giorgina.

By the time you reached the bottom of the stairs, your grip on the handle had tightened to the point your fingers ached. You paused in the dim hallway, breath catching. It wasn’t because of the suitcase, but the weight of everything you were leaving just four floors up. 

The heavy door. The flat. 

Him. 

You stopped your train of thought before your heart led you straight back upstairs, stepping out into the night. The street was quiet, wrapping you in cold darkness immediately. It was late, no sounds of traffic or voices, only the distant sound of the city and the hollow echo of your own footsteps as you crossed toward your car. 

You remembered the first time you’d stood on this exact stretch of pavement, keys in hand, both of you grinning like idiots.

Your salary, paired with his teacher’s one, had been just enough to make it work—barely, at times—but it had felt like a win at the time. A one-bedroom with an actual kitchen, a living room that wasn’t just a glorified corridor, and that tiny little balcony that had sealed it for him immediately.

He’d stepped out onto it that first day.

“It’s perfect,” he said, turning back to you with boyish excitement. “Do you know what we could grow out here?”

You hadn’t, at least not then, but it was impossible not to learn when living with a science teacher. 

Every morning after felt easy. He’d be up before you sometimes, or just after, padding out onto the balcony with a cup of coffee in one hand, already half-focused on the plants before he’d even taken a sip.

You’d stand just inside the glass doors, your own mug warming your hands, watching him.

He’d crouch, careful with his makeshift garden. Fingers brushing over their leaves. He always treated them with such care. Checking the soil, murmuring little observations under his breath.

And then he’d look up at you.

“This one’s doing really well,” he said, pointing, already halfway into it. “I’m going to have to repot it soon—yeah, definitely. It’s starting to outgrow its house. If I leave it the roots’ll get compacted and then it’s just a whole thing—nutrient uptake drops, water retention—should probably move it before it gets upset.”

You never understood half of it, but you loved the way he said it. Loved the way his whole face lit up, voice picking up the pace. He always got completely absorbed with his subject, even something so small and living and hopeful. 

Like he used to be with you.

You reached your car now, dragging your case the last few feet, catching some of the uneven pavement before you lifted it into the back. It landed with a dull thud, making this feel even more final. 

The back of your eyes began to sting as you tried to swallow. 

You glanced back at your building for one last time as you slammed the door shut. Turning and wrapping your arms around yourself to give you some semblance of comfort. 

He always said that it was his job to take care of you. To make sure you were okay, to look after you. 

You’d believed him. 

Just another lie. 

You think you knew from the beginning. The late evenings, distracted conversations. Him nodding along to things you said without really hearing them. You’d been kind to him, told yourself it was normal. People get busy, life gets in the way.

But then it began to stretch.

He’d start coming home later. And when he was home, he was miles away. You’d sit on the sofa together, something half-watched on the TV, and you’d feel it. Physically, he was next to you, but his attention was fractured; trying to be present but couldn’t quite manage it.

You tried to ignore it.  Hell—you wanted nothing more than to ignore it. But you weren’t stupid. 

“I’ve got an after-school thing.”

“I might be running late.”

You’d nodded, because what else were you supposed to do?

But something about it had sat wrong.

That was until you’d picked up your phone, dialled the school, and asked casually if you could leave a message for him. But the voice on the other end told you something you already knew: that the building had been locked up hours ago.

You fucking knew it. 

You closed your eyes, inhaling slowly, trying to steady the tightness in your chest that had been building all day.

You still loved him.

You loved him, and you missed him.

Missed the way he used to look at you, the way he used to reach for you without thinking. Missed the thoughtless closeness that had once been the foundation of everything.

This was not supposed to end with you standing next to your car, years of your life packed away in the back, sneaking away in the middle of the night. 

You were just about to open the door when you heard a noise.

First it was distant, but fast approaching, amplified in the empty night air. It grew louder fast, then closer, your stomach dropping as your mind scrambled to keep up. 

No.

No, no, no. 

You turned your head just enough to see it. A small white light cutting through the dark at the end of the road. 

His bike.

Your heart leapt, slamming against your ribs as your fingers fumbled uselessly with your keys. They slipped, catching awkwardly between your hands as you tried to press the small button.

Not now.

Please, not now.

This was the whole point—you hadn’t waited for him, hadn’t given yourself the chance to hesitate, because you knew if you saw him, if he looked at you the way he used to, if he said your name... 

You wouldn’t go.

Your breath came shallow as you tried again, hands shaking now. Behind you, the bike slowed.

“Hey!”

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to rewind the last thirty seconds so you could just leave.

He pulled up. You heard the shift of movement as he dismounted, the soft scuff of his shoes against the pavement.

“Hey—” he called again, like nothing in the world was wrong. “You off somewhere?”

You finally unlocked the car, the sound that seemed to echo far too loudly in the street.

“If you needed me to pick something up you should’ve just asked,” he went on, voice warm, slightly breathless from his journey home.

You kept your head down, unable to look at him. 

You heard the shift of his helmet being pulled off, the shake of it as he adjusted his hair, the soft clatter as he leaned the bike carefully against the side of your car.

God. You didn’t want to do this.

You didn’t want to stand here and say the words out loud. You didn’t want to hear him explain or watch him try to fix something that had already slipped too far through your hands. You didn’t want to beg him to tell you what you already knew.

That he’d lost interest.

Or something worse.

“Move, Ry,” you sighed, hand already on the door as you tried to pull it open.

The cold air bit at your skin sharply, but you barely felt it. He made no effort to move. He did the complete opposite, stepping in front of the car, cutting you off entirely, clearly not realising you were trying to do. 

“Hey, are you alright?” he asked, his brows pulling together as he took a proper look at you. “It’s freezing out here.”

You almost laughed.

You hadn’t even brought a jumper. Every single one you owned was his.

Soft, worn cotton that still smelled faintly like him, no matter how many times you washed them. You’d stood in front of the drawer earlier, fingers curled around the fabric. You didn’t know if your heart could bear taking them.

So you’d left them behind, left everything back there. 

“Move,” you tried again, stronger this time, your voice shaking despite your best efforts as you stepped forward, attempting to push past him. “Please, I—I need you to move.”

He shifted slightly, just enough to stay in front of you, confusion flickering across his face as your words finally began to register properly.

Something wasn’t right; he could see it now.

“Hey—wait—”

He dipped slightly, crouching just enough to catch your face as you tried to turn away, his head tilting, searching for some sign to tell him what was going through your head.

It was impossible not to see the red rims of your eyes, your breath coming in unevenly despite how still you were trying to hold yourself.

His expression shifted.

Please, don’t do this. 

“…what’s wrong?”

His hands came up without thinking, settling gently on your shoulders like they always did when he was trying to ground you. You shrugged them off, stepping back like his touch burned.

He would never expect you to react that way to him. 

His hands hovered in the air for a second before dropping back down, his fingers flexing, unsure at his sides.

You’d always lean into him.

Always.

“You’re worrying me, sweetheart,” he tried again, shifting his weight. “C’mon—let’s just go upstairs, yeah? We can talk about whatever this is inside. It’s not safe to be out here this late—”

You wanted to, so badly.

You wanted to go upstairs, let him pull you into the warmth of your home, make you tea, talk you through it in that rambling way of his until everything felt manageable again.

You wanted to look into his eyes and believe him.

But for both of your sakes, you couldn’t let that happen. 

You knew the second you stepped back into your shared space, softening even a little, it would be over for you. You’d fold. You’d stay. You’d convince yourself it wasn’t as bad as it felt.

And you couldn’t do that again. You owed yourself more than that.

“I’m not going upstairs with you,” you said, lifting your head finally, forcing yourself to meet his eyes.

Those stupid, pleading blue eyes that had always undone you without effort.

“I’m leaving, Ry,” you continued, your voice breaking. “I—I can’t do this anymore.”

Your words didn’t properly land, hovering somewhere between the two of you. Words he never imagined he would hear. 

His mouth parted like he was about to say something before stopping himself, his eyes searching your face like he was trying to find something that made sense.

Much like you had, for weeks at this point. 

“What—” he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. “Why?”

He took a step closer, cautious now he realised how serious you were.

“C’mon,” he said, voice tighter, something creeping into it, panic, maybe, or confusion. “You’re not making any sense. Let’s just—let’s just go inside, okay? We can figure this out—”

“There is nothing to figure out.”

You saw the way he stilled, the way his shoulders tensed, the way his expression flickered again. 

Hurt this time, unmistakable.

“Seriously,” you added, your hands trembling as you gestured weakly toward the side, toward the space you needed him to move from. “My mind’s made up, so if you can—”

Your voice wavered and he caught it.

Of course he fucking did.

It was like a switch flipped behind his eyes, the moment your words faltered. That ever-so-small crack in your composure was enough to make him hope that this was salvageable. He sharpened immediately, though his confusion remained, but it shifted into something more urgent. 

“Hey—no, wait—” he said quickly, stepping forward again. “Don’t—don’t do that.”

His voice softened on the last part, trying to steady you.

You shook your head immediately, stepping back again, your heel catching slightly against the curb as you tried to keep distance between you.

“Just—please,” you said, breath uneven now. “Just move, Ry, I don’t—I don’t want to do this like this, I just—”

“Like what?” his words spilt out. “What are you talking about?”

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back messily. His eyes kept shifting between your face and the car, like he was trying to piece something together and kept coming up short.

“You’re leaving?” he said again, like saying it slower might make it make sense. “You’re—why would you—what happened?”

What happened? 

Like he had the nerve to even ask. 

A laugh broke out of you, brittle and wrong.

“What happened?” you echoed, your head shaking “Ryland—are you serious?”

He winced, the missing nickname hitting him. 

“I—yeah, I—what do you mean?” he stammered, genuinely lost. “You were fine this morning, I—”

“That’s exactly it,” you cut in. “I’m always fine, right? Everything’s always fine because I don’t say anything and you don’t ask and we just—carry on like nothing’s wrong.”

“Something is wrong,” he said, immediately agreeing, more careful now. “Clearly something is—just tell me what it is.”

Just tell him what it is so he can fix it. 

You shook your head again, your hands coming up as you could physically push the words back down.

“No, I—I can’t—” you started, your breath hitching as it all caught up with you. “I can’t keep pretending like this is—like this is normal, like this is what it’s supposed to feel like—”

“What isn’t normal?” he pressed, trying to follow. “You have to tell me, I can’t—”

“You’re never here anymore!” you burst out, the words breaking loose before you could stop them.

The silence that followed was painful. The confusion on his face faltered as it softened into something sadder, almost edged with apology, even if he didn’t fully understand why.

“What?”

“You’re just—” you gestured helplessly, your hands shaking. “You’re gone, Ry. You’re here, but you’re not here, and I—I don’t even know when that happened, I don’t know when I stopped being part of your life in a way that actually matters—”

“That’s not—” 

“You don’t talk to me anymore,” you pushed on messily. “You don’t look at me properly, you don’t—you don’t see me, and I’ve been standing there just—waiting for you to come back to me and you just—”

“I am here,” he said desperately. “I’m right here, I—”

“No, you’re not.” 

Not in the way he used to be. 

He opened his mouth, trying to figure out how to respond to what was so obvious.

You could see it, see him trying, like he always did. Reaching for something to fix it, to explain, to make it all make sense again. He’d always been good at solving problems. But this felt like something that had slipped too far through his hands to put back together.

This had been breaking for a long time. 

“I’ve just been busy,” he said finally, grabbing the first thing that made sense. “That’s all it is. It’s—it’s work, it’s been—”

“Busy?” you repeated, your voice cracking again. “You’ve been lying.”

His whole body went still, like you’d pulled something tight inside him.

You knew you were right. 

“I—no, I haven’t—” he said too quickly. 

There it was again. 

That instinctive, immediate reach for something untrue, so fast it barely felt like he’d thought about it. You’d let yourself hope that he might fix it. That he might finally say something real enough to pull you back.

But that just cemented it.

He was sticking with the bullshit. 

“You told me you were at the school,” you gritted out, tears finally slipping free despite how hard you’d been holding them back. “You told me you were working late, and I—I called, Ry. I called them.”

His face fell.

“They said the building was locked,” you went on, your voice breaking. “Hours ago.”

“Okay—okay, wait—” he said quickly, hands coming up again, palms out like he was trying to slow everything down. “There’s—there’s a simple explanation for that, I just—”

“What?” you asked. “What explanation?”

What could he possibly say?

“I was—I was there,” he said, nodding like he was trying to convince both of you. “I just—I left, like, right before you called, they must’ve just—missed me, or—”

“Ryland,” you pleaded for him to stop. 

He tried to press on.

“I—stopped at the store,” he added, scrambling now. “On the way back, and I—lost track of time, that’s all, I just—”

You stared at him, and something in your expression must have told him because he stopped. The words fell apart mid-sentence, realising how poorly he was doing. 

Even he wouldn’t believe a word coming out of his mouth. And he knew you weren’t stupid. 

“You’re a terrible liar,” you said quietly. It wasn’t even cruel, just a plain observation that he couldn’t even be angry about.

He swallowed hard, his eyes flicking away from yours for the first time since he’d gotten there.

“I’m not—” 

“You are,” you said. “You always have been.”

It was true. Last year he’d tried to convince you he hadn’t planned anything for your birthday, doing a terrible job of acting casual while you narrowed your eyes at him. He’d tripped over every word, couldn’t quite meet your gaze, and you’d laughed because it was so obvious, so him. 

Now you weren’t even sure he’d remember the date without being reminded.

The silence stretched again as your mind went somewhere you had been skirting around for weeks. You didn’t want to believe it, but you had to be sure, even if you broke your own heart in the process. 

“Is there—“ you began, trying to swallow the taste of the question back down. “Is there someone else?”

Your voice broke on the last syllable, his head snapping up. 

“What?” his response was immediate, like he was unable to comprehend you asking such a question. 

“Because I don’t understand what else it could be,” you went on, tears falling freely now, your chest heaving with it. “You’re gone all the time, you won’t tell me where you are, you barely touch me anymore, and I—I just need to know if I’m—if I’m just—”

“Hey—no—no, no, no,” he cut in quickly. He couldn’t stop himself when you looked like this. “Sweetheart, no—how could you even—no, I would never—”

He moved without hesitation, closing the space between you, one hand catching your arm just to steady you before the other came up, hovering for a split second at your cheek like he wasn’t sure he had the right.

His fingers were warm against your skin, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye as if he could physically stop the tears.

“I would never do that,” he said urgently. “Not to you, not—no, that’s not—don’t—don’t think that, okay? Please don’t think that.”

His words were so soft, but you were already splintering, and the contrast was too much to bear. Whatever you’d been holding together, whatever thin thread of control you’d been clinging to, snapped completely.

A sob tore out of you before you could stop it, your hands coming up to cover your face as your shoulders shook, the sound raw and helpless and completely out of your control.

“Hey—hey—” he panicked now. “Okay—it’s okay, I’ve got you—”

He pulled you into him, unable to stop himself, arms wrapping around you properly this time.

He couldn’t lose you like this.

You didn’t fight him, already lost in his familiar embrace. Your hands clutched at his jacket instead, fingers twisting into the fabric as you cried into him, the sound muffled against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he was saying, over and over, the words tumbling out. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t realise it was—I didn’t know you were—”

You shook your head against him, your voice breaking apart between breaths.

“You weren’t there,” you managed, the words barely coherent. “You—you weren’t there and I—I didn’t know how to—how to fix it on my own and I—”

“I know, I know,” he said, his hand coming up to the back of your head, holding you there gently, his fingers brushing as he tried to calm you down. “That’s on me, okay? That’s—that’s my fault, I should’ve—”

His voice caught as the guilt started to settle. 

How could he have let it get this bad? 

Was he that blind? 

“I’m here,” he said instead. “I’m here now, okay? I’m right here.”

You cried harder at that. The statement offering you little comfort. He had been here physically, albeit in fragmented pieces, but he wasn’t with you. It was outlined in every late-night and half-finished conversation. 

Your knuckles started to ache as you squeezed his jacket tighter, feeling the damp of your own tears leaving small marks on his lapel. You could feel the erratic rise and fall of his own breathing where your cheek was anchored into his chest, far from his usual steadiness. Instead, it was racing. 

Good. 

It was a bitter thought, but you couldn’t help it. It felt good to have him feel just a fraction of what you were going through. The feeling didn’t last long; you were too tired. Far too worn to sustain any malice right now. 

You let yourself take a deep breath in, trying to steady your breathing. The adrenaline diffusing into exhaustion. The fog in your head cleared as you came back into yourself, making the decision before you even pulled away, shaking your head softly against him. 

“I think—“ you started, your voice muffled by his shirt. “Maybe it’s better if we just… spend tonight apart.”

His whole body went rigid beneath you. Every muscle locked up at once as you barely finished your statement. 

“What?” he sputtered. His face had gone pale beneath the streetlight. “No,” he said again, already shaking his head. “No, absolutely not. No.”

“Ry—”

“No.” He swallowed hard, now blinking fast, trying and failing to get hold of himself. “No, I’m not—I’m not letting you just go somewhere alone when you’re this upset, okay? I’m not doing that.”

We don’t do that. 

The urgency of it made your chest tighten all over again. He looked wrecked now, breathing still uneven, eyes darting over your face.

“I’m not asking for permission,” you said weakly; even to your own ears there was no strength in it. “I just… I can’t do this tonight. I can’t stand here and—”

“No, no, you can’t—” He was speaking too fast now, his brain sprinting ahead of his mouth. “Okay, yes, obviously, tonight is—bad, I get that, I do, but you can’t leave like this. You just can’t. Not—not when you think—” He broke off, exhaled sharply through his nose. “Not when you think that’s what’s happening.”

You looked away from him, jaw trembling.

“I don’t have it in me to argue with you.”

“Then don’t,” he said, almost pleading now. “Just—just let me try.”

Your throat tightened.

His voice dropped, but no less desperate. “Please,” he said, almost painfully with his sincerity. “Please just come upstairs with me.”

You didn’t answer.

You wanted to. To fold into the shape of him and let him lead you upstairs, but you felt completely wrung out. Heavy with grief and the cold and the too many sleepless nights spent staring at the ceiling when he was right there next to you. 

“I’ll tell you everything,” he said. “Okay? I will. I promise, I know I’ve been weird, and I know I’ve been gone, and I know this looks terrible—horrific, actually, in retrospect, which is my fault—but it’s not what you think it is. It’s not. You have to—you have to believe me on that part.”

His hands had slid down to your elbows now, holding lightly. His thumb kept twitching against your sleeve.

“I’ll explain all of it,” he said more firmly. “I’ll tell you everything. Just… please don’t walk away from me tonight. Please.”

You searched his face, the open panic there. The fear. His mouth was parted slightly, ready to keep pleading if you needed him to. His eyes were frantic, horribly earnest.

He looked nothing like a man who had stopped caring. He looked like a man who had just realised what his silence had cost him.

The fight was draining out of you, leaving a dangerous flicker of hope you did not trust. Your face felt cold from the night and hot from crying. Your chest hurt. Everything hurt.

You gave the smallest nod, one that was barely there. One which he latched onto instantly. His whole expression changed with almost comical speed, relief flashing across his face so fast and so naked it might have been laughable in any other moment. 

“Yeah?” he said, breathless. “Yeah?”

You managed another tiny nod.

You could let him try. 

He perked up at once, scrambling to gather himself. 

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “Yeah, alright. Come on. Come on, let’s just—okay.”

He was moving before he’d even finished speaking. He shrugged off his coat immediately, that caretaking part of him kicking in with no thought at all, and stepped forward to drape it around your shoulders before you could protest. It was still warm from him. 

“You’re freezing,” he muttered, already fussing with the collar to pull it closer around you. “God, why didn’t you—no, stupid question, forget I asked.”

Gently but decisively, he took your keys from your unresisting hand. You frowned faintly, too wrung out to stop him, watching through blurred vision as he glanced at you once before he clicked the button.

The car locked with a sharp little chirp. He winced, caught out.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, not sounding sorry in the sense that he regretted it, only sorry that you’d noticed the calculation. “That was—yes, I know. But you were about to leave me in a parking spot, so I think I get one tactical decision.”

Despite everything, despite the ache in your throat and the tears still wet on your cheeks, the line was so desperately, transparently him that something in your expression must have shifted.

“I’m not locking you in,” he said more gently. “I’m just… I need to get you upstairs before you bolt or decide I’m terrible enough to justify vehicular manslaughter. One crisis at a time.”

You chuckled against your better judgment. 

Damn him. 

“C’mon,” he said quietly, his hand finding yours. And when you didn’t resist, he tightened his hold just a fraction.

At the front door, he let go of your hand only long enough to fumble the key into the lock, missing the first time because his hands were still shaking. He huffed under his breath, corrected, and pushed the door open before immediately turning back to you.

“Go sit down,” he told you. “I’ll make tea, alright?”

You didn’t argue, letting him guide you inside, his hand still hovering at your back. The flat felt wrong now, with you going back on the promise not to return here tonight. 

You moved toward the sofa, lowering yourself down slowly, his jacket still wrapped around you. Behind you, you heard him move into the kitchen. Cupboards opening, shutting. The scrape of something being moved out of the way. The clatter of the kettle being filled, water rushing.

He was nervous; you could hear it in everything he did.

Your hands curled into your lap, fingers picking absently at the skin beside your nail, tugging at it until it stung. You pressed your thumb harder against it, grounding yourself in the sharp pain. You stared at nothing, eyes unfocused, listening to the soft click of the kettle switching on. The sound filled the space, just like old evenings. 

He reappeared with two mugs in his hand, steam curling from both of them, glasses slightly fogged, 

“Sorry,” he started automatically, stepping into the living room. “I couldn’t find your mug, I swear it was—”

You looked up. His words faltered mid-sentence, his eyes drifting from the mugs in his hands to your face.

“Oh,” he said softly.

You were really serious. 

His voice was quiet and your gaze dropped immediately, heat creeping up your neck, embarrassment uncomfortable in your chest. You stared down at your hands instead, deciding they were far more bearable to look at.

He shook his head quickly, needing to undo the moment as fast as possible.

“Hey—no, look—it’s fine,” he said, a little too gentle. “It’s—I’m gonna fix it, alright? I’m gonna make it fine.”

You really hoped so.

He crouched slightly as he reached you, setting one of the mugs down on the coffee table before offering the other to you. You took it without looking up, the warmth seeping into your palms.

Then he sat opposite, on the edge of the table. Your knees were almost touching. He rested his elbows on his thighs, one hand still loosely wrapped around his own mug, the other running briefly through his hair again before dropping back down.

Here goes nothing. 

“Okay,” he said finally. “So.”

You lifted your eyes to him slowly, bracing yourself.

“I don’t… really work as a teacher anymore.”

What?

I mean, you knew it wasn’t his first profession, that had been ripped away from him. He told you after a few weeks of dating, the past still sat heavy on his shoulders. But he took a shine to his kids, was protective of them, even found himself finding joy in the small places the classroom offered. 

“…you got fired?” 

It was the only thing you could deduce. 

“No—no, God, no,” he said, startled. “I’m not that terrible.”

You didn’t laugh. He swallowed, nodding once to himself like he’d expected that.

“Right. Yeah,” he muttered, shaking his head. He set his mug down, both hands coming together loosely between his knees.

“What I’m about to tell you—” He faltered, dragging a hand over his mouth. “It’s not something I’m meant to say. Not to anyone. So I need you to trust me, okay? Just—trust me for a minute.”

Your throat felt too tight to speak, but you nodded.

“Do you know what the Petrova line is?”

You tilted your head, the question so abrupt it threw you slightly.

“…yeah,” you said slowly. “You’ve—you’ve talked about it before.”

He nodded in relief.

“Yeah, yeah, of course I have,” he said, more to himself than to you, like he was trying to reassure himself that there was a logical entry point here. “Right. Good. That’s good.”

How could he not remember?

He was fascinated by it, and mildly concerned. Researching articles and sharing them with you in the evening, or even messaging them to you while you were at work. 

Maybe you weren’t a priority anymore.

He kept going.

“So—okay—the Petrova line,” he said, slipping unconsciously into explanation mode. “Those dots, right? The… the dimming events on the sun? They’re not just random fluctuations. They’re consistent.”

He glanced at you, checking you were following. You nodded faintly.

“They’re… eating it,” he said, the words sounding strange even as he said them. “Not—not like, metaphorically. Literally. Something is consuming solar radiation at the surface level and absorbing it or… something.”

“…huh?”

“I know,” he held up a hand, already anticipating the reaction. “I know how that sounds, okay? I do. But it’s—it’s measurable. The data’s there, it’s been there, we—I just didn’t realise how serious it was.”

His voice was picking up now, like he was explaining something to his class. 

“It’s spreading,” he continued. “Exponentially. And if it keeps going at the rate it is, it—it’s not just a solar anomaly, it’s a—it’s a problem. A big one.”

Your fingers tightened around the mug in your hands.

“…Ryland,” you said quietly. “What are you talking about?”

How did this relate to anything?

He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face before looking back at you.

“I got… approached,” he said, choosing his words more carefully. “At work. In the school car park.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Approached?”

“Yeah,” he said with a small, humourless breath. “Like—cornered, basically. There were people. Government people. I didn’t—I didn’t know that at the time, obviously, I just thought—” He shook his head. “They knew about an article I wrote years ago. About life not necessarily requiring water to evolve, you remember?”

Like he had to ask. 

You looked at him to continue. 

“I tried to say no,” he added defensively. “I did. I told them I was a teacher, that I wasn’t—I wasn’t the right person, that they should find someone else, but they—”

Something tightened in his expression.

“They didn’t really give me a choice.”

The room felt smaller.

“They think these things—whatever they are—they’re alive,” he went on. “And they can survive on the surface of the sun.”

Your eyes widened as you fully registered his words. 

But… how is that possible?

You didn’t have a PHD in space science or damn astrophysics, but this sounded insane, even to you. 

“And because I have a background in molecular biology and I’ve written about organisms that can survive extreme environments and I am, apparently, just obscure enough to be useful without being politically complicated…” He let out a breathless exhale. “They… recruited me.”

Recruited him.

It was almost unbelievable. He was brilliant—yes—but your cardigan-wearing, plant-watering, middle-school-teaching boyfriend had somehow been snapped up by the government to investigate why the sun is basically dying?

He was right, it did sound insane. 

“…you’re serious?” you said, though it didn’t sound like a question.

He held your gaze.

“I know how it sounds,” he said quietly. “I do. I know it sounds insane.”

He got that right. 

“…you’re saying…” You started, your voice unsteady. “You’ve been—what? Working with the government?”

He nodded once. And you realised, with a sinking, dizzying feeling in your chest. 

He wasn’t lying.

As much as you hated to admit it, the information sank through your chest. You wanted to tear it apart, find a seam and rip, pulling until you could shred it into something easier to understand. 

But it made sense. 

The late nights shrouded in secrecy, all of the distractions. He was stretched thin about something he clearly couldn’t talk about. He’d come home wired, your brain jumping to the worst possible conclusion, but his mind was still buzzing with something far greater than the two of you. 

There was detail in his explanation—so much detail, and it was fast. The intricacies of his story felt unpolished and unrehearsed, just like life was. His lies were never this big; this felt too real to be something he’d constructed just to avoid telling you he didn’t love you anymore. He would never be that cruel. 

It was true, but you didn’t want to think about what that meant for you both. 

Your stomach twisted as you processed, not knowing whether to be angry or terrified. Your grip tightened around the mug as your pulse started to make itself known again, surging back with fresh force. 

“You—“ you began. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

You had an inkling as to why. This was a huge secret, but he still allowed you to think the worst, not noticing how fractured your relationship was becoming. 

“Hey—no, I wanted to,” he told you quickly, slightly relieved you were humouring him. “I tried to tell you. Like—multiple times, actually, I just—”

He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair.

“There were NDAs,” he said, the words tight. “Not the kind you sign for, like, a new textbook publisher or whatever, I mean actual—legal, government-level—if I say the wrong thing to the wrong person I could—”

He cut himself off again, jaw tightening.

“They’re… not people you mess around with,” he finished. “They’re the real deal.”

Who the hell has your boyfriend even been talking to?

“These people?” you echoed, incredulous. “Ryland, how do you even know these people are legit?”

“They are,” he said immediately. “They just—are.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I know, I know,” he said, frustrated with himself now. “I just—I can’t give you, like, credentials or a LinkedIn profile or—I don’t know—”

Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched faintly. 

“But they’re real. I promise you they’re real.”

You focused on him through the haze of adrenaline, allowing the noise in your head to go quiet. Mulling his words over and over as he awaited your response. 

It was your turn to look at him now, the man you loved sitting opposite. And if you were being completely honest, he looked wrecked. 

The exhaustion clung to him. There were faint shadows under his eyes that were far darker than they should have been. His hair had grown slightly longer than usual. It fell messily over his forehead, half pushed back and unkempt. His hands were itching at his knees, unable to stay still. Fingers flexing and twitching, wired with adrenaline. 

He was waiting for you. Waiting for you to say something. 

Tell him you believe him. 

But in doing so, you’d be admitting that he hadn’t just drifted away from you, he’d been taken to somewhere you couldn’t follow. 

Your throat burned as your emotions scattered. 

He could have told you something—a small thing. Something to stop you from unravelling the way you had, enough to stop you from standing outside with a packed suitcase, ready to leave everything behind. 

You parted your lips as you tried to find a question to ask, a hundred things you could demand of him right now. From the look on his face, he would do them all. 

What mattered most right now? What did you need to hear from him first? 

There was only one thing that circled in your mind, the thing that kept you up at night. The only thing that made this ache so sore. 

Your voice was fragile as you posed the question. 

“…you didn’t just… get bored with me then?”

Ryland looked at you, completely devastated. 

How could you ask him that?

“No.” It was his most immediate response that night.  “Absolutely not.” 

He leaned forward, needing you to hear his words more clearly than ever. 

“That was never—never what this was,” his voice was firm. His chest ached at how fragile you sounded, ached even harder that you had to pose the question. 

He could hardly bear to imagine what must have been going through your head these past weeks. 

“You really thought I—“ he stopped to align the words right. “You really thought I could stop loving you? Just like that?”

The thought sounded unfathomable to him. 

You fell silent, your actions from tonight speaking for themselves. 

You had. He had pushed you to the point where you had. 

He exhaled as your gaze dropped to the mug in your lap; you felt a sense of shame, which he saw immediately. 

“Hey—this is on me,” he quietly told you, shifting forward. “This is completely on me, alright?”

Before you could react, he reached forward and gently took the mug from your hands. His fingers brushed yours without him meaning to, and you found yourself almost itching for them again. He set it down beside his own on the table, deciding to join you on the couch.

“I feel so stupid—” you started.

“Hey—no,” he cut in immediately, his hand finding yours where it rested in your lap. “No. You’re not stupid.”

Far from it in his mind. You were the only person who was, quite frankly, alarmingly smarter than him on most days.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, feather light as they moved.

“If anything, you’re underreacting,” he attempted with humour. “Honestly, I’m impressed you didn’t throw something at my head sooner.”

A weak, breathy sound left you. You definitely thought about it. 

“I got in over my head,” he admitted. “And I handled it badly. You deserved better than that.”

His hand tightened around yours.

“A lot better.”

You could feel it in the way he said it, the weight he’d been carrying, the guilt sitting heavy in his chest. This was a conversation that should have happened weeks ago.

“I should’ve trusted you with it,” he went on. “I should’ve—I don’t know.”

His other hand came up then, tentative, brushing lightly along your arm before settling at your elbow.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softer now. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Your throat tightened again. He shifted, body angling toward yours fully now, closing the space without overwhelming you. His hand lifted slowly—giving you time to pull away if you needed to—but when you didn’t, his fingers came to your face, warm against your cheek.

“Hey…” he murmured. His thumb brushed lightly along your jaw, coaxing. “Look at me.”

Your eyes met his, wide and a little glassy. And the way he looked at you. 

God.

The love he’d been too wrapped up to show properly for weeks was pouring out of him completely now. Attention back on track to where it should have been all this time.

“I love you,” it was a statement, the honest truth behind all of this. “Do you believe me?”

You had to. 

You paused before nodding softly, still unable to meet his eyes. Your pause was far too long for him, showing him just how far this had fractured. His had been immediate. You had never been hesitant with him before, not when it was this.

He nodded, accepting what he had hoped wouldn’t happen. It was a small dip of his head, careful not to disturb you too much. 

“Okay,” he sighed, defeated.

It wasn’t the okay you wanted. Far from reassurance and steeped in uncertainty. It was an acceptance; it almost sounded like a goodbye. Your fingers tightened slightly in his hand, but he misread it. From where you sat opposite him, all he felt was distance. 

He swallowed, his thumb slowing against your knuckles.

Space. That was what you needed.

And if that was what you needed, then he would, of course, oblige. Even if it ate at his stomach from the inside out. If he’d hurt you this much, if he’d made you doubt something as fundamental as this, then the least he could do now was not crowd you. Not make it worse.

Even if it meant walking away when every part of him was screaming not to.

“Alright.” 

Your brows pulled together faintly, but before you could speak, his hand slipped from yours. The absence of it was immediate. He pushed himself up from the couch, movements controlled, and straightened slightly, like putting physical distance between you might somehow make this easier.

“Hey—” 

He gave a small, almost apologetic shake of his head.

“It’s alright,” he said quickly. “I can—I can come back tomorrow. If you want.”

“Huh?” 

“You want space,” he added, choosing each word so it wouldn’t hurt you more. “Which—yeah. I mean, that’s fair. Completely fair.”

“Ryland—”

“I’ll just—” His hand dipped into his pocket, pulling out your car keys—the ones he’d taken earlier—and he stepped toward the table. The small clink as he set them down beside the mugs felt loud.

“You can leave if you want,” he said, glancing at them briefly before looking anywhere but directly at you. “Or stay here. Either’s fine. I’ll, um—”

He faltered.

“I’ll give you some space.”

Your stomach dropped. Suddenly, you could see the way he was reading this, the way he’d twisted your silence into something it wasn’t. You watched it hit him all over again, turning awkwardly as he made space to depart and all you could feel was panic once again. 

No—

It flooded through your chest, hollow and twisting as you watched the man you love walk away from you once again. You only let him take a couple of steps.

“Ry—no, wait—”

You were moving before you even fully registered it, the room tilting for a second as your hand reached out. Your fingers caught the sleeve of his shirt, gripping it just enough to stop him. He turned back to you slowly. You swallowed, your grip tightening slightly on his sleeve, anchoring him there.

“Don’t—,” you said, your voice catching despite your best efforts. “I—I want you to stay.”

Something flickered across his face. 

“Are you sure?”

You nodded your head quickly, stepping closer without thinking, your other hand coming up to fist lightly in the front of his shirt.

“I don’t want to be alone right now,” you admitted, the truth of it sitting raw in your chest. 

And you didn’t want him to either. You knew exactly what he’d do.

He’d find somewhere last-minute, something overpriced and uncomfortable, tell himself it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t sleep, he never did when something was weighing on him, and then tomorrow he’d show up with that careful smile, pretending he was fine so you wouldn’t worry.

“Please don’t—please don’t leave me again.” 

You didn’t give him time to overthink it. Your hand tightened in his shirt, pulling him down just enough. And then you kissed him.

It was everything you hadn’t said, everything that had been sitting heavy in your chest for weeks, all of it crashing into that single moment as your lips met his.

His hand came up to your face instinctively, fingers warm against your cheek as he kissed you back, grounding like he needed to make sure you were doing this. You broke it just enough to breathe, your forehead brushing his.

“Stay,” you whispered, your voice soft but certain. His breath hitched.

“I need you, Ry,” you murmured, your fingers curling tighter into his shirt, keeping him close. “Please.”

And the way he looked at you then,  like you’d just handed him something he hadn’t dared to hope for.

“Okay,” he said again, but this time it wasn’t resignation. 

You were giving him a chance, and he would be an idiot not to take it. 

He leans down to kiss you again, and it’s the kind that makes your head spin. It’s the same kiss that got you to say yes to being his girlfriend, the one that made you feel like a teenager all over again. 

He reaches his hand under your neck to tilt your head up, tasting you once again, guiding you gently with his mouth against yours. 

“Honey…” he breathes against your lips. “We don’t—we don’t have to—“

You weren’t listening to him. 

The night had overwhelmed you completely, more than you knew how to hold. The only thing that made sense now was him—and you needed him close. Needed the weight of him, the warmth of him, something real to hold onto.

“Please,” you ask him, already pawing at his shirt, desperate for him to be close to you. “I need you, Ry—please.”

He groans against your neck, trying to keep up. 

He knew he could do this for you; you were etched into his brain. He knew how to make you breathe his name, how to make you fall apart from his words, his fingers. 

You were practically begging him to hold you, to be near you. He felt it in the way your hands were palming his shoulders, trying to drag him deeper into the flat. 

This he could do for you. 

This was the least he could do for you. 

He dipped his head to your neck, sucking and nibbling gently at the spot you liked. He hums when he hears your soft sigh, continuing until he feels your neck open for him more. He holds you in place as his movements get more precise, feeling his chest soar when he hears the gentle moan pass your lips. 

One palm slid under the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your waist. 

“Can I?”

It pained him to ask. Usually he listens to your body for confirmation, the way you melt into his touch, but tonight is different. He wants to hear you tell him, remind him that he is the one you want right now, the one who gets to have you like this. 

You nodded, heart hammering. He eased his coat off your shoulders first, letting it pool behind you on the floor, then hooked his fingers under the edge of your shirt. He didn’t yank it up; he peeled it away tenderly, lips following the path his hands made—crouching almost in worship. 

He kissed the newly exposed skin of your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your bra as he tugged the fabric over your head. Gently, he ushered you back toward the couch, far too desperate to make the small journey to the bedroom. 

His hands held your hips as he knelt between your thighs, gazing up at you with an expression that could only be described as awestruck. He had seen many things in his life, but none quite as beautiful as you looking at him like this. Soft-lids, flushed cheeks. 

He wasn’t religious, but at times like this, he believed he could be. 

He dragged the zipper down with agonising slowness, then hooked his fingers into the denim and your underwear at the same time, easing them down your thighs together. Every brush of his knuckles against your skin made you shiver, and he noticed leaning in to press open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your knee as he freed one leg, then the other.

When you were finally bare, he sat back again. His breath hitched visibly. 

“God,” he breathed when he saw you, sitting back on his heels just enough to take you in. His hands settled on your hips, thumbs stroking slow circles. 

How could he forget this? 

You were practically shivering with anticipation, lips parted as you ached for his touch. It had been weeks at this point, the strain between his own legs reminding him. How he had neglected you, both of you. 

Tonight, he was going to fix this. Fix everything. 

He leaned upward, allowing his hands to finally wander. He groaned, low and genuine. The first slow glide of his fingertips through your folds made you both gasp. You were soaked, slick heat coating his skin instantly, and you because the touch was so light, so careful, so exactly right. He circled your clit once, feather-soft, and your breath caught sharply.

He finally sank one finger inside you, slow and deep, and the stretch was perfect—familiar, warm, the slight callus on his knuckle dragging just right. You arched with a soft cry, and he hummed in approval, curling the digit gently like he was testing the waters even though he already knew exactly what you needed.

Your head fell back against the couch cushions, hips rocking down to meet his hand as the pleasure built in slow, syrupy waves. He was everywhere—mouth pressing kisses to your collarbone—while his fingers worked you open. He wasn’t out of practice at all; every twist, every curl was deliberate.

“Ry—fuck,” you gasped when he crooked his fingers just right, brushing that spot inside you that made sparks shoot up your spine.

His name had never sounded so sweet. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he cooed as your face scrunched. “There we go.”

You flushed under the weight of his praise, legs parting to allow him even closer, but it wasn’t enough. You needed him closer, needed him inside of you. It had been too long; he owed you that much. 

“Ry—“ you breathed out and he stopped his movements instantly. 

“What is it?” he asked gently, lips still running along your jaw. “Talk to me.”

Tell him what you need.

“Want more,” you sighed as your hands wandered lower, gently tugging at the waistband of his jeans. He got the message, willing to give you exactly what you wanted tonight. 

He pulled back to yank his shirt over his head in one quick motion. The sight of him—bare chest, the faint trail of hair leading down, the way his muscles shifted under his skin—made heat pool low in your belly all over again. 

You missed that sight.

You were getting impatient, after weeks of torment, leaning forward to reach the button on his jeans. He couldn’t help but let a small chuckle escape his chest at your eagerness. 

“Easy,” his hands came to cover yours. “We have all night.”

You huffed at his response and he sped up his movements, shoving jeans and boxers down in one go, kicking them off toward the end of the couch. His cock sprang free, flushed and already leaking at the tip, and he wrapped a hand around himself, stroking once, twice, eyes never leaving your face as he sucked in a breath. 

Gently, he stood, soft as he lay you down. One hand holding the back of your head, the other on your hip, angling you exactly where he could look after you. Where he could take care of you properly. 

Instinctively, your legs sprang up to wrap around his hips, automatically aligning his with yours as his cock strains against you. 

“Baby—“ he groans as his eyes flutter closed, buring his face in your neck as you rock gently against him, the friction sending small jolts through his body. 

“Hey,” he shakes his head as he mumbles. “Gotta take it slow, alright?”

It’s been so long, and he’d be damned if he ended up hurting you like this. 

“Don’t wanna,” you plead as you paw at him. “I can take it—promise.”

A low, broken sound rumbled in his throat when the words left your mouth. God, you sounded so sweet beneath him. His beautiful girl begging so gently for him, in a tone he far from deserved. 

He settled between your spread thighs, the head of his cock nudging against your slick folds, and he hissed at the contact, eyes fluttering shut for a second. 

“Ah—“ He rocked his hips forward slowly, sliding the length of himself along your pussy without pushing in yet, coating himself in you while his hands flexed on either side of your head. Every slow glide bumped against your clit and you whimpered, hips jerking up to chase the friction.

“Please, Ry—” 

“I know,” he coos. “I know.” 

He just needs to get you there gently, the way he knows you like.

“You ready f’me?” he asks gently, satisfied with the pool of slick between your folds. His hand drifts lazily down as he circles your clit, waiting for your answer. 

You nod slowly as you recline on the armrest, opening yourself fully to him. He eases himself in steadily, so thick you felt every inch stretching you open. Your mouth fell open on a silent cry as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, and he let out the most broken, relieved sound you’d ever heard from him.

It really had been that long. 

“That’s good?” he breathes, needing to know. 

“Yes,” you mewl in response. 

His mouth was on yours again before you’d even fully caught your breath, the kiss slower this time. It made you whimper into him. Your fingers tangled themselves in his hair, nails gripping as you pulled him close, the way you knew drove him wild.

His hips faltered as he let out a broken groan into your neck, trying to keep his composure. 

“—sweetheart,” he pants, as he steadies himself with a chuckle. “M’not gonna last long if you do that.”

He pulled back and he looked at you, something pleading in his gaze. It was your turn to smile up at him, lips curling ever so slightly as you leaned up to his lips. 

“Then you better hurry up, Ry,” you tease. “You’ve got a lot of making up to do.”

And he intended to do it properly.

He continued with a new pace, your fingers still trailing. It was deeper now, with one hand sliding under your knee to hitch your leg higher around his waist so he could angle even better. The new position made you cry out, back arching clean off the couch, and he groaned in response.

You had never looked more beautiful, so soft under his weight. You still trusted him completely, even after he left you. 

After you nearly left him. 

His jaw tightened as his hips faltered at the thought before he stopped himself. You felt his hands guide your own up beside your head, lacing your fingers as he folds you deeper into the couch cushions, desperate to hear your moans get louder against his ear. 

“Feel good, honey?” he breathed. “C’mon, let me hear you.”

Let him hear he was doing it right. He had to be. 

“So good—“ you breathe out. “Always feel so good.”

God, he hopes so. 

Far too long he had left you alone, not taking care of you in the way he should. He cursed himself for almost letting you slip between his fingers, cursed himself when he had this to come home to every night. 

He’d been such an idiot. 

It was his job to take care of you. To make sure you felt wanted, seen, to make sure you felt good. 

“Haven’t been good to you,” he admits as his voice breaks. “Not nearly enough—god—“

You whined under him, letting him know he was hitting your sweetspot as your chest brushed against his own. 

Just like that. 

He needed to see this, needed to give you this, to know that he could still make you feel good. 

That you still loved him. 

You were losing it under him, every thrust dragging pleasure through you in heavy waves, the emotional weight of his words mixing with the physical until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes—not from sadness, but from how full you felt, how desperately loved.

“Ry—Ry, I—I can’t—” you gasped, hips meeting his on every stroke now, the slap of skin on skin mixing with the wet sounds of him moving inside you.

“You can,” he promised, voice cracking as he thrust harder, chasing the same edge you were on. “Yes, you can, baby, you’re almost there—can feel it—so deep, Christ—“

He reached between you, thumb finding your clit again in tight, perfect circles, and the added stimulation shattered you. 

“That’s it—” he groaned, hips stuttering but not stopping, fucking you through it with those same devoted strokes. “There you go—“

Your orgasm crashed over you, vision whiting out as you clenched around him, moaning his name like a prayer. He slowed just enough to let you breathe, kissing you messily, tongues sliding together while he kept moving in shallow thrusts, drawing it out.

When your tremors finally eased, he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy and adoring, before pulling out.

“You with me?” he asked, voice soft even as sweat beaded on his forehead. You nodded, wrecked and glowing, and tugged him back down into another kiss.

“Mm,” you nodded, against his lips. 

He smiled, hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face, fingers careful, as they tucked a loose strand behind your ear. Finally, for the first time this evening, feeling close to you once more. 

He lingered there for a moment, hand still cupping your cheek, thumb brushing softly along your skin. You hadn’t pulled away. You were letting him be close again.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I know I’ve said it, but… I’m really, really sorry.”

You watched him for a second. The panic from earlier had subsided, lost in the haze. Your hand came up to cover his where it rested against your face, holding it there.

“I forgive you.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Yeah,” you repeated. 

Oh, thank God.

He let out an exhausted but satisfied laugh. How he managed to salvage this, he didn’t know, but what he did know, he was damn lucky. 

“But—” you began. “If you ever get pulled into something like that again,” you said, holding his gaze, “maybe don’t just… disappear on me and hope for the best?”

He winced. Just a little.

“Yeah. Bad strategy.”

“At least keep me in the loop,” you added, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. “You don’t have to tell me everything if you can’t. But… don’t shut me out like that.”

That was more than fair.

“Okay,” he said, nodding once. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Your brow lifted slightly.

“Can you?”

He let out a breathy laugh, the tension in him easing just enough to let a bit of that familiar energy back through.

“Right—yes. Sorry,” he said, straightening slightly. “If I am ever, hypothetically, recruited into another deeply questionable, government-adjacent science situation—”

You huffed.

“—I will,” he continued, softer now, more sincere, “tell you. Or at the very least… not vanish in the process.”

You smiled properly then.

“Good.”

He nodded, a little more firmly this time, already planning on how he was going to make this right.

Not just tonight, tonight wasn’t nearly enough.

His mind was already moving ahead of him, piecing it together the way it always did, except this time it wasn’t equations or variables—it was you. What you liked. What you needed. All the ways he could show up better.

Tomorrow, for a start. He could take the day off. He would take the day off.

Stratt could wait. The sun—well, the sun had its issues, but it could manage one more day. He’d deal with the fallout later. Right now, there were more important things to fix.

A few days, maybe.

As long as it took.

Slow mornings. Proper meals. Being here fully, the way he should have been all along.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles again, softer this time, almost absent as the thought settled into certainty.

He was going to make this up to you. The way you deserved.

He couldn't wait for you to see it yourself.

a/n: sorry this is late !! things have been hectic on my end (may or may not have been head-hunted to be the head chef of a new fine dining restaurant omg i have the meeting on tuesday!!!) and i still feel super rusty with writing

ive literally just started the book so please excuse any inaccurate plot timeline, hopefully i shall get some more inspo later on as i do really want to write a full series for this thing

ryland didn’t even look up. “option one: we open it and potentially discover advanced human knowledge. option two: we don’t open it and i slowly lose my mind wondering what’s inside.”

“option three,” you added, “we don’t open it and you will forever be curious about the content but hey, at least you'd still be alive!”

he glanced up at you with a grin that immediately told you he was not going to pick option three.

“ryland last time you said ‘this’ll probably be fine,’ we almost suffocated.”

“counterpoint,” he said, straightening and placing a hand on the latch, “almost.”

you sighed.

“i just don’t like it,” you said for what was probably the fifth time.

ryland made a thoughtful humming sound that meant the exact opposite.

“you don’t like anything that comes from rocky.”

you crossed your arms without taking your eyes off the object. “that is objectively untrue. i like the parts that don’t explode, corrode, or attempt to rewrite the laws of physics.”

“so.... none of it?”

“exactly.”

pause.

just when ryland reached for the cylinder, you spoke out again.

“and just for the record....” you said, voice flat, “i am deeply against whatever you’re about to do.”

“come on. what’s the worst that could happen?”

you dragged a hand down your face, already bracing for disaster. “okay, i need you to understand that that phrase is cursed. like, historically cursed. civilizations have fallen after someone said that.”

he ignored you.

of course he ignored you.

the seal popped before you could argue more. the cylinder hissed open with a soft, pressurized sound.

for a second, nothing happened.

you leaned forward slightly, squinting, peering into the opening, expecting.... something. a device. a sample. anything.

“okay.... maybe it’s empty—”

poof!

a burst of fine gold dust shot out of the container in slow motion, catching the light as it drifted upward and outward, directly into both your faces before either of you could react.

“oh— come on—!” you coughed immediately, stumbling back and waving your hands uselessly through the air. “why is it always airborne—”

“i didn’t—” ryland coughed too, turning his head and blinking rapidly. “i didn’t know it was going to do that!”

“it’s a mysterious alien container, of course it was going to do that!”

the dust settled almost as quickly as it appeared, vanishing into nothing. no residue, no smell, no visible trace that anything had even happened.

you both stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other.

“....okay,” you said slowly. “status report.”

he blinked a few more times, then patted his arms, his torso, like he might find damage. “uhhh.... lungs: functioning. skin: not melting. vision: normal.”

“define normal.”

“i can see you glaring at me, so, yeah. normal.”

you exhaled. “great. fantastic. we inhaled space dust and survived. love that for us.”

“see?” he said, already relaxing. “nothing to worry about.”

you pointed at him sharply. “you do not get to say that. you lost that privilege the moment you opened it.”

“fair.”

then there was a beat.

“so.... that’s it?” you asked.

he peered into the cylinder, turning it upside down. only the residue of the dust fell, nothing else was inside.

“that’s it.” he confirmed.

“okay,” you said finally, though your voice carried a thin edge of disbelief. “either that was completely harmless, or we just inhaled something that’s going to kill us slowly and mysteriously.”

“statistically,” ryland said, already turning back toward the console, “it’s probably the second one.”

“great,” you muttered.

“yep.” he clicked his tongue and made a double finger gun. “nailed it.”

only for a while.

only for a while, it actually seemed like he was right.

you two ran scans, double-checked the air composition, monitored your vitals like you were waiting for them to spike into something dramatic and undeniable. everything came back normal. no toxins, no foreign pathogens, no radiation spikes, nothing that explained the golden dust or what it was supposed to do.

it should have been reassuring.

it wasn’t.

because about an hour in, you noticed something off.

not dramatic. not alarming. but subtle enough.

you shifted in your seat, tugging slightly at the collar of your yellow jumpsuit. the fabric suddenly felt too close, too warm against your skin.

“hey,” you said, not looking up from your screen. you were in your station in the lab, your back facing ryland. “did the temperature go up?”

ryland glanced at the panel beside him. “nope. holding steady.”

“huh.” you leaned back, frowning. “feels warmer.”

“maybe you’re just stressed.”

you snorted. “yeah, because inhaling unknown alien particles was such a relaxing experience.”

you tried to ignore it.

it didn’t work.

because by the second hour, it got worse. worse enough that it distracted you from doing your job.

you were restless now, shifting every few minutes, hyper-aware of your own body in a way that was getting increasingly distracting.

“okay, nope. something’s happening.” you said, standing up. you zipped down your suit. it pooled around your waist and left you in nothing but a dark green tank top you wore underneath. now you looked like a formula 1 driver walking around the garage in the middle of a malaysian heat.

except you were pretty sure that the heat in malaysia was tolerable enough and the drivers were used to it.

this, whatever this was however, was far from it.

“i'm sure it's nothing—” ryland finally turned but then paused.

“what?” you asked as you tied your hair into a ponytail.

he was sitting still. too still. his posture was stiff, shoulders slightly tense, like he was holding himself in place. his jaw tightened and his eyes that were currently fixated on you slightly dilated.

“....ryland?”

he flinched, snapping back to the present. he fixed his glasses while his eyes withdrew, focusing on somewhere else but you.

“yeah?” his voice came out a little too quick. a little too tight.

you narrowed your eyes. “you okay?”

“fine. totally fine.”

“you don’t look fine.”

he let out a short laugh that didn’t sound entirely natural. “well, looks can be deceiving.”

“you’re flushed.”

“it’s warm,” he said immediately. “i’m…. internally warm.”

“....that’s not a thing.”

“it is now.”

you crossed your arms, studying him.

“you’re acting weird.”

ryland scratched the back of his neck. you did not miss the way he licked his lips. and there was a faint flush creeping across his face, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears, subtle but unmistakable once you saw it.

“nothing. nothing. um—”

you frowned. “are you okay?”

“yes, yes,” he cleared his throat while still staring at a very specific spot on the floor, like he was avoiding your eyes.

“okay....” you turned, walking back to your station, trying to not let his sudden weird behaviour get to you. it's ryland. he was always a bit odd, even back on earth when you first met him on the ship.

by hour three, thankfully you finished your work quickly because the heat was no longer tolerable.

“fuck....” you muttered under your breath, standing up and started pacing around.

ryland was still busy with his duct-taped-computers, probably working on the algorithm to translate rocky's melodic language.

he stopped typing on the keyboard and grabbed his notebook, writing something there now.

your paces halted. and unfortunately your brain decided that right now was the perfect time to let your eyes wander to his arms out of all places.

you didn’t know why but it just happened.

you didn't get to stop yourself. you brain drifted, catching on the absolute ridiculous size of his biceps. since when did he work out? the thought of middle school science teacher ryland grace going to the gym and working out during the weekends got more ridiculous the more you think of it.

you should have stopped. should have sat back down and worked or went to take a nap or— oh my god his veins—

you flinched.

jesus, what the fuck?

since when the fuck did you notice that?

nope. absolutely not.

you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose like that might reset your brain.

it didn't.

you sighed, audible enough just to your ears. your gaze flicked, just for a second, and then immediately snapped back to somewhere else.

that was a mistake.

because now you knew, and knowing made it harder not to look again.

your brain, completely unhelpful, decided to supply additional commentary. since when does he have arms like that? it asked, again, like this was new information, like you hadn’t been working side by side with him for months.

you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose. get it together. this was ryland. your crew mate. your friend. the only other human being alive within literal light-years.

and yet—

“oh, for fuck's sake,” you cursed under your breath.

“what?” ryland immediately turned, ears sharp enough to hear you. he looked concerned for a bit.

“nothing,” you said quickly. too quickly.

he adjusted his glasses. “that did not sound like nothing.”

“it’s nothing.”

ryland tilted his head. a hint of amusement decorating his face.

“you were staring at me,” he pointed out.

you jerked your gaze away. “i was not.”

“you absolutely were.”

“i was not,” you insisted sharper, which would have been more convincing if you hadn’t immediately glanced back at him again.

he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “wow. okay. so it’s not just me. good to know.”

you pressed a hand to your forehead, giving up on your pretenses. “no, it is definitely not just you.”

you paced again a few more steps, trying to shake it off, but it didn’t help. if anything, it made you even more hyperaware of everything. your breathing, the air, him.

and by the fourth hour, denial was no longer an option.

“okay, that's it.” you said, pacing now because sitting still felt impossible, “we need to figure out whatever the hell this is.”

“yep,” ryland said, standing up simultaneously.

“define what you’re feeling,” you asked.

he hesitated. “uh, okay. so, scientifically?”

“obviously.”

“i feel.... distracted,” he started, frowning slightly as he tried to articulate it. “like my brain keeps derailing. and also—” he stopped.

he looked at you and held his gaze for a second too long.

“ryland.”

“....also very aware of you,” he finished.

pause.

“define 'aware'. like when you were staring at me?”

“i wasn't—” he stopped, then frowned, like he was trying to catch his own thoughts mid-escape. “okay, maybe i was.”

you crossed your arms. “why?”

“i don’t know,” he said immediately, which somehow felt worse than any actual answer. “i just— looked up and— there you were.”

“i’m always here!”

“yes,” he said, a little too quickly. “i am aware of that. conceptually. but right now it’s.... more noticeable.”

you stared at him.

“more noticeable.” you repeated.

he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “that sounded weird.”

“it sounded very weird.”

“i meant it in a normal, non-weird way!”

“there is no version of that sentence that is normal, ryland!”

“you were staring at me too!” he reminded.

you opened your mouth, then shut it again, abandoning whatever argument you were about to attempt. he got you there.

then you sighed. you realized that you both seem to be doing that a lot today.

“you know what? nevermind. just— are there any other symptoms? like what, hormones? perception? impulse control?”

“all of the above, probably.”

you exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to think. maybe it was—

“the dust,” you said suddenly, stopping in your tracks.

he went still. “what?”

you pointed at the cylinder. “it has to be that.”

“yeah,” he said, nodding slowly like he just pieced all the puzzles together now. “yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, that makes sense. mysterious alien substance, unknown effects, sudden onset of—” he gestured vaguely between you “—this.”

you raised an eyebrow. “'this?'”

“i don’t have a better word!”

“well, find one!”

“i’m a scientist, not emily brontë!”

you dragged both hands down your face. “oh my god.”

“okay,” you continued. “let's not panic. let us all calm down. so, we agreed we got exposed to an unknown particulate substance.”

“yep.”

“we’re experiencing.... thermal dysregulation.”

“yep.”

“and—” you hesitated, “—behavioral anomalies.”

he made a small, distressed noise. “that is a very scientific way to say that i cannot stop staring at your lips.”

you frowned. “you were staring at my lips?”

“and you were staring at my arms! we can do this all night!” he said defensively.

“did you just quote the sequels— nevermind. not important.”

you pressed your lips together. which, unfortunately, made his eyes drop there again.

you both noticed, and you both looked away at the same time.

“okay,” he said, pacing once, like movement might fix this. “okay, okay, okay, okay, we can figure this out. we always figure things out.”

“right,” you said, latching onto that. “we analyze.”

“we observe.”

“we hypothesize.”

“we do not panic.”

“we are absolutely not panicking.”

you were both very clearly panicking.

“let’s list everything again.” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “all symptoms. no judgment.”

“no judgment,” you agreed.

“elevated body temperature.” he started.

“check.”

“heightened sensory awareness.”

“check.”

“uh....” he hesitated, visibly struggling. “increased.... focus on.... specific.... features?”

you folded your arms tighter. “check.”

“compulsive attention,” he added weakly.

“check.”

he swallowed. “and a— a noticeable shift in, uh—”

“attraction?” you said bluntly.

he closed his eyes. “yeah. that.”

the word hung there, heavy but accurate.

you both went very still. because once it was said like that, clean, clinical, undeniable, something in your brain clicked into place.

not just the symptoms.

the pattern.

your mind started pulling threads together, faster now. the dust. the delivery method. the lack of any visible organism. the immediate onset being minimal, then escalating over time.

you frowned, thinking harder.

“okay,” you said slowly. “if this were any known terrestrial system, particulate exposure with delayed onset behavioral changes would suggest—”

“toxins,” he said automatically.

“but there’s no impairment,” you countered.

“cognitive function is intact. motor function is intact. we’re not disoriented.”

“right,” he said, catching up. “so not a neurotoxin.”

“and not a pathogen,” you added. “no immune response. no inflammation.”

“so it’s not attacking us.”

“it’s affecting us.”

you both went quiet again, thinking.

he ran a hand through his hair, pacing again, faster this time. “okay, so— delivery system: aerosolized particulate. effect: behavioral modification. targeted toward—”

he stopped.

you watched it happen. the exact moment the realization hit him.

his entire posture went rigid.

“....no,” he said.

your stomach dropped. “what?” you asked, even though something in you already knew but refused to acknowledge it.

he looked at you. then away. then back again, like he wished reality would swap out for a better option.

“no, no, no, no, no, no,” he muttered, shaking his head. “that’s— that’s not—”

“ryland,” you said, sharper now. “what.”

he gestured helplessly toward the empty cylinder. “there were no organisms. no plant matter. nothing visible. which means whatever this is, it doesn’t rely on traditional biological structures.”

“okay....?”

“which means,” he continued, words picking up speed like he couldn’t stop them now, “it could be a synthetic analog. or an alien biochemical system that doesn’t follow earth-based taxonomy. something that mimics a known function without the same physical form—”

“ryland.”

he stopped and looked at you.

you held his gaze.

“say it.”

he hesitated. like if he didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be real.

“....on earth,” he started, carefully, “there are airborne particulates that influence behavior in very specific ways.”

your chest tightened.

“they’re typically produced by plants,” he went on. “released into the air. inhaled. they trigger physiological responses that.... alter attraction. increase reproductive drive. reduce inhibition—”

your breath caught.

he exhaled, defeated.

“....pollen,” he finished.

silence.

thick.

absolute.

you stared at him.

he stared back.

“that’s not possible,” you said, even as your brain was already connecting it. "that's not fucking possible. what the fu—”

“i know,” he said quickly. “i know. there were no plants. there’s no visible biological structure. it doesn’t make sense.”

“so it’s not pollen.”

“it’s not plant pollen,” he corrected weakly.

you both paused.

“but it’s doing the same thing,” you said.

“yeah.”

another silence. longer this time.

he let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “that’s— wow. okay. that’s just— fantastic. amazing. incredible. we got hit with alien.... pseudo-pollen that—”

he stopped himself.

you finished it for him. “that makes people.... like this.”

he nodded, looking like he wanted to walk directly into space.

you swallowed. your skin still felt too warm. thoughts still kept drifting back to him.

to his hands. arms. the way he was looking at you right now.

you dropped your hands. wanna know the worst part of this? it's that now that you understood it, it didn’t make it stop. it just made it clearer.

“we’re in trouble,” you said quietly.

he nodded, equally quiet.

“yeah,” he said. “we really are.”

“and rocky just gave it to us with no warning?”

“to be fair,” ryland said, “he might not have known humans would react like this.”

you stopped pacing. “react like what, exactly?”

“like this,” he said weakly. “he probably thinks this is how humans reproduce. like, 'here, have some breeding dust, make more crew for the mission!'” ryland continued.

“oh, jesus.”

another pause.

longer this time.

he shifted his weight. “okay. solution-oriented thinking. we just.... wait it out.”

“wait it out,” you repeated.

“yep. it’s a chemical thing, right? it’ll metabolize, wear off, we go back to normal, and we never speak of this again.”

“not even a little bit.” you agreed quickly.

“not even in a funny anecdote way.”

“especially not in a funny anecdote way.”

he removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes shut tight while his other hand was gripping the edge of his desk for dear life. firm, almost rigid, like it was the only thing anchoring him in place. “good plan. great plan. love that plan.”

you stopped pacing and looked at him properly.

really looked.

the flush hadn’t faded, it had deepened. his breathing was just slightly off, not enough to be obvious unless you were paying attention, but you were paying attention now. and the way he was holding himself. tense, contained, like he was actively stopping himself from—

“ryland,” you said slowly.

“yeah.” he did not look at you.

“why are you holding onto the table like it’s about to float away?”

he let out a short, strained laugh.

“because if i don’t,” he said, voice tight in a way that made something in your chest twist, “i might do something incredibly stupid.”

your stomach dropped. “define 'stupid.'”

his eyes flicked up to yours, and whatever you saw there made your breath catch.

“i think,” he said quietly, “you already know.”

pause.

you stole a look at him. ryland had gone very still, hands braced on the edge of the console, head bowed like he was trying to think his way out of this. he looked just as wrecked as you are. tense, flushed, jaw tight like he was grinding through it.

the lab suddenly felt too small, like the walls had inched closer, like the air had thickened into something you had to push through just to breathe. you were still standing too close to each other. close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. close enough that every tiny shift felt amplified. and neither of you seemed able to take that one simple step back.

you both pretended to think. which would’ve been easier if your thoughts weren’t constantly derailing.

“okay,” ryland said finally, too quickly, like he’d been holding the word in his mouth for a while. he wasn’t looking at you. he hadn’t been looking at you for a solid minute now, which somehow made it worse. “solution. we need a solution.”

you nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “yeah. yeah, obviously.”

he paced once, twice, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “we don’t know the duration of the effect. could be hours, could be longer.”

“right,” you said, your voice coming out tighter than you meant.

“it might not get worse,” he said quickly.

you both paused.

“it’s definitely getting worse,” you said.

“yeah,” he admitted. “yeah, that’s fair.”

another stretch of silence followed, thick and charged and deeply unhelpful.

another beat. he stopped mid-pace, suddenly locking eyes on your lips again as you bit the lower one in concentration. a visible shiver ran through him.

you, meanwhile, were transfixed by the way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he breathed. arms. shoulders. that stupid little strand of hair falling over his forehead.

it was ridiculous. you were both adults. professionals. stuck on a ship light-years from home with an entire species depending on you not screwing this up.

and yet.

both of you looked away at the same time.

he continued pacing, then he straightened slightly, like he’d latched onto something solid. “okay. i’ve got it.”

you perked up. “yeah?”

“isolation.”

silence.

“what?” your voice came out small.

“we isolate,” he repeated, more firmly now, like saying it again would make it more reasonable. “separate areas of the ship. minimal contact. we wait for the effects to wear off.”

you stared at him. “you’re kidding.”

“i’m not kidding.”

“ryland, that’s not a solution. t-that’s— what if it gets worse? what if it doesn’t wear off?”

“then we reassess,” he said, easy. “but right now, the safest option is distance.”

you laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “distance? on this ship? we share literally everything. systems, controls, workload—”

“yeah,” he said, gaining momentum, talking faster now. “we separate. different sections of the ship. minimal contact. we only communicate over comms when absolutely necessary. reduce exposure to.... stimuli.”

“stimuli,” you repeated flatly.

he made a small, helpless gesture. “i’m trying to keep this clinical.”

you stared at him. really stared this time.

“ryland,” you said slowly, “we are on a single-crew mission with two people.”

“yes.”

“yao and ilyukhina are—”

“i’m aware.” his voice was tighter this time, jaw clenched.

“we barely manage everything together on a good day.”

“we’ll adjust.”

“adjust?” you let out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking your head. “we’re already compromised. you said it yourself. attention issues, cognitive interference. you think splitting up is going to make that better?”

his jaw tightened. “it removes the trigger.”

“it removes the only person who can help when something goes wrong,” you shot back. “we don’t have backup. we don’t have a third crew member to pick up the slack. if something breaks, and something will break, we need both of us functional.”

“we are functional,” he insisted, but it came out strained, like he didn’t fully believe it.

you took a step closer without thinking.

his entire body reacted.

it was subtle. so subtle you almost missed it. but it was there: the way his shoulders went rigid, the way his breath hitched just slightly, the way his hands curled like he was holding himself in place.

that alone made your point for you.

you gestured between the two of you. “this is not functional.”

he didn’t answer.

you softened your voice, just a little. “we don’t know how long this is going to last.”

“it could wear off in a few hours,” he said, but it sounded more like hope than certainty.

“or it could be days,” you said quietly.

he didn’t argue.

“or weeks or never at all!” you added, pushing it, because you needed him to really think about it, not just cling to the best-case scenario.

“it’s the only plan that doesn’t make things worse. it’s better than the alternative.” he replied.

you stilled. “what alternative?”

he didn’t say anything.

which, unfortunately, was an answer.

you exhaled slowly, your chest tight. “okay. no. we’re not doing this vague shit. we need to actually say it.”

“we really don’t,” he said quickly.

“we do,” you insisted. “because if we don’t, we’re just going to keep circling around it and nothing gets solved.”

he dragged a hand down his face. “no.”

“ryland—”

“no,” he repeated, firmer this time. “we are not— no. that is not the solution.”

you stared at him. you've never heard his voice went that rough. that low. “it’s the only solution that makes sense.”

“it’s not a solution,” he shot back. “it’s—” he stopped, jaw tightening. “it’s not something we should even consider.”

“we both know what this is doing to us,” you pressed, voice low but steady now. “it’s not just going to fade if we sit in separate rooms pretending we’re fine. it’s getting worse.”

“i said no,” he repeated, sharper this time.

“and what happens if it peaks while we’re in the middle of something critical?” you continued anyway. “a maneuver, a repair, a calculation— what then? we just hope we can think straight?”

“we will think straight,” he snapped. “we’re not animals.”

“no, we’re worse,” you shot back. “we’re aware of it and still can’t stop it.”

he looked away first, jaw flexing, like he was trying to clamp down on something.

“we are not going to make a decision like that under the influence of alien—” he gestured helplessly, “—whatever this is.”

“we might not have a choice,” you said.

“we always have a choice.”

“do we?” you asked. “because right now it feels like we’re both in agony and pretending that distance is going to fix it.”

he flinched. barely, but enough.

“you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, quieter now. steadier. like he was forcing the words into place. “okay? whatever this is, it doesn't make that decision for us. you don’t—” he stopped, swallowing. “you don’t owe me anything. not for survival, not for the mission. nothing.”

your expression softened for half a second, before hardening again.

“this isn’t about owing anyone anything,” you said. “this is about reality. about what’s actually happening. we can’t function like this, ryland.”

“we can,” he insisted. “we will.”

“you don’t believe that.”

he didn’t answer.

you stepped closer without thinking. his shoulders tensed immediately, like proximity itself was dangerous.

“look at me,” you said.

he did.

“you’re telling me to isolate,” you said, softer now, but more intense. “to stay away from you, to fight this out on our own, when we both know exactly what would make it stop.”

his breath hitched. just slightly, but he held his ground. “knowing something doesn’t mean we should do it.”

“why not?” you asked. “if it works, if it stabilizes us, if it lets us actually do our jobs.... why not?”

“because that’s not a choice,” he said, the words coming out sharper than he meant them to. “that’s a reaction. that’s the pollen making the decision for us.”

“or it’s us making the best decision with the situation we have,” you countered.

“no,” he said, shaking his head, stepping back now like he needed the space. “no, that’s not the same thing.”

you followed without realizing.

“then what is?” you demanded. “we wait it out and risk compromising the mission? we split up and hope nothing goes wrong? how is that better?”

“because at least it’s ours,” he snapped.

the words hung there. then he froze, like he hadn’t meant to say it that way.

you frowned slightly. “what?”

he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “if we— if we do this, it shouldn’t be because we’re backed into a corner. it shouldn’t be because some alien dust messed with our heads and left us with one option.”

“it’s still us,” you said. “it’s still our choice.”

“is it?” he asked quietly.

that got you. because there was something in his voice now. something deeper than just logic. something personal.

“i don’t want that,” he went on, more quietly now, but more intense for it. “i don’t want.... something like that to happen because we had no other way out. because we were trying to survive it. i don’t want it to be something we look back on and think, ‘we didn’t really choose that.’”

you stared at him.

he looked away again, jaw tight.

“that’s not—” you started, then faltered. “that’s not what this is about.”

“it is for me,” he said.

there was a beat.

“we don’t have the luxury of waiting for perfect conditions,” you said, more gently now. “we have a mission. we need each other functioning.”

“i know,” he said. “i know that.”

“then stop pretending this is something we can just outlast.”

“i’m not pretending,” he said, voice rougher now. “i’m choosing the option where you don’t wake up later and regret it.”

pause.

you blinked at him. your voice came out quieter than you intended. “you think i’d regret it.”

“i think,” he said carefully, “that this isn’t exactly a clear-headed situation.”

you opened your mouth but no argument came out. because he wasn’t wrong.

“i’m just saying that it might fix the problem.”

“at what cost?”

a beat.

he stepped closer. just one step, but it closed the gap enough that the heat surged again, sharp and immediate, both of you feeling it.

his hands flexed at his sides like he was actively resisting the instinct to do something else with them.

“you think you won’t regret that?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “you think we won’t look back at this later and realize we only did it because we didn’t have a choice?”

you didn’t answer right away.

he shook his head, almost to himself. “that’s not…. that’s not how that should happen.”

there was something else in his voice then, something quieter, buried under all the logic and resistance. something that didn’t quite belong to the situation at hand.

“if we’re going to—” he stopped, jaw tightening, then tried again. “if something like that ever happens, it shouldn’t be because we’re trying to survive some alien.... whatever this is. it should be because we actually—”

you watched him cutting himself off. the way his shoulders were locked, the way his whole body looked like it was braced against something internal, something he was refusing to let slip.

“isolating wouldn't work,” you said quietly. “we can’t do this alone. not here. not now.”

“maybe not,” he admitted.

“then—”

“i’m still not doing that,” he cut in.

you blinked. “ryland—”

“i’m not,” he repeated, firmer now. “we’ll figure something else out. we’ll manage it. we have to.”

“even if it makes things harder?”

“yeah,” he said. “even then.”

you searched his face. trying to understand. trying to find the line he wouldn’t cross.

“you’re really that set on this,” you said.

“yeah,” he said quietly.

another pause.

“fine,” you said at last, though it didn’t sound like agreement so much as reluctant acceptance. “we do it your way.”

he nodded once.

“we isolate,” you added. “but if it gets worse—”

“we reassess,” he said immediately.

neither of you moved.

just stood there, separated by a few steps and a whole lot of tension, both of you very aware of how fragile that distance felt.

like it could disappear in a second.

like he might cross it.

like you might let him.

his jaw tightened.

his shoulders went rigid again.

and for a split second, he looked like he might—

but then he turned away.

“i’ll take the lab first,” he said, voice a little rough. “you can have the cockpit.”

you swallowed. “okay.”

“we’ll.... check in. over comms.”

“right.”

—

you weren't sure what time it was, but two things for certain: you were going crazy because sleep refused to come and the ceiling was mocking you.

you had been lying in bed, tangled in your sheets for what felt like hours but was probably just twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, flipping from one side to the other like a rotisserie chicken. the gold dust still simmered under your skin, turning every shift of fabric into slow torture. your tank top clung to your damp chest. your shorts felt too tight, too rough, too everything. you rolled onto your stomach, then flopped onto your back again, kicking the blanket off with a dramatic groan.

“this is stupid,” you muttered into the dark, dragging a pillow over your face like that might solve anything. “this is so fucking stupid. i am the pilot of the hail mary. i’ve navigated black holes in simulations. i should not be this horny because of some stupid alien dust.”

another wave of heat rolled through you, settling low and insistent between your legs. you whimpered softly, pressing your thighs together, but that only made it worse.

your brain refused to calm, looping the same thoughts over and over again.

ryland’s voice.

ryland’s face.

ryland's arms.

ryland's hair.

just him in general. the way he’d looked at you before you separated. the way his voice had tightened. the way his shoulders had gone rigid like he was holding himself together by sheer force.

you groaned softly into your pillow, pressing your face into it like that might smother the thoughts.

with a frustrated sigh, you shoved the covers off and swung your legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor a brief relief against overheated skin. you sat there for a second, breathing, trying to steady yourself before started pacing.

“isolation,” you scoffed under your breath, pacing faster. “yeah, great plan, ryland. fantastic plan, ryland. terrific plan! it was never gonna fucking work.”

you sighed again before stopping to take a deep breath.

“okay,” you said to yourself. “it's fine. it's fine! you're okay. you're doing good. just— breathe. it’ll pass.”

you closed your eyes and tried to focus.

in.

out.

in—

“mhmmph—”

pause.

you blinked an eye open.

what—

“mhmphhh— fuckk—”

—the hell was that?

you tilted your head slightly, listening.

at first, nothing. just the low hum of the ship, steady and familiar. long enough you were starting to think that your brain was playing tricks on you.

but then—

“oh, please— please—”

it was soft and faint. slightly uneven. and came from the other side of the wall.

and the other side of the wall was ryland's room.

you froze. you heard it again. a low, muffled whimper drifted through the thin wall

unmistakenably ryland.

he was in the room next to yours.

awake.

and very clearly not handling this any better than you were.

he was trying so hard to stay quiet, really committing to the bit, but failing miserably. another whimper followed, shaky and desperate, quickly bitten off. the faint, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. a muttered curse. your name, whispered like he was cursing the universe for putting him in this position.

heat flooded your face so fast you probably matched the emergency lighting. you stood there, mouth slightly open, ears straining despite yourself.

is he—

no.

no way.

no fucking way.

another moan, softer this time, but unmistakably him. he was doing a terrible job at being stealthy. the wall might as well have been paper.

you paced faster, hands flapping uselessly at your sides like a malfunctioning robot.

dilemma time. big, stupid, pollen-fueled dilemma.

option #1: stay in your room. be responsible. respect the isolation plan he’d suggested earlier like the noble scientist he was. suffer in dignified silence until the dust wore off. maybe meditate. or count rivets in the ceiling. very professional.

option #2: march over there, bang on his door, and finally deal with whatever this is, together.

you stopped, pressing your ear against the cool wall, right where the sounds were loudest. another whimper from his side. your stomach flipped. your body voted very enthusiastically for option two.

“but he said isolate,” you argued with yourself in a harsh whisper. “he was all ‘we’re professionals, we can handle this.’ what if i go over there and he freaks out? what if it gets awkward? what if he opens the door with his dick in his hand and we both just scream?”

you frowned at the mental image. not very flattering thing to think about.

“fuck, no. i’m strong. i’m a pilot. i’ve done evasive maneuvers in asteroid fields. i'm on a mission to save earth. i can handle one night of alien-induced horniness without climbing my crewmate like a tree.”

you resumed pacing, arms crossed tight over your chest like that would somehow contain the fire. three steps. turn. three steps. the sounds from his room continued. another low moan, a bitten-off “shit” that sounded way too sexy for your sanity.

you stopped again, staring at your door like it was the airlock to certain doom.

your hand hovered near the door panel. you yanked it back like the button burned.

“no. professional boundaries. we have a mission. we have dignity. we—”

a particularly broken moan cut through the wall, followed by a muffled thump like he’d smacked his head against something.

you groaned, dragging both hands down your face. “okay, fuck it. i’m weak. i’m so fucking weak. if he doesn’t want this he can yell at me tomorrow when the pollen wears off.”

a beat.

“if.... it ever wears off.” you added.

before you could talk yourself out of it again, you marched to the door, heart hammering like a faulty thruster. you raised your fist and banged on his door, loud, impatient.

no turning back now.

inside, everything went dead silent. then frantic shuffling. something clattered to the floor. then the door finally slid open.

ryland stood there, flushed crimson, hair a disaster, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. his glasses were crooked. shorts wrinkled, barely even on, one hand still guiltily hovering near his waist. his eyes widened comically when he saw you.

you didn’t give him time to speak.

you grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him forward, and kissed him hard.

he made a surprised noise that got immediately swallowed when you kissed him, the door sliding open the rest of the way as he stumbled back into the room.

for a second, he didn’t move. just froze, like his brain had short-circuited.

then his hands came up instinctively, one landing on your waist, the other tangling in your hair as he kissed you back with pent-up desperation. you stumbled forward into his room, mouths still locked, and kicked the door shut behind you with your heel.

the kiss was messy at first. noses bumping, tongues fighting. but neither of you cared. you poured every ounce of frustration and heat into it. his back hit the wall and he pulled you closer, hips pressing against yours so you could feel exactly how affected he still was.

after a long, dizzying minute you forced yourself to pull back just enough to breathe.

“wait, wait,” you said, out of air. “you were the one who wanted to isolate. if you want me to stop.... say it. we can pretend this never happened—”

“no— no, no, no, no. don’t you dare,” he said immediately.

you blinked. “what?”

“don’t say we can stop and then actually mean it,” he said, like that was a personal attack. “that’s— no. absolutely not.”

you huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “you were literally the one arguing against doing this.”

“i know,” he said. “i was wrong. past me was— misguided. naive. deeply out of touch with current events.”

“current events,” you repeated.

“yes,” he said, nodding once, very serious about this. “new data has come to light.”

“and that data is?”

“i need you.”

a beat.

“please.” he stared at you, eyes dark and glassy, lips swollen. his hands flexed on your hips like he was scared you’d vanish. for a heartbeat the only sound was your ragged breathing and the low hum of the ship.

“i tried— i really fucking tried to be good. but this dust is evil and you were just right next door and you look too good in that tank top and i’ve been losing my mind for hours. please.”

you raised an eyebrow, smirking. “oh, so that's what the staring was for earlier?”

“i.... well, i mean— yeah.” he stammered, realizing there is no point of pretending anymore.

you couldn't help but chuckled. “yeah, okay. the feeling's mutual.”

“yeah?” he laughed too.

“yeah.”

“can i kiss you again then?”

you smiled. “thought you'd never asked.”

this time it was him who surged forward, kissing you slower this time, deeper, letting the burn build deliberately. his glasses fogged up immediately, the lenses clouding over from the combined heat of your breaths. he didn’t take them off. didn’t even reach for them. just kept kissing you through the haze, like the fog made it somehow hotter. your fingers traced his jaw, his neck, the rapid flutter of his pulse. he shivered under your touch.

you walked him backward toward the bunk without breaking the kiss. when his knees hit the edge he sat down heavily, pulling you with him so you straddled his lap. the new position pressed you right against the hard line of him, making you both gasp into each other’s mouths.

slowly, you started undressing each other. your hands slid under his shirt, palms mapping the warm, flushed skin of his chest. he lifted his arms so you could tug it off. you tossed it somewhere behind you, leaving him in only his glasses. he returned the favor, peeling your tank top up inch by inch, kissing every new strip of skin he revealed. your stomach, the underside of your breast, your collarbone, until the fabric was gone.

his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. you rose up on your knees so he could slide them down your thighs along with your underwear. you kicked them away. then you focused on his shorts, tugging them down slowly, savoring the way his breath hitched when you freed him.

naked now, you settled back onto his lap, skin to skin. the contact was electric. you took your time, rocking gently against him without taking him inside yet, just feeling the slide and heat while you kissed him lazily, tongues tangling in slow, filthy strokes.

you reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around him. he groaned loud, head tipping back, the sound vibrating through his chest. “fuck— your hand feels so good,” he breathed, hips twitching up into your grip. “please don’t tease me— been dying for this.”

“you sure about this?” you murmured against his lips between kisses, giving him one last out even as your hips rolled in a slow, teasing circle.

“never been more sure of anything in my life,” he breathed, hands gripping your thighs.

you laughed softly into his mouth, the sound turning into a moan when he shifted his hips just right. one of his hands slid between your bodies, fingers exploring with gentle, curious touches until you were trembling.

only then did you reach down, wrap your hand around him, and guide him to your entrance. you sank down inch by torturous inch, both of you moaning at the slow, perfect stretch. when you were fully seated you stayed there for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in while your bodies adjusted.

then you started to move.

slow rolls of your hips at first, savoring every drag and press. ryland’s head tipped back, exposing the long line of his throat. you leaned in to kiss along his jaw, his neck, sucking lightly at his pulse point while you rode him with deliberate, unhurried patience. his hands roamed your back, your sides, your breasts, learning every curve like it was new data he needed to memorize.

gradually the rhythm built. your movements grew deeper, harder. the bunk creaked steadily. soft gasps and moans filled the small room. his fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your rhythm falter and your breath catch.

“ryland— fuck, just like that—”

“you feel so good,” he panted, voice breaking on the words. “oh, baby— don’t stop, please—”

it hit you like a solar flare. you cried out his name loud, clenching around him hard, hips stuttering through the waves. he followed right after, burying himself deep with a broken, guttural moan.

“yes— fuck— coming— inside you— god, you’re perfect— take it all—”

you collapsed against his chest, both of you trembling, hearts hammering in sync. his arms wrapped around you tight, holding you close while the aftershocks rolled through, glasses still fogged and slightly askew on his nose.

for a long moment, neither of you said anything.

you were half sprawled across him, one leg tangled with his, your arm draped somewhere over his chest like you’d both simply.... collapsed and decided to stay that way. the room was quiet except for your breathing, slowly evening out, though not nearly fast enough to feel normal.

ryland was staring at the ceiling.

very intently.

like it had just revealed the meaning of life and he was still processing it.

“....so,” you said eventually.

“so,” he echoed.

another pause.

you shifted slightly, propping your chin on his chest so you could look at him. “on a scale from one to ‘we should never speak of this again,’ where are you at?”

he didn’t look at you.

“....i’m considering faking amnesia.”

you snorted. “wow. rude.”

“i’m kidding,” he said quickly, then paused. “mostly.”

“mostly,” you repeated.

“okay, no, that sounded worse than i meant it,” he said, finally turning his head toward you, eyes wide like he was trying to fix it in real time. “i don’t regret it. i do not regret it. i just—” he gestured vaguely with one hand, which was difficult considering you were partially pinning him down, “—need a second to emotionally catch up with my own life choices.”

you raised an eyebrow. “your life choices led you to space.”

“for the record, i did not consent to that.”

fair, but you ignored him. “and then to alien pollen.”

“unfortunately, yes.”

“and then to me.”

he hesitated.

“that part i’m less willing to categorize as a mistake.”

you stared at him for a second.

then narrowed your eyes. “that was almost smooth.”

“thank you,” he said. “i panicked halfway through it.”

“i could tell.”

another stretch of quiet settled in, but it was different now. looser. like the tension that had been buzzing under your skin all day had finally burned itself out, leaving something softer in its place.

“....for the record,” you added after a moment, “your ‘being quiet’ plan earlier? terrible.”

he made a strangled noise. “oh my god.”

“like, impressively bad,” you continued. “i heard everything.”

“you did not hear everything.”

“ryland.”

he covered his face with both hands, cheeks heated up. “i would like to be ejected into space now.”

“denied,” you said immediately. “we need you for the mission.”

“please, just kill me already.”

“also,” you added, very seriously, “for future reference, the wall is not soundproof.”

“i have gathered that,” he said into his hands.

“just making sure.”

he peeked at you through his fingers. “....are you going to bring this up again later?”

“oh, constantly.”

“i walked into that one.”

“you really did.”

another quiet moment passed.

you could feel his breathing steady under you now, less uneven, less strained.

“....hey,” he said after a while.

“yeah?”

there was a small pause before he spoke again, like he was choosing his words more carefully this time. “are you okay?”

it caught you off guard.

not the question itself, but the way he asked it. steady. grounded, like he needed the answer to mean something.

you blinked, then nodded. “yeah,” you said, softer. “i am.”

he turned his head then, just enough to look at you properly, like he needed the visual confirmation to go with it.

“okay,” he said finally, the word carrying more weight than it should have. “i'm glad.”

you nudged him lightly with your shoulder, a small, grounding kind of contact. “you?”

he let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck somewhere in his chest for a while. “yeah. i think so. which is honestly surprising, given.... everything.”

another quiet stretch settled over you, but it wasn’t awkward. not really. just calm, in a slightly surreal, post haze kind of way.

eventually, the exhaustion caught up with you. real, actual exhaustion this time. not the restless, jittery kind from before.

you shifted closer without thinking, your head settling more comfortably against him.

he stilled for half a second then relaxed. his arm tightening just slightly around you.

“also,” he added, voice softer now, almost drowsy, “for the record…. i don’t regret it.”

your chest tightened. you didn’t lift your head, didn’t look at him. just let the words settle somewhere quiet inside you.

“…me neither,” you murmured.

that was the last coherent thing either of you said.

before he could get the chance to say thank you, you were whisked away by another player for help. you could feel those icy blue eyes intensely burning into your backside.

“he’s watching,” bukayo muttered under his breath, as you helped your brother and his friends.

a group of twenty-some odd men attempting to adjust bow ties was disastrous, and when you heard of the attire you knew of a certain someone who couldn’t even put in cuff links, that would need help.

“good.” you muttered, taking a step back to ensure the tie was even, “how do I look?”

rolling his eyes, bukayo ignored your question and found his teammates to chat with, leaving you alone.

you didn’t dare turn in his direction. declan rice had a way with his eyes that could just about melt anyone into nothing. he had lips that could make anybody come in the matter of seconds. and he knew this. your praise, your moans, and the way you came undone all fed his ego to know the look he was burning into you, was enough to get you running.

but patience had to be a virtue. he needed to keep his wet dick in his pants until the patrons were fed and the donations were made.

—

the laughter of the billionaires irritated his soul, but he made conversation and thanked the donors for their time and money.

when he had the chance between smiling and shaking hands, he’d search the room for you. occasionally, he’d never get the chance to find your silky black dress under the dim lights, but when he did? he was a goner.

you were situated among other ladies. chattering about what? he didn’t know, but he loved seeing you animated and in fits of laughter. there once was a time he swore you had zero emotions. that was of course until his fingers were inside you and you audibly moaned with pleasure.

“he’s looking for you again.” tolami sarcastically groaned, though she secretly loved watching a man pin over her boyfriends sister.

“let him look.” you said readjusting your posture. you barely made a glance his direction most of the night, but you knew where he stood. his laughter echoed through the room. loud, he always was.

—

his fingers splayed across your ass, pinching the cheeks slightly you leaned into his touch letting him know it felt good.

“finally,” his words whispered across your skin sending a chill down your spine, “I’ve been waiting for this.” he sunk his lips into the skin of your neck, pulling you into his front side.

alone in the privacy of the restroom, you let him roam your body like he’d never done it before. he knew every curve, dimple, dip, and stretch mark like somebody were to study a map.

“show me,” you say feeling the air leave your lunges as he sunk his teeth nipping at your exposed skin before sinking down to his knees and turning you to face him.

careful not to tear the silk, he hiked up your dress before pressing you into the sink snd spreading you open for his mouth.

you couldn’t help but whimper feeling his warm tongue lick the slick of your folds. your pussy was throbbing, ready to explode.

Declan took his time in showing you just how you made him feel. he moved achingly slow taking in all of you while you panted like a track star with his name rolling off your lips.

he liked hearing you struggle to compose yourself, he felt the same way the whole night. if this meant his tongue would edge you until you no longer could hold up a fight, he was right there with you. he could feel himself hard dripping in precum.

he took one look up at you, and when your eyes met his, you couldn’t hold back. it was that look you avoided earlier, except now you couldn’t avoid it. not when it had your cum all over his lips.

licking the remnants off, he stood up allowing your dress to fall back down your hips, “you have no idea what you do to me.” he hefted a sigh, looking past you in the mirror to readjust his bow tie.