Archive of Our Own

Ryland Grace first began researching engagement rings at 02:43 on a Thursday morning, beneath a government-issued blanket, with Eva Stratt asleep six inches from his left elbow.

This was not an ideal research environment.

The room was dark except for the light from his phone, which he had reduced to its lowest possible brightness and angled toward his chest. The Vat rolled gently beneath them. Metal groaned somewhere inside the bulkhead. A pipe clicked three times overhead, paused, and clicked again.

Beside him, Stratt shifted.

He froze beneath the blanket, one hand still wrapped around his phone.

She rolled onto her side with her back to him. Her hair had come loose from its braid and spread across his pillow in dark waves. She made a small dissatisfied sound into the mattress before settling again.

Grace counted to ten.

Nothing.

He lowered the phone another inch beneath the blanket and returned to the search page.

HOW TO CHOOSE THE PERFECT ENGAGEMENT RING

The internet, he decided almost immediately, had never met Eva Stratt.

Most of the photographs featured women holding champagne flutes in gardens full of white roses. Stratt drank champagne only when diplomacy required it, and she had once described a bouquet from the Dutch prime minister as “an inefficient use of cargo space.”

Grace kept scrolling.

CONSIDER YOUR PARTNER’S PERSONAL STYLE.

He frowned.

Stratt owned twenty-three nearly identical suits in four colors. Her idea of variation was occasionally wearing a blouse without a collar.

He opened another tab.

TEN QUESTIONS TO ASK BEFORE BUYING A DIAMOND.

Then another.

ENGAGEMENT RING SETTINGS EXPLAINED.

Then another.

HOW TO SECRETLY FIND HER RING SIZE.

Grace stopped.

He read the title again. Slowly, he clicked.

The article suggested borrowing one of his partner’s existing rings.

Stratt did not wear rings.

It suggested pressing a ring into a bar of soap.

Grace still could not borrow a nonexistent ring.

It suggested tracing the inside of the ring onto paper.

He briefly considered emailing the author to point out the article’s heavy dependence on assumptions.

Instead, he scrolled farther.

COMPARE HER FINGER TO YOUR OWN.

He looked at her hand now, resting on the blanket. Her fingers were narrower than his, though not dramatically. Her knuckles were slight. There was a faint scar across the base of her thumb from an incident involving broken glass that she refused to explain.

Grace lowered his own hand beside hers without touching.

He estimated a size six.

Or six and a half.

Possibly seven.

He considered grabbing a whiteboard, but he learned a lot about how nosy people were in the past years. He opened a blank document instead.

OBJECTIVE: SELECT AN ENGAGEMENT RING FOR EVA STRATT.

After a moment, he added:

CONSTRAINTS:

1.) must survive daily contact with paperwork, lab equipment, coffee, etc

2.) must not catch on gloves, cables, clothing, or folders

3.) must not resemble something purchased by a monarch

He considered this.

4.) Stratt must actually like it.

The fourth requirement was proving the most difficult.

Grace knew an absurd number of things about Eva Stratt.

He knew she read the final page of reports first.

He knew she hated sweet coffee but stole his anyway because it “tasted less offensive” than hers.

He knew the spot just beneath her left shoulder blade where tension gathered after twelve straight hours at a desk.

He knew which headaches could be managed with aspirin and which meant he needed to turn off the lights, take away her phone, and endure ten minutes of increasingly weak threats until she fell asleep.

He knew that when she was trying not to laugh, the left corner of her mouth moved first.

He knew the faint scar near her chin. The crease between her brows. The callus along the side of her middle finger from decades of gripping pens too tightly.

He knew she reached for his hand beneath conference tables while she continued to discuss launch trajectories or international supply chains.

It had taken him nearly three weeks to realize she was doing it for comfort.

After that, he sat next to her for every meeting.

He knew all of that.

He did not know whether she would ever want an engagement ring.

As though responding to the thought, Stratt moved again.

Grace locked the screen.

Still asleep, she reached backwards until her fingers found his wrist. She tugged his arm around her waist with a small noise.

Grace stared into darkness.

A year and a half ago, Eva Stratt touching him had been enough to send his heart rate into a range Ilyukhina had recorded in red marker with two exclamation points.

Time, apparently, had done very little to improve the situation.

He looked down at the crease between her brows.

Even asleep, it lingered faintly there.

Grace leaned forward and pressed his lips to it.

Stratt’s fingers loosened around his wrist immediately. Her shoulders dropped. She settled fully against him.

Every time.

It worked every single time.

Grace looked at the top of her head and felt something in his chest ache with such embarrassing sincerity that he considered abandoning the entire search, waking her up, and asking her anyway.

Then he remembered the previous fourteen hours.

Eva Stratt had spent the previous fourteen hours negotiating access to three launch facilities, threatening a defense contractor, and personally rewriting a containment protocol because the original version had used the phrase “probably safe.” She had insisted she wasn’t exhausted before falling asleep halfway through the sentence.

Grace decided the proposal could wait until morning.

Grace waited until her breathing evened out again.

Then he unlocked his phone beneath the blanket.

His search history now contained:

HOW TO CHOOSE ENGAGEMENT RING

DOES RING HAVE TO BE DIAMOND

ENGAGEMENT RINGS PRACTICAL WOMEN

ENGAGEMENT RINGS SCIENTISTS

ENGAGEMENT RINGS DICTATORS

The last search had produced several articles about Napoleon.

He deleted it.

At 03:16, he opened a 17th tab and found forty-three more rings that all looked wrong in forty-three different ways.

Grace stared at the search results until the images blurred together.

Then the website asked him to choose a ring size.

Grace looked down at the hand still loosely wrapped around his wrist.

He knew exactly how it felt in his own.

He knew how cold it became after long meetings.

He knew how it curled against his chest during rough seas.

He knew almost everything about the woman sleeping beside him.

He still did not know her ring size.

At 03:31, Ryland Grace became aware of a second problem.

At 10:06 the next morning, Grace fell asleep sitting upright in his laboratory.

His forehead rested on his folded arms. A sample monitor beeped steadily beside his head. The overhead lights buzzed. The Vat rumbled beneath the lab, and Grace dreamed that he had placed an engagement ring inside an astrophage containment vessel.

He had spent the rest of the night creating a spreadsheet with columns for center stones, settings, clarity, and metals. He had also created a second tab with ways the internet suggested finding ring size.

None of them worked.

Ilyukhina woke him by striking the bench with a metal caliper.

Grace jerked upright.

His elbow hit a sample tray. Ilyukhina caught it one-handed before it could slide off the bench.

“Good reflexes,” Grace mumbled.

“Yours are terrible.”

He rubbed both hands over his face. “What time is it?”

“Ten-oh-seven.”

Grace groaned and dropped his head back onto his arms.

“You look like shit,” Ilyukhina said.

“Thank you. Always so kind.”

She set the sample tray back in place and leaned one hip against the bench. Her hair was braided tightly today, though several short pieces had already escaped around her forehead. A pair of protective goggles sat on top of her head.

“What did dictator lady do to you?”

Grace reached for his coffee. “Nothing.”

Ilyukhina watched him drink. “Bad sex?”

Grace inhaled coffee. She slapped him between the shoulder blades hard enough that it nearly put his face back into the bench.

“Do not ask me that while I’m drinking.”

“I ask because you look shit.”

Grace coughed once, set the mug down, and rubbed at his eyes. “You said that already.”

“Pornography?”

“We did not- That’s not- I was reading.”

Ilyukhina raised an eyebrow. “Reading pornography?”

“Ilyukhina.”

She grinned and turned toward the prototype mounted at the center of the bench.

They had been working for four days on an automated transfer system for astrophage samples. The current method required thick gloves, sealed containers, and two people whose hands did not shake. The machine used articulated grips to lift a sample cartridge, rotate it, and lock it inside a secondary containment sleeve.

In theory.

In practice, the left clamp had crushed three empty cartridges and thrown a fourth at Carl.

Ilyukhina picked up the caliper and measured one of the gripper joints.

“Tolerance is wrong,” she said.

“The tolerance was right yesterday.”

She leaned over the prototype and started turning a screw with the end of the caliper until Grace slapped her hand away and passed her the correct tool.

While she returned to the gripper with feigned innocence, he opened his laptop.

The spreadsheet filled the screen.

He made a tiny, strangled squeak and snapped the laptop shut.

Ilyukhina’s gaze snapped toward him. “What is that?”

“What is what?”

Her eyes narrowed.

Grace instinctively reached for the laptop, but Ilyukhina was already moving.

She plucked it off the bench before he could touch it and lifted it high over her head.

Grace lunged. “Give me that.”

She stepped backward, flipped the laptop open, and read the title of the spreadsheet.

OPERATION: ENGAGEMENT RING

Ryland Grace really needed to start naming his operations after exactly what they were.

Ilyukhina stared at the screen for a beat.

Then she looked at him.

Grace didn’t bother chasing the laptop anymore.

A slow, terrible smile spread across her face.

“No,” he said.

“You propose?”

“Give me the computer.”

“To Stratt?”

“Who else would I be proposing to?”

Ilyukhina glanced at the screen again. “Maybe Carl.”

“Carl is married to a man.”

“He has baby with you.”

“Please stop calling the astrophage my child.”

“Our child,” Carl corrected from the doorway.

Grace turned.

Carl stood holding two sealed sample cases. His glasses had slipped slightly down his nose. He looked from Grace to Ilyukhina, then toward the computer raised above her head.

“What are we discussing?”

“Grace marries Stratt,” Ilyukhina announced.

Carl’s eyebrows lifted.

Grace closed his eyes.

He heard the sample cases touch down on the side bench.

When he opened his eyes again, Carl had stepped fully into the room.

“You’re proposing?” He asked.

“I am considering proposing.”

Ilyukhina lowered the phone. “He researches ring.”

Carl adjusted his glasses. “That sounds beyond consideration.”

“I haven’t bought anything.”

“Because he does not know finger size,” Ilyukhina said.

Grace stared at her. “How do you know that?”

“You have twenty-nine tabs open.” She turned the screen toward him.

Grace snatched it back.

Carl came closer. “Have you tried borrowing one of her rings?”

“She doesn’t wear rings.”

“Ask someone close to her.”

“I’m close to her.”

“Ask yourself, then.”

Grace pointed at him. “This is why no one comes to you for emotional advice.”

“That’s untrue. DuBois does.”

“DuBois comes to everyone for emotional advice.”

“He is very emotionally communicative,” Ilyukhina said.

Grace locked the computer. “Neither of you is helping.”

Ilyukhina’s grin returned.

“I help.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You need ring size.”

“No.”

“We measure.”

“Without her knowing.”

“We drug.”

“No.”

“Small amount.”

“Ilyukhina.”

Carl leaned both hands against the bench and examined the articulated prototype.

“We already have a plausible reason to measure hands.”

Grace looked toward him. “We do?”

Carl pointed at the machine. “The manual controls need to accommodate each operator. Finger span, grip width, joint range.”

Ilyukhina followed his gesture.

“We can create interface,” Ilyukhina said. “Precision control. Measures fingers for calibration.”

Grace looked back at the prototype.

A hand-shaped control interface was not unreasonable. Direct finger-tracking could provide more precise manipulation than the current joysticks, particularly when the system handled small cartridges. They would need measurements from multiple users to produce an adjustable model.

It was believable.

Stratt would ask questions.

Stratt always asked questions.

Carl picked up the caliper. “We take measurements from the entire team. Hers won’t be unusual.”

Grace felt hope beginning to form.

Then he remembered who they were discussing.

“She’ll know.”

“She will suspect,” Carl corrected.

“She suspects everything.”

Ilyukhina waved one hand. “We build actual glove.”

“That seems like a lot of work.”

“You build whiteboard experiment because you wanted kiss.”

Carl nodded. “She has a point.”

Grace looked toward the prototype.

He imagined Stratt extending her hand while he measured each finger. He imagined the ring finger beneath the caliper. He imagined her eyes narrowing as he tried to appear disinterested and failed miserably.

His palms began to sweat.

Ilyukhina saw his face.

“You cannot measure,” she said.

“I can measure a finger.”

“Your face look like tomato thinking about it.”

“It does not.”

Carl studied him. “You do seem unusually affected.”

“You are imagining her hand,” Ilyukhina said.

Grace picked up the nearest clipboard. “We’re done discussing this.”

“We need operational plan.” Ilyukhina seized a red marker and crossed to the whiteboard.

Grace followed immediately. “No.”

She wrote:

OPERATION: THE PRECIOUS

Grace stopped beside her.

Carl tilted his head. “What does that mean?”

Ilyukhina capped the marker. “Lord of the Rings. One ring, no?”

“Absolutely not,” Grace said.

“You are no fun.”

“She will see that and know immediately.”

Ilyukhina erased the title with her sleeve, leaving a pink smear across the board.

Then she wrote:

OPERATION: HAND JOB

Grace snatched the marker away. Carl turned toward the samples and covered his mouth.

“Are you laughing?” Grace asked.

“No,” Carl said, though his shoulders moved.

Ilyukhina attempted to retrieve the marker, but Grace held it above her head.

“Operation Strattland Two,” she said.

“There was never an Operation Strattland One.”

“The board said otherwise.”

“The board was erased.”

“So you think.”

Grace looked toward Carl. Carl became very interested in a sample label.

Grace pressed both palms against the edge of the bench. “Fine. We measure everyone’s hands. We build a functional interface. We do not lie about any scientific purpose, and no one behaves suspiciously.”

Ilyukhina nodded. Carl nodded. Grace looked at both of them.

“You are already behaving suspiciously.”

“This is normal face,” Ilyukhina said.

“That doesn’t bring the comfort you think it does.”

By noon, the hand-calibration project had expanded to include the entire primary team. Carl created the measurement sheet as Grace built the first version of the glover interface.

They established eleven measurements: palm width, hand length, thumb reach, finger span, individual finger length, knuckle circumference, and range of motion.

Grace argued that knuckle circumference was unnecessary. Ilyukhina argued that fingers had knuckles. Carl added it to the sheet.

Yao volunteered first, mostly because Ilyukhina had already cornered him with a measuring tape.

“This is excessive,” he said as she wrapped the tape around his index finger.

“It improves control model,” she replied.

Yao’s gaze moved to the title on Carl’s spreadsheet.

ERGONOMIC INPUT CALIBRATION DATA

“At least this title is professional,” he said.

Ilyukhina had attempted to name it FINGER EVERYONE.

Carl had changed it.

After that, the process became alarmingly efficient.

Shapiro’s measurements took four minutes.

“Why are you recording each finger separately?” She asked as Ilyukhina measured her ring finger.

“The glove will track independent articulation,” Grace answered.

Shapiro turned toward him. “The prototype only has three contact points.”

Grace hesitated..

Carl nodded. “The next model will have five.”

Shapiro looked toward the half-built mechanism.

“It does?”

“It will.”

She narrowed her eyes but held out her other hand anyway.

DuBois wandered in halfway through.

He took one look at the measuring tape and spread both hands dramatically across the bench.

“Which finger do you need?”

“All,” Ilyukhina said.

Carl gestured toward the stool. “Please sit.”

Dubois smiled as Carl measured his thumb.

“You have a gentle touch.”

“Thank you.”

“Very steady.”

“I work with volatile materials.”

“I can tell.”

Grace looked toward Shapiro. “Did you want to help with the software?”

“No,” she said. “I want to stay and see where this goes.”

Measuring Ilyukhina took nearly twenty minutes because she kept curling her fingers before Carl finished writing down a measurement.

It took another eleven to measure Grace because she deliberately announced his finger measurements at twice the necessary volume.

“Sixty-two millimeters!”

“Please stop shouting.”

“Very large.”

“It’s an ordinary hand.”

“Large fingers, though. Stratt must like.”

Grace dropped the measuring tape. Across the room, Yao looked up from the prototype.

Grace glared at Ilyukhina.

By late afternoon, only Stratt remained.

Grace had spent the last hour trying to think of a believable reason to bring her into the lab.

Ilyukhina had spent that hour sending her increasingly urgent messages.

Grace discovered this when Stratt appeared in the doorway at 16:12 holding her phone.

Her eyes moved across the gathered team.

Yao stood beside the prototype.

Shapiro leaned against the sink with folded arms.

DuBois occupied one of the rolling stools with his sleeves pushed up.

Carl sat behind the laptop.

Ilyukhina held a flexible measuring tape.

Grace stood beside her with the expression of a man caught at the scene of a highly specific crime.

Stratt glanced from the group to her phone. Then back to Ilyukhina.

“You sent me seven messages.”

“Yes.”

“The first said there was an urgent ergonomic failure.”

“Yes.”

“The second said Grace’s fingers were inadequate.”

Grace whipped around. “You wrote what?”

“They were statistical outlier.”

“They were not.”

Stratt scrolled.

“The third message consists entirely of hand emojis.”

“Visual aid,” Ilyukhina said.

“The fourth says, ‘Need dictator fingers immediately.’”

“I was clear.”

Stratt lowered the phone. “Explain.”

Everyone looked at Grace.

He briefly considered throwing himself overboard.

He gestured toward the prototype. “We’re replacing the manual controls with an articulated glove interface,” he said. “The old controls worked, but not particularly well.”

“It threw a cartridge at Carl,” Ilyukhina added.

Stratt looked toward him.

Carl adjusted his glasses. “It missed.”

Stratt stepped over to the workbench. She tapped one of the flexible joints with the end of her pen, following the sensor wired back to the glove.

“And the measurements?”

“The glove tracks individual finger movement,” Grace explained. “It needs to fit a range of hand sizes.”

Stratt’s gaze shifted to the measurement sheet.

“You’ve measured everyone?” she asked.

“All primary operators,” Carl said.

“DuBois is not a primary operator.”

DuBois lifted one hand. “I offered myself in the interest of science.”

“You wandered in because you heard the word fingers,” Shapiro snapped.

“Tomato tomahto.”

Stratt ignored him. She picked up the sheet instead.

Her eyes moved slowly down the columns.

“Why,” she asked at last, “do you need circumference measurements for each finger?”

Grace’s mind emptied.

From the side bench, Shapiro made a quiet, interested sound.

Ilyukhina opened her mouth.

Grace spoke before she could.

“The glove has adjustable tension rings at the base of each sensor sleeve. If the fit is too loose, movement won’t translate accurately. Too tight, and it restricts circulation during extended use.”

Silence.

Then Stratt nodded once.

“Reasonable.”

Grace resisted the urge to collapse with relief.

She set the clipboard back on the bench. “You don’t need me.”

Ilyukhina stepped between her and the door.

“Need broad sample.”

Stratt stopped. “I will never operate this machine.”

“You have hands.”

“So do several thousand people on this vessel.”

“Yours are director hands.”

Stratt’s eyes narrowed. “… Director hands?”

Grace cut in before Ilyukhina could elaborate.

“You sign off on equipment readiness. It would help if the controls accommodated you during inspection.”

“I can inspect without operating it.”

“Eva.”

The single word stopped her.

Grace rarely used her first name in the lab.

The others noticed. Across the room, DuBois’s eyebrows lifted. Shapiro looked slowly from Grace to Stratt. Yao abruptly focused on the prototype with military intensity.

Grace softened his voice. “It will only take five minutes.”

Stratt continued looking at him.

He watched suspicion move across her face. The crease formed between her brows. Her fingers tightened slightly around the pen.

She knew something was wrong.

She just hadn’t figured out what.

Grace took an unconscious step toward her before stopping himself just outside the invisible boundary she always kept around herself while she worked.

“Please,” he said.

Whatever she found in his face softened her expression.

She placed the pen on the bench and extended her right hand.

“Five minutes.”

Grace’s heart attempted to leave his body.

Ilyukhina reached for the measuring tape.

Stratt drew her hand back.

“Dr. Grace can do it.”

The room went very still.

“Fine,” Grace said.

His voice cracked.

Shapiro raised an eyebrow.

Grace picked up the measuring tape before anyone else could.

Stratt sat on the stool and rested her hand on the cutting mat, fingers relaxed against the printed grid.

Grace had seen those hands do hundreds of things.

He had seen them move rapidly across a keyboard, sign orders that redirected entire governments, grip the edge of a conference table during bad news, hold a coffee mug at three in the morning, and curl into the front of his shirt when she kissed him.

He had seen her hands tremble only twice.

Once after a thirty-hour workday.

Once after Grace burned himself during an astrophage test.

He had taken them between his own both times.

Now he set the end of the tape against her wrist.

“Hand length,” Carl prompted.

“I know.”

Grace measured from the wrist crease to the tip of her middle finger.

“Seventeen-point-eight centimeters.”

Carl entered it.

He measured her palm width.

“Seven-point-four.”

Her skin was warm beneath his fingertips.

He tried to think about calibration tolerances.

Instead, he noticed the faint pulse at her wrist.

He measured her thumb, then her index finger.

She watched his face the entire time.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No.”

The word came out too quickly.

Her brow tightened. Grace wanted to kiss it.

He moved to her ring finger instead.

His fingers lingered for barely half a heartbeat.

Stratt noticed.

Of course she noticed.

Grace cleared his throat and wrapped the tape around the base of her ring finger.

Carl read the measurement from Grace’s angle.

“Fifty-two millimeters,” he said, entering it.

Grace committed the number to memory.

Fifty-two.

Approximately a US size six.

His estimate had been right.

A small, irrational rush of pride moved through him.

Stratt looked toward Carl’s screen. “Is there a problem with the data?”

“No,” Grace said.

Ilyukhina made a strangled sound behind him.

Grace did not look at her.

He finished the remaining measurements as quickly as he could, testing the range of each finger before finally letting go.

For a few seconds, she didn’t move.

Her fingertips rested lightly against his palm.

Then she withdrew her hand and stood.

“Five minutes,” she said, checking the clock. “Exactly.”

“We’re efficient,” Grace replied.

Stratt picked up her phone.

Her gaze moved across the room one final time.

“You are all behaving strangely.”

“No,” Ilyukhina said.

Stratt looked at her.

Ilyukhina reconsidered.

“Yes.”

Before Stratt could ask another question, her phone rang. She glanced at the screen and answered.

“Stratt.”

Someone began speaking rapidly on the other end.

Her face changed.

Grace knew that look too. The slight hardening around her eyes meant a government had done something stupid.

Stratt turned toward the door.

“No, you may tell the minister that I am uninterested in what he was advised. I asked whether the shipment has left Rotterdam.”

The door slid shut behind Stratt.

Silence settled over the lab.

Then Ilyukhina seized Grace by both shoulders and shook him.

“You did it!”

Grace peeled her hands off one finger at a time.

“Please stop shaking me.”

“You have number!”

“I have number.”

Carl glanced at the spreadsheet. “Fifty-two millimeters.”

“US size six,” Grace said automatically.

The words escaped before he could stop them.

DuBois smiled. “Why do you know that?”

Grace opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Shapiro looked from him to the measuring tape, then to Carl’s spreadsheet.

Her eyes narrowed. “Wait.”

Grace pointed a warning finger. “Don’t.”

“You measured every single person on the ship-”

“Primary team.”

“-so you could measure Stratt’s ring finger without her noticing.”

Grace considered several possible responses. None of them sounded convincing.

“I also improved the glove interface,” he mumbled.

Shapiro stared at Grace. “You built an entire prototype just to get her ring size.”

“I couldn’t exactly ask her.”

Yao finally looked up from the prototype.

“I have known you for years,” he said.

Grace winced.

“I still underestimate you.”

“It wasn’t fake,” Grace protested. “The glove really is better.”

“I believe you,” Yao folded his arms. “But you still designed an entire machine because you wanted to buy an engagement ring.”

Grace hesitated.

“When you say it like that-”

“I’m getting flashbacks,” Yao said.

Grace stared at him. “Don’t.”

“Did you have to use the scientific method for this one too?” Shapiro asked.

The next stage of the plan required leaving the Vat.

This presented a problem.

The Vat did not operate like an ordinary workplace. No one clocked out and drove home at the end of the day. They lived aboard a converted aircraft carrier in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by armed personnel, classified equipment, and enough astrophage to become an international incident.

Trips ashore required approval.

Approval came from Stratt.

Grace stood outside her office with Carl and Ilyukhina.

Carl held a clipboard.

Ilyukhina wore a jacket with six pockets and an expression Grace did not trust.

“Let me speak,” Grace said.

“You panic around her,” Ilyukhina replied.

“I live with her.”

“You still panic.”

“He does,” Carl said.

Grace looked at him. “Whose side are you on?”

Carl considered. “The side that gets us off the ship.”

Grace lowered his voice. “We need a believable reason.”

“We have reason,” Ilyukhina said. “Parts.”

“The Vat has machine shops.”

“Special parts.”

“What parts?”

“Special.”

Grace looked at Carl.

Carl lifted the clipboard. “The optical position sensors in the glove interface are producing too much signal noise. There’s a marine robotics supplier ashore with higher-resolution components.”

Grace blinked. “Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“You found an actual supplier?”

“Ilyukhina found them.”

Grace turned toward her.

She looked offended. “I am engineer.”

“I know. I’m surprised you solved the legitimate problem.”

She shrugged and opened the office door.

Stratt stood inside.

She had removed her jacket and rolled her shirt sleeves to her elbows. Her hair was pinned up, though several strands had fallen near her temples. A phone was pressed between her ear and shoulder.

She looked at the three of them.

“No,” she said into the phone. “I was not addressing you.”

Grace straightened.

Stratt stepped aside and gestured them into the room.

They entered.

Her office was too small for four people. Reports covered the narrow desk. Maps and production charts had been pinned to the walls. A coffee mug sat beside her keyboard, untouched and probably cold.

Grace picked it up while she continued the call.

Cold.

He crossed to the small hot plate near the filing cabinet.

Stratt watched him over Carl’s shoulder.

“Yes,” she said into the phone. “I understand that it is unprecedented. So is the extinction event. Adjust.”

She ended the call and set the phone on her desk.

Grace handed her the reheated coffee.

Stratt accepted it without looking.

“What do you need?”

“We need shore leave,” Ilyukhina said.

Grace closed his eyes.

Stratt looked at her.

“No.”

“You do not know why.”

“I know you.”

Grace stepped between them before the conversation escalated.

“We need to purchase higher-resolution optical sensors for the glove interface. The current units are introducing enough noise to interfere with fine control.”

Stratt turned toward Carl. “Can’t the components be delivered?”

“The supplier won’t ship certain inventory without verification of the buyer’s credentials,” Carl said. “Export controls.”

He handed her the clipboard.

She read the supplier information, technical specifications, and projected performance improvements.

Grace watched her eyes move down the page.

He could tell where she was by the rhythm of her thumb against the clipboard’s edge.

She stopped tapping.

“When?”

“Tomorrow,” Grace said. “The supplier has a four-hour collection window.”

Stratt looked at him. “Why are you going?”

“Technical evaluation.”

Her eyes shifted to Ilyukhina, who was bouncing on her heels.

“You are the engineer.”

“Grace designed the control mapping,” she said without missing a beat.

Stratt looked at Carl instead.

“Security,” he offered with a small shrug.

Silence settled over the office.

Stratt’s gaze moved from Carl to Ilyukhina, then finally to Grace. She didn’t say anything; she simply watched them.

Ilyukhina smiled.

Grace wanted to push her out the door.

Stratt placed the clipboard on the desk. “You are lying.”

Grace’s stomach dropped.

Carl became unnaturally still.

Ilyukhina’s smile only widened.

Grace forced a laugh. “About what?”

“I haven’t determined that yet.”

Stratt stepped closer.

There was very little space in the office. Grace’s back nearly touched the filing cabinet. Stratt stopped in front of him and searched his face.

“You have been behaving strangely for six days.”

“I’m often strange.”

“You’re secretive.”

“I have a rich inner life.”

“You close computer windows when I enter the room.”

“Maybe I’m planning your birthday.”

Stratt’s mouth tightened.

No lines appeared beside her eyes.

Grace’s humor faded.

She looked tired.

He saw the shadows beneath her eyes and the tension along her jaw. Her fingers pressed into the opposite palm. Her shoulders drew back. She moved to sit back down at her desk chair.

Eva Stratt could face heads of state without blinking. She could order people twice her size out of rooms and expect obedience. Insecurity appeared in her so rarely that Grace had almost missed it the first few times.

Now he recognized the signs.

Grace glanced at Carl and Ilyukhina.

Carl looked toward the floor.

Even Ilyukhina’s expression had softened.

“Can we have the room?” Grace asked.

The two of them nodded and left.

Stratt opened another folder without reading it.

He crossed the room and closed it beneath his hand.

Her eyes lifted to his.

“What?” she asked.

Grace moved around the desk and crouched beside her chair. “You think something’s wrong.”

“I think you are hiding something.”

“I am.”

The admission made something flicker across her face before it disappeared again.

“You’ve been meeting privately. You’re attempting to leave the Vat.”

“Eva.”

She looked away from him.

The crease between her brows had deepened.

Grace took her hand. She allowed it, but her fingers stayed stiff in his.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you what yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because then it won’t work.”

“That is not reassuring.”

“It’s not bad.”

“You have spent six days acting as though I am the one person who cannot know.”

He opened his mouth.

She continued before he could answer.

“I understand classified information, Dr. Grace. I built an organization around compartmentalization.” Her voice remained level, almost clinical. “I know why people keep secrets.” She swallowed. “I simply did not think you would keep one from me.”

The words landed like a punch.

“Eva...”

“You close your computer whenever I enter. Conversations stop when I walk into a room.” She gave a small, humorless laugh. “You have become nervous every time I ask what you’re doing.”

She finally looked at him.

“I keep wondering whether I missed something.”

Grace frowned.

“What?”

“Whether I’ve pushed too hard.” Her eyes dropped back to their joined hands. “Whether living here…” She gestured vaguely around the office. “Whether this has finally become too much.”

His heart broke.

“Eva.”

“I know it’s irrational.”

“No.”

“I know everyone eventually grows tired of me.” Her voice was almost matter-of-fact, which somehow made it worse. “I am not particularly easy to live with.”

Grace stared at her.

She actually believed that.

“I work constantly. I interrupt you. I cancel plans. I forget meals. I answer phones during conversations.” Her mouth twitched faintly. “I have been informed I am intimidating.”

A tiny breath escaped her. He shifted closer until he could see the hint of tears welling up in the corner of her eyes.

Grace squeezed her hand. “Eva.”

Stratt looked away. “I do not need your pity, Dr. Grace. I simply-”

“Eva, look at me.”

She hesitated before meeting his eyes.

“I am not pulling away from you.”

She searched his face as if trying to find the flaw in the statement.

“I would rather you just tell me if you are having second thoughts.”

“Second thoughts?”

“About us.” She barely whispered it. “It would save time if you simply said so.”

Grace felt something inside him crack.

“Oh, Eva...”

He lifted her hand against his chest.

“My heart has spent the last week trying to figure out how to make you smile.”

Her brows drew together.

“I love you so much.”

Her fingers twitched against his shirt.

“I love waking up next to you. I love bringing you cold coffee because you forgot it existed.” He smiled faintly. “I love that you argue with world leaders before breakfast.”

That earned the smallest exhale through her nose.

“I love the crease right here-” He brushed his thumb gently between her eyebrows,

“-even though I wish you didn’t wear it so often.”

She closed her eyes for a second.

“There is nothing-” his voice caught, “-nothing you could do that would make me wake up one morning and decide I don’t want you anymore.”

Her composure finally cracked. Her shoulders sagged a fraction.

“You make it very difficult,” she murmured.

“I know.”

“I dislike not knowing.”

“I know.”

“I dislike surprises.”

“I definitely know.”

Despite herself, she huffed another tiny laugh.

“I wish I could tell you,” Grace said softly. “I have wanted to tell you every single day this week.”

“You have?”

“Every day.”

A little more tension disappeared from her shoulders.

“I promise,” he said. “This secret has absolutely nothing to do with doubting us.”

She searched his face one last time. He leaned forward and kissed the crease between her brows.

For a heartbeat she remained perfectly still.

Then, as always, she melted into his body.

The tension in her shoulders first. Then her jaw. Then her hand tightened around his shirt.

Grace rested his forehead against hers. “My love.”

She let out a slow breath against his cheek.

“How much longer?”

“Two days.”

“That is specific.”

“I have a schedule.”

“Of course you do.”

Her voice was softer now, almost sleepy

Grace kissed the corner of her mouth. “Do we get shore leave?”

Stratt slowly opened her eyes.

“Okay,” she said.

Grace blinked. “Okay?”

“You may go ashore tomorrow.”

“Really?”

“Do not make me reconsider.”

Grace grinned. Before he could thank her, a sharp knock landed against the half-open office door.

“Can we stop pretending now?” Ilyukhina called. “My knees hurt.”

Grace laughed under his breath.

“Come in.”

The door opened immediately. Carl appeared beside her with the clipboard still tucked under one arm. He offered Stratt an apologetic look.

“I suggested we wait,” he said.

“He is lying,” Ilyukhina replied.

Stratt looked at both of them. “You were listening outside my office.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Long enough to know Grace like likes you.” Ilyukhina waggled her eyebrows.

Stratt sighed. “You will return within four hours. You will purchase the materials listed in that proposal. You will answer your phones. You will not drink.”

“I never drink,” Carl said.

Stratt looked at Ilyukhina.

“I drink enough for both,” she replied.

“No alcohol.”

Ilyukhina opened her mouth to protest.

Stratt closed her eyes. Grace kissed the crease again before it could fully return.

The ship left the port at 08:22.

For the first ten minutes, Grace watched the Vat recede behind them.

The enormous gray ship sat against the horizon, surrounded by support vessels. Even from shore, it looked less like a workplace and more like a floating city assembled by people with no time and unlimited emergency authority.

Stratt was somewhere inside it.

Grace imagined her returning to the office, reheating the coffee he had given her, and checking the clock every forty minutes until they came back.

He took out his phone.

A message waited.

STRATT: You left your sample report on the kitchen table.

Grace smiled.

They referred to the tiny counter in their shared cabin as the kitchen despite the fact that it contained no oven, sink, or food storage beyond a small refrigerator that made a violent rattling noise.

He typed:

GRACE: can u bring it to lab 2

Three dots appeared.

STRATT: I have a meeting.

GRACE: it’s on ur way

STRATT: Everything is on my way if I allow you to define the route.

GRACE: please?

The dots appeared again.

STRATT: Fine.

Grace put the phone away.

Ilyukhina leaned into his space. Wind tore pieces of hair loose from her braid.

"You smile at messages.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do. Very stupid face.”

“Can you sit on your half of the seat?”

“No.”

Carl sat beside Grace with the bearing specifications folded in one hand and a notebook in the other.

Grace looked at the notebook. “Why do you have that?”

Carl opened it to a blank page. “You have no idea what ring you want.”

“I have several requirements.”

“You have objections,” Carl said. “Those are different.”

Ilyukhina turned from the bow. “He wants silver, no big rock, no stupid flowers, no heart shape, no gold, no rose gold, no-”

“I was there when I made the list,” Grace said.

“You also said no ring that looks happy.”

“I did not say that.”

“You said, ‘Eva would hate anything cheerful.’”

“That is not the same sentence.”

Carl clicked his pen. “We have four hours, including the bearings and transport. We should establish criteria before we enter a store.”

“We know the criteria.”

Carl looked at the blank page. “What kind of setting?”

Grace opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

“Stone shape?” Carl asked.

Grace looked toward the approaching harbor.

“Accent stones?”

“I don’t know.”

“Band style?”

“I don’t know.”

Ilyukhina grinned. “Very strong criteria.”

Grace folded his arms. “I will know when I see it.”

Carl wrote something in the notebook.

The first jewelry store was too bright.

Every surface reflected light. Glass cases stretched across the room beneath white spotlights. A salesperson in a gray suit approached before the door had fully closed behind them.

“Good morning. What brings you in today?”

Grace drew breath.

Ilyukhina stepped in front of him. “He needs engagement ring for terrifying woman.”

The salesperson blinked.

Grace moved Ilyukhina aside by both shoulders. “My partner. I need an engagement ring for my partner.”

“Of course.” The salesperson recovered quickly. “Do you have a style in mind?”

“No,” Carl said.

Grace turned. “I can answer for myself.”

“You did not.”

The salesperson’s professional smile tightened by one degree. “Perhaps we could begin with solitaires.”

She led them to a case near the back.

The first ring had a narrow yellow-gold band and an oval diamond balanced high above it.

Grace leaned over the glass. “She’d catch that on something in under an hour.”

“Many people remove their rings while working,” the salesperson said.

“Eva would forget, then remember during an international call, become annoyed at herself, and blame the ring.”

Carl wrote in his notebook.

Grace pointed at him. “Stop documenting me.”

“It is useful.”

The next ring was surrounded by a halo of smaller diamonds.

“Too much,” Grace said.

A rectangular stone on a thick platinum band lasted longer.

Grace tilted his head. “No.”

Ilyukhina peered down beside him. “Looks like military bunker.”

The salesperson showed them six more. Grace rejected one because the prongs looked fragile, one because the band narrowed too sharply, and one because the twisting pattern reminded him of decorative ironwork outside an expensive hotel.

“What is wrong with decorative ironwork?” Carl asked as they stepped back onto the pavement.

“Nothing. It just isn’t Eva.”

“What is Eva?”

Grace stopped.

Pedestrians split around them. A delivery cyclist swore as Ilyukhina backed into his path while examining a window display full of watches.

Grace looked at Carl. “You know her.”

“I do.” Carl tucked the notebook under his arm. “I am not proposing to her.”

“You are enjoying this.”

“A little.”

The marine instrumentation shop occupied a low building near the docks. Carl insisted they visit before any more jewelry stores.

The owner brought out three boxes of ceramic bearings and looked increasingly unsettled while Ilyukhina tested each one by spinning it against her thumb and holding it near her ear.

“This one has chatter,” she said.

The owner frowned. “It’s rated to two microns.”

“It chatters at two microns.”

Grace took the bearing, rotated it, and felt the faint unevenness she meant. “She’s right.”

Carl checked the part number against the specification sheet. “We need twelve.”

“Fourteen,” Grace said. “Two spares.”

“Sixteen,” Ilyukhina added. “Four spares.”

“Twelve installed and four spares,” Carl concluded.

Grace signed three forms under a false procurement name approved by Stratt.

Outside, he took the black case from Carl and checked the invoice.

“At least the cover story is now real.”

“It was always real,” Carl said. “We needed the bearings.”

Ilyukhina pointed down the street. “Second ring store.”

“We have two hours and 28 minutes remaining,” Carl said.

Grace began walking faster.

The second store specialized in antique jewelry.

It smelled faintly of polish and old wood. Velvet trays covered the counters. A woman with silver hair listened to Grace’s requirements, then produced a row of rings with carved bands, floral settings, and stones in muted colors.

Grace picked up a thin silver ring with tiny leaves worked into the sides.

Ilyukhina squinted at it. “Stratt does not like leaves.”

“She likes trees.”

“She likes threatening governments about deforestation. Different.”

Grace put the ring down.

Carl touched the edge of a tray. “Does she like antique jewelry?”

“She wears her grandmother’s necklace sometimes.”

“That is not an answer.”

Grace watched the jeweler set out another tray. “She likes that it belonged to her grandmother. She hates that the clasp is unreliable. She had it replaced twice and kept both old clasps in an envelope labeled with the dates.”

The jeweler glanced up.

Carl opened his notebook again. “She values history, but not at the expense of function.”

Grace frowned. “That makes her sound like a museum policy.”

“It is still useful.”

They left after Ilyukhina tried on a ring shaped like a snake and refused to return it until Carl quietly reminded her they were on a schedule authorized by Director Stratt.

The third store was small and aggressively modern. Rings sat on black platforms beneath narrow beams of light. The salesperson wore white gloves and spoke in a whisper, as though loud sounds might damage the diamonds.

Grace rejected a tension-set ring because the exposed stone looked vulnerable.

He rejected a broad brushed-steel band because it looked too much like equipment.

He paused over a ring formed from two smooth lines of platinum that crossed near the center.

Carl came to stand beside him. “That is the first one you have looked at for more than ten seconds.”

“The shape is interesting.”

“Why?”

Grace studied the two lines. “They move toward each other without completely joining.”

Ilyukhina leaned between them. “Very romantic. Two emotionally damaged lines refuse communicate.”

Grace pushed her forehead away with two fingers.

The salesperson brought the ring out. Grace held it beneath the light.

It was clean and practical. It was also empty in a way he couldn’t explain.

He pictured it on Stratt’s hand and saw only a piece of metal.

“No,” he said, returning it.

Outside, the wind had sharpened. Carl checked the time, then pointed across the street at a café.

“We need to stop.”

“We do not have time for lunch,” Grace argued.

“You have not eaten since breakfast.”

“I had a protein bar.”

“You gave half to Stratt after she took your coffee.”

Grace looked at him. “How do you know that?”

“You did it during the morning briefing.”

Ilyukhina was already crossing the street. “We interrogate Grace over sandwiches.”

The café was crowded, warm, and smelled like coffee that had not been produced in an industrial galley. Ilyukhina returned from the counter carrying three sandwiches, three coffees, and a pastry she claimed had attached itself to her tray.

Grace sat with the bearing case between his shoes.

Carl opened the notebook.

Grace unwrapped his sandwich. “You are not actually interrogating me.”

“What color does Stratt wear most?” Carl asked.

“Black.”

Ilyukhina shook her head. “Wrong.”

Grace stared at her. “Her entire wardrobe is black, gray, navy, and white.”

“What color she choose when no meeting?” Ilyukhina asked.

Grace stopped with the sandwich halfway to his mouth.

Stratt owned a dark red crewneck from college. It was soft, slightly too large, and had a loose thread at one cuff that she refused to let Grace cut because, according to her, it was not creating a structural problem. She wore it in their room on cold nights. She had worn it once to breakfast after working thirty-one hours straight, and Grace had spent the entire meal trying not to stare at the way the color warmed her skin.

“Dark red,” he said.

Carl wrote it down.

“She has a burgundy scarf,” Grace continued. “She never wears it on the Vat because the ends catch on things, but she brings it to meetings ashore. And there’s a red fountain pen in the inside pocket of her briefcase. She says it makes corrections easier to see, except she owns six black pens and only one red one and gets angry when anyone borrows it.”

Ilyukhina bit into the pastry. “Red stones.”

“Maybe.” Grace looked down at his coffee. “But not bright red. And they have to be small. She would hate a ring covered in them.”

Carl drew a line beneath his notes. “What shape does she like?”

“That is not a normal question.”

“Answer it.”

Grace looked around the café for help and found none.

“She likes clean lines,” he said at last. “Her office looks chaotic, but the folders are all squared with the edge of the desk. She moves furniture back when people leave it at an angle. She straightens pictures in hotels.”

“She straightened painting in Russian embassy,” Ilyukhina said. “While yelling at ambassador.”

“She was not yelling.”

“She made him cry.”

“He was… under pressure.”

Carl tapped the pen against the notebook. “Symmetry?”

Grace considered it. “Usually. But she wears mismatched socks to bed.”

Ilyukhina paused. “Stratt wears socks to bed?”

“Only when she is tired and cold enough.” Grace smiled despite himself. “She usually steals mine. Says they are softer. I think it's because she likes the fun socks, but don’t tell her that.”

“Does she wear socks during-”

Grace choked on his coffee, spluttering. “Ilyukhina!”

Carl pursed his lips. “What else?”

Grace should have known that was dangerous.

He took another sip of coffee and began listing details.

Stratt preferred silver to gold because gold felt “ceremonial,” though she wore a gold pin when meeting certain heads of state because their protocol offices expected it. She rubbed the inside of her wrist when she was trying not to lose her temper. She tapped her thumb twice against her phone before answering calls from people she disliked. She could identify the owner of every coffee mug in the main conference room but stole Grace’s because his was heavier and kept the drink warm longer.

She wore practical shoes until someone implied she could not manage heels, at which point she wore them for twelve hours out of spite.

She liked round tables better than rectangular ones because no one could argue over who sat at the head. She claimed this was a logistical preference. Grace knew she also liked being able to see everyone’s face.

She kept an old paper map folded in the top drawer of her desk even though every relevant map existed digitally. The folds had gone soft from use. She traced coastlines with one finger when she was thinking.

She hated cut flowers but stopped beside living ones. She had once interrupted a conversation with the British defense secretary to move a potted plant closer to a window.

She liked things that worked. She liked things that lasted. She distrusted anything that demanded care merely to remain decorative.

Her hands were smaller than people expected. Her fingers looked delicate until she gripped a pen or caught Grace by the front of his shirt. When she was exhausted, her hand found his wrist in bed and held on as though confirming he was still there.

Grace stopped.

The café had gone quiet around their table, though that might only have been his awareness narrowing.

Carl’s pen hovered above the paper.

Ilyukhina had stopped eating.

Grace cleared his throat. “You asked.”

Carl glanced down at the pages of notes. “Yes.”

“That was excessive. Sorry.”

“No,” Carl said. “That was the answer.”

Grace frowned. “To what?”

“What the ring should look like.” Carl turned the notebook around.

He had circled four phrases.

SILVER.

DARK RED, SMALL AMOUNTS.

CLEAN LINES, NOT PERFECTLY SEVERE.

LOW, DURABLE, MADE TO BE WORN.

Grace stared at them.

Ilyukhina leaned over the table and added beneath Carl’s handwriting:

ONE GOOD ROCK.

Grace looked up. “Why one?”

“Because engagement ring.”

“That is not a scientific explanation.”

“She will want one central thing,” Carl said. “Something clear. The rest should support it.”

Grace thought of Stratt reducing impossible problems to a single decision.

“Round,” he said.

Carl nodded. “The center stone?”

“Round. She likes edges in everything else. The stone should be round.”

Ilyukhina slapped both palms on the table. “Now we shop.”

Carl checked his watch. “Forty-seven minutes.”

They left half the sandwiches behind.

The fourth store contained nothing right and several things Ilyukhina wanted to buy for herself. The fifth had a silver band with red stones, but the band twisted into a heart near the setting.

Grace looked at it for less than a second. “No.”

The sixth store was closing for inventory and would not let them inside despite Ilyukhina pressing her face to the glass.

They had twenty-three minutes left when Carl saw a narrow sign between a bakery and a shop selling marine radios.

MARA VEY — JEWELER AND WATCH REPAIR.

The window held only four pieces. None had price cards.

Inside, the room was dimmer than the other stores. Dark wood cases lined the walls. Tools sat in careful rows behind the counter. A woman with close-cropped gray hair looked up from a watch held beneath a magnifying lens.

“We have twenty minutes,” Grace said.

She removed the lens. “Then you should speak efficiently.”

Grace liked her immediately.

Carl placed the notebook on the counter and opened it to the circled list.

The jeweler read it. Her eyes moved to Grace. “You wrote this?”

“He talked,” Carl said. “I wrote.”

“I corrected,” Ilyukhina added.

Grace put both hands on the counter. “Silver-colored metal. Platinum is fine. Low setting. Round diamond in the center. Small dark red stones, but not all the way around the band. Nothing floral. Nothing that looks fragile. Size six.”

The jeweler considered him. “Straight band?”

Grace thought of the crossed platinum ring that had almost been right. “No. Some movement.”

“Symmetrical?”

He pictured Stratt’s mismatched socks. The loose strand of hair she kept pushing behind one ear. The way her mouth lifted more on the left when she was trying not to smile.

“Not completely.”

The jeweler turned and unlocked a cabinet behind her.

She returned with three trays.

The first held a platinum ring with a round diamond and a narrow line of rubies on both sides. It was beautiful. It was too balanced.

The second had garnets set into a broad band that swept upward around the center stone. The setting was too high.

The third tray held one ring.

The band divided near the center into two curved arms. One passed beneath the round diamond and continued in a smooth silver line. The other swept upward beside it, set with a short row of tiny dark red stones. The curves approached each other without matching. The diamond sat low between them, bright but contained.

Grace went still.

The red stones looked almost black until the jeweler tilted the tray. Then a deep wine color moved through them.

Dark red sweater. Burgundy scarf. One red pen she would not let anyone borrow.

The silver lines were clean without being rigid. The setting was low enough for gloves. Nothing circled the underside of the band. Nothing would scrape the heel of her hand while she wrote.

Grace imagined Stratt’s hand resting on a stack of reports. He imagined her thumb moving over the ring during a difficult call. He imagined her claiming it was impractical while never taking it off.

His chest tightened.

Ilyukhina moved beside him. She did not speak.

Carl closed the notebook.

The jeweler watched Grace’s face. “Platinum bypass band. Garnet accents. Round diamond with a low basket and reinforced prongs. It is currently a size six.”

Grace let out a breath that felt as though he had been holding it since 02:43 Thursday morning.

“How much?” he said.

The salesperson told him.

Grace stared.

Ilyukhina whistled.

Carl’s eyebrows rose.

“That seems excessive for compressed carbon,” Grace said.

“Grace,” Carl said quietly.

Grace looked at the ring.

Then at the price.

Then back at the ring.

He thought about Stratt stealing half his coffee every morning despite having her own. He thought about her falling asleep with one hand curled into his shirt. He thought about the nights she came back to their cabin too exhausted to speak and sat between his knees while he took the pins from her hair.

He thought about the first time she kissed him. The way his heart raced, and his mind went blank.

He thought about the moment, months later, when she said I love you while looking at a budget spreadsheet because saying it directly had apparently been too much.

He had almost missed it.

She had said, “I love you, but if you exceed the approved sample allocation again, I will remove you from your own laboratory.”

Grace had stared at her for so long that she became angry.

He had kissed her and asked her to repeat the first part.

She had refused.

The jeweler lifted it with padded tweezers and placed it in his palm.

It had more weight than he expected.

Grace turned it once beneath the light. The garnets flashed and darkened. The two silver curves held the stone between them without closing around it.

He thought of Eva Stratt allowing exactly one person to see when she was tired. He thought of her hand finding his in the dark. He thought of the crease between her brows disappearing beneath his mouth.

“Okay,” he said again, quieter this time.

Carl’s shoulder touched his. “Yes.”

Ilyukhina punched Grace very lightly in the arm.

He looked at her.

Her expression had gone soft. “Good ring.”

Grace closed his fingers around it. “Yes.”

The jeweler boxed the ring while Grace completed the purchase. Ilyukhina attempted to negotiate on the basis that they were saving the world. Carl stopped her before she could explain further.

They ran the last two blocks to the harbor.

Carl carried the bearings. Grace kept one hand pressed over the inside pocket of his jacket. Ilyukhina ran ahead, shouting at pedestrians to clear a path for romance and precision engineering.

They reached the boat eleven minutes behind schedule.

They were halfway to the Vat when Grace froze, making a noise in the back of his throat.

Carl turned. “What is it?”

Grace pressed one hand against his jacket.

“I don’t know how to propose.”

Ilyukhina turned around in her seat.

“Ask.”

“I know the general mechanism.”

“Then problem solved.”

“She’s Eva Stratt.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t just hand her a ring in the galley.”

Carl considered this.

“You could.”

“I’m not proposing beside a vat of powdered eggs.”

“What does she like?” Carl asked.

Grace didn’t answer immediately.

“Plans,” he said at last. “She likes knowing what comes next.”

Ilyukhina snorted. “Proposal is opposite of plan.”

Carl adjusted his grip on the bearing case. “Maybe that’s okay.”

Grace looked at him.

Carl shrugged.

“She chose you. She has already accepted some unpredictability.”

Ilyukhina slapped Grace on the shoulder.

“Do scientific method again.”

“No.”

“Make graph.”

Grace sighed.

“I am never making another romantic graph.”

The Vat grew larger across the water as they returned.

Grace could make out a figure waiting beside the railing before they were close enough to see her face.

Stratt stood in a dark coat with one hand holding a phone to her ear. Wind pulled her hair loose around her cheeks. She ended the call when the boat bumped gently against the hull.

“You are fourteen minutes late,” she said as Grace stepped onto the deck.

Stratt’s eyes swept over him automatically - his face, shoulders, hands, then the sealed equipment case. She was checking for injuries.

Grace knew because he did the same thing whenever she returned from shore.

“The bearing tolerances required additional verification,” Carl replied, offering the case.

Stratt checked the invoice, nodded once, then looked at Grace.

Her gaze dropped to the hand resting against his jacket pocket.

“What is in there?”

Grace’s entire nervous system seized.

Behind him, Ilyukhina muttered, “Act natural.”

“That has never helped anyone,” Carl replied.

Stratt’s eyes narrowed.

“Grace.”

“I- Ilyukhina didn't drink!” He blurted.

“I bought snake ring,” Ilyukhina announced, immediately holding up her hand.

A silver snake curled around her index finger.

Stratt stared at it.

“Was that purchased with project funds?”

“No,” Grace and Carl said together.

Ilyukhina looked offended. “I have money.”

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Stratt’s mouth before she looked back at Grace.

“The calibration report is already in my inbox.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“The ring-finger measurement contributes point zero three percent to the model.”

Grace froze.

Carl found the ocean fascinating. Ilyukhina suddenly seemed interested in the clouds.

Stratt watched all three of them with suspicion.

“Point zero three percent.”

“It isn’t zero,” Grace said.

“No.”

Her eyes stayed on him.

“It isn’t.”

Silence settled between them.

Then she stepped forward.

Her fingers caught lightly in the front of his jacket, just above the hidden box.

She looked down at them. Then back up at him.

Grace saw the way the insecurity still lingered behind her eyes. The way her mouth flattened into a line. The way her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly against his jacket.

Grace closed the remaining distance between them.

One hand settled around her waist.

She didn’t move away.

He brought his hand up and brushed a thumb along her cheek.

“Eva,” he said quietly. “Just a little longer.”

Her eyes searched his for another second.

Then Grace leaned down and kissed the crease between her brows.

Stratt’s shoulders loosened instantly.

Her eyes slipped shut, and before she could stop herself, she leaned into him, forgetting they were standing on the flight deck in front of Carl, Ilyukhina, and half the launch crew.

Every time.

Grace smiled against her forehead.

He kept one hand around her waist, the other over the ring hidden in his pocket, and stayed there for one heartbeat longer.