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The first warning sign was the coffee.
Not the first cup, that had been normal. Not the second either, because everyone on base had starting operating on caffeine and spite somewhere around the third week of the Petrova project, and Ryland grace was not special in that regard no matter how many times he tried to claim his body processed stress “with surprising efficiency.” The third cup had been concerning. The fourth had been criminal.
The fifth was the one you confiscated.
Ryland looked at your hand as you lifted the mug away from him. Then he looked at your face, then back at the mug; as if hoping you had only temporarily displaced it and would return it to its rightful owner if he stared with enough scientific disappointment.
“You’re stealing,” he mumbled, eyes narrowing. “I’m saving your life,” you shook your head, eyeing the half empty cup you had confiscated. “That’s very dramatic, you know.” You frowned at him, raising a brow at his comment. “You tried to stir it with a pen.” Ryland blinked slowly, before glancing down at the pen still in his hand. “It was intentional.”
“No, it wasn’t.” You scoffed softly. Ryland shrugged his shoulders. “It could have been.” Unbelievable, really. “You also called Stratt ‘Mom’ twenty minutes ago,” you added, a small smirk now tugging at your lips. Ryland’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. For one beautiful second, you thought you had won. Then Ryland lifted a finger. “In my defense-” “No.” “-there are psychological implications to authority figures in high-stress environments-” “Ryland,” you sighed. “-and i think, given the circumstances, it was a very normal mistake.” You stared at him for a few moments, half expecting him to continue. He didn’t.
“You’re going to bed.”
He made a face at you like you had suggested launching him directly into the sun. “I am absolutely not going to bed. I’m making progress.” You leaned closer, peeking at the papers he was supposedly working on. “You wrote ‘bees?’ in the margin of this heat transfer equation.” Ryland raised his hands in defense. “That might be relevant later.” You blinked at him. In what world would bees be relevant to the atsrophage situation? “It won't be,” you grumbled instead, shaking your head slightly. Ryland scoffed in response. “You don’t know that.”
“I know you haven't slept in almost two days.”
Ryland waved a hand, dismissive and alarmingly uncoordinated. “Sleep is a construct.” You snorted in disbelief. “Sleep is a biological requirement,” you reminded him, as if the middle school science teacher would ever forget that little fact. “Time is also a construct,” he retorted. He was definitely out of it. “You teach science.” “I teach science beautifully.” He gave you a lopsided grin, as if he just said the most brilliant thing in the world. Whatever that was.
“You put your glasses in the fridge twenty minutes ago,” you smirked, crossing your arms as you watched him. His hand slowly moved up to his face, feeling the absence of his glasses. You watched the realization slowly crawl across his expression. It was almost impressive how many emotions he managed in three seconds; confusion, horror, betrayal, and then a strange, scholarly acceptance, as though this was not the worst thing that had happened to him today.
“They needed to cool off,” he said, shrugging. You stared at him, unsure how to truly respond to such a…wild claim. "Wouldn't they be better warm? Wouldn’t the metal parts hurt the skin if too cold?” you asked, genuinely trying to figure out his train of thought. He stared at you, the gears practically visible as they turned in his head. He chose to shake his head, muttering something under his breath as he walked to the mini fridge to grab the now strikingly cold glasses. He set them on the table as he slowly sat down again.
You pinched the bridge of your nose. Somewhere behind you, the fluorescent lights hummed with a sound you were beginning to associate with madness. The base had never felt smaller than it did in recent times. There were too many people, too many calculations, too many monitors, too many voices bouncing off the walls and narrow corridors. Everyone was tired. Everyone was tense, carrying the weight of an extinction even like it was something that could be managed with enough whiteboards.
But Ryland carried it differently.
He made jokes, rambled, overexplained things. He filled silence with facts no one had asked for and moved from station to station like he could outrun the fear if he just kept his brain busy enough. At first, you admired it. Then you worried about it. Now he was staring at the empty space where his coffee had once been with the betrayed expression of a man abandoned by his closest friend.
You softened despite yourself.
“Ryland,” you sighed. “You need to sleep.” He shook his head. “I need to finish this.” Finish what, exactly? Burning a hole into the table with his eyes? “No, you need to sleep before you start seeing things,” you said softly, not sure if he was perhaps seeing little astrophage dancing in front of him. Hopefully not.
He scoffed. “I am not going to start seeing things.” You glanced at the spot on the table, then back to him. “You’re staring a hole through the metal right now.” He blinked, turning to look up at you. “I was deep in thought.” It was your turn to scoff now. “You forgot the word for ‘chair’ earlier.” You pointed out. It was comical when it happened, but it was clearly just the tip of the iceberg now. “I said ‘sitting platform.’ That’s not wrong.” Maybe in any other situation. “Normal people still call it a chair,” you groaned.
He huffed, turning back to the many papers in front of him. “Twenty more minutes.”
“No.”
“Ten.”
“No.”
“Five?”
You let out a loud sigh. “You’re bargaining with bedtime.” “I’m negotiating with an unreasonable party.” You ran a hand over your face, feeling your brain cells melting away with his. “You’re going to your quarters.”
“I’m in the middle of something.” He sounded like a stubborn child now, refusing to go to bed when they had school in the morning. “You’re always in the middle of something,” you retorted, your hands finding their place at your hips. Ryland scoffed as he shrugged his shoulders, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Yeah, that’s called having a job.” “That’s called avoiding basic human maintenance.”
He turned in his chair, clearly prepared to argue further, but the notion was a mistake. His eyes unfocused halfway through and his hand shot out to catch the edge of the table. You were already moving before he could pretend it hadn’t happened. “Okay,” you said, setting the mug down far out of his reach. “That’s it.” Ryland waved you off. “I’m fine.”
“You almost fell out of the chair,” you huffed. “Chairs are unstable,” he said almost pitifully. “Ryland.” “Fine.” He looked wounded. “But only because you said my name like that.” You frowned. “Like what?”
“Like you were about to start using small words.”
“I was.”
“That’s hurtful.” He stood with the dignity of a man who was trying very hard not to sway. Then he swayed anyway. You quickly caught his arm. Ryland looked down at your hand; for a second all the fight went out of him. His expression softened into something dazed and unguarded. “Oh,” he said quietly. “You’re warm.” Your grip tightened a little. “And you’re exhausted.” He shook his head slightly. “I’m observant.” You sighed in despair. “You’re barely upright.”
“That too.”
You guided him into the corridor before he could change his mind. He walked beside you with his shoulder brushing yours every few steps, mumbling half-formed thoughts about astrophage, heat tolerance, and whether it was possible to make a coffee that counted as a meal if it had enough additives. “It’s called soup,” you sighed. “What?” He turned his gaze toward you as you walked. “Coffee with enough additives to count as a meal. That’s soup.” Ryland frowned. “That is the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.” You frowned, thinking for a moment. “I could say something worse, if you’d like.”
That made him smile.
It was small and crooked and far too pleased at the threat.
You were almost to his quarters when Ryland stopped; he didn’t even slow down beforehand. Just a full stop. You nearly walked into him. “Ryland?” He was staring upward. You followed his gaze to the ceiling, half expecting an alarm light or a damaged ceiling or, with your luck, some new impossible crisis that would keep everyone awake for another thirty hours. There was nothing; just the long strip of ceiling lights buzzing above you. Ryland lifted one hand and pointed.
“Oh,” he breathed. “Look at the stars.”
You stared at him, then at the lights, then back at him. He looked genuinely awed. “Ursa Major,” he said, voice soft with wonder. “So beautiful.” For a moment, you were speechless. There were many things you could have said; responsible things, concerned things, deeply sarcastic things. Instead, all that came out was a soft “Ryland.” “Mm?” He didn’t look at you; eyes fixed on the lights as they buzzed overhead. “We’re inside.” He didn’t lower his hand. “Those are ceiling lights,” you added. There was a long pause as his eyes narrowed.
You watched him study the lights with the intense focus of a man trying to determine whether the universe was lying to him personally. Then he whispered, “Are you sure?” You pressed your lips together; you couldn’t laugh. If you laughed, he would never survive it, and neither would you. “Yes,” you said carefully. “I’m sure.”
“Huh.”
His hand fell back to his side as he stood in silence. Then, with complete sincerity, he said, “Still pretty.” Your heart did something deeply inconvenient and you shook your head in response. “Oh my god,” you muttered. “You are so tired.” “I’m appreciating my surroundings,” he corrected you. “You just thought indoor lighting was a constellation,” you frowned, glancing back up at the ceiling. “It was a poetic interpretation.”
“It was almost a medical emergency.”
“You’re being dramatic again.”
You sighed. “Come on, Galileo.”
He let you guide him the rest of the way, though he kept glancing up as if the lights might change their mind and become stars if he caught them at the right angle. By the time you got him to his quarters, Ryland was fading fast. His room looked exactly how you expected it to look: papers stacked in places they shouldn’t be stacked, a half-finished cup of something on a shelf, two books open facedown, and a blanket shoved toward the foot of the bed like he had personally offended it.
“Sit,” you demanded, gesturing to his bed. “I can sit without instructions.” He sat too close to the edge of the bed and immediately tipped sideways. You caught him by the shoulder. “Clearly.” He scoffed at your words. “I was testing gravity.”
“Gravity clearly passed.”
“With flying colors.”
You crouched in front of him and tapped the toe of one shoe. “Shoes off.” Ryland looked down at his feet, then at you, then at his feet again. “Wow,” you said softly. “You really are gone.” “I know how shoes work.” “Prove it.” He bent forward, grabbed at his laces, and somehow made the knot tighter. You gave him ten seconds, then you sighed and gently pushed his hands away. “I had that,” he protested. “You absolutely did not,” you muttered, working at the laces in hopes that you could undo his mishap. “I was close,” he sighed. Your gaze flicked up to him quickly, raising a brow. “You were creating a new kind of knot.”
“It might have had applications.”
“In what field?”
He looked at you very seriously. “Shoes.” You had to turn your face away for a second. “Don’t laugh,” he scoffed. “I’m not.” The look on his face gave you the idea that he didn’t believe you, but he didn’t voice it.
You got his shoes off, then convinced him to stand just long enough to pull the blanket back. He was half asleep by the time you guided him under it, still mumbling something about fluorescent constellations and the emotional limitations of ceiling architecture. “There,” you sighed, tucking the blanket around him. “Sleep.” Ryland’s eyes were already closed. “Twenty minutes.” Not again.
“No.”
“Thirty.”
“Eight hours.”
“That’s excessive.”
You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. He eventually stopped fighting back, thank God. You watched him for a moment, making sure he was actually settled. His face had gone soft in the low light, all the sharp worry and restless intelligence finally blurred by exhaustion. Without the constant motion, without the frantic talking, he looked younger. Gentle. Too easy to care about.
That was the problem with Ryland Grace; he was funny until he was endearing, endearing until he was dangerous. Dangerous until you found yourself standing in his quarters at some unreasonable hour, wondering how long you could get away with looking at him before it became pathetic. You cleared your throat and stepped back.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Goodnight, Ryland.”
You made it exactly one step when fingers closed around your sleeve. Not tightly, but enough to stop you in your tracks. You looked down. Ryland’s eyes were still closed. “Stay,” he mumbled. Your breath caught. “Ryland.” “Mm?” “I have my own room.”
“And you need to sleep.”
His fingers curled a little more into the fabric as he spoke. Using your own words against you; it should be illegal. But the words were quiet and sleepy, hitting you with unfair force. You stared at him, helpless. “I can stay in my own room.” His brow furrowed, as if even half-conscious he was trying to solve the problem of your leaving and found it unacceptable. “Can’t sleep,” he murmured. You sighed. “You’re already asleep.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“No.”
You hung your head in defeat. “Why can’t you sleep?” A long silence followed, then he spoke, very softly. “You’re leaving.” That wasn’t fair in the slightest. You looked up at the ceiling. The lights were still lights. Unfortunately, no constellation appeared to offer guidance. “Ryland,” you said, weaker this time. He gave your sleeve one small tug. That was all; one tiny, tired request. And because you were apparently much less rational than you liked to believe, you sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Fine,” you whispered. “Until you fall asleep.” Ryland hummed, content. “You’re already asleep,” you added. “No.” More arguing. “You’re impossible,” you sighed, watching him. “Warm,” was all he mumbled in response. “That’s not an answer.” “Good answer.”
His hand slipped from your sleeve only to find your wrist instead. Then, with the slow determination of someone following instinct more than thought, he pulled you down gently. “Ryland?” you huffed, allowing him to drag you down. He didn’t respond. Instead, he pulled you until you laid next to him, then rested his forehead against your shoulder. Every thought in your head stopped. You sat completely still, afraid that if you moved, he would realize what he was doing and pull away. But he only exhaled, long and deep, like the whole universe had finally gone quiet for him.
Your chest ached. “This is ridiculous,” you whispered, trying to kick your shoes off. Ryland made a small sound of agreement and leaned more of his weight against you. “You’re using me as a pillow.” “Mm.” “I’m not a pillow,” you added. “Better.” You shut your eyes, this shouldn’t have affected you as much as it did. “Ryland.” He shifted again. Somehow, impossibly, he ended up with one arm around your waist, his face turned into your shoulder, his breathing evening out almost immediately. He held onto you like you were the last stable object in a universe determined to spin itself apart.
You were trapped. Completely and hopelessly.
You should have moved, should have woken him up. You should have reminded him, and yourself, that this was not what you had come here for. Instead, you carefully adjusted the blanket higher over his shoulder. Ryland sighed; it was the softest sound you had ever heard from him. You looked down at him and felt your resolve collapse into something warm and useless. “Who could say no to you?” you murmured. He didn’t answer, of course. He had finally fallen asleep. For a while, you listened to him breathe. The constant hum of the low lights buzzing overhead faded into the background, cold and artificial and nothing like stars. But after enough time passed, you thought maybe Ryland had been right about one thing.
They were still pretty.
Not because they were stars. Because he had looked at them like they were. Because for one exhausted second, in the middle of fear and science and the end of the world, he had found something beautiful where no one else would have thought to look.
Your eyes grew heavy. You told yourself you would only stay another minute; just one, then you would go.
You didn’t get very far.