training that would have to be delivered in a much shorter span of time than originally allotted. You assumed you wouldn’t see much of him until launch.

“Hi,” you called back, offering a small smile to the commander, who appeared as solemn as ever. There was a flicker of something in his eyes though, something heavy that made your expression furrow in concern.

“Is everything alright?”

He broke the news as carefully as he could. 

You’d give that to him, at least. But how could anything like this sound neutral? Sound like anything less than the death sentence you both knew it was?

The reality of it crashed over you only after Yao had led you away from the base and prying eyes, his sturdy frame helping guide you to the ground when your legs finally gave out. You didn’t cry—your eyes couldn’t make any more tears after the disaster at the science building. But that didn’t stop the bile from rising in your throat.

Yao stayed quiet as you heaved, not necessarily hovering, but present. 

It took you a long while before your shaking had slowed enough for you to form a coherent sentence.

“..I just talked with him—what would make him change his mind? Did he talk to you or Stratt—?”

Yao shook his head.

“Stratt asked him to make his decision once he returned. She informed me he had changed his mind and was willing to go,” he paused, watching the way the news just broke your heart more and more, “I know I can say and do little to comfort you. But I would like you to know I would not allow someone who did not wish to be a member of the crew aboard.”

You took in a long, trembling breath before you met his gaze.

“Why didn't Stratt tell me? Why are you here?”

Yao was quiet for a moment, considering his words before just opting for the truth.

“I do not believe she had the intention of telling you. I am here independently.”

Your stomach dropped once more. Stratt wasn’t going to tell you? While you expected Ryland above everyone else to have told you first, you hoped Stratt would if he couldn’t. Sure, you couldn’t trust her as far as you could throw her, but you had grown to consider her as a friend, and you knew Ryland thought of her similarly.

Yet here stood Yao.

You weren’t sure your heart could break any more than it already had.

You and Yao sat side by side as the wind rippled the grass of the field. You had a million questions, but words felt useless when there was not a single thing you could do to change the motions that had already been set.

“It’s all so stupid,” you whispered tearfully, Yao turning to you, “I should be mad. That he didn’t… didn't tell me.” You sucked in a breath, laughing without humor.

“All I can think about is if I told him I loved him this morning, though. Before he left for that meeting,” you met Yao’s gaze. “And I can’t remember. I can’t remember if I did.”

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

Stratt had you collecting his things just a few days later. Or, rather, some Russian had you on a flight back to San Francisco, as Stratt was still avoiding you. It was for the best, you thought—you weren’t sure yet how you might react to her.

It wasn’t as hard as you’d anticipated it to be, walking through the empty, dusty apartment. It was more relief than anything that you had the apartment to come back to at all. You might’ve hated Stratt more than any other person on the planet right now, but you could still appreciate her pulling enough strings to keep the bills paid while you and Ryland were off in the middle of the ocean.

You were careful in picking out the items you’d hand over to be packed. The first choice was a painfully obvious one–several of those stupid science pun shirts he had so many of. Besides clothes came knick-knacks, pieces of your shared day-to-day. A keychain from that trip to the mountains he’d taken you on last summer. A single polaroid of the two of you together. The Earth hacky sack he’d play with at the school.

You saved his nightstand for last, still feeling a quiet obligation to respect his privacy. But with the prospect that there could be something in there he’d have wanted to be brought along with him, you prevailed.

The top drawer held no such luck, just some old receipts, chapsticks, and various over the counter drugs. The bottom drawer was a little harder to rummage through, twisting your arms at a weird angle in an attempt to sift through whatever was inside. You finally gave up, tugging it off its track so you could finally get a good look at its contents. There seemed to be more of the same, aside from note-covered papers and a single small drawstring bag tucked towards the back. You took it, carefully reaching inside for whatever may be hidden. Your fingers closed around a small box, and you frowned as you pulled it into the light.

Your breath caught in your throat when you got a closer look. It wasn’t velvet like you’d seen in movies, but the shape and size was undeniable. 

For the first time since you’d learned of Ryland’s sacrifice, you cried.

With shaky hands and blurry eyes you reviewed the papers scattered about the drawer. They weren’t just random midnight thoughts—it was rehearsing. Confessions of devotion and a desire to spend whatever time he was blessed enough to have left with you. And, him being the scientist he was, he had left dates in the margins–all spanning back over a year.

It wasn’t the present version of Ryland you mourned, now. In that moment you could feel the future, as well. A future that he had been planning, that he had dreamt of and rehearsed. You felt horribly selfish, with that crushing desire to have his time as your own. To have slow mornings and bad nights, to have laughs and fights with him until you both grew old. But the reality was: he wasn’t just your Ryland–he was the world’s as well. And Ryland had, selflessly, devoted himself to the world.

How could you ever hold that against him?  

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

You hadn’t expected Stratt to talk to you after your conversation three days ago with Yao. Hell, you were surprised you were even allowed back on base to deliver the bag of Ryland’s things, having anticipated someone to just take it at the airport, leaving you in California.

But here you were back in Kazakhstan, standing beside an uncharacteristically defeated looking Stratt. She was drinking, but you couldn’t care less about what she might be trying to drink away.

You were sulking and you knew it–but you had every right to. You were well within your rights to wallow when you were sitting across from the woman who’d delivered Ryland’s death sentence without even having the decency to be the one to let you know.

You’d both been sitting in silence for far too by the time she finally spoke.

“He was…” was, past tense–you winced, “a good man.” Neither of you needed to clarify who “he” was.

“I know.” you replied simply, eyes still fixed on the floor of her trailer. Of course you knew—you’d been with him for years, long enough to be able to witness his goodness firsthand. 

“I’m sure you do,” Stratt sighed, taking a long sip from her glass.

“What is it exactly that you are upset about? I am sure I can put in a final favor with your government for compensation.” Would she always be so diplomatic?

“Jesus, Stratt—I don’t want compensation!” You stood up then, pushing back from the desk and grabbing frustratedly at your hair. Stratt, for once, had nothing to say.

“The one thing I want is being sent to space to save our planet and then die. And I know I can’t change that. God, I wish I could, but I can’t. Because it was his life and his decision,” Stratt winced, “and even though I wish it wasn’t… I know it was the right decision.”

She sighed, wordlessly grabbing the still open bottle and pouring some of the amber liquid in an empty glass. You reluctantly took it when she slid it towards you, watching as she moved to top off her own.

“I should have been the one to tell you,” Stratt muttered, eyes fixed on her drink, “that is my fault. It was my burden. And I apologize.”

You blinked. You’d never even considered hearing an apology from her before.

“…Okay,” was all you could muster. Not much for a response, certainly no “I forgive you”, but enough for Stratt.

“Launch will continue as scheduled. Dr. Grace will be hailed a hero. You should be… proud.”

You frowned, considering her words as you finished the drink she’d poured you. You set the empty glass back on the desk, giving her a final look.

“I would’ve been either way.”

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

Ryland Grace.

His name was Ryland Grace.

He’d figured it out some time ago, but rummaging through his bag confirmed it was actually him and not some deceased crew mate.

He wasn’t sure who exactly packed this bag—maybe himself. He couldn’t quite remember any friends or family. But something about the meticulous folding of these (rather incredible) pun-adorned shirts didn't exactly scream “him”. Or at least didn't seem like the “him” he’d remembered so far.

He learned plenty about himself looking through it, nevertheless. A Cats t-shirt told him he liked musicals. An R.E.M. CD immediately tested this theory. Who knows, maybe he was a musically well-rounded guy. The most curious piece of the puzzle, though, was a lone polaroid of himself. He didn’t know who he was yet, but he was sure he couldn’t be that egotistical, to have only packed a single photo with him as the subject. Maybe he was just lonely and didn’t have anyone to take a picture with. That would explain his apparent willingness to sacrifice himself.

But still, someone had to have taken the photo.

He squinted at it, turning it a little as if he could look hard enough and remember who was behind the camera. Shocker, it didn’t work. A warmth was there, though. Not really a memory, more of a feeling. 

He studied the picture a little harder. He was making some dumb face–whoever took it must’ve been a friend, like Yao and Ilyukhina. But that warmth he felt spread deeper–greater than when he’d sifted through his fallen comrades’ things.

He shut the bag, opting to ignore it for now. If it was really that important, he believed in his coma-mushed brain to remember it eventually.

And maybe, eventually, he would. Perhaps in a week while listening to a song that reminded him of you. Or after he’d meet the rocky alien who Ryland was sure you’d adore. Maybe he’d only ever get a face, a flash of a memory while he was on his way to begin his new life on Erid. But even that would be enough. Because that warmth would flood his chest and he would be reminded, if only for a moment, that he was loved.

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

creds: divider done by @strangergraphics !!

thanks: special ty to @userlem0nl1me for being my editor for this fic <3 (go check out the phm art on his page he's so talented !!)

wanna also thank everyone who supported the last part, showed interest for this fic in my sneak peek, and who responded to my poll !! yall keep me motivated (♡ˊ͈ ꒳ ˋ͈)

pairing: Ryland Grace x gn!Reader

(projected) wc: 6k+

(anticipated) cw: angst, hurt w/ minimal comfort, MAJOR film spoilers, needles, discussions of death, mentions of su!c!de mission

synopsis: now trapped on the aircraft carrier, you and ryland grapple with the unpredictability of the future and your places in it

a/n: apologies for teasing my taglist w/ this one, just really wanted to make it clear that i am NOT abandoning this baby. plus, y'all deserve a little treat for being so patient (so sorry for getting so busy ߹𖥦߹) i'm hoping to get the full thing out soon !!

taglist info: interested in being added to the taglist once the full fic is posted? please either comment on this post or message me !! a list of everyone will be added to the bottom of this post as well :3

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

“Have we ever talked about going on a cruise?”

It was late in the night, and you were both stuck awake by Ryland’s insistence on finishing perusing a report. Despite your quarters being tucked deep into the heart of the ship you could still hear the faint sounds of the waves slapping against its hull. Your head lay on your boyfriend’s chest, lazily reading along with the paper while squinting at the tiny letters. The lamp beside the stiff bed was switched on, set to the lowest setting for both your eyes’ comfort. His glasses sat low and crooked on his nose, chin tucked while he focused on finalizing his corrections before falling asleep. Seemingly focused—though clearly his mind was elsewhere if he was asking questions about hypothetical cruises.

“I feel like now would be a good time to start talking about it. Get a feel for it while we’re here. Maybe we can convince Stratt to wine and dine us a little for the real experience.”

With a scoff you shifted off of him and flopped onto your own side of the thin mattress. If anyone could make light out of being stuck on an aircraft carrier while simultaneously tasked with saving the world, it would be Ryland.

“Careful or she’ll make you walk the plank,” you mumbled, voice heavy with tiredness and muffled now that your back faced him.

You had been on the ship only a month now, but it had begun to feel like your entire world. Your time was split between trailing Ryland or hulled up in the quarters so as to keep out of people’s way. Ryland made it clear he preferred the former, though. It was as endearing as it was embarrassing how much of an effort he made to keep you included in the going ons of the ship. Obviously you couldn’t attend any meetings, but you’d spent enough long hours beside him in the ship’s lab to get the gist.

Your brows furrowed then as the tired haze cleared from your head and you were reminded of an upcoming engagement, turning to better project your voice in his direction.

“Don’t you have that demonstration tomorrow? With the astronauts?”

He nodded, clearing his throat in a sound of affirmation.

“Yeah. It’s a big deal. Been trying not to think about it,” you knew Ryland, though. And you knew that when he was ‘trying not to think about something’, he was actually only thinking about that thing.

“I think it’ll work. I mean, I hope it will. We’ve run the calculations over and over–if it doesn’t...”

“Ry–” you sighed, rubbing the heels of your palms into your eyes so that fuzzy constellations danced in the darks of their lids.

“It’s not just me, y’know? I’ve got this whole team now working ‘till their eyes are bloodshot. I’d be letting all of them down, it’s this pressure. And the more I work with it–the Astrophage–I just can’t wrap my head around the power these tiny things store. I mean, Stratt never really explicitly said why we were on this boat, but with the energy output, the risks–”

“Ryland,” you broke through his haze of tension finally, fingertips trailing the growing stubble at his chin, “It’ll be alright. I’ve seen how thorough you’ve all been. This will work out.”

His lips parted, ready to protest, but you’d propped yourself up enough now to use both hands to cup his cheeks. They felt gaudier than you remembered them.

“I’m serious. Stop worrying so we can both get some sleep.”

It took him a moment, his tired eyes searching yours, the pools of blue suddenly impossibly deeper with something unspoken. Something you couldn’t comprehend just yet. But then it dissipated, and he nodded slowly.

“...Will you stay in the room tomorrow? Until the demonstration is over,” he mumbled, setting the papers he’d been reviewing on the shelf near the side of the bed.

“Sure. Whatever you need.”

He watched you for a few moments longer as you shifted in a futile attempt to get comfortable. You could feel his eyes following your movements, the angles of you, the space you took up beside him.

He did turn off the light eventually, letting you slip the crooked glasses from his nose and plant a goodnight peck on his lips. You listened as his breathing evened out into that familiar hum of calm, your hand which rested atop his chest memorizing the steady rise and fall of it, the slow thump of his heart. 

You were half asleep yourself when you heard the stifled sniffles. 

You stayed silent as you felt the heat of his tears when he lifted your hand to press a soft kiss to the back of it; to your thumb, pointer, middle–his lips lingering at your ring finger.

hello internet i am here to assure you that part two to this fic is still in progress!! i got crazy busy but rough draft one is done and i’m feeling motivated. prepare yourselves.

pairing: Ryland Grace x gn!Reader

wc: 4.3k

cw: angst (sort of a build-up for part two...), non-sexual nudity, MAJOR film spoilers

a/n: after non-stop thinking about phm and how a reader could fit into it (while still following the main plot) i realized the only way was to make it angsty... sorry not sorry?? on a lighter note, feeling more confident with writing ryland's character now so hopefully it's fairly true to him ⁽ˊᵕˋ⁾

throwing out a little sorry as well because oh boy this ended up getting longer than i thought it would and i got busy... so it will be a two part-er (whoops). if y'all are interested, please comment or message me so i can add u to the tag list !!

It had seemed like a promotion of sorts. At first. 

When Ryland didn’t arrive in time for dinner one insignificant day, you hadn’t been worried. He had a habit of staying at work late to tutor his students, typically not this late, though. It was an hour later than he normally arrived and his plate had gone cold while the sun dipped low behind the coast, your texts going unanswered. As the streetlights flickered to life outside the apartment window, forcing you to turn the lamps in the main room on, your mind couldn’t help but slip into an anxious spiral. You spent the evening on the couch, waiting for his return while willing your eyes to remain open, some cheesy flick droning on the tv in the background. You must’ve drifted off at some point, though, jolted awake only by the sound of keys fumbling in the door.

You turned just in time to see Ryland lumber in, glasses skewed and limbs heavy. He set his bag down, kicking off his shoes while you rose from the couch. With a yawn you padded over to him, watching his expression shift to one of tired disquiet.

“Oh, jeez, hun,” he mumbled, brows furrowed in concern, “why aren’t you in bed?”

“Was waiting for you,” you shrugged, looping your arms around his middle while he planted a soft kiss at the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed against your hair, “something came up. It was a… weird day.”

You nodded, giving him a squeeze and pulling back.

“You can tell me about it over dinner. Someone at work made too much for the meeting and gave us some leftovers.”

He smiled, but it was an awkward thing, stuck between politeness and a frown.

“I’m–sorry, I just need a shower and bed… not all that hungry.”

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

Which is how you find yourself sitting on the tiled floor of the bathroom, leaned up against the counter as steam bled from behind the shower curtain. The two of you talked back and forth, his voice muffled slightly behind the translucent barrier.

“So she just… Walked into your classroom?" Your expression was one of deep focus as you attempted to follow Ryland’s recounting of his day. It certainly wasn’t what you’d expected—though you weren’t quite sure what to expect with him only finally making it home close to midnight.

“Yeah, she called it the “Petrova Task Force”. Then me and Carl got in this tinted car—” he paused, poking his head out to ensure you were still listening, “I’m gonna need a ride to work tomorrow, by the way—they made me leave my bike at the school.”

“Right, sure–who’s Carl?”

“Not important. He’s like this CIA agent or something, I don’t know. Anyway, they brought me to this huge lab, all these important government people from around the world were watching me through this glass–and Stratt just fails to mention that the room is filled with argon,” you sense he’s about to go on a tangent then, so you shut him up by tossing a towel at his head as he shuts off the faucet and steps out from behind the curtain.

“Sure, but you’re still alive, so clearly it was alright,” you watch him shrug as he begins to wipe off his misty face and soaked hair, trying to keep your mounting excitement at bay. He wasn’t in the best of moods, for reasons you were entirely unsure of though you anticipated you would learn about later. 

“Why did they want you again? I mean, no offense, obviously–but you’re a seventh grade science teacher right now. Not exactly…” you search for the right word, “glamorous?”

Ryland sighed then, loosely securing the towel about his waist as he slumps back against the counter beside you.

“It was that stupid paper.”

You knew the one.

“And so they brought you because this… cell is on the sun. And the sun doesn’t have water…” you began to understand this Stratt person’s thought process.

Ryland pushed off in a huff then, knocking over the cup which held both of your toothbrushes in the process as he trudged out of the steamy bathroom.

“Ry, this is great, right? They think it’ll prove your theory,” you scramble to your feet after him, just to get comfortable on the edge of the bed–the blankets still messy after never having been made up that morning. He rummaged through a drawer for boxers, letting the towel fall to the floor as he slipped into them.

“Great, yeah. Except for the fact that I got into it, the cell, and guess what? Almost entirely composed of hydrogen and oxygen.” He kept his back to you, but you could picture his face, scrunched and teary-eyed from frustration.

You were quiet as you scooted even closer, watching him with a frown.

“...It’s over, then?” Your voice was soft, cautious.

He pulled out a rolled pair of socks, eyes fixated on them as he just shook his head. He sat beside you on the bed, mattress dipping under his weight, as he bent to pull the fabric up over his feet. Your eyes followed the dips of his back, his protruding shoulder blades and the lean muscle which enveloped them. You could see the tension pulling them taut.

“I asked to keep helping.” He admitted with a sigh as he allowed himself to fall back against the comforter, you then repositioning so you would be lying beside him. His hands lay interlocked at his chest, their motion following the steady rise and fall of it.

“What does that mean, then?” you pressed quietly, shifting so your head rested against the angled slope of his shoulder, eyes fixed on the ceiling and the long shadows cast across it from the cracked blinds.

“More late nights,” Ryland quipped dryly, but at your nudge, he relented, “I don’t know for sure. It’s all so secret–I guess the fate of the planet has to be.” He turned his head so he faced you then. Fighting a lingering grimace, he pressed a small kiss to your forehead. 

“We’ll make it work,” you murmured as you returned his kiss, voice filled with a steady confidence that, even if only slightly, allowed for Ryland’s shoulders to relax.

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

You were heating up some dinner for (the once again, late) Ryland when you received the text. It was filled with errors, difficult to decipher, and only made understandable once he seemed to give up on getting his fingers to cooperate, deciding just to call you instead.

“Hello?” you mumbled, phone lodged between your ear and shoulder as you removed the tupperware of leftovers from the microwave.

“Hey–guess what,” Ryland sounded breathless even over the poor connection.

“What? What’s going on?” you set the food down on the counter, moving the phone to your other ear now as you turned your focus solely to the call. You’d be lying if you’d said his absence wasn’t worrisome, especially after the conversation you two had yesterday before bed. The entire day had been spent with you imagining every possible worst case scenario, your catastrophizing growing so intense that you opted to leave work early in hopes of getting some rest. Sleep which, of course, never came.

Ryland’s voice was choppy as you strained to understand what it was he was trying to articulate.

“Carl and I figured out how to breed the astrophage. Big news–probably not supposed to be telling you, but they haven’t killed me yet.”

“Oh my gosh, that’s incredible–that’s a big deal, right? Where are you now, are you on your way home?” you pressed, pacing alone in the quiet apartment.

“I’m on the way to the airport. The little one, not Sacramento.” If you listened closely, you could hear the sounds of a running car in the background of the call.

Your excitement quickly faded, the smile which had blessed your previously worried expression replaced by a frown that tugged stubbornly at the corners of your lips.

“What do you mean airport? Where are you going? Are they taking you somewhere?”

You could practically hear his shrug. He probably knew just as much as you.

“No clue, I’m assuming someplace to either replicate the process or… I’m not actually sure. No one’s telling me a thing, getting a little fed up with it.” Despite his mask of humor, you could hear the underlying unease in his tone. Your frown only grew.

Just before you could fit in another line of questioning, you overheard through the line someone telling him to hang up the phone. He did so just a few moments later after fitting in his hurried goodbyes, leaving you leaning against the kitchen counter with more questions than answers.

You sighed, glancing down to the now cold again leftovers at your hip. You made no move to put them back in the microwave.

Both plates went uneaten that night as you paced the apartment’s confines, throwing open the windows despite the dropping temperature to let in fresh air rather than breathing in the breaths you’d been recycling. It wasn’t his absence that was an issue—no, you and anyone else in your shoes would recognize how pivotal Ryland was in... whatever this was, and would have little complaint in his pursuit and further involvement in it. It was the unpredictability, rather, that snaked about your heart, trapping it in a vice grip that left your chest unbearably tight. It was the knowledge that, in this unpredictability, you knew only one thing.

Ryland would not be coming home tonight.

You wandered the rooms of the apartment like a caged animal, watching with idle fascination the way your lone shadow painted the walls. You’d begun flipping through papers mindlessly at the kitchen table which had become something more like a grading station for Ryland. Beside it were crates haphazardly labeled in a flurry of inspiration after you’d gifted him a label maker for the holidays (you’d grown tired of his complaining when it came to misplaced papers).

You lingered on the bin labeled “personal”, sitting isolated amongst a sea of student papers and, sympathizing with its lonesome position, sifted through it. It didn’t take long to find that dreaded paper which had led to this whole debacle, the controversial contents hidden away behind the hastily constructed cover. Ryland had wanted to get rid of it, confident of its existence as the last printed copy. You had wanted to preserve it for that exact reason. So, here it sat, buried under countless other of his scientific achievements, all glossed over for the sake of its burning presence. 

You wondered, then, as you paged through Ryland’s “greatest mistake” if it was, secretly, the reason he’d agreed. You’d known he was ambitious, even if it was lingering from a time before you’d known him. You knew that, for as much as he adored his kids, he would never really feel entirely fulfilled as a middle school teacher. Not when he’d gone through higher education being promised something greater. Something greater than this tiny apartment, his job, his riding a bike to and from the school, greater than this life. 

And the universe sent him his answer, his greater purpose. The “Petrova Task Force”.

Sleep refused to take you for a long while as you lay curled up in the shockingly vast bed, its expansiveness realized only in Ryland’s absence. With his smell swirling around your head you could shut your eyes and pretend he was there, that he would sneak out of bed come morning to start breakfast before he had to run off (late as always) to work, throwing hurried apologies and kisses your way. You supposed those were the thoughts that finally allowed sleep to fall over you, the fantasy of normalcy.

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

It was early when you were awoken by an insistent sort of knocking at the apartment’s door. Early enough that you didn’t need to check the clock or peek out the drawn curtains to tell.

You groaned, rolling blindly over in the bed to reach for Ryland—instinctively calling on him to deal with this disturbance rather than yourself. When your hand was met with the cold indifference of the space his bleeding warmth typically took up, though, you finally cracked open your eyes.

You stumbled out from under the covers and to your feet, forcing half-hearted apologies towards the door while tossing on a sweater (yours or Ryland’s, you weren’t quite sure at the moment) before finally emerging into the main room.

Cautiously, you peered out the peephole, tired features hardening at the sight of three men clad in dark suits. Their frames were sturdy, expressions professionally cold. 

In any other situation, you never would’ve opened that door. Especially without Ryland there. But things weren’t necessarily ordinary then, and against your better judgement, you turned the handle. The door held open in a cracked position, fastened by the security chain which you were yet to unlock.

The man standing closest to the entryway said nothing as you opened the door, instead checking the number printed across its exterior. His dark eyes returned to yours, and he nodded a curt greeting.

“This is Dr. Grace’s apartment?” his eyes bore onto you, and you frowned.

“Yes–” you cleared your throat, “yes this is our apartment.”

“Dr. Stratt has asked we collect you; per Dr. Grace’s request. We will be leaving for the flight in fifteen minutes, if you would like to get some of your things together.”

You stood frozen in the doorway.

“Flight?”

“We are with the Petrova Task Force, as is Dr. Grace. He and Dr. Stratt asked us to come get you and bring you to the base where he is stationed for the time being.”

His words were painfully straightforward, but you were still fumbling with the idea. 

“I don’t understand–I’m not a scientist like Ryland.”

The men exchanged a look then, something that might’ve been confusion if not for their persisting stoicism.

“Your title doesn’t matter, we were still instructed to–”

“–Get me, right, I get it,” you let out a nervous breath.

Reluctantly, you undid the small chain to open the door fully, ushering the men in. There was a stiffness born out of the inexperience you felt with the whole situation, your brain compensating by forcing some decorum.

“You all can make yourselves comfortable. Please don’t mind the mess, we weren’t really expecting… well, any of this.”

You stepped deeper into your home as the men filled out the doorway, all three remaining firmly planted despite your earlier encouragement. You held back a shiver at the tense air they filled the space with.

With a toothbrush in your mouth and a fire at your heels you flitted about you and Ryland’s apartment, filling the closest bag on hand with toiletries before entering the shared closet. You easily grabbed a few outfits for yourself, yet came to an impasse at your boyfriend’s wardrobe. You assumed such a high-stakes, every-government-in-the-world-is-involved sort of situation would call for more formal attire. Aside from a total of two button-ups, though, your options were limited. In fact, the majority of his clothes consisted of colorful cardigans and stupid graphic tees adorned with science puns. (You’d wonder later where he even got all of those.)

You’d long since given up by the time you just started piling clothes into the bag you’d grabbed, struggling to zip it shut once the other necessities were added. With a final once over of the space and a mental checklist while you put on your shoes, you determined that anything you’d potentially forgotten would be unnecessary anyway. 

Just as you’d been promised you were ushered out of the apartment, down the elevator, and into a heavily tinted car exactly fifteen minutes after the suited men’s arrival.

Once seated, the man in the passenger seat turned, handing you a dark, discrete looking phone–much different from your own which he asked for soon after. You watched as the photos of you and Ryland in the back of your phonecase–a reel taken in a photo booth at some friend’s wedding–was tucked in an interior pocket of the man’s suit. A pang went through your heart as the dumb face Ryland had been making in the picture vanished behind the thick fabric.

“Your level of clearance is minimal. Any information you come across will be of confidential nature. The phone you have been issued is protocol–consider it standard procedure.”

You just nodded dumbly along with the man’s words.

“I suggest you contact your and Dr. Grace’s employers and let them know you’ll both be out for a while,” the driver spoke up, watching you through the rearview mirror.

You did as told, dialing you and Ryland’s bosses and letting them know that you and him would be out for a week due to a “bad case of the flu”. The third man, who sat beside you, gave you a strange look at your lie. You offered a meek smile and a shrug.

The actual car ride was quick, though the hurried pacing of the ordeal could’ve been attributed to your nerves and the adrenaline which flooded your body to the point of dizziness. You watched the scenery outside the window melt from the rolling Californian landscape to the tarmac of the nearest airport to your town. 

It was a blur, you rushed out of the backseat and directed towards a small plane–one of those ones you’d seen fly over baseball games, you think. Or maybe you’d learned about it in school–a bomber of sorts. You’d nearly forgotten the bags you’d packed for Ryland and yourself as you were instructed to board. Glancing over your shoulder you relaxed upon seeing one of the men who had accompanied you taking care of them for you.

The flurry of activity didn’t end after boarding, though, as soon after another small group climbed into the plane, all of them speaking hurriedly in another language. Russian, you guessed–the theory later proven by the stout man who took the seat beside you who introduced himself as a Russian diplomat.

“You are a scientist?” he asked you, slipping on a headset and shifting in his seat so he faced you properly. Everyone seemed entirely unfazed while, as quickly as you’d all boarded, the plane took off.

“No, my partner is. I’m meeting him, uh… wherever it is we are going.” You felt your stomach lurch at the takeoff, the headset you’d been given doing little to relieve the pressure in your ears from the speed.

The diplomat nodded once, though there was a measured level of disdain in his eyes that spoke for him. “Are they just letting anyone on this base?”

“Who is your partner?” he pressed, though the question seemed more out of propriety than genuine interest.

“Ryland Grace. Or, Dr. Grace,” you explained with an awkward sort of smile, silently wallowing in the fact that there didn’t seem to be anything you could busy yourself with instead of attempting to maintain this conversation.

“Oh, Dr. Grace!” the Russian lit up then, pulling you from your thoughts, “we have heard many good things. We are bringing many scientists to work with him.”

You nodded, feeling the atmosphere of the aircraft warm a little at the revelation that your boyfriend, apparently, wasn’t a nobody. You felt the need to pinch yourself with how bizarre the whole experience had been.

The sun was high in the sky, nearing the curve of the earth by the time the plane reached it’s destination. You’d gathered from watching the window that the plane had taken off from California and flown straight across the pacific, landing on perhaps the largest ship you’d ever seen. An aircraft carrier, one of the suited men who had accompanied you on your flight, explained.

You stepped off, shaky as you reached “solid” ground, offering a small wave to the Russians who hurried off like they knew exactly what they were doing, they probably did. You reflected for a moment about their appearance then, all clad in dark clothes and scattering purposefully across the grand ship’s deck, resembling ants more than people. 

You were about to ask for guidance, clutching your bag like it was a lifeline, when you heard a familiar voice calling your name. Your heart controlled your limbs more than your brain in that moment, seeking out the sound you’d grown to attribute with comfort.

“Oh, gosh—hi! I’m so glad you actually came, I asked Carl to be as friendly as possible, I mean, I was freaked out when they first grabbed me, and I wanted your experience to be a little more… welcoming?” Ryland turned to the suited man beside you, “no offense, buddy, but you’re a little intimidating.”

Ryland stopped his blabbering suddenly, and he was wrapping you in his arms, squeezing you without giving you even a chance to reciprocate. He was pulling away, taking your bag for you, before you were even given the opportunity to raise your arms to hold him back.

“Ry—where are we? What is…” you trailed off, not really sure where to begin your questioning, opting to just blink wide-eyed at him.

“We’re on this boat for testing—this is where they’re doing all the ‘Hail Mary’ stuff,” he paused when he saw your brows furrow in confusion, “oh, shoot—pretend I didn’t say that. I think it’s classified. Uh, all the Petrova Line research stuff. It happens here.”

You nodded slowly, still soaking it all in.

“…And I should be here? Everyone keeps talking about confidentiality, they took my phone—“ you were spiraling just a bit. Ryland shook his head, raising his hands to cut you off, but both of you were pulled from the conversation by an accented voice.

“Dr. Grace had informed me he would refuse to work on the samples if you were not also on the ship,” you turned to see a woman clad in black, her eyes tired yet filled with a focus more intense than you had ever seen in another person.

“It’s, uh, rude to eavesdrop, Stratt,” Ryland attempted to interrupt, though it was clear his feeble attempt at humor would do little to stop her.

So this was Stratt.

“The fate of our sun and our planet is partially dependent on his performance. He was adamant, so I did not argue,” Stratt finished with a shrug, a tight lipped expression giving away little when it came to her thoughts on the matter.

“And that was a confidential conversation between the two of us,” Ryland muttered when her thought was concluded, his words pulling a small smile to your face.

“To answer your question,” Stratt turned her attention fully to you then, dismissing Ryland’s sputtering entirely, “you should not be here. But Dr. Grace insisted you would increase his productivity,”

“I really am sorry if this was any kind of disruption,” you began to apologize, in part for your even being here, but also for your boyfriend’s immature request.

“It was not an issue,” she frowned, brows furrowing towards the space between her eyes, “we had a bomber bringing in the Russians you saw and enough seats for you.”

You nodded as she offered a small sort of wave, her dark frame continuing across the ship to greet the aforementioned Russians. At her departure, you gave Ryland a stern look.

“‘Increase his productivity’, what does that even mean?” you attempted to ignore the pitiful little look on his face born from your displeasure, “I should not be here.”

“Okay, maybe not,” Ryland relented, “but it was important. You being here, I mean.”

Your expression didn't soften. He continued.

“I’ve never felt more out of my element. Everyone here knows what they’re doing and I’m just… I teach middle schoolers. And nothing against middle schoolers! I just don’t know the last time I was taken seriously. Academically, I mean,” he took a second to collect his thoughts, starting again once you finally looked a little more receptive.

“And I know it’s unfair to you. It’s probably the most unfair, selfish thing I’ve ever done to you. You have your own life. But this is… big. And I don’t know how I could function next to all of these crazy smart scientists without knowing you were still rooting for me in my corner.” While his words held weight, the exaggerated frown that tugged on his lips pulled a laugh from you. He smiled at the sound, leaning to place a few small kisses at the top of your head.

You swatted him away, shaking your head and feeling the very professional eyes of the people on the deck on the two of you.

“Alright, I get it. I’m not… mad. Just show me where I can drop these bags off, I need to sit down. Today’s been… a lot.”

As the two of you started for the interior part of the ship, you looked around and began to garner an understanding for what it was exactly Ryland was talking about. Across the deck, dozens of people hurried to and fro. All speaking different languages, with different accents, different faces… but each face held eyes with a fierce, steadfast determination like what you’d seen in Stratt, this focus that came from the weight of the world. Because this was the whole world—representatives, scientists, and delegates from every stretch of the globe, all working towards one unified mission. 

It would’ve been a comforting thought, everyone working together to save the planet, if you could recall the last time the entire world worked together.

This was serious. Maybe the gravest thing the world had ever faced. And Ryland–your dorky, middle school science teacher boyfriend–was the supposed missing piece of the puzzle. You took a sharp breath and followed him deeper into the ship.

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

creds: divider done by @strangergraphics !!

*NOTE! doesn't have to be the bands listed specifically, if u have better ideas pls comment :3

pairing: Ryland Grace x gn!Reader

(projected) wc: 5k+

(anticipated) cw: angst (</3), non-sexual nudity, MAJOR film spoilers

synopsis: you are ryland’s partner when the petrova line begins sending humanity into a spiral. looking for help in unlikely places, stratt seeks out ryland’s, and he just can’t refuse.

a/n: please ignore any errors throughout this, it’s only been lightly edited </3 also i've got a different (not angsty dw) phm fic posted here!! if u can't wait >:3

taglist info: interested in being added to the taglist once the full fic is posted? please either comment on this post or message me !! a list of everyone will be added to the bottom of this post as well :3

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

It had seemed like a promotion of sorts. At first. 

When Ryland didn’t arrive in time for dinner one insignificant day, you hadn’t been worried. He had a habit of staying at work late to tutor his students, typically not this late, though. It was an hour later than he normally arrived and his plate had gone cold while the sun dipped low behind the coast, your texts going unanswered. As the streetlights flickered to life outside the apartment window, forcing you to turn the lamps in the main room on, your mind couldn’t help but slip into an anxious spiral. You spent the evening on the couch, waiting for his return while willing your eyes to remain open, some cheesy flick droning on the tv in the background. You must’ve drifted off at some point, though, jolted awake only by the sound of keys fumbling in the door.

You turned just in time to see Ryland lumber in, glasses skewed and limbs heavy. He set his bag down, kicking off his shoes while you rose from the couch. With a yawn you padded over to him, watching his expression shift to one of tired disquiet.

“Oh, jeez, hun,” he mumbled at your sluggish form, brows furrowed in concern, “why aren’t you in bed?”

“Was waiting for you,” you shrugged, looping your arms around his middle while he planted a soft kiss at the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed against your hair, “something came up. It was a… weird day.”

You nodded, giving him a squeeze and pulling back.

“You can tell me about it over dinner. Someone at work made too much for the meeting and gave us some leftovers.”

He smiled, but it was an awkward thing, stuck between politeness and a frown.

“I’m–sorry, I just need a shower and bed… not all that hungry.”

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

Which is how you find yourself sitting on the tiled floor of the bathroom, leaned up against the counter as steam bled from behind the shower curtain. The two of you talked back and forth, his voice muffled slightly behind the translucent barrier.

“So she just… Walked into your classroom?” your expression was one of deep focus as you attempted to follow Ryland’s recounting of his day. It certainly wasn’t what you’d expected—though you weren’t quite sure what to expect with him only finally making it home close to midnight.

“Yeah, then me and Carl got in this tinted car—” he paused, poking his head out to ensure you were still listening, “I’m gonna need a ride to work tomorrow, by the way—they made me leave my bike at the school.”

“Right, sure–who’s Carl?”

“Not important. He’s like this CIA agent or something, I don’t know. Anyway, they brought me to this huge lab, all these important government people from around the world were watching me through this glass–and Stratt just fails to mention that the room is filled with argon,” you sense he’s about to go on a tangent then, so you shut him up by tossing a towel at his head as he shuts off the faucet and steps out from behind the curtain.

“Sure, but you’re still alive, so clearly it was alright,” you watch him shrug as he begins to wipe off his misty face and soaked hair, “why did they want you again? I mean, no offense, obviously–but you’re a seventh grade science teacher right now. Not exactly…” you search for the right word, “glamorous?”

Ryland sighed then, loosely securing the towel about his waist as he slumps back against the counter beside you.

“It was that stupid paper.”

You knew the one.

“And so they brought you because this… cell is on the sun. And the sun doesn’t have water…” you began to understand this Stratt person’s thought process.

Ryland pushed off in a huff then, knocking over the cup which held both of your toothbrushes in the process as he trudged out of the steamy bathroom.

“Ry, this is great, right? They think it’ll prove your theory,” you scramble to your feet after him, just to get comfortable on the edge of the bed–the blankets still messy after never having been made up that morning. He rummaged through a drawer for boxers, letting the towel fall to the floor as he slipped into them.

“Great, yeah. Except for the fact that I got into it, the cell, and guess what? Almost entirely composed of hydrogen and oxygen.” He kept his back to you, but you could picture his face, scrunched and teary-eyed from frustration.

You were quiet as you scooted even closer, watching him with a frown.

“...It’s over, then?” Your voice was soft, cautious.

He pulled out a rolled pair of socks, eyes fixated on them as he just shook his head. He sat beside you on the bed, mattress dipping under his weight, as he bent to pull the fabric up over his feet. Your eyes followed the dips of his back, his protruding shoulder blades and the lean muscle which enveloped them. You could see the tension pulling them taut.

“I asked to keep helping,” he admitted with a sigh as he allowed himself to fall back against the comforter, you then repositioning so you would be lying beside him. His hands lay interlocked at his chest, their motion following the steady rise and fall of it.

“What does that mean, then?” you pressed quietly, shifting so your head rested against the angled slope of his shoulder, eyes fixed on the ceiling and the long shadows cast across it from the cracked blinds.

“More late nights,” Ryland quipped dryly, but at your nudge, he relented, “I don’t know for sure. It’s all so secret–I guess the fate of the planet has to be.” He turned his head so he faced you then. Fighting a lingering grimace, he pressed a small kiss to your forehead. 

“We’ll make it work,” you murmured as you returned his kiss, voice filled with a steady confidence that, even if only slightly, allowed for Ryland’s shoulders to relax.

⋅•⋅∘ ☆

pairing: Ryland Grace x fem!Reader

wc: 2.1k

cw: none !! all fluff :3 (y'all eat ice cream, so warning to any lactose intolerant folks reading this?? </3)

a/n: hello hello hello i actually have not been able to stop thinking ab this movie since i saw it the first time. and the second time. and the third time. anywho trust i will be reading the book the second i get the chance ( • ̀ω•́ ) lmk if y'all would be interested in seeing some more phm stuff !!

Ryland Grace didn’t exactly have the most practice when it came to dates.

Sure, he’d gone on them in the past–had a girlfriend for a while and everything. But as he got more serious with his teaching career those oh so sacred weekends were filled with paper grading marathons rather than escaping the seclusion of his tiny midtown apartment. 

He thought he hid it well, but it had become rather obvious to his coworkers that they were his sole social circle. So, it was only time before some of them started to play matchmaker. 

Ryland had sworn up and down that he wasn’t interested in diving back in the dating pool, that he was too busy nowadays anyway. But his coworkers were relentless–particularly the sixth grade science teacher, Holly. He thought she would’ve made an incredible car salesman or something with this persuasive wizardry of hers, swaying him with promises of a love-filled future. Really, her blatant coercion was the only thing that had him agreeing to a date. A blind one, on top of that.

Which is where he found himself now, fifteen minutes early to the whole nerve-wracking affair. His wool cardigan was fresh from the cleaners and a bouquet of daisies were clutched in a death grip atop the intimately small table he waited at.

He really thought he was a stronger man–that he could turn down this lunch date with Holly’s mystery woman. But maybe the years of self-imposed isolation had worn him down more than he thought. All he knows is he’s feeling very grateful he’d gone with the cardigan, because he was pretty sure he’d already anxiously sweat through his undershirt. He was actually in the middle of considering the logistics of finding some new shirt, maybe switching in the bathroom with some selfless stranger like he was in a sitcom, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Um… Sorry, are you Ryland?”

He shot to his feet at his name, quick to show some sort of propriety while shoving his now-skewed glasses up into place on his nose with his free hand. The woman before him–his date, he correctly assumed–was watching the bouquet clutched in the other. He tentatively held it out.

“And you’ve got to be Holly’s friend. Uh, I hope you don’t mind daisies, they're the only ones that weren’t… wilted…” he trailed off awkwardly, frowning as you just eyed the haphazard arrangement for a long moment. 

“Sorry, are flowers a bit much for a first date?”

When a smile finally graced your lips, though, he let out a breath of relief which visibly relaxed his tense shoulders. With a tentative hand, he passed the bouquet on to you, taking care so that the better looking side would be facing yourself.

“No, they’re great,” you grinned earnestly up at him after inspecting the delicate white petals, “I just can’t even think of the last time a guy bought me flowers. Let alone the first time we went out.” 

You paused before adding a quick “thank you”.

“Oh, good–I was starting to worry it was weird. I don’t really do… this,” he motioned to the café table beside the two of them, “all that often. It’s actually been… a while since I last did this kind of thing.”

As he struggled through his explanation you both took your seats, you setting down the small bouquet and your bag so they sat on the floor beside you. Ryland mentally cursed himself for not pulling out your chair for you.

“Me neither,” you admitted with a shrug, “I guess we’re both in some uncharted territory then, huh?”

Ryland glanced up from where he’d been settling, eyes large behind his glasses.

“Oh, yeah. Definitely. I mean, with how Holly sort of proposed this whole thing, I was surprised you agreed to it,” he explained, taking a sip of the water the waiter had come by and poured while he’d been early, the action a hopeless attempt to soothe his nerves.

“You’re surprised I agreed?” you started, Ryland’s brows furrowing, “I’m shocked you even showed up. Holly had you played as some total recluse.”

He frowned, a sort of exaggerated look that pulled a laugh from you—the kind of sound that Ryland wouldn’t mind hearing some more that afternoon.

“Me? Recluse? Hey–I’ve been known to leave my apartment. I mean, look at me now,” he was gesturing theatrically now, waving at himself (clearly not in his apartment!). You snorted.

Before the conversation could progress any further, the waiter regrettably stopped at the table for drink requests, offering you both more time with the menu. In reality, Ryland had preemptively looked up the restaurant’s options a week ago, when he’d learned of the date spot. He saw to it that he was discrete about that fact, though, making a show of perusing the menu before him.

You two talked over drinks and, after finally ordering, lunch. The conversation flowed easily, a surprising feat for two strangers. Ryland actually found difficulty taking more than a couple bites of his meal between your endless questions about his job, his hobbies, his life. There was something charmingly fascinating about the man–this PhD wielding, respected molecular biologist turned beloved middle school science teacher. Holly had rattled on endlessly about how much the kids adored him in her attempts to persuade you into agreeing to see him (“just once!”). 

He was approachable, above all this. A warmth that bled not just from his colorful sweater or crooked glasses, but in an easiness that sat in the very air surrounding him. In the way he took in every question you threw his way as if it was the most important question he’d ever been asked.

“So.” Ryland began rather suddenly—clearly whatever he was going to say had been running through his mind for a while, “what’s the weirdest fact you know.”

You paused, considering the startling question.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you mumbled, brows furrowing in thought. You weren’t necessarily lying, you couldn’t really come up with one on the spot. But your reluctance to answer was partially in fear of saying something “too weird” while you were still getting a feel for the man across the table from you.

“I wasn’t really prepared. I’m not sure.” Another pause, “I’m sure you’ve got one, though.”

Ryland grinned then, and you knew you’d hit gold.

“Of course I do–part of asking this question was actually the hope that you’d ask me the same,” he quipped. 

You smiled, resting your chin in your palm as you waited for him to continue. 

“Go on, then. I better be amazed.”

“Alright, alright,” he repositioned in his chair, fixing his glasses and clearing his throat for effect, “Did you know, humans are crazy sensitive to the smell of rain. Like, more than sharks are to blood.”

Your smile only grew. Maybe it wasn’t the most mind-blowing fact on the planet, but he was clearly so knowledgeable when it came to these biological oddities that you couldn’t help but be invested.

“We can smell this chemical compound, it's called geosmin–it’s the thing that’s released when rain hits the ground. I can’t remember the exact numbers, but it’s something like humans can detect rain a hundred thousand times better than sharks can detect blood in water.”

At his conclusion, you pondered the tidbit he’d offered you. 

“You originally asked for my weirdest fact. I was expecting something weird from you. Smelling rain–that’s just evolution being cool,” you teased finally, picking idly at your meal. Clearly, you were much more interested in this discussion than whatever was on your plate.

“Alright, alright,” Ryland relented, leaning back in his seat, “bats’ nipples are basically in their armpits. So they can feed their kids when they fly. How’s that?”

“Much better.” You relaxed in your chair as well, pleased with his trivia.

It wasn’t just him blabbering on, though–come dessert, he was beginning to fit in a good number of queries directed at yourself. He asked about your career, your schooling, the music you listened to and the books you read. The two of you relished in bouncing favorite movies back and forth for a long while—at least until Ryland discovered a discrepancy. At your meek admission of having not seen a particular favorite of his, a teasing sort of grin played at his lips. So as to not belittle you, though, he ran a hand over the stubble at his chin in an attempt to hide it.

“I’ve been meaning to get around to seeing it,” you sighed, “I even had tickets to see it with a friend—something came up with work…”

Ryland shook his head hurriedly, waving his hand in a reassuring gesture while he swallowed the bite of pie he’d snuck in while you were talking.

“No, really it’s alright. I mean, I’m surprised we’ve been able to go movie for movie as long as we did,” there was a genuine sort of patience to him, one that allowed you to relax slightly—not feeling less than or demoralized for not being as media-savvy as he was in that particular instance.

“Besides, it just means I’ll get to be the one to show it to you. It’s an honor, y’know.” 

You hid a bashful smile at that, pursing your lips in an attempt to school your grin before you teased him in return.

“Sounds to me like you’re asking for a second date.”

He frowned, hoping to conceal the heat which rushed through him at your words. At his tensed expression you worried for a moment that you’d overstepped in being so forward. Funnily enough, Ryland was fretting over the same exact thing. 

“I mean,” he began, letting out a soft ahem and shifting in his seat, “I would. If you’d say yes.” 

The conversation had settled into a comfortable rhythm, Ryland contributing between pokes at his (rather disappointing) slice of pie, but letting you do most of the talking. He couldn’t help but find himself absolutely marveled by this woman sitting across from him, opting to stop his chatter in favor of soaking you in. With his cheek resting in his palm, his eyes never once dared to wander from where they were trained on your expressions. There were a thousand things he was enamored by, a stream of idiosyncrasies slowly being revealed to him. He couldn’t bear the thought of the waiter coming back around with the check, lest it interrupt your flow of conversation. He hadn’t known you for long–not long at all–but Ryland was already entirely sure he would take whatever time you were willing to offer him if it meant he could get even one more glimpse into your mind.

You didn’t even have to be remarkably talented or intelligent. You could pass yourself off as the most insignificant person on the planet and he would still be entirely fascinated by every aspect of your being.

When the check finally did come, pulling a subtle frown to Ryland’s face, he couldn’t help but try and drag on the date just a little longer.

“Dessert was…” he started, watching as you initiated the dreaded payment standoff. He pushed your card back towards you in a silent attempt to convince you to allow him to pay for the meal. (On a teacher’s salary? Ha. You nudged your card closer again).

“Bad?” you finished, arching a brow.

“Yeah, something like that,” he chuckled–that warm sound that had begun to elicit a pleasant fluttering in your chest over the progression of the afternoon, “could I treat you to something? Ice cream? I know this great place just a few blocks away.”

You paused at that, glancing out the restaurant’s front window to the cool, foggy Californian weather waiting for you outside. 

“It’s sixty degrees,” you countered, but Ryland shrugged and smiled, standing with his rain jacket draped over his arm and hands shoved in his pockets once the waiter had finished up your payment and your cards were returned. 

“So? I could go for ice cream anytime.”

And so he won you over–you assumed he would grow to have a habit of doing that. And as you grabbed your bag and his bouquet and he fixed his glasses for the umpteenth time that day, you began to realize you wouldn’t mind it. Him convincing you to get ice cream, to watch that movie he revered–hell, to go over to his apartment and just sit and talk while he graded his students’ papers. And as he held the door for you on your way out, and your finger subtly brushed one of his, the look on his face told you he would like the exact same thing.

⋅•⋅∘ ☆