valeries midnight escapees

"And, uh..." Ryland stepped just an inch closer, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes, his voice dropping to a breathless, intimate murmur. "I hear you think I'm indispensable."

Your eyes warm as you take in his words, dropping down to his lips , unable to stop yourself from copying him. You draw in a deep breath, your chest filling with warmth and pouring out into your veins, a soft smile appearing on your lips.

"I don't think that. I know it," you confirmed, followed by a soft tilt of your head, suddenly shy about the confession.

Ryland's eyes grow wide and the nervous twitch in his hands becomes disjointed, causing him to suffocate the juice boxes in his hands. The boxes deflate with a cardboard crinkle as a steady stream of juice jets out, spraying to the edges of his hair, shaking them into sticky ringlets.

A shocked gasp escapes your lips, bouncing off the walls like the scrape of a shovel against concrete. Immediately, with a sharp slap, you lower your clipboard onto the closest available surface, searching for the nearest dry aid. Unable to find one and the juice steadily leaking, you pull insistently at the sleeve of your lab coat and gently press a part of the fabric to the running liquid and attempt to wipe down the drops dripping off of Ryland's face.

His eyes track your movement, at first frozen in place, and his cheeks are flushed an endearing pink. But the sudden feeling of the fabric forces him to look down at where your palm is wiping down his cheek. The movement of the quick flick of your wrist to a cleaner side of your sleeve and the slow, accidental wipe of your warm fingers against his jaw, attempting to catch the falling amber beads before they fall onto his clothing, lock his deep blue eyes with yours as you slow down your cleaning from the heart-stopping eye contact. His blue eyes had completely vanished, replaced by an intense, raw sincerity that made your breath catch in your throat. A shaky breath leaves his lips; with your hand still on his jaw, he breathes his confession, pouring out of him like a river. The frantic, fast-talking junior high teacher dissolved, leaving only the man who was carrying the literal weight of human survival on his shoulders.

"Thank you," Ryland murmured, his voice dropping to a low, breathless register that seemed to echo intimately in the quiet greenhouse. "I... I wanted to say thank you. And not just for getting Tom stripped of his clearance."

His soft voice trips your heart for a beat and then another as he applies more pressure to the protesting cardboard, taking another step into your personal space. Instantly, that familiar, enveloping warmth radiated off his body, washing over you like a physical balm and cutting straight through the damp chill of the room. You could swear the small seedlings in the laboratory pulled into your shared space like sunflowers worshipping the sun.

"When I'm out there in the main labs, or trapped in those endless, suffocating budget meetings, everything feels like an extinction-level ticking clock," Ryland said softly, his eyes locking onto yours with a vulnerability that laid him completely bare. "It's loud, it's terrifying, and most days I feel like I'm completely out of my depth. But then I look across the room, or I come back to your office, and... you're there. You listen. You make it normal. Standing up to Tom, leaving the coffee—it wasn't just me trying to be a good colleague, Y/N."

He stopped just inches from you, his chest heaving with a quiet emotion. "You are the only thing keeping me sane in this concrete apocalypse. You're my anchor. More than you know."

The air between you grew thick, charged, and impossibly close. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the steady rhythm of your heart fluttering dangerously against your ribs. Ryland's gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes, a silent, unsaid question burning in his stare.

Slowly, deliberately, Ryland reached out. Your breathing skips a breath as he moves, then escapes in a gasp of air as he puts down the empty, crushed juice boxes. His fingers brushed against yours, a jolt of intense, comforting heat flaring from his skin that sent an electric flush straight up your neck, exactly like it had in the lab weeks ago. But this time, he didn't pull away. He slid his hand into yours, closing the distance entirely as he stepped into your space.

When his lips finally met yours, the rest of the dying world simply ceased to exist.

It was a quiet, breathless kiss, soft and desperately deep, hinting of apples, sealing an unspoken promise amidst the rows of green seedlings. His hand moved to the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, his touch radiating a fierce, protective warmth that grounded your shaking hands. His other hand made its way comfortably around your waist, pulling you into him like an anchoring root of an ancient oak tree. Your pounding chest met his, two drums of life beating for each other. Your hands moved to entwine themselves in his hair, pulling him closer than ever. The desire to melt into his warmth like ice does in the sun was overtaken by the overwhelming feeling of fondness. Ryland made a soft groan in response to you drinking in his warmth; it was just under his breath, but it made everything that much more intense. In the middle of a subsurface bunker built for the end of days, you found a definitive, unshakeable beginning.

When he finally pulled back, just enough for his forehead to rest gently against yours, his breath hitched. A soft, breathless laugh left his lips, though his grip on your waist remained fierce and unyielding.

"We can't let her find out," you whispered against his skin, reality gently crashing back into the warmth of the moment. Ryland squeezed his eyes shut, nodding slowly as the terrifying image of Commander Stratt flashed in both of your minds.

"Stratt," he agreed, his voice a low, private murmur, warm like honey flowing into your ears. "Yeah. If she thinks for a second that I'm distracted, or that you're a 'structural liability' to my focus, she'll have one of us reassigned to a filtration plant in North Dakota before sunrise."

"Or worse," you murmured, looking up into his clear blue eyes. "She values your brain too much to let anything compromise it. If she sees this as a distraction to the mission, she will eliminate the variable. We have to keep this entirely in the dark."

Ryland looked down at you, his thumb tracing a comforting circle on your hip, his eyes full of an unshakeable, fierce dedication.

"Then we stay in the dark," he promised softly, treating the pact like an absolute, fundamental law of physics. "No notes. No public displays. Just us, behind closed doors, when the cameras are off." He leaned down, pressing one more soft, lingering kiss to your lips—a secret vow shared in the humid silence, completely unaware that the world outside was already turning its heavy, catastrophic wheels toward your ending.

The rhythmic, low-frequency hum of the subterranean bunker's ventilation system was a constant reminder of the concrete ceiling keeping the apocalypse at bay. But inside the cramped perimeter of your office, the sanctuary felt entirely detached from the ticking clock of the human race.

Ryland was fast asleep beside you on the narrow, government-issued canvas cot, his frame curled tightly to fit the small mattress. His face was relaxed, stripped of the grueling exhaustion that usually claimed his features by nightfall, and his head was buried deeply in the crook of your shoulder. One of his heavy arms was draped possessively over your waist, anchoring you to him. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, his radiating, clean warmth bloomed against your skin—a sensory anchor that had effortlessly become your entire universe while the world above froze and died under a dimming sun.

Absently, your fingers traced the soft, tousled strands of his honey-blond hair, with every soft swipe, a soft waft of the mint soap you all used emanating from it. Somehow he made the usual, cold and sterile smell soften closer to mint ice cream. Your mind drifted back over the blur of the last few months.

Everything had fractured and reformed the day Dr. Tom was permanently stripped of his clearance and escorted from the facility. For the first few weeks, Section 4 had stalled under the weight of a chaotic leadership vacuum as the remaining staff struggled to recalibrate the fuel-injection projects without a lead engineer. Seeing the project falter, Eva Stratt had stepped in with her usual, ruthless efficiency, abruptly promoting Ryland to second-in-charge of Project Hail Mary.

The promotion changed everything. Publicly, Ryland could no longer afford to be the hyperactive, unvetted junior high school teacher in a bright yellow rain jacket. To command respect from the hardened, cynical senior staff during high-level payload reviews, he had been forced to adopt a rigid, composed, and authoritative professional persona, brows constantly furrowed and shoulders tense. Gone was his usual ruffled bird's nest of hair, replaced with a presentable and respectable haircut. You had sat through grueling cross-departmental briefings, watching him stand at the mahogany tables with a stiff, unyielding posture, delivering complex payload logistics with a cold, precise confidence that made him look like a stranger. Your heart clenched, a pressing pain against your ribs as expressions you hated on him came over his face: tiredness, hopelessness, and most of all, exhaustion.

But the true agony was the double life it forced you to lead. Because the underground network of female scientists still believed Ryland was just an accidental hero harboring a massive, helpless crush, you were forced to actively play along with their relentless teasing. Just three days ago, Amy, Jen, and Sarah had cornered you by the break room counter, giggling as they pointed out how Ryland's rigid composure seemed to falter slightly whenever you entered the telemetry lab.

"He's practically melting into his shoes, Y/N," Jen had whispered with a knowing, sly smile. "The poor guy is second-in-charge of human survival, and he still looks like a lovesick schoolboy when you pass him a tablet."

You had forced a light, dismissive laugh, rolling your eyes with practiced ease while your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You had to swallow down the terrifying urge to look away, utterly petrified that they would notice the slight flush on your neck, or read the subtle signs of a profound, secret commitment written in the way your eyes lingered on him for a fraction of a second too long. You had to hide the fact that you weren't just colleagues saving humanity anymore; you were two people desperately trying to save each other.

A soft, congested murmur broke the quiet, pulling you from your thoughts.

Ryland shifted against your shoulder, his nose nuzzling tighter into the fabric of your shirt as his eyes blinked open. The moment his blurry blue gaze found yours, the stark, unbending gravity of the second-in-command completely dissolved. The stiff professionalism he wore like armor out in the corridors evaporated into the shadows of the room, leaving only the boyish, goofy man who had fallen hopelessly in love with you in a secondary greenhouse.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice thick and raspy from sleep.

"Hey," you murmured back, your hand moving down to cup his jaw. "You're supposed to be asleep. You have the UN oversight committee reviewing the fuel matrix at zero-six-hundred."

Ryland groaned dramatically, burying his face back into your neck for a brief, whining second before rolling onto his back, pulling you with him so that you rested against his chest. "Don't remind me. If I have to stand in front of those generals one more time and pretend I care about their geopolitical logistics instead of the actual math, my brain is going to short-circuit."

He looped his arms around you, drawing you impossibly close until you could feel the steady, comforting thud of his heart beneath your cheek. Even in his exhaustion, his proximity felt like a protective hearth, a localized shield against the apocalypse raging beyond the concrete walls.

"You were brilliant today during the payload review," you teased softly, tracing a circle over his chest. "Very stern. Very authoritative. Jen told me you looked genuinely terrifying when you shut down the structural team's complaints."

Ryland let out a suppressed, breathless giggle, his chest vibrating beneath you.

"Terrifying? Me? I was literally panicking the entire time that I had a smudge of dry-erase marker on my nose. I kept trying to catch my reflection in the glass table." He tilted his head down, a dimpled, boyish grin breaking across his face as he bumped his forehead affectionately against yours. "Did I look cool? Please tell me I looked at least a little bit cool." He continued to nuzzle his temple into the side of your hair, nearly purring like a kitten at the impending compliment.

"The coolest," you whispered, smiling as you leaned up to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.

He melted into the touch, his grip tightening around your waist as he held you there, stretching the quiet moment out as if he could physically halt the ticking clock of the mission. It was in these silent, stolen fragments of the night that the pressure eased. You shared the exhausting late-night shifts together, mapping out the nitrogen-buffer systems while the rest of the base slept, punctuated by the unyielding routine of Ryland secretly leaving a steaming, homemade cup of premium coffee on your desk every morning without a note—a silent, comforting baseline of normalcy in a world gone mad.

Ryland exhaled a long, content sigh, his fingers tangling in yours as he pulled your hand up to press a warm kiss to your knuckles.

"Whatever happens out there," he murmured into the dim safety of your office, his blue eyes searching yours with a quiet, fierce intensity that made your chest ache. "Whatever Stratt throws at us tomorrow... we have this. Just us, behind closed doors."

"Just us," you whispered back, burying your face into his shoulder, allowing his radiating warmth to completely envelop you. You held onto him tightly, utterly oblivious to the fact that out in the sterile light of the command deck the time left for your hidden universe was rapidly running out.

The quiet sanctuary of the secondary greenhouse lab felt entirely detached from the rest of the facility. You were standing near a rack of newly sprouted seedlings, hands tending to them, laughing softly as Ryland recounted an absurd interaction he'd had with an international logistics officer earlier that morning. His hands were moving animatedly, his boyish, dimpled grin completely displacing the stern, authoritative second-in-command mask he was forced to wear during the day. He leaned in close, his radiating, familiar warmth enveloping you as he dropped his voice to whisper the punchline, making you giggle and bump shoulders with him at the ridiculous joke. For a fleeting moment, the weight of the dying world vanished.

Then, the sharp, demanding chime of his government-issued pager cut through the humid air. Ryland blinked, the laughter dying on his lips as he pulled the device from his lab coat pocket. He stared at the glowing text on the tiny screen, letting out a heavy, defeated sigh.

"It's Stratt," he muttered, running a hand through his honey-blond hair. "She wants me up on the surface immediately. Something about an urgent arrival at the landing pad."

"Go," you whispered, offering him a reassuring smile, though the sudden chill of reality pricked at your skin. "Don't keep her waiting."

He nodded, but before he stepped toward the sliding glass doors, he leaned down and pressed a fast, desperate kiss to your lips—a breathless promise hidden safely in the dark. Your gloved hands reached to his tousled hair before stopping short; the dirt would be a sure giveaway.

"Ry, your hair."

"I'll find you tonight," he murmured, smoothing it over with practiced precision. You watched him leave, nodding in confirmation as he shot you a questioning glance about the state of his hair, completely unaware that it would be the last time you would ever touch him without a barrier between you.

Ryland rode the central elevator up to the surface, stepping out into the biting, stark cold of the outside world. He found Eva Stratt standing near the edge of the concrete facility, her eyes fixed on the horizon as a transport vehicle approached. But before a single word could be exchanged between them, the ground beneath their feet violently shuddered.

A deep, localized thunder roared from the subterranean depths of the base. Behind them, a massive plume of black smoke and pressurized fire erupted from the primary biology cleanroom's ventilation shafts, shattering thick concrete structures and throwing a shockwave across the surface. An Astrophage enrichment test had gone catastrophic.

Ryland stumbled, his face turning entirely ashen as he stared at the destruction. His mind didn't catalog the catastrophic loss of equipment or data; his heart violently seized with a singular, paralyzing terror: You.

He spun on his heel, his professional mask entirely shattering as he sprinted back toward the smoke-choked elevators, screaming your name into the freezing air. He almost ran right into the crater left by the explosion. He catches his footing at the last minute and turns on his heel, running around the perimeter of the deadly circle, poisoning his mind with plagued thoughts. Through the murky, polluted air, a flash of light catches his eyes: the secondary greenhouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows shattered in complex webs of glass, trying their hardest to keep together—their only purpose in this scenario. But he cannot see through the now opaque glass; there are only dark shadows.

He becomes vaguely aware of the blaring sirens of firetrucks stationed exactly for these types of disasters. As he approaches the source of the pollution, he watches in trepid anticipation as the first responders in harnesses smash through the shattered glass, lowering down, looking for survivors.

One of their hands reaches impossibly far, offering help to stand to a shaking figure hidden behind a dented steel cabinet. It's you.

You were safe, blocks away in the secondary greenhouse, shielded by reinforced blast doors. Ryland approaches with a slowed jog, his chest heaving at the pinching pain in his ribs, as he attempts to catch his breath from the air of relief choking his lungs as he takes in your form. Stop. He needs to stay professional. Everyone is looking. Attention is heightened. Nothing will be missed.

His desperate eyes, now an icy blue in fear, catch your eyes as you are escorted out of the shards of the makeshift exit, dug through by the hardworking hands of the responders. He follows in hurried steps to one of the many ambulances waiting on the perimeter of the crater.

His eyes track every movement of the paramedics as they attend to you, darting wildly around to all of the medical supplies they are pulling out. White flashes of bandages force skips in his heartbeat; an EKG machine drains the hot blood from his cheeks and lips. Needles and scissors fill his veins with a freezing chill. He forces himself to plant his feet among the mixed shards of the wreck, awaiting the opportunity when he can get a moment with you. He scans your state. Your lab coat is coated and grayed from the waves of ashes you pushed through on your way to the ambulance. Sprays of dirt color your sleeves and there are remnants of it in your hair. Your chest is heaving with effort and such force that the crumbles of dirt are exhaled out of your hair. Your lungs are begging to get a full breath of fresh air; a red twinge appears on your face as you fail to get one. One of the medics pushes an oxygen mask into your hand, instructing you to put it up to your face.

You insist you are fine, begging the medics to aid those who need it more. Shallow breaths, echoing rattles of the breaths you normally take, are all you are able to manage while inhaling the crisp oxygen in quick puffs as its clearness overpowers your weakened lungs.

"Please, I am okay. Help the others. Please," your voice is light, like smoke, barely there, straining your throat but still firm and determined. Muffled against the mask, your voice steadies him, and his breathing syncs with your quiet pants as you lock eyes. As long as Ryland breathes at the pace you breathe, he can convince himself that you are alive and he can fervently deny that he is just on the edge of hyperventilating.

"Dr. Grace, keep an eye on her. Let us know if anything changes" is all he catches as the room in the back of the van clears out, the medics backing out to run to the many yells of their colleagues. His eyes zero in on you and there is a moment of pause as your eye contact deepens. It only intensifies when he doesn't break it as he climbs into the back and pulls the doors shut behind him.

His tall figure shadows you for a split moment before his warmth falls over you as he wraps his arms around you in animalistic desperation. You return the hug with just as much fervor.

"I'm alive, I'm okay," you manage to whisper out, words distorted by the flow of hissing air coming out of the mask. His body starts to tremor as he hears your voice once more. Ryland pulls back to look into your eyes. You lift your eyes to join his, but he sees them snap to the side, looking past him and giving him a firm shove back as your eyes widen. He stumbles into the seat on the wall, his eyes painted in hurt confusion. The ache in your throat is searing; you can feel it scrape the soft tissue in your throat raw.

"The logs and data are safe." Tears well in his eyes at the recognition of your actions. You are trying to keep him safe.

Eva Stratt swings open the door without warning. She spares you a quick glance, the crinkles around her eyes smoothing out as she confirms your state.

"Dr. Grace, with me. Now." She pushes the door back further once she has confirmed you are in an unembarrassed state. Your ears register the thick, choking emotion consuming him.

"Thank you for keeping the data safe; we will have someone retrieve it." Tears well in your own eyes as a guilty shiver of panic pierces his already worried eyes.

Ryland can barely spare you another panicked flit of his eyes before he forces himself out, following Stratt, who did not wait for him to join, confident he is trailing behind her.

Stratt is barking something at the others they pass, but it takes several moments of mumbled buzzing before they become clear words.

The primary science crew was completely gone.

In the hours that followed the disaster, the atmosphere within the bunker shifted from exhausting to utterly suffocating. Because Ryland was now the only human being left alive on Earth who fully understood the cellular division of the organism, the algae math, and the fuel matrices, Stratt officially locked the mission leaders. He was designated as the sole remaining lead specialist for the Hail Mary suicide mission.

The promotion to the top tier of the mission devoured every second of his time. The domesticity of sleeping curled up on your office cot vanished entirely. He was constantly surrounded by UN officials, military generals, and Stratt herself, moving through the concrete corridors like a ghost condemned to death.

Your secret romance was pushed to the absolute brink, surviving only on starvation rations.

You were forced to sit across from him in high-level payload reviews, watching him adopt a rigid, unyielding, and chillingly composed authoritative persona to command respect from a room full of grieving senior staff. You had to sit silently while Amy, Jen, and Sarah sat beside you, nudging your shoulder and giggling quietly, whispering about how the new lead scientist still seemed to have a hopeless, unrequited workplace crush on you because his eyes occasionally flickered in your direction.

You had to bite the inside of your cheek until it bled, forcing a polite, detached smile, playing along with the lie while a wild panic clawed at your throat. You were petrified that they would hear the frantic drumming of your heart, or notice the subtle, agonizing signs of your secret commitment.

The only proof that your universe hadn't completely died lived beneath the heavy mahogany briefing tables.

During a grueling, four-hour review of the ship's nitrogen-buffer systems, Ryland would sit with his back perfectly straight, his voice flat and clinical as he dictated engine safety margins to the room. But beneath the table, his hand would blindly find yours.

It wasn't the gentle touch of a lover anymore. It was a fierce, trembling, desperate hand-squeeze. His fingers would lock into yours, gripping your skin with a terrifying, bone-crushing intensity that communicated everything he couldn't scream out loud: *I'm not leaving you. I'm not going into the dark alone. I will find a way.*

You would squeeze back just as hard, your knuckles turning white under the shadow of the table, using every ounce of your strength to project absolute composure to the scientists sitting right next to you. By the end of the meeting your hand buzzed in numbness, but you could only welcome the feeling. It left you with the constant reminder of the feeling of Ryland. And above all, it was only yours.

The secret remained perfectly safe, buried deep in the dark, hidden from the prying eyes of your colleagues and the security cameras. You managed to protect it from everyone.

The heavy steel door of the command deck clicked shut behind you, sealing out the sterile, humming chaos of Section 4. Eva Stratt didn't look up from her computer terminal immediately. She let the silence stretch—heavy, clinical, and absolute—before she finally raised her sharp, unreadable eyes to meet yours.

"Sit down, Y/N."

You didn't sit. The tension in the soundproofed room was thick enough to choke on. "If this is about the secondary greenhouse telemetry, I've already uploaded the logs," you said, your voice tight, trying to maintain the rigid professional distance you had relied on for months.

"This is a matter of personnel," Stratt said, her voice flat and matter-of-fact. She slid a single digital tablet across the glass desk. "As of ten minutes ago, the primary science crew has been declared a total loss following the cleanroom explosion. Dr. Ryland Grace has been officially designated as the lead specialist for the Hail Mary. The mission manifest is being locked."

The air left your lungs in a sharp, physical gasp. The world tilted slightly on its axis. You reached out, your fingers gripping the edge of her desk just to keep your knees from buckling.

"You can't send him," you breathed, a sudden, frantic terror clawing at your throat. "He's an administrative lead now. He's a teacher. He isn't military—"

"He is the only human being left on this planet who understands the cellular division of the organism," Stratt interrupted coldly. "He goes."

You swallowed the hard lump in your throat, stepping closer, abandoning every single rule of secrecy you and Ryland had meticulously kept. You didn't care about the consequences anymore. You didn't care about professionalism, or the chain of command, or the underground network of researchers who thought you just shared a cute workplace crush.

"Then change the manifest," you demanded, your voice rising, trembling with a fierce, protective desperation. "Put me on the shuttle. I know the nitrogen-buffer systems better than anyone else alive. I'm going with him."

Stratt didn't blink. She didn't look surprised. Instead, a tiny, almost imperceptible shadow of pity passed over her hard features—the first time you had ever seen her look remotely human.

"I brought you up here, Y/N, as a courtesy. Because I am well aware of what you and Dr. Grace have been doing in the secondary labs when you thought the security cameras were turned off," she said softly, her words shattering the secret you had burned your world down to protect. A burning fear set in your bones and lungs; you were staring right down into the eyes of an all-seeing being. The fear at the realization that nothing could ever be truly hidden from Eva Stratt lit your muscles on fire as they all tensed impossibly tight.

"And because I knew you would demand exactly that." She reached into her desk drawer, sliding a second file across the glass. It was your biometric screening.

"You don't have the coma gene."

The words felt like a physical blow to the chest, knocking the wind from your lungs. You stared down at the bold genetic markers on the paper.

"We ran the markers twice," Stratt continued, her voice unyielding. "Without the genetic sequence, the therapeutic stasis will cause absolute neurological death before the ship even clears the asteroid belt. If I put you on that rocket, Ryland Grace will spend four years sleeping next to a rotting corpse. The answer is no."

"Then I won't go under!"

The scream tore from your throat, desperate and wild. You slammed your hands flat against her desk, leaning over the mahogany wood, your eyes burning with unshed tears. A sharp sting in your palms invited the burning fear further into you, its flames licking at the chambers of your heart.

"I'll stay awake, Eva! I'll stay awake for the transit!" you pleaded, your voice cracking as you threw your baseline scientific logic out the window. "I can monitor the engines. I can tend to the algae manually. I can handle the isolation. Just let me stay awake!"

"The ship's life support cannot sustain an active human metabolism for a four-year transit," Stratt countered, her voice sharpening, cutting through your panic like a scalpel. "An awake human consumes four times the oxygen. You will starve the Astrophage-led life support, you will deplete the rations, and you will choke to death in the dark within eighteen months. And in the process, you will kill him, too."

"I'll ration! I'll eat half-portions, I'll sleep twenty hours a day, I'll synthesize secondary oxygen scrubbers using the nitrogen-buffer tanks! We have the scrap aluminum from the chassis overhaul, I can code an automated intake cycle—"

"You are bartering with science and physics, and they do not care about your feelings," Stratt snapped, standing up, her cold mask snapping back into place.

She stepped around the desk, stopping mere inches from you. She looked down at your shaking hands, her sharp eyes boring into yours with a terrifying, absolute clarity.

"Look at the telemetry, Y/N. If you are on that ship awake, you take his oxygen. If you go under, he wakes up to a corpse. Either way, your presence introduces a catastrophic failure point to his life support." Her voice dropped to a low, clinical whisper that made your blood run cold. "Are you trying to save him? Or are you trying to kill him?"

The absolute finality of her words crushed you. The room went entirely cold. You stepped back, your hands shaking; your mouth opened, but no sound came out. The realization that your own DNA had betrayed you—that your desperate, consuming love was the very thing that would sentence him to death—completely broke you. There was no loophole. No clever engineering fix. All hope for a manifest change was dead. The story was over. You were staying on a dying planet, and Ryland was going into the ink alone.

And then, the red alarms outside the door began to blare.

Right on the heels of her question, the high-priority security klaxons wailed, casting a rhythmic, blood-red pulse through the transparent walls of the command deck.

You spun around, your heart leaping into your throat. But Stratt didn't flinch. She didn't even look at her terminal. She merely stood there, calmly adjusting the cuffs of her blazer, her sharp eyes fixed on the empty corridor outside the glass.

"Command, we lost him!" a radio on her hip hissed, cutting through the siren's wail. "He broke containment in Section Four! He's bypassed the secondary checkpoint—he's heading up the central elevator!"

Cold, paralyzing dread flooded your veins as you looked from the blinking red alarms back to Stratt's utterly unmoved, stone-faced expression.

"You knew," you whispered, the horrific realization settling deep into your bones. "You didn't bring me up here to be kind. You brought me here to be bait."

"Dr. Grace is an incredibly predictable man, Y/N," Stratt said softly, her voice devoid of emotion, only carrying an absolute, calculating authority. "If my guards tried to sedate him in his quarters, he would have hidden. He would have fought his way to the surface, or dragged this facility into a multi-hour manhunt we do not have time for. But I knew if he discovered he was being sent away, his very first instinct would be to find you."

She gestured out to the long, reinforced concrete hallway leading directly to the glass room.

"I didn't have to hunt him down," Stratt said, delivering the final, psychological blow. "I simply put the only thing he cares about in a glass box at the end of the hall, and let him run straight into the trap. Save your breath. He's already here."

Ryland hadn't found out from a brief or an email. He had found out because a security detail had shown up at his workstation with a sedative kit. And instead of letting them take him, he had fought. He had broken away, running through the concrete corridors of the bunker—not to find a surface exit, but running directly toward the command wing because he knew exactly where Stratt had taken you.

Through the thick, soundproofed glass walls of the briefing room just outside Stratt's office, you saw him.

He burst around the corner, his honey-blond hair a frantic bird's nest, his sunny raincoat unevenly buttoned and flapping behind him. His blue eyes were wide with a terrifying, wild panic, completely stripped of his usual cheerful, quick-witted sarcasm. He wasn't the second-in-command right now. He was just Ryland. And he was looking for you.

The moment his gaze locked onto yours through the glass, a broken, breathless sob escaped your lips. He lunged for the door handle. You sprang yourself at it.

He never touched it. And neither did you.

Three heavy-armor security guards tackled him from behind, their weight slamming his tall frame hard against the concrete floor. You screamed, but two guards instantly seized your shoulders from behind, pinning your arms back, forcing you to watch. A flaring ache ate at your shoulders; you would dislocate them if you had to, permanently damage them if you needed to, all of it if it would get you to him.

From the periphery, you could see the sudden, shocked reactions of the Section 4 women who had crowded into the hallway—Amy, Jen, and Sarah pausing in absolute, horrified realization. The secret relationship you had hidden in the dark for months was shattering right in front of them. But nobody moved. Nobody breathed. The air was entirely frozen.

On the floor, Ryland fought with a violent, animalistic strength he didn't know he possessed. He kicked, throwing his weight upward, his fingers clawing desperately at the rough concrete, dragging his body inches forward until his hand slammed flat against the bottom of the glass wall. His hands scraped at the glass, sliding off with nothing to anchor to. Your own hands, as if magnets, snapped up against the glass, following the slow slide of his down the glass, streaks of red despair left in their wake.

He looked up at you through the window, his face pale with pure, unadulterated terror, reaching up toward you through the acrylic.

You fought against the guards holding you, sobbing, pressing your own palm flat against the cold glass, trying desperately to align your fingers with his. Centimeters of reinforced, soundproofed plastic separated you. You could see the veins straining in his neck as he screamed your name, his lips moving frantically, but the glass swallowed the sound entirely, leaving you in a suffocating, silent horror.

*I'm right here,* his eyes begged. *I'm right here.*

Then, the clinical hiss of the pneumatic syringe hit the side of his neck.

You watched the light instantly drain from his clear blue eyes. His frantic, reaching fingers lost their strength, sliding slowly down the smooth acrylic, leaving behind more tragic, smudged streaks on the window as his body went entirely limp on the concrete floor.

The guards released you, and you collapsed to your knees against the glass, pressing your forehead against the cold barrier, staring at his unmoving face, pleading his name in an unforgiving mantra. All hope was gone. The darkness had won. A gut-wrenching wail erupted from your mouth. You desperately clawed at the door handle, wrenching it violently as you forced it to open. It refused to budge. Another wail left you, the sound closer to a horrified screech. It was locked. There was never a chance.

They were never going to let you say goodbye. You wouldn't be able to hold him or kiss him one last time before they took him.

You watched as more people surrounded him—doctors and nurses now.

"No! No! No!" Each word of protest brought forth a new, immense strength as you pounded your hands against the glass, the force distorting the bloody fingerprints he left as he fought his way to you. Your wails intensified, wracking you in full-body jerks; everything hurt and you couldn't breathe. You couldn't breathe, and yet your lungs desperately mourned the loss of your love—your Ryland.

You watched in horror as they loaded him up onto the gurney and your desperation became suffocating. You shoved your fingers into any possible seam of the acrylic prison. The skin on your fingertips roared in protest at the pain. An animalistic desperation pulled at you, your mind no longer coherent and your heartbeat no longer yours. The yells tore at the open sores in your throat; you could feel the burning drip of the blood at the back of your throat. Those across from you paid you no mind, only speeding up as they pushed a limp Ryland further into the hall. He looked peaceful; he looked like your boyish, sweet Ryland that had stolen your heart.

A searing grip on your arms turned your desperate, throat-tearing wails into an ugly yelp.

"Get her into a cleared room!" Eva Stratt. This was all her fault. She did this to you. She did this to Ryland. You attempted to lunge at her with everything your trembling legs could give, but the stone-solid hands of the guards around you refused to give you the chance.

You don't know how long it has been. You don't care. They didn't care to let you know either. You had exhausted yourself enough to only be able to sit motionless in the room, with no energy left to cry. They left you in a dark cell, covered in concrete walls. You were left to stare at them. Only you, the stable walls, and your thoughts. There was no window, light provided only by a withering little bulb at the top of the most confining ceiling surface. You could feel the hardness of the cold, unforgiving floor beneath you. They deemed you too unstable to even have the comfort of a bed. It was only you and the four bare walls. How pathetic.

Fury licked at your veins. They took everything from you, and now not even some comfort was out of the question? They took him from you.

Ryland. Your throat tore out a rattling sob, echoing like a brick against stone. They stole him, right in front of you. Anger bit at your unreasonable mind, sinking its fangs into whatever sense you had left. More gut-wrenching sobs tore their way out of you.

There—a pound of footsteps outside the steel door. Your agonizing sobs twisted into bloodcurdling yells of anguish. You had given them everything and they still took more. The steps outside quickened in urgency. The annoying squeak of a heavy hinge echoed over your yells as the door opened. The need for air stifled your cries. You looked at the open door with the blinding light. A dark shadow was greedily eating up the little light that reached you. Your fingers made their way into your hair, pulling at it in treacherous tugs.

"Get her arms." The shadow sprang at your elbow; you yanked it away, burnt by its ill intentions. Your palms slammed against the ground as you pulled at the floor to get away from the carnivorous dark. They lunged again, aiming higher at your shoulders now. Cutting pain entered your arms as you were pulled down, stomach pressed against the cold floor. The hair wildly splayed at your neck was brushed harshly aside with a gloved, soulless hand.

The metallic sting of a second syringe bit deep into your own neck.

You didn't even have time to scream as a heavy, artificial darkness rushed up from the slabbed floor, and the cold reality of the bunker settled over you.

The voice was a gravelly, sterile whisper, echoing from the deep, frozen recesses of your fading consciousness. It didn't sound real. It sounded like a ghost haunting a nightmare.

"Ryland Grace will eventually remember you," Eva Stratt's voice reverberated through the dark, a cold phantom from the bunker you had left behind. "And losing you might just break him enough to completely derail this mission."

You gasped, your eyes flying open as you tore yourself away from the heavy, suffocating weight of the chemical stasis. Your chest heaved violently, your heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs as your lungs dragged in a sharp, painful breath of incredibly clean, recycled oxygen.

The air was freezing.

The chaotic, roaring din of the Task Force Hail Mary facility was completely gone. There were no shouting guards, no heavy blast doors, and no humming concrete corridors. There was only a terrifying, absolute silence, broken only by the faint, rhythmic electronic pulse of a life-support computer.

Your head snapped to the side, your vision swimming with a blurry, post-sedative haze as you tried to orient your shaking body. Your fingers clawed frantically at the rigid, padded fabric—not your lab coat.

As your hands swept over the unfamiliar fabric of the suit, your fingertips brushed against something stiff tucked securely into the clear plastic sleeve of your forearm console. It was a crinkled, hastily folded piece of official Section 4 scrap paper.

With trembling, uncoordinated fingers, you pulled it free and smoothed it out against your knee. Written in a rushed, frantic collective scrawl were words that answered the impossible question of how you were even breathing right now:

"Y/N—Stratt gave the order, but we forged the stasis manifest entry, overrode the primary weight telemetry, and sealed your pod while the command deck was in lockdown. She couldn't have bypassed her own security grid without us. Keep him tethered. Bring him back to us. Amy, Sarah, Jennifer, and Ellen."

A choked, breathless sob escaped your lips as the truth settled heavily into your chest. Stratt had provided the cold, pragmatic execution, but the women who had teased you in the break room—the ones who had watched your secret romance shatter in the hallway—were the ones who had risked everything to ensure you weren't left behind to die on a freezing Earth.

Slowly, you looked up from the note, your gaze locking onto the thick, triple-reinforced acrylic porthole just inches from your face.

The Earth was gone.

Outside the window, framed by the stark, white metal hull of the spacecraft, was a vast, terrifyingly beautiful expanse of pitch-black nothingness, pricked by millions of cold, unblinking stars.

You were in space. You were on the Mary.

A profound, shivering dread flooded your veins as the weight of Stratt's final, echoing words—and the fierce defiance of your friends—settled into your bones. The commander hadn't left you behind to rot. Out of a terrifying, pragmatic pity, and through the secret, desperate intervention of the Section 4 crew, you had been hidden away in an experimental stasis pod because they all knew your love was the only anchor capable of keeping her lead scientist sane.

You turned your head slowly, looking deeper into the silent, dim cabin of the drifting ghost ship. A few feet away, encased in a glowing medical bay, Ryland Grace lay perfectly still, his eyes closed, his mind a blank, drug-induced slate.

He’s in the middle of bundling your sweaters into his arms when a book topples out from the pile. It lands face down with the pages spread apart; curious, Ryland reaches to pick it up. He intended only to glance at it briefly before returning it to your cubby of items, but he catches sight of your handwriting, and — even more intriguing — his name. 

Ryland doesn’t think he’s a nosy person. He’s pretty respectful. He likes to ask a lot of questions, sure, but that’s just the scientist in him. Seeing his name in a notebook is pretty alarming, though, so of course he has to read it. Squinting at the page and trying to make sense of the sprawling, rushed script, he thinks he makes out a few fragmented sentences — Ryland doesn’t need to know. …feelings for him… make things weird.

He holds the book far away, straining to read it, when you suddenly walk in. Ryland realizes too late that you’re standing there, decked out in the shining armor of a duct tape knight. Yelping, he drops the book on the floor with a smack. He launches into a stammered explanation.

“I— Sorry. I don’t think you meant for me to find this. I swear I didn’t read anything!”

You blink behind a half-finished helmet. Duct tape sticks to your cheek. Slowly, you lift a cardboard-wrapped arm, jabbing a finger in his direction.

“Right. Okay. ‘Cause it looked like you were reading my diary.”

Ryland gulps, shaking his head. “Uh, nope. No. No way. I don’t even know what a diary is.” The lie is about as convincing as an elephant with a cat-ear headband. He’s sweating like a sinner in church. Your finger is still pointed in his direction — he thinks your arm might be stuck like that.

After a prolonged silence, he looks down and actually whimpers. “Okay, I may have read a little bit, but your handwriting is so hard to read.”

Gawking, you finally manage to put your arm down. “It’s not that bad!”

“Well, I can’t read cursive, so.”

“That sounds like a you problem.” You pause. “What did you see in there?”

Ryland doesn’t answer at first. He shrugs, trying to look casual. “I… Nothing. I just saw my name. That’s it.”

You blanch behind your helmet. With a groan, you hang your head — or you try to, at least, but the duct tape prevents you. Instead, your whole body ends up sagging until you topple to the floor, withering away in a cardboard death trap. Ryland jumps to rescue you, his elaborate T-shirt skirt fluttering as he kneels beside you, cradling your head.

“Hey, hey, hey! It’s okay! If it makes you feel any better, I also really like you and have a lot of feelings for you! Really, really positive feelings!”

You continue to groan, curling up in a sticky ball at his feet. “This is so mortifying. I was going to be really romantic about it.”

Ryland smiles, lifting your helmet up to uncover your face. His free hand pets your cheek affectionately. “I don’t know, this seems pretty romantic. I always imagined it would happen just like this for us.”

“You’re so full of shit,” you mutter, but you do end up cracking a smile.

Leaning over you, Ryland presses a fleeting kiss to your brow. He speaks in a posh, vaguely-British accent. “Shh. Rest now, sir. You’re weary from battle.”

Despite the embarrassment, you giggle. The costume party is briefly forgotten until Rocky rolls in to find the pair of you kissing on the floor, dressed like Ren-Faire rejects.

fancy some more?

> YES. > NO.

the embarrassing thing was how simple it was. not kissing you, not saying “i love you”, just holding your hand.

you’d been dating for nearly a month now, and although that wasn’t a long time, it was long enough that most people probably wouldn’t have given it a second thought. most people would’ve reached for your hand automatically. most people would’ve done it weeks ago.

your lars wasn’t most people.

sometimes he felt as though he’d spent so much of his life standing slightly apart from everyone else that he no longer knew where the invisible lines were supposed to be. things that seemed effortless for other people often felt enormous to him. physical affection was the worst of all.

not because he didn’t want it, but maybe because he wanted it too much. that was the frightening part. wanting something that bad meant it mattered, and if it mattered, it could hurt.

the thought followed him all the way through town one saturday afternoon as the two of you walked home from the market together. the day was warm, the streets quiet. children were riding bicycles up and down the road, and somewhere in the distance a lawnmower hummed steadily.

you were talking about a book you’d finished the night before, describing a character you couldn’t stand with such dramatic irritation that lars found himself smiling despite only understanding about half of what you were saying.

that was something he’d noticed very early on.

when you were excited, your eyes brightened. when you were making a point, your hands moved. when you thought something was ridiculous, your nose wrinkled slightly.

lars noticed all of it.

he noticed everything about you.

unfortunately, that included the way your hand kept swinging beside you while you walked. every few moments his gaze drifted towards it before immediately darting away again. the distance between your hands couldn’t have been more than a few inches.

just a few inches that it felt like several miles.

“…and honestly, the ending didn’t even make sense,” you were saying. “the author spent three hundred pages building up this relationship and then suddenly—”

you stopped, and lars realised he’d missed the rest of the sentence.

“sorry..” the word escaped before he could stop it. you laughed softly, “where did you go?”

“hm?”

“you weren’t listening.”

his ears immediately began to warm, “…i was.”

“i don’t think you were~”

“i was listening.”

you smiled, “then what was i talking about?” lars very briefly considered lying, but then decided against it. “the book?”

your laughter floated through the afternoon air, warm and bright and completely unrestrained. it was one of his favourite sounds, he wasn’t sure when that had happened. somewhere over the last few months, he’d begun looking forward to it. looking forward to seeing you. looking forward to every small interaction in a way that felt both wonderful and vaguely alarming, because you were becoming important.

that thought lingered with him long after you’d changed the subject. important. the word felt too small somehow. when he got home that evening, he sat on the edge of his sofa for a long time thinking about it. thinking about you. about dating. about how strange and miraculous it felt that somebody as warm and easy to love as you had chosen him.

even now, nearly a month in, part of him still expected to wake up and discover the whole thing had been imagined, not because you gave him any reason to think that. you never did. you were patient with him in a way that almost hurt, you never rushed him, never laughed when he stumbled over words, never made him feel awkward for being awkward.

you accepted him exactly as he was, and somehow that made everything worse, because every day he liked loved you more.

every day it became harder to imagine his life without you in it. the following tuesday evening, the two of you were sitting on your porch. the sun was beginning to set, washing everything in soft gold light. the neighbourhood was quiet except for the distant sound of birds settling into trees for the night.

you sat beside him beneath a shared blanket, talking about your day. lars wasn’t saying much, not like he ever did, but he was listening.

watching the changing expressions on your face while you spoke, just enjoying the simple comfort of having you there. sometimes that alone felt remarkable. having someone beside him. someone who wanted to be there. the thought still carried a certain fragile wonder.

you shifted slightly beneath the blanket, your shoulder brushed his. the contact was brief, barely noticeable. yet lars felt it immediately, felt the warmth of it. his body tensed before he could stop himself. not because he disliked it, he just … liked it so much.

you must have noticed.

of course you noticed.

“i’m sorry,” you said quietly. lars looked at you, and the concern in your expression was immediate. it was very gentle, and something inside his chest twisted painfully. not because you had done anything wrong, you could never do wrong in his eyes. it was because you cared enough to worry.

“no.” the word came out more quickly than intended. you look at him, and lars immediately wished he knew how to explain himself, how to communicate all the thoughts tumbling around inside his head, how to tell you that your shoulder brushing his had been the nicest part of his day, how to tell you that he wasn’t uncomfortable. that he was simply unused to being that cared for.

unused to being this genuinely wanted.

instead he managed, “you don’t have to apologise.” your expression softened and the concern faded. you smiled, a small smile. the kind reserved only for him.

for some reason that made his chest ache even more.

the good kind of ache, the kind that came from healing.

a week later it finally happened, not in some grand romantic moment. just on an ordinary afternoon while the two of you were walking through town. you were talking, as usual. telling him about a conversation you’d overheard earlier that morning. lars was listening, mostly.

his attention drifted occasionally towards your hand. again. always your hand. he was beginning to think this was becoming a serious problem. then, quite suddenly, he found himself tired. not physically, just tired of being afraid. tired of treating every small thing as though it were impossible, tired of standing on the edge of things he wanted.

before he could talk himself out of it, he moved his hand slightly, just slightly enough for his fingers to brush yours. for one terrifying second he considered retreating and pretending it hadn’t happened.

then your hand turned naturally into his, effortlessly. as though you’d been waiting like he was. your fingers slipped between his, holding on.

lars stopped breathing, the sensation was almost absurdly ordinary. warm fingers and soft skin. it nothing dramatic, yet he felt it everywhere. in his chest, in his throat, in the sudden sting behind his eyes. you didn’t make a comment, didn’t tease him. didn’t even point it out.

you simply continued walking beside him, your hand resting comfortably in his as though it belonged there. perhaps it did. after a moment, you gave his hand a small squeeze.

just once. the gentlest pressure imaginable, and something inside him gave way. unknotting that tie of self doubt, of fear and that little bit of self hatred.

years of loneliness loosening fraction by fraction, because the truth was that nobody had touched him like this in a very long time. not casually nor affectionately, and definitely not romantically.

you held his hand simply because you wanted to. the simplicity of that nearly overwhelmed him.

that evening you were sitting together on his sofa. the television was on, though neither of you was paying much attention to it. your legs were tucked beneath you. his shoulder rested against yours.

the room felt warm and safe. comfortable in a way his house never had before you came into it. at some point your hand found his again. naturally and without hesitation.

you laced your fingers together and settled closer, like it was the easiest thing in the world. lars looked down at your joined hands. the sight stirred something deep inside him. something tender. something he didn’t quite have words for.

you noticed his expression immediately, “what?” but he hesitated, he was searching. then finally shook his head, “nothing.”

you smiled, “lars.” the gentle amusement in your voice made him laugh softly. a real laugh. then he looked at your hands again. at the space between your fingers that no longer existed. and finally he found the was he was searching for.

“i like this.”

your expression changed instantly, becoming softer than he’d ever seen it. it was warmer. “yeah?”

lars nodded.

“yeah.”

you squeezed his hand again, and for a moment neither of you spoke. the silence settled around you like a blanket. comfortable and peaceful.

lars sat there feeling the weight of your shoulder against his, the warmth of your hand in his own, and realised that healing wasn’t always dramatic.

sometimes it happened quietly. sometimes it looked like somebody choosing to sit beside you day after day. sometimes it sounded like a familiar voice filling the rooms of your house. sometimes it felt like fingers intertwined with his on an ordinary evening.

the small things, the simple things.

yet somehow they reached places inside him that years of loneliness never could. and as he sat there beside you, your hand safely held in his, lars found himself thinking that perhaps love wasn’t a lightning strike after all. perhaps it was this.

“I love watching you come apart like this…” You murmured, dropping your mouth to his jaw, sliding your slick tongue against the sweaty skin before nipping at the spot right where his mandible met his skull. Your hands left his hair, trailing slowly down his chest until they rested on his thighs, your fingers digging into the hard muscle there. Ryland reacted with a tiny yelp as you massaged.

“G-gosh…” Was all Ryland managed to say, his azure eyes squeezing shut as you continued your calculated movements.

Deep down and instinctually, it was only fair of Ryland to help. He raised his hips, his jeans gaping a bit in the back around his waist before he settled back. He just needed more. Friction… pressure… whatever you were willing to give. Ryland whimpered as that spot between your legs kissed him again, almost relishing in the sensation the rough denim gave both of you simultaneously. The dual feeling of your weight pressing him down and the relentless grinding against his clothed cock was clearly unraveling him, piece by brilliant piece.

You slowed your movements, giving the blonde beneath you a long, lingering press of your hips against his. That drew a frustrated whine from him, a smile of satisfaction curling onto your face as he drew his hands back down to grab your hipbones as if demanding to take command but there was no power in his grip. It leaked determined desire.

“W-what do you want, Ryland?” You whispered breathlessly.

As if on cue, his eyes fluttered open, pupils blown wide but his eyelids only halfway open as if that was the only thing he could manage as he looked at you through his thick eyelashes. Something in you prickled at the sight of his baby blue eyes almost completely consumed by black dilation.

“Y-you…” He choked out, adams apple bobbing for your hungry eyes to devour. “Just… ple-please don’t stop.”

Who were you to deny such a kind statement? You resumed your movement, setting a pace this time that was faster and watched your boyfriend tense beneath you. Your hands slid up from his thighs to grip his waist, your thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above the waistband of his jeans, trailing along the silken hair. His eyes fell shut again, a groan of desperation leaving his parted lips as he bucked partially into you.

His fingertips dug into your hips hard enough to bruise, but that was all the more thrilling. You loved it. Knowing you could bring this calculated, composed man to nothing more than a whimpering mess with just your body. The wetness pooling between your thighs caught on your underwear, was evidence of how much this was affecting you too, an undeniable ache that demanded attention. But… not as much as Ryland needed at the moment. 

Ryland’s breath hitched in the hollow of his throat as the pace increased. You ground down harder against him, imagining how hard his cock must be and how much you wanted it buried in you. The sounds he was making were becoming more uncontrolled, a disgustingly guttural tangle of choked moans and murmured pleas, sweetly dancing along with your name falling from his lips. 

You could feel Ryland getting close in the way his muscles tightened, his air capacity severely limited as he tried to erratically capture air in his lungs.

“C-close…” Ryland gasped out, his eyes rolling back as you shifted slightly, changing the angle just enough to hit that perfect spot that caused stars to burst behind his eyes. “I d-don’t want to… Mmm… in my jeans..."

You leaned down to whisper in his ear, your voice a low promise. “It’s okay, baby… I-I’ll buy you a new pair. Just… cum…”

Ryland whimpered again as you brought your mouth down against his jugular, feeling his heavy heartbeat under your grazing kisses. One of your hands left his waist to cup his  stubbly jaw, your thumb stroking his cheek as you held him in place. 

That’s all it took.

Ryland’s body arched beneath yours, a strangled cry escaping him as he orgasmed, the warmth spreading through his jeans as he pulsed and strained pitifully against the now stained fabric. The sight of him… God, Ryland’s head tossed back, blonde hair splayed, mouth opened in a yummy silent scream and face completely contorted in pleasure behind his glasses was the epitome of perfection.

You didn't stop. You continued to roll your hips, a slower, more deliberate rhythm now, milking every last drop of pleasure from his overstimulated body. Each movement drew a fresh, choked whimper from Ryland’s pink lips, his hands weakly gripping your hips as if to push you away, but his fingers only tightened, holding you in place. 

You could practically see his cock twitching beneath you, a final, lewd motion to seal the deal. You craned your head down, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his swollen lips, swallowing Ryland's final, breathy gasp. You finally came to a more languid pace, resting your forehead against his, his ragged breathing the only sound in the room as he drew his hands up your back to press you against his still wanting body.

"Wow. “Ryland breathed out when he finally found his voice, his soul now returning to his body. "Just… wow." You smiled, pressing a small kiss to his forehead. “Yeah. Wow.”

Taglist: @strigiform-titan @whats-my-hyperfixation @negativefoursanity @everythingismadeofchaos @t0nystank @greenlalianime @my-cat-can-slay-dragons @gardenavenue @whore-msc @goslingcore @rivercattail @ambertiger5 @starsbelongtotheworld @emmyishere77 @wayward-avenging @rocktthehouse @unabashednightmarepizza @lowbudgetdoll @lastminutescience @anixszci @lov3lanuage @hailholyground

You–for reasons you’d rather not examine too closely–chose to curl your hair this morning, which meant waking up one painstaking hour earlier than normal. All to have your work, mostly, ruined by the drizzle outside.

You sigh, stepping aside as to not be spotted through the window, and opening your phone’s camera for what feels like the millionth time. Your lipstick remains mercifully unsmudged, and your hair–while not nearly as curly as you intended for it to be–doesn’t look half bad, either. Your outfit this morning was selected with extreme care, and your stomach ties into knots as you steal another glance at the reason why. 

He’s chewing on a pencil, and you wonder for a moment if he’ll even notice the effort you’ve gone to. Quickly, your subconscious snarks back, Why are you trying in the first place?

What a bitch.

You knock twice on the door, softly enough that he might not’ve heard over the weather outside, and creak it a few inches open.

“Knock knock.” You say quietly. Any embarrassment you might’ve felt at your haphazard introduction is quickly masked by the way Ryland smiles at the sound of your voice. 

“Who’s there?” He asks, earning an amused grin and an eye roll from you.

“Funny.” You open your bag, retrieving something from inside. “Here.” You reach out, placing your finished rocket atop his desk. His legs, which had previously been kicked up on another chair, immediately swing down to the floor. He stands, reaching out and grabbing the rocket with a soft laugh. Not at it, but at the fact that you actually did it.

“You finished it.” He murmurs, turning it over in his hands with a smile. With the way he’s looking at it, you’d think it’s something far greater than your own shoddy craftsmanship. 

“Barely.”

“Hey, it’s a lot better than I expected.”

You quirk a brow and laugh, tilting your head just a smidge. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Ryland looks up, eyes widening slightly behind his glasses, brows raising in confusion as he replies:

“Yes?” It’s the way he asks that makes your stomach flip. The certainty behind the word, like he couldn’t imagine it meaning anything else. 

“Thank you, then.”

He smiles, eyes crinkling ever so slightly at the corners. 

“You’re welcome.”

You glance away, busying yourself with smoothing out the imaginary wrinkles from your clothes. When you finally work up the courage to meet his eyes again, you find him staring. His gaze is fixed on your hair, blue eyes slightly wider than usual. You blush, raising a hand to tug at the slightly frizzy strands. 

“It’s a mess, I kno-”

“It looks nice.” He blurts out, and his ears flush pink immediately afterwards. He waits a moment before adding on, quietly, shyly,

“You look nice.”

His words freeze you right where you are, your stomach turning in on itself as you will yourself to speak. To respond. To do anything but stare.

“Thank you.” You finally manage.

He nods stiffly, shutting his mouth as if he’s afraid of what might slip out next. After a few seconds he pipes up again, voice slightly strained. 

“You don’t usually curl your hair.”

You smile, shaking your head and wringing your hands together. Looking down, you note the slight tremor to your movements. You haven’t been this nervous talking to someone since high school. Even then, you’re not sure it was this bad.

“No. I don’t.”

“Right. Well.” He clears his throat and removes his glasses, swiping at them with the end of his tie. “It’s nice.”

Your lips tug up into a slightly amused smirk. 

“You mentioned.”

He huffs out a shy laugh, shaking his head.

“Yeah…um…”

You take pity, deciding to spare him from whatever sentence he’s trying and failing to piece together.

“So,” You point to the first thing that catches your eye. A small mirrorball, nestled in with the rest of the paper mache planets he has hanging from his ceiling. “Which planet is that supposed to be?”

Ryland looks up, sliding his glasses back on and breathing out a soft laugh. 

“Oh. That’s not a planet. It’s…” He glances at the clock, then back at you. “Here. I can show you.” He walks over to the lightswitches, flicking them all off before returning to his desk and reaching into one of the drawers. 

“So,” he begins, grabbing a flashlight and coming to a stop behind you. “It works best if you stand right…” He reaches out, hands hovering over your arms. 

“Do you mind?”

You look back and up, meeting his eyes and shaking your head. He stares at you for a moment before blinking and looking away, down at the floor. His hands land on you, warm and soft and large, and you swear your whole body heats up in an instant. He guides you backwards ever so gently, breath fanning slightly over your shoulder. A shiver runs down your spine at the sensation, and you’re vaguely aware of the way he swallows nervously behind you.

“There.” He murmurs, waiting just a second too long before letting go of you and stepping back. 

Not far, but back. Just a smidge.

“Okay.” He turns on the flashlight, aiming it up towards the mirrorball. It refracts instantly, sending light scattering across the whole room.

“Stars.” You whisper breathily.

You look back up to find him already staring down at you. The light reflects off his glasses, and there’s an unmistakably fond look in his eyes. 

“Yeah. Stars.” He murmurs back quietly. His gaze darts to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to your eyes, and he quickly looks away, cheeks tinged pink as he clears his throat. 

“Here.” His voice is barely above a whisper as he walks away, back behind his desk. You feel the loss instantly, cold air licking at the skin he’d just warmed. He reaches up, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he grabs hold of the ball and spins it. The lights move around you like flashes of glitter, and the sensation’s almost dizzying. You let out a giddy laugh, tilting your head up towards the ceiling. Smack dab in the middle is a painting of the sun, and it takes you a moment to realize why.

They’re orbiting the sun. All the stars, they’re spinning around it, twinkling and blinking before your eyes. It occurs to you that every inch of this room is designed to invoke as much wonder, as much awe as possible.

You look back down at Ryland, at the tiny flicker of pride in his eyes, watching you enjoy something he built.

He seems to stand a little straighter under your gaze.

“They’re orbiting.” You say, pointing upwards.

He smiles, looking down at his shoes. “It’s not the most scientifically accurate, but my kids like it.”

My kids. 

You could die.

“I can see why.”

He looks up again, and the lights curve off of his glasses, making his eyes spark beneath the silver frames. 

“How’d you come up with this?” You ask softly. He shrugs, picking your rocket back up and fiddling with one of the wings. 

“I figured it’d be a lot easier than painting hundreds of stars.”

You huff out a soft laugh, making your way back to his desk. The lights slow to a crawl around you, and you find yourself wishing he’d spin it again, allow whatever spell had been cast over the two of you to live on a little longer. 

“Probably.” You murmur, watching as he traces his thumb over the edges of the little American flag you’d painted on the side of the rocket. It’s missing more than a few stars, but he doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Did you name it?” He asks suddenly.

You blink. “Was that part of the assignment?”

He laughs, shaking his head and looking back at you. “No, no. I just…I was just wondering.” You feel your chest warm as he ducks his head, suddenly shy.

“I guess I should. They usually name them, don’t they?”

“Who’s they?” Ryland asks as he flicks the lights back on. 

You deadpan. 

“The astronauts, obviously.”

He smiles, laughing again. 

“I think that’s more the engineer’s job.”

“Same difference.”

He blinks, looking almost offended for a moment. “It’s really not.”

“Okay. What do I name it?”

Ryland shrugs, handing you the model. 

“Whatever you want.”

You tilt your head, giving him the most unenthused look you can manage with the persistent smile tugging at your lips. 

“I asked you for a reason.”

“It’s your rocket.”

“Actually, it’s yours, now. I gave it to you.”

He narrows his eyes at you slightly. 

“Semantics. You made it, it’s yours.”

“So if someone adopts a baby, the biological mom still names it?”

He furrows his brows. “Um…sometimes, yeah.”

You blink. 

Damn it.

“Whatever, bad analogy. Will you just name it?” You ask, thrusting the rocket back towards his hands. 

He sighs, relenting and grabbing it back from you.

“I could just name it after you.” He says, shrugging and looking up at you. He has to notice the way you blush. He has to.

“That…” You swallow down a choked sound. “That’s not very creative.”

“Neither is Bill.”

“Bill’s a printer. This is my rocket we’re talking about.”

Ryland’s jaw drops. 

“You just said it was mine.”

You smirk. 

“Semantics.”

Ryland’s lips curve into a smile, amusement winning over annoyance on his face. He looks back down at the rocket, thinking for a moment as he spins it in his hands. 

“They’re usually named after historical vessels, mythological figures, or astronomical bodies, so I suppose it’d be best to do something along those lines. Although they do homages to scientists, sometimes.”

You watch as he rambles, your eyes softening as he goes on. 

“Yeah?” You egg on, desperate just to hear more. 

He looks up, his smile widening at your expression of interest, however slight. 

“Yeah. In 2017 NASA launched the Parker Space Probe. It was named after Eugene Parker, he developed the theory of solar win-” He watches as you roll your lips together—a gesture he clearly takes to be a sign of boredom—trailing off and clearing his throat awkwardly.

“Um. Yeah. They do.” His words come out staggered and unsure as he looks down at his feet.

“No, no. Please. I wanna know.” And you mean it. Not out of some perceived obligation for niceties, either. No, you—who couldn’t have less interest in the naming of spacecraft if you tried—truly want to know whatever it is he was about to say. 

The realization is a little jarring. 

Your words give Ryland pause, and he meets your eyes over the top of his glances, head still tilted downwards.

“You don’t have to lie.” His voice comes out quieter than before, uncertain. 

You smile softly, tilting your head. “I’m not. Now tell me about the theory.”

A hesitant smile etches its way onto his face as he begins, “Solar wind.” 

You sit yourself on the edge of his desk, awaiting his explanation. Once he seems sure you aren’t messing with him, he continues on. 

“It’s a continuous, supersonic stream of electrons and protons, and they all extend outwards from the sun.”

You blink, raising your eyebrows. “That sounds…hot.”

He snorts.

“Yes, it does. 1.8 million degrees fahrenheit, to be exact.”

“You have that memorized?”

His cheeks tinge pink. 

“Maybe.”

You laugh softly, nodding along. 

“So the probe. They named it after the guy that discovered this?”

Ryland nods, a little more enthusiastic now that you’ve assured him he’s allowed to be. Your heart cracks open at the thought that anyone wouldn’t.

“Yup. It was actually the first NASA spacecraft named after a living person.” 

“Huh.” You nod. “Cool.”

Ryland looks disbelieving for a moment, and you deadpan. 

“I mean it.”

He smiles, putting his hands up. 

“Okay, okay. I just…most people don’t…yeah.”

Your expression softens as you reply, “Well, I find it very interesting.” Truth is, you wouldn’t have listened to a word he said if it wasn’t Ryland saying them. So maybe you’re lying, but you can’t bring yourself to regret it when he smiles, straightening his shoulders a little. 

Confidence, the tiniest inkling of it, coats him like a newfound sheen. 

“So, what are you gonna name it?” You ask, nodding towards the rocket he’s still holding. He looks down, as if just remembering how he set off on that little tangent in the first place.

“Oh, right.” He pauses, looking at the model, then at you.

You swear, you can see the very moment it clicks.

“Nova.” He replies softly, and there’s something almost shy in the way he says it. You tilt your head. 

“I’m not sure I actually know what that is.”

He smiles softly, walking over to his whiteboard. “No problem. Basically,” he begins drawing two stars, each a little slanted, but recognizable nonetheless. “This star,” he points to the one on the left. “Is what scientists call a white dwarf. The other is its companion star.” He scrawls out labels above the two drawings. 

“As they orbit one another, the white dwarf is stealing hydrogen gas from the other star.”

“Rude.” 

“Very. Now, all this gas piles up on the surface of the white dwarf, compressing it and heating it. Eventually, once the pressure and temperature rise enough,” he draws vertical lines around the white dwarf, “there’s a massive thermonuclear explosion.”

“So it dies?” 

Ryland grins at your question, pointing his marker at you, and you suddenly realize why his students seem to love his class so much. He’s radiating enthusiasm, buzzing with it in a way that makes your heart skip a beat.

Maybe a few beats, actually. 

“No. That’s the nice thing about a nova. It exudes this explosive light, but, unlike a supernova, the star doesn’t die. It just…glows.” He says it almost wistfully, and you swear, you’ve never seen something more attractive in your life than his palpable excitement over a star.

“The light, it extends indefinitely.” He looks back at you, eyes meeting yours with a new intensity as his hand falls back to his side. 

“It’s beautiful, really.” His words make your breath hitch in your throat, heat seeping from the deepest crevice of your chest out towards the rest of your body. 

Beautiful.

You’d have to agree.

“I bet.” You murmur, and your voice sounds somewhat detached, even to your own ears. You couldn’t care less about stars or novas or white dwarfs. But Ryland. 

Ryland.

You could listen to him talk about them all day.

He blushes under your gaze, looking down softly. 

“Anyway.” He lifts your model, shaking it slightly. “Nova. That’ll be her name.” He nods to himself, turning towards the shelf where his own model sits. He reaches up, placing it beside Newton.

“Newton and Nova.” You murmur, smiling softly when you hear him huff out a quiet laugh. He steps back, hands on his hips as he stares up at the two rockets. 

“Something’s missing.”

“If you make me repaint something I’ll kill myself.”

Ryland snorts again. It’s really starting to go to your head, how easily his laughter comes when you’re around. 

“I won’t.” He hesitates before adding, “And please don’t.”

You smile, cheeks warming slightly. 

“If you insist.”

He bends over to grab something from the bottom drawer of his desk, a muffled “I do.” coming from his position near the ground. He pops back up a second later, a piece of paper and scissors in hand. 

“What are you doing?” You ask, laughter grazing the edges of every word.

“You’ll see.” He replies, flashing you a ridiculously charming smile before getting to work. A few moments later he returns to the shelf, carefully placing something beside your rocket. You stand, coming to a stop beside him. 

Right next to your model, there’s a tiny namecard, similar to the one accompanying Ryland’s.

NOVA

And beside it, in parentheses, your name.

You pause, staring at the namecard wordlessly. His words from earlier echo in your mind, bouncing off the walls of your skull and settling somewhere deep inside your brain. 

It’s beautiful, really.

You turn to look at him, swallowing thickly when you find his eyes already trained on you.

“Newton is making mine look bad.” You force the joke out, butterflies setting your stomach abuzz when he laughs softly. 

“No he’s not.”

“He is.”

Ryland rolls his eyes, smirking and looking back at you right as the warning bell rings. It’s like a chord is snapped between the two of you, and you each step back in turn. 

“I should probably-” 

“Yeah. Yup. Good idea.” Ryland’s words verge on haphazard as they spill aimlessly from his lips into the space suddenly separating you.

“Okay. You…um…yeah. Okay. Bye.”

He nods, and you swear, he holds his breath until you get to the door.

“I like yours better. For what it’s worth.”

Your hand freezes above the doorknob, and you look at him over your shoulder. He stands perfectly still, his tireless fidgeting ceased for once as he awaits your response. 

The false sunlight of the biopdome begins to filter through the window, and you watch with an affectionate smile as Zimm slowly wakes, stretching out clumsily. Ryland shifts as the weight on his chest moves, eyes fluttering open as he glances between the two of you with a smile. “G’morning.” His voice comes out raspy with sleep, making you grin and curl closer.

“Hi…” Your lips meet his, and Zimm lets out a displeased noise at the sight, making the two of you pull away with a laugh. The moment is interrupted by a pounding on the door, making your smile grow. “It’s open!” 

Two xenonite suits echo through the house before Rocky and Adrian step into the space, watching your family. “How is Zimmer?” Rocky asks, making you grin and gently lift Zimm from Ryland’s chest, settling the small alien on your shoulder.

“He’s doing wonderful.” You feel Ryland’s arms move to wrap around your middle, face smushed against your back.

“Eridians would like to take Zimmer for a doctor checkup. Promise no extreme tests, just want to make sure Zimmer is ok.” You look over your shoulder as Grace perks up, grabbing his glasses off the beside table.

“That sounds fine.” You feel Grace nod against your shoulder. The aliens communicate, and you feel Zimmer shirk in fear against the side of your neck, a whine-like noise leaving his carapace. Matching frowns paint your and Grace’s faces, and you reach up to softly stroke one of the small legs.

“Zimmer is scared, statement.” Rocky lets out, making you nod.

“Doctors can be scary. Especially because Grace and I can’t come.” You murmur, Grace’s warm hand against your side. 

“Zimmer will be taken care of very well. Adrian promise and be there whole time. Will bring back to home.” You nod slowly, taking Zimm from your shoulder and bringing the alien face-to-face. Unpleasant tones leave the small creature, making you frown.

“I know it’s scary, my love… it’ll be ok. It’ll be fast, and Grace and I will be right here waiting.” You gently pet Zimm’s back carapace, the one you found most soothing when touched.

“Mommy and daddy will be right here.” Grace murmurs, reaching up to gently grasp one of Zimm’s claws. A long silence follows before Zimm lets out a defeated sound mixed with what you had come to recognize as a cry. “M’sorry…”

“Will take now. Will be safe. Promise.” Adrian purrs, making you raise a brow.

“I thought Eridians never promised.”

“Promise important to safety and human family.” 

“Thank you, Adrian.” You gently hand Zimmer off to the Eridian couple, gently waving them off. You can’t help but tuck yourself into Grace’s chest, covering your ears to drown out Zimm’s retreating cries.

“It’s the same as if we took a human baby to the doctor. The shots are the worst for us to watch, but the most necessary for the baby. Just remember you’re keeping him safe, alright? You love him enough to keep him safe and healthy.” You nod slowly, feeling a few tears fall down your cheeks.

“I hate when he cries.” Grace pulls back at the weakness in your voice, frowning and moving to wipe your cheeks.

“Me too. Me too.” He huffs, pulling you back into his chest and laying both of you down. 

◈

The second the door opens, you swiftly stand from the bed, finding the three Eridians in the doorway. “♩♫♪𝅘𝅥𝅰!” Gasps leave you and Ryland, equally surprised noises leaving the Eridians.

“Did he just–”

“Zimm!” You grin. “Say it again, say it again!”

“♩♫♪𝅘𝅥𝅰!” A sob leaves Grace’s lips as you lift the baby alien into your arms.’

“Is Eridan word for mother!” Rocky squeals happily, making you nod as tears fall down your cheeks, Zimmer pressing happily into your chest.

“It sure is, pal.” Ryland sniffles, bringing both of you into his arms, forehead falling to your shoulder. Another word leaves Zimmer, making you give a sympathetic smile.

“It was scary, hm? Didn’t like the doctor?” You pacify gently. His carapace shakes in your hand.

“Thank goodness you’re home, hm?” Grace speaks beside you.

“With mommy and daddy!” Another heavy sob is ripped from Grace’s lips, and you can’t help but smile at the disgust radiating off Adrian and Rocky before they shuffle out of the house. “Want lunch!” Laughs echo out from the three of you.

It was your birthday, and you had just gone up to your room for the rest of the night. You didn’t like doing anything too fancy for your day, but you did enjoy some party games and bonding with the team before you claimed you were exhausted and called it a night, but Bob didn’t want to end the night without giving you your gift first.

He knocks. Once, then twice.

“Hey Bob.”

Your gentle smile is the first thing he sees as you swing your door open. It looks like you were just getting ready for bed, if your pajamas were an indicator of that. The corners of his lips curl up in a sheepish smile as he hands you the bag in his hand, “Hey, t-this is for you.”

“Awe Bob,” You take the bag from him, eyes bright as you thank him. “You shouldn’t have.” You nod toward your room, offering him a warm smile as you ask, “Wanna come in?”

“S-sure!”

Bob winces when he hears how high his voice was when he answers. God, can he be any more obvious?

Bob doesn’t want you to feel like he’s invading your space, so he stays standing near the door. You stay standing too, placing the gift bag on your desk. You glance up at him, and Bob nods, motioning for you to open it.

Bob watches intently as you start taking out all the tissue paper, his heart racing when the first thing you pull out is the card he made for you, a big ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY’ written across it. Bob's always had messy handwriting, but he really tried to make it nice and neat for you. The inside of it is decorated with pictures of you and the team, along with dates and little comments accompanying each one.

One is with you and Alpine, the feline curled up on your lap as you scratched behind her ears, a big smile on your face as she purred. One was from a night out when you all went bar hopping after a successful mission, your arms thrown over Ava and Bobs shoulder as you all tried to squeeze into frame.

Your favorite was a picture they had taken of you when you’d fallen asleep during a movie night. Yelena had drawn a butterfly on your cheek that took hours to wash off. You chuckle at that one, glancing up at the man you’ve been crushing on since you met him in the vault all those months ago. He immediately averts his gaze down to the floor and back up at you, his face growing hotter by the minute.

The next thing in your hands was two handmade pottery mugs. They were hand painted, your favorite colors and designs semi-neatly painted on. You knew Bob wasn’t the most skilled artist, but you could tell he really tried to make them nice for you. That he put time and dedication into this gift. It absolutely warms your heart.

“Oh my god, this is amazing!”

Bob looks at you wide-eyed, surprised, “R-really?”

“Absolutely! Did you make all of this yourself?”

“Yeah, yeah, I just -” He scratches the back of his head, eyes blinking nervously as he admitted, “I got the photos from Lena. She showed me how to print them on Polaroid. And you know how I started taking some sculpting classes with Ava to get out of the tower more? Well, I remembered when you said you liked handmade gifts more than anything so,” He gestures to your gift, “Uh, yeah. I- I made you that.”

You stare at him in disbelief, “I can’t believe you remembered that.”

Bob bites back a smile, shyly admitting “I have a pretty shit memory, but I remember everything you tell me.”

When he sees the look in your eyes, he tries to shrug it off and say it was nothing, like he didn't spend hours getting paint and clay in his hair and on his favorite sweater because he was too focused in making it perfect for you to care, but you knock the words right out of him the moment your arms are over his neck and your head against his shoulder as you pull him into a hug.

“This is the best gift ever Bob.”

Bob doesn’t move for a second, his brain short circuits for a moment before he hugs you back. He feels like he could just melt into your arms and stay there forever. And then you take his breath away by kissing his cheek before pulling away.

With cherry red cheeks and wide eyes, Bob stands in shock for a moment before bowing his head down, his hair falling into his eyes as he tries to hide his face from you.

“Anyway, I’ll uh-” He shuffles towards the door, nearly breaking the door off its hinges when he pulls it open. You bite back a laugh as Bob awkwardly chuckles and apologizes, “Sorry! Sorry, I- I just - I’ll get out of your hair. Let you go to bed.”

“Hey Bob?” He stops and turns back to you, “Thanks again.”

He nods with a smile, “Course.”

You’re about to close the door again, but then Bob stops in his tracks and quickly turns back to face you, “Wait-”

You pause and look at him expectantly, “Yeah?”

“Would you want to, I mean, it’s totally okay if you don’t, no pressure, but-” Bob clears his throat, shaking the thoughts telling him to stop and run out of his head, “Want to uh, get coffee, uh, tomorrow? J-just us? Kinda like a… a date.”

Your heart races at the question, surprise clear on your face.

Bob feels how your anxiety spikes the moment the question leaves his mouth and immediately regrets asking. He shouldn’t have asked. He’s about to tell you to forget it, thinking he must’ve blown it, but that’s actually far from it

“Yeah, yeah, I’d like that- I’d like that a lot actually.”

Bob lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, relief flooding him instantly as he stutters over his words and speaks too fast, “R -really? I mean – Okay, okay, great. Cool, cool, cool.”

You snicker, leaning against the door as you bid him goodnight, sharing one last look of excitement before you close the door.

Bob stands there for a moment in disbelief before he walks away, fist bumping into the air as he rounds the corner to go back to his room. He nearly stumbles into John, who was rounding the same corner as him. John throws him a bewildered-grumpy look, not used to seeing Bob jumping for joy in the deserted hallway, but Bob doesn’t care, because now he’s got to prepare for his date with you tomorrow.

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