Archive of Our Own

Eva Stratt is fully aware that she isn’t good at taking care of herself. She never has been, and it isn’t something she anticipates improving anytime soon. Late nights up working, even before she was appointed supreme leader of Project Hail Mary, forgetting meals, too much caffeine, and keeping everyone else at arm’s length.

What she didn’t expect was someone like Ryland Grace. Snacks pressed discreetly into her hand or on one really strange occasion, into her coat pocket. She didn’t even find the granola bar until she made it back to her room around 2am and pulled the crumbled mess out. Always a fresh water bottle at her seat in a meeting, even if it meant he toted the same untouched one around all day, sliding it toward her every time she sat down and earning himself an eye roll as she reached for her coffee instead. She never finds herself actually minding, even when he somehow sneaks her phone away long enough to add several annoying alarms reminding her to “drink water,” “close your computer,” “get in bed,” and “Stratt, I mean it.” She tilts her head and briefly wonders how he knows her passcode, but doesn’t delete the alarms. It seems that he has a plan to counter every one of her deep-seated bad habits. 

It starts one morning with a slightly scratchy throat, more annoyance than anything. She assumes that, once again, she has simply ignored her water intake for a touch too long. 

She clears her throat a few times during the first meeting of the day, trying to pretend that the discomfort doesn’t exist. She is trying so hard to focus on what is being said that she doesn’t even notice Grace excuse himself and sneak out of the room until he returns, nudging her empty coffee cup out of the way and replacing it with both a chilled water bottle and a freshly steeping mug of Earl Grey, the only caffeine substitute she will accept. 

Stratt spares him just the smallest of quizzical glances and he shrugs, somehow looking both casual and embarrassed at the same time. He turns his attention back to the speaker and after a moment she does the same, although not before taking a tiny sip of the tea. It hurts going down and she actually entertains the idea that this could be more than simple dehydration. 

Eva Stratt does not have the time to be sick, but by the time she is siting in the second meeting of the day (she has three before they even hit lunchtime for fuck’s sake), a pounding has started behind her eyes and the granola bar Grace forced on her is somehow stuck in her throat and sitting badly on her stomach at the same time. Grace rises again to refresh her tea without prompting—how does the man read her mind so easily when no one else has ever come close?—and she catches his wrist as he grabs her mug.

“See if there is any mint instead,” she says quietly when he bends closer. Her voice sounds rougher than she anticipated and she clears her throat again. Holy hell that hurts. “Or even ginger, possibly?”

He nods and she can see the beginnings of real concern in his eyes. For someone so goofy and unprofessional, he is very observant.

“Ms. Stratt, your opinion?”

It takes her just a beat longer than usual to form her thoughts into words, and though the people at the long table don’t seem to notice, or more likely, to care, it doesn’t escape Grace, who lingers until she is speaking in her usual authoritative tone, sore throat be damned. 

It’s a vicious pain, and when she turns her head to cough into her elbow, the force of her abs contracting is enough to make her choke down an actual gag. Her stomach turns over and she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath through her nose. 

She is met by the smell of mint just before a gentle hand falls on her shoulder. 

“It took me a minute to scrounge up some mint tea,” Grace murmurs, taking his seat beside her again. She silently thanks the universe for every little coincidence that brought him into her life at this moment. It’s a silly feeling, but as the tea calms her stomach just enough that she doesn’t feel the need to jump up and race to the nearest restroom, she thinks she can handle a little ridiculousness.

“Thank you,” she says back, her voice low both because of the pain in her throat and also because she can’t afford to show the weakness she now has to admit she is feeling. Grace fixes her with a gaze so full of soft concern that it makes her feel dizzy. Or maybe she really is just dizzy. She can’t be sure. But she is secretly grateful for his attention, even if she would never say it out loud.

Or at least, she is grateful until the end of the meeting, when he makes a fatal mistake. If she were feeling less nauseous or even had a bit of a warning, she may have appreciated his attempt at being positive and giving her something to look forward to. As it stands, however, his description of the casserole he smelled being prepared for lunch is just enough to send her rolling stomach over the edge. 

She barely has time to grab the nearest garbage can before she is leaned over retching into it. There wasn’t much in her stomach to begin with, and the combined acid and mint set her throat on fire and make her eyes stream. A few thoughts cross her mind very briefly: ’Thank God everyone has already cleared out,’ and ’I’m being sick in front of Dr. Grace,’ being the two at the forefront. The last is just a feeling—the comforting feeling of someone carding their fingers through her hair, pulling it ever so gently away from her face and the unfortunate mess she is making, and a second hand resting warmly on her upper back. 

It feels like she heaves forever, but it can only be a few minutes before her stomach finally settles. She remains bent over, breathing heavily and spitting into the garbage can, grimacing at the fact that she can’t flush this away like she could had she made it to a restroom. She doesn’t want to sit up, half because her energy is entirely spent, and half because he doesn’t want to face Grace after such a humiliating display. Logically she knows he won’t judge her for something so completely out of her control, but she can’t help it. Weakness just isn’t something she is willing to show, and yet here she is. 

She is saved by having to make the decision by Grace gently releasing her hair and handing her a handkerchief she supposes he produced from one of his pockets. She takes it gratefully and not without somewhat trembling hands, wiping her mouth and blowing her nose—another embarrassment that she supposes she should add to the quickly growing list. She balls it up and tosses it into the garbage can resting between her feet. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything, and she makes a mental note to replace it stat. Instead, he opens the water bottle and hands it to her.

“Drink,” he says, the command softened by his tone of voice. The water helps, but she is going to need a toothbrush and some mouthwash very soon. 

She sits up, closing her eyes and taking deep breaths until she feels settled enough to open her mouth again.

“I apologize,” she says, and is a little perturbed by the chuckle she hears from Grace. She doesn’t have the energy to turn around and glare at him.

“Who would have thought the first time I ever hear you apologize is for a perfectly natural bodily function?”

She almost laughs at that, a slightly hysterical sound rising within her until she bites it back, afraid to allow any contraction of her stomach muscles. Instead she shakes her head slightly, lifting the water bottle to her lips again. 

“I should be the one saying sorry anyway,” Grace continues, and at this she does open her eyes and turn to him, one eyebrow lifted quizzically. “I think that was my fault. I’m the one who mentioned—” he cuts himself off just before mentioning food again, no doubt clued in by the pained look that crosses her face. “Um—do you feel better? I always feel better after—” he gestures awkwardly to the garbage can sitting in front of her. 

“Yes, actually,” she says, cocking her head and taking stock of her body. Her throat is still killing her, and her head is throbbing properly now, but at least her stomach seems settled for the time being. “I—thank you,” she chooses instead of apologizing again. 

“It’s nothing,” Grace replies with a half shrug. “I used to be squeamish, but then—well, middle schoolers.” He stops there as though it’s enough of an explanation, and she finds that it absolutely is. She suppresses a bit of a shudder and forces herself not to imagine the horrors he has probably seen. “We should cancel the next meeting,” he continues, checking his watch. She has no awareness of how much time has passed, and panics internally at the thought of the next round of science professionals walking into the room to see her like this.

“What time is it?” She grits out, swallowing and wincing at the feeling of the words leaving her. 

“Ten forty-five,” Grace responds, and Stratt sighs. Fifteen minutes until the next meeting. She’s lucky that no one has shown up early. 

“We can’t cancel,” she says. “It’s too close and too important.” Grace rolls his eyes, a gesture that would infuriate her if he were anyone else. That’s a thought to unpack later.

“They’re all important,” he replies, using his fingers to make air quotes. She adds this to her mental list of things that should irritate her but don’t. 

“Yes, they are,” she agrees, and she knows that this isn’t the answer he wants. She sighs, coming up with a compromise. It’s another concession she wouldn’t make for anyone else, and not even for Grace if she weren’t feeling so entirely miserable. “I’ll cancel everything after lunch. There’s enough lead-time for that, and the agenda is mostly status updates from various teams. Those can wait.” The statement leaves her like a tooth being extracted, but she can’t risk tossing her cookies in front of anyone else. 

Grace nods thoughtfully.

“Okay,” he concedes. “But you have to keep sipping this water through the next meeting. Do you want me to find some more tea?”

“No,” she says, not trusting anything but water on her stomach. “But thank you,” she adds, realizing how blunt the statement came out. Even from the corner of her eye, she can tell that he isn’t happy with her answer, but she is a grown woman, damnit, and she can discern what her own body can and can’t handle. 

Sort of.

Instead of speaking, Grace retrieves the garbage can from between her feet. His timing is impeccable, because he is just tying the bag closed as the first few people start filing in for the next meeting. He discreetly slips from the room and just like that, none are the wiser. 

Stratt swallows again and notes the unpleasant taste and feeling in her mouth. A quick glance at her watch tells her that they have ten minutes until the next meeting starts. It’s just enough time, so she excuses herself to hurry back to her quarters and brush her teeth. She crosses paths with Grace just outside the door and murmurs “toothbrush” in response to his worried look.

She has to admit, as she returns to the conference room, that while brushing her teeth did make her feel better, overall she is feeling much worse. She threw a sweater on over the turtleneck she was already wearing, but it hasn’t stopped the shivers that wrack her frame. She takes a deep breath before opening the door, trying to control the trembling and school her expression into something that doesn’t look as pained as she feels. 

It seems to work, because other than a few curt greetings, no one seems to pay her any mind. No one besides Grace, that is, who notes the added layer with a quirk of his eyebrow. His gaze travels down to her wrist, where she wears a hair tie she snagged as an afterthought on her way out of her room. She tugs the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands, hiding the evidence that she still doesn’t trust her stomach. 

The meeting isn’t any longer than usual, but the minutes drag. Stratt finds herself completely zoned out more than once, and she thanks Grace internally each time he anticipates a question coming her way and gives her a little nudge. The last time it happens his hand comes to rest just above her knee where he squeezes to get her attention. He doesn’t pull away, and while she would normally balk at the nerve, she can’t seem to summon the energy to feel anything but the comforting warmth of his palm through her pants. Unfortunately, this also means that he has a front row seat to the next shiver that runs through her. She doesn’t meet his eyes when he glances sideways at her, but she can feel the concern coming off him in waves. 

Finally, after what feels like hours, the meeting comes to an end. People file out of the conference room, and once everyone but Grace is gone, Stratt allows herself to slump forward, her forehead hitting the table with a thump that hurts more than she anticipated. Grace’s hand comes to rest on her upper back, rubbing circles that are annoyingly soothing. 

“Do you need anything?” He asks, quietly. She shakes her head, her forehead rolling back and forth on the cool surface of the table. His hand disappears from her back, and she just stops herself from saying, ‘Except that. I need that.’ She swallows the words away painfully. 

“You should go to your room and get some rest,” Grace continues, and she almost sighs in relief when his hand returns. The weight of it is unnervingly comforting. 

“I need to cancel this afternoon’s meetings,” she rasps, sitting up miserably and pulling her tablet toward her. Grace’s hand slips from her back again, and this time it doesn’t return. Stratt resists the urge to grumble and unlocks the tablet instead, typing out a quick message and hitting send. She closes her eyes, the light from the screen enough to send shooting pain through her temples.

Grace’s phone chimes and he opens the email, quirking an eyebrow again. 

“Stratt,” he says slowly, and the tone of his voice makes her whip around to look at him, her horror only driven away by the spike of pain the movement causes. She groans.

“What did I do?” She asks, beyond the point of caring how pathetic she sounds. “What did I send?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Grace replies. He turns his phone screen so she can see and she squints her eyes against the sudden brightness. “I think it’s in German?”

She swears, also in German, and leans closer. Yes, she did indeed send the message in her native language.

“My phone is giving me an auto translate option,” Grace says, but Stratt snatches the device from him before he can hit the button. She skims the email and is relieved that yes, she did at least send the right message—This afternoon’s meetings are cancelled effective immediately. Use the additional time to continue your research or see to personal affairs. Schedule will resume as usual tomorrow—just in the wrong language. She hands Grace his phone back and rests her chin on her hand as he tells it to translate and finally reads it for himself. 

“That was very kind of you,” he says, and the smirk on his face takes her off-guard.

“Kind?” She asks.

“Yes,” he says, the smirk growing. “Personal affairs. You know what they will interpret that as.”

Stratt rolls her eyes, which also hurts. “The sexual relationships of the crew are no business of mine.”

“You just made it your business,” Grace points out, and if she had more energy she might actually hit him. 

“The way the crew interprets my professional emails is also no business of mine.”

Grace shrugs and pockets the phone, still looking amused. Stratt’s stomach does a flip-flop, an unpleasant sensation that stems both from the steadily returning nausea as well as something she doesn’t have the gumption to acknowledge.

“Let’s get you back to your quarters,” Grace says, letting the email situation go. The thought of him walking her back to her room makes the swooping sensation in her gut stronger, and she pauses for a moment before standing. She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep breath, willing herself not to be sick again.

She stands slowly, testing her weight on unsteady legs. This is ridiculous. This can’t be anything worse than a bad cold, or maybe the flu, but it has run her over like a train and she can’t even trust her own legs to support her. After a moment she releases her iron grip on the table and brushes past Grace, not looking at him as she heads for the door. She hears his footsteps as he follows her closely. 

The cold from outside blows straight through her many layers of clothes, and she actually has to stop and brace herself against the chill. She senses Grace stop just behind her, his hesitation louder than any words. She still doesn’t look at him, choosing instead to squeeze her eyes shut and breathe in the cold air. It makes her shiver but calms her stomach. 

The vat is large, but not so large that it should feel like miles to get back to her room. There is a moment (or two, or maybe even three) where she imagines Grace scooping her up and carrying her the rest of the way, but she would never, could never, ask him for such a thing. It’s bad enough that he is tailing her like a lost puppy, although that isn’t so unusual that anyone they cross paths with should notice. 

They finally make it back to her quarters and it takes her a moment of fumbling with her keys to get the right one in the lock. She steps inside and hesitates at the same moment she feels Grace hesitate behind her. Their thoughts are both loud. Does he follow her inside? Does she close the door in his face? No, he has taken such good care of her today, she at least owes him a thanks. 

She turns to face him but the words fail her. Instead, something absolutely humiliating happens. She feels tears spring to her eyes, and she tries to blink them away without him noticing. He is blurry in her vision now, so she doesn’t know if she has succeeded (and assumes that she probably hasn’t). What is wrong with her? Eva Stratt doesn’t get sick, and she definitely doesn’t cry about getting sick. She clears her throat, wincing again at the pain. 

“Can I make you some more tea?” He asks, his words coming out in a rush before she can speak. She releases a silent sigh of relief, thankful that he extended whatever this is for her without her having to make up an excuse. 

“Yes,” she breathes, hoping that her desperation doesn’t come through in her voice and knowing that it absolutely does. She steps aside to let him in and closes the door behind him gently. She points him in the direction of the small, portable burner eye she has exclusively for the purpose of making tea before bed. She blames the recently acquired habit on him and his concern over her caffeine intake, even if she would never tell him that. 

She wants nothing more than to fall face first onto her bed, and that’s how she knows that she really is sick. She doesn’t nap—never has. 

But she feels disgusting even from the short day she has had. The alternating shivering and sweating has left her skin feeling clammy, and her earlier round of vomiting just added to the nasty feeling that clings to her now. It feels inappropriate to shower with Grace in her room, but she finds that she just can’t bring herself to care. 

Their shoulders brush as she moves past him toward the small dresser, and surely the shiver that runs through her is the fever’s fault. She digs out a set of pajamas that is comfortable while still feeling appropriate—he is still her subordinate, after all. It’s a dark blue shorts set with a long sleeve, button down shirt. Her hands hesitate over a sports bra before she moves along. The shirt will cover enough that she can forego that discomfort, surely. 

She starts to say something to Grace, opening her mouth and then shutting it again when he smiles and nods toward the restroom, already having read her mind as he piddles around the makeshift kitchen space.

“I’m going to see if I can dig up another mint teabag,” he says. “Where are your keys?”

She is so touched by the kindness he is showing her that her throat burns in a way she can’t brush off as soreness this time. She swallows a few times before speaking. 

“On the hook,” she rasps, pointing toward the door. Grace smiles at her again and it almost feels—domestic. She is still processing the unexpected thought when he crosses the room quickly and plants a kiss on her forehead. She jerks back in surprise, and he flinches, eyes wide like he thinks she might slap him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and if her brain was working faster she would laugh at the blush that suddenly washes over his face. “That wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” she whispers, her heart racing. “You just—you might get sick.”

Grace shrugs, a small smile on his face now that he knows he’s not getting yelled at or kicked out. “I don’t care.”

“I do,” she breathes, but she doesn’t. If there is more opportunity for that—if that’s the line they are crossing now, and it takes both of them getting sick to get there, she doesn’t care in the slightest. 

Grace shrugs again. “Go get comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

He grabs her keys and disappears without a backward glance, leaving her staring after him, the spot where his lips touched tingling in his absence. She blinks a few times and then turns, heading into the restroom. 

Stratt doesn’t normally treat showers like a luxury, but she runs the water so hot this time that it feels like her skin is being scalded. Even so, she can’t stop the shivering that wracks her frame now. When she gets out it takes her a few tries to wrap the towel around her, the trembling is so violent. She brushes her teeth again, wanting every bit of the day washed away, and her fingers are shaking so badly that it takes far too long to button her pajama top. 

Grace is already back when she opens the bathroom door, steam following her into the bedroom. He stares, and she notes with some amusement that the flush returns to his face when she reaches up to towel off her hair and her shirt rides up with the movement, exposing her midsection. It’s all the humor she can muster, because the shivering gets worse when the cooler temperature of the bedroom hits her bare legs. 

She sits down hard on the bed, reaching up to comb a hand through her damp hair. She wants badly to braid it so it won’t be damp against her back and tangle while she sleeps, but her arms feel like lead and she lets her hands drop frustratedly to her lap after a few passes. 

Grace is by her side instantly, pressing a hot cup of tea into her hands. She clutches it gratefully, hanging on tightly to keep from spilling it when she shivers again. Grace notices and takes it back, carefully reaching across her to set it on the bedside table. 

“I feel so pathetic,” Stratt finally admits, giving into the frustration she has been feeling all day. She lets her head drop into her hands and feels the bed sink when Grace sits next to her. Everything about this is wrong. He shouldn’t be in her room, on her bed, and she definitely shouldn’t be allowing his hand to rest on her back, his thumb making comforting circles through the fabric of her pajamas that she now realizes are thinner than is probably appropriate (there’s no way he can’t tell she isn’t wearing anything underneath). The last thing she should be considering is asking him to stay, but maybe she can blame the fever for that, too. 

“Everyone gets sick, Stratt,” Grace says, and there is no impatience in his voice. He is endlessly patient with her, and it almost makes her sob. He is the first person in a long, long time who seems to consider the fact that she is actually human. A few tears do escape her this time, but she wipes them away before sitting up, disguising the action by covering a cough. 

“Eva,” she says, meeting his eye, and yes, the line has been crossed. She doesn’t have the energy to pretend anymore. She looks away quickly, shaking hands coming up to her hair again before she remembers that she can’t even braid right now.

“Eva,” he repeats, and the shiver that runs through her this time isn’t from the fever. “What do you want?”

She blinks at him, and you, and stay, almost escape her before she realizes that he’s looking at her frustrated hands still in her hair. 

“Do you know how to braid?” She asks quietly, and he nods, indicating for her to turn and face away from him. 

His hands, so gentle in her hair, bring a few more tears to her eyes, and she lets them escape this time with the knowledge that he can’t see. They fall into her lap as he takes his time, carding his fingers through her hair so similarly to earlier, except now she can truly enjoy the sensation. She hopes he doesn’t notice the goosebumps that break out along her arms and legs as he runs his hands down her shoulders and back after each pass through her hair. It’s such a comforting feeling, and she feels herself relax, almost falling asleep where she sits. 

“You have a fever, Eva,” he says, and the sound of her name in his voice makes her breath catch. How long will it take her to get used to this? But she snorts at the statement. 

“I’m well aware,” she says dryly, and she feels more than hears him chuckle behind her. He stops running his fingers through her hair and starts the motion of braiding now instead. She holds her hand up, allowing him to slip the hair tie from her wrist. He finishes the braid, wrapping the hair tie around the end and then resting his hands on her shoulders. The weight is so comforting. 

“Do you have any ibuprofen?” He asks, and his hands leave her shoulders. She misses them immediately, but she turns, noting with a bit of surprise how close he is sitting to her. Of course he had to get close. Did she expect him to braid her hair from across the room?

“Yes, it’s in the restroom,” she says, and starts to rise from the bed. He puts his hands back on her shoulders, keeping her sitting as he rises and heads into the other room himself.

‘That’s it,’ she thinks miserably. ‘He got up. That was it. He’ll leave now.’ She tries to swallow her disappointment down like the nausea she felt earlier. 

She surprises her, though, by bringing the bottle and sitting back down next to her. She looks at him in surprise when he takes her hand in his and shakes a few of the pills into her palm. She reaches for the tea and uses it to take the medication, wincing a little at the burn. He doesn’t let go of her hand. 

He doesn’t let go of her hand.

The word stay which she so desperately wanted to speak this whole time presses against her teeth and she grits them in protest. Grace pulls his hand away, misinterpreting the tension in her jaw. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. He sets the bottle of medication on her night stand and makes to get up, but she stops him with a hand on his arm. 

“Don’t,” she says, choking on the word before dropping her own hand and looking down at her lap, shame bubbling up inside her. 

“Don’t what?” Grace asks, and his voice sounds hopeful in a way that makes her heart skip a beat.

“Don’t leave,” she finally lets slip. She can’t look at him, but she feels him relax next to her on the bed. He reaches out and tentatively takes her hand again. After another moment of hesitation, she turns her hand over and laces their fingers together. She drops her head into her free hand. “I’m sorry, this is so inappropriate.”

“It’s human,” Grace responds, giving her hand a light squeeze. 

“I’m your boss,” she says, and it comes out much weaker than she intends, and Grace actually laughs.

“You’re everyone’s boss,” he says, and she curses his ability to counter literally every statement she makes. “You’re the world’s boss at this point. Do you think that means you have to do everything alone?”

“Yes,” she whispers, and finds herself embarrassingly choked up again. “Yes, I do. I’m not supposed to—”

“Have people in your corner?” Grace says, and now she does look up at him, swallowing hard against the infuriating tears that have been determined to slip all day. She had almost forgotten how badly her throat hurts, and she groans and reaches for her tea again. Grace starts to let go of her hand so she can move easier, but she hangs on tight, dragging him along with her. “Stratt—Eva, that’s insane. This is literally the hardest job in the world. You are responsible for the world. How can you be expected to do it all alone?”

She can’t stop the tears now, and before she can even register what is happening, he reaches over and brushes them away. She shivers again when he lets his palm rest against her cheek. 

“I really am worried about this fever,” he says, and she lets out a watery chuckle. “Maybe we should take you to medical.”

“No,” she says quickly, although she is touched by his concern. “No, I just want to nap it off. But I don’t want to be—” alone. 

He knows what was left unspoken. He always knows what she leaves unspoken. For someone so unserious, he seems to truly understand people. Namely her. 

“I have some work that I need to get done today,” he says, and her heart sinks so fast she thinks she might just melt through the bed and into the floor. “Let me just go get my laptop from the lab and put someone else in charge of overseeing the afternoon’s assignments. And then…I can come back and sit with you?” Now he’s the one avoiding her eye, but her heart swells again so fast it makes her dizzy. “Just—just to monitor your fever, you know. Make sure it doesn’t get too high. Unless you’d rather let someone else check in on you.” 

“Absolutely not,” she says quickly. She should tell him she’s fine, that he is needed in the lab and that the world is counting on them both. But she just can’t bring herself to. She is just so tired, and yes, it’s from the illness, but there’s also a different kind of weariness, a familiar one, that settles itself deep into her bones. 

Grace’s words replay in her mind. Do you think that means you have to do everything alone?

“Alright,” she agrees finally, and the smile he gives her lifts just a little of the guilt from her shoulders. She scoots up on the bed until she can lean against the pillows, refusing to lay down just yet. She will stay awake until he returns, and she is still on the fence about sleeping in front of him. About letting her guard down that much around anyone.

He hesitates before leaving, shifting from one foot to the other, and she wonders if he’ll kiss her forehead again. Instead he gives her a little smile and turns, grabbing her keys again in a gesture that is becoming a little too familiar. She tries not to be disappointed, knowing that it had to be a one-time thing, a mistake, and that lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place.

By the time he makes it back to her room, she is fighting for her life to stay awake. 

“Stratt,” he admonishes when he notices the tablet in her hands. 

“We’re back to last names now, Grace?” She asks, keeping her gaze trained on the screen. The light is shooting daggers through her aching head, but she couldn’t just completely check out for the day. The number of emails that piled up just in the time it took her to shower and get comfortable is staggering. 

He sighs and drags a frustrated hand down his face, and she hides a small smile from him. 

“Eva,” he remedies, and she is secretly grateful for the fever that serves as an excuse for the shiver that runs through her. 

“You took too long,” she says casually, and now she sees him smile out of the corner of her eye. “I was left to my own devices.”

“Well, now we know that’s a terrible idea,” he replies, crossing the room and reaching for the tablet. She jerks away, ignoring the pain that slices through her head. He follows her, resting a knee on the bed to stretch further, and she suppresses a snort. Oh, this is fun. She forgot what it felt like to have a little fun, even if her body does feel like she’s dying. 

“Are you laughing?” He asks. She has rolled over to face away from him, desperately reading the last line of what was going to be her final email anyway, even without his intervention. She can’t see his face, but his tone sounds stunned and yes, she could get used to this. 

“No,” she chokes out, trying and failing to keep the laughter at bay. “It’s the fever.” She closes the tablet and allows him to tug it from her hands. 

“You’re the one delirious with fever, not me,” he says. “I know what I heard.” He sets the tablet on her bedside table but doesn’t move away. Instead he reaches across her to place a hand on her forehead. “I don’t think the medication is working. You’re still so warm. Are you sure you won’t let me take you to medical?”

“Absolutely not,” she says. She turns back over to face him, leaning up to adjust the pillows behind her so she can sit up properly. “You’ve already seen me like this, and that’s one too many people as it stands.”

A brief flash of hurt crosses his face and she immediately regrets the statement. 

“I don’t mind though,” she amends, quietly. The moment of levity is gone as they stare at one another, each waiting for the other to make a move. She sees Grace’s eyes flick down to where her shirt got rucked up, exposing the thinnest strip of midriff. She doesn’t move, fighting the urge to tug it down because the look on his face is oh so intriguing. 

“I brought crackers,” Grace finally says, breaking the tension in the most absurd way possible. He pulls the sleeve of plain crackers from his pocket. 

“They’re crushed,” Stratt notes, her voice deadpan. 

“And whose fault is that?” Grace counters without missing a beat, a smile flickering across his face again. It’s a relief to see. 

“Yours,” she replies, but she takes the sleeve anyway and rips it open. She cautiously eats one of the crackers, more to placate him than for herself. The dryness hurts her throat, but it doesn’t sit too badly on her stomach, so she gives in and eats a few more. 

“Good,” he says, taking the packet from her when she hands it over and placing it on top of her tablet. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’m dying,” she says, letting her head fall backward onto the pillows. She can sense his eye roll without even looking at him. 

“Who would have guessed that World Dictator Stratt would be such a drama queen when she’s sick?” Grace states. She winces at the nickname. 

He stands from the bed and she silently mourns the proximity. When he returns with his laptop under his arm he pauses, shifting his weight again. 

“I can sit at your desk?” He says. 

Stratt hesitates. That would be the proper thing to do. She could nip this in the bud right now and put some space between them. She should put some space between them. But on the other hand…she really doesn’t want to. He’s already in her room, has been on her bed, has seen her at her lowest—what could a little more hurt?

She pats the bed next to her. “Sit down, Dr. Grace.”

He tilts his head and cocks an eyebrow, not moving, and she sighs. 

“Sit down please, Ryland.”

He nods like he’s steeling himself to do something frightening and cautiously lowers himself onto the bed, hardly even resting any weight on the mattress. She rolls her eyes. 

“Take your shoes off.”

He does as he’s told, toeing his shoes off and swinging his legs onto the bed next to her, carefully keeping to the very edge. He is actually in danger of falling off, and it’s so ridiculous that Stratt sighs. Fuck this. 

She loops an arm through his, tugging him closer and putting her head on his shoulder. She feels him stiffen and briefly regrets her boldness. She stays very still, feeling very much like someone trying not to frighten a startled rabbit, and after a moment he relaxes. He sets his computer down on her bedside table and shifts, finally scooting to sit on the bed properly and pulling his arm from her grasp so he can wrap it around her. He reaches down and tugs the blanket up, covering her bare legs in blessed warmth, but it isn’t until she feels him press a kiss to her damp hair that she allows herself to think this might be alright after all. 

“You’re still warm,” he murmurs, and she feels the words against the top of her head more than hears them. 

“I’ll be alright,” she says back. She doesn’t want to move, scared that she will break whatever spell this is. 

“Are you sure this is okay?” Grace asks, and she pulls back just enough to look him in the eye. 

“It is with me if it is with you,” she replies, and the answer is so out of character that it surprises her. She wonders if maybe the fever is, indeed, eating her brain. 

He reaches up with his free hand and cups her face, running his thumb over her cheekbone gently. 

“Are you sure you’re sure?” He asks again, and the look in his eye tells her that there is more to that question. She wants to be snarky about him asking more than once, but instead she just nods, shocking herself with her own speechlessness. 

It feels like the next logical step when he leans in, but it surprises her nonetheless. His lips feel cool against her own, which means that he will definitely comment on her fever again, but she doesn’t care. She can’t care, not when he’s moving so gently against her that she almost forgets to move in response, to let him know that this is more than okay, and that she’s sure she’s sure she’s sure she’s sure. 

He breaks the kiss faster than she would have liked, and she’s embarrassed to realize that she has leaned in, chasing his lips with her own overheated, chapped ones. 

He’s smiling at her when she opens her eyes, and she’s embarrassed to think she blushes, but who could tell past her flushed skin anyway?

“Okay?” He says again, and it takes her brain a moment to catch up. 

“Dr. Grace,” she says, finally able to string together a coherent sentence. Her voice is lower than usual with the rawness of her throat and the unexpectedness of the kiss. He doesn’t comment on the last name this time, and she watches his face flush with more than a little pride. “If I weren’t on my death bed, I wouldn’t let you leave this room until I was finished with you.”

His jaw drops and she only manages to hold her serious expression for a beat longer before she starts laughing, which quickly transforms into a coughing fit. He pats her back unhelpfully, and when she finally looks back up he still wears the same stunned expression. 

“You are delirious,” he says, shaking his head slowly.

“And you’ll get sick,” she counters. He grins.

“I don’t care.”