Lex

18+ only, please don’t follow if you’re a minor <3 25 | She/Her | Gemini | INTP Hail Mary, im full of Grace Ao3: @graceinorbit Wattpad: @BLUJEEPS

[graceinorbit]

RESIDUAL MASTERLIST

Ryland Grace x OC (Mira Bennett)

CHAPTER 1: AWAKE

CHAPTER 2: ORBIT

CHAPTER 3: PETROVA

CHAPTER 4: INTERFERENCE

CHAPTER 5: ARTIFACT

[graceinorbit]

My bbys, I am alive and have returned

[graceinorbit]

Lex where are you, i miss you 😭❤️

IM ALIVE BBY I HAD A QUARTER LIFE CRISIS BUT ITS OKAY 💀💀😂😂

[honeyluvsw]

pressed flower pngs ! free to use! likes and reblogs appreciated :)

[rentsturner]

Give it to me

[graceinorbit]

[graceinorbit]

LOOSE ENDS

DRIVER X READER (NSFW 18+)

CW: (18+ MINORS DNI), Filthy smut, p in v sex, Driver is a munch, mention of blood and some violence, mention of knives and weapons, cursing

SUMMARY: You’re sent by Nino to tie up some loose ends; the loose ends being Driver after the disaster that was the pawn shop robbery. However, you don’t anticipate falling for the target.

NOTES: This is my first smut I’ve ever written help!!! Dedicated to @sirenxzel for the idea and @prudejudee for being the goose boys smut queen

Reblogs, likes, and comments are super appreciated I gobble that shit up like it’s crack <3

You hadn’t wanted to take the job. God, you couldn't stress how badly you didn’t want to take the job.

You were no stranger to who Shannon’s young protégée was. You’d seen him on more than one occasion when you went to the garage to conduct business deals on behalf of Nino; cars, parts, and other very illegal forms of contraband.

The tall, blonde, stoic man always kept to himself when you were there, bent over in the yawning recesses of a different car every time. Broad back turned to you, his dirty white shirt clinging to toned muscles as he rooted around under the hood.

Only once had you managed to meet his eyes, and the piercing blue irises that were always so full of unbridled violence had always sent a chill down your spine.

But, when Nino orders a hit, you don’t disobey. Unless you want to be the next one in the ground, laying with the worms.

So here you were, crouched outside on a metal fire escape in the dead of the night while the city below you went on, never sleeping.

The metal creaked dangerously beneath your weight, and you shifted on the balls of your feet. This building was falling apart, much like everything else in the city. In front of you, through the darkened glass, the apartment beyond was draped in shadows, obscuring all within.

You’d cased the building earlier that day, pretending to be another drunk straggler like all the other vermin that lived in the building. Just another lowlife trying desperately to find their way back to a bed to sleep off a drug or alcohol induced haze. You were certain this was the correct unit; after all, you were good at what you did.

There was a reason Nino entrusted the job to you.

You slinked toward the closed window like a cat, your dark clothing blending into the dark brick, and palmed the knife strapped to your thigh. Quiet as a mouse, you unlatched the window and slid it open smoothly, pleased that it made no noise. Then, you slithered through the opening, landing on the pads of your feet.

You turn to shut the window, then think twice. Better to leave it open in case a quick escape is needed. You were, at the end of the day, dealing with a dangerous predator.

But not more dangerous than you.

The dark apartment smelled faintly like oil, leather, and some kind of woodsy cologne. As your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you could make out a small couch, dining table only big enough for two, a kitchenette, and a small hallway leading further back into the unit.

The place feels abandoned.

You know better than to hope so, however.

Standing up to your full height, you move down the hallway, passing a small bathroom that’s dark. Only one place left that your quarry could be.

The bedroom door is already open, much to your relief. You almost scoff.

A man as wanted by Nino as he was, and he didn’t at least lock his bedroom door when sleeping?

You peer into the shadows, squinting as you scan the room. Too late do you realize the queen size bed is empty, blankets pulled up. They’re only slightly ruffled, as if whoever lay on them hadn’t bothered to slip beneath the sheets. Your knuckles whiten as they tighten around the knife clenched in your fist.

Suddenly, a hand is around your throat, having snaked out from behind. You’re slammed against the bedroom wall, head aching with the impact against the cheap paint. The hand is replaced by a large forearm as it pins you to the surface. Through the shadows, you can see the figure towering over you is holding a hammer aloft, the blunt end hovering only a few inches above your eye socket.

Driver looms above you, icy blue eyes only faintly illuminated by the street lights shining through the blinds from across the room.

He’s clad in his signature white scorpion jacket that you’d seen him in the day before as you tailed him through the city streets in an attempt to memorize his patterns.

You breathe hard through your mouth and move your knife hand behind your back, saving it for a better moment to strike.

His gaze rakes down your face; not cold or angry, but calculating. Analyzing. An eerie expression of calm encompasses his features. It scares you more than if he wore a mask of rage.

Hammer still held up, ready to swing down at any moment, he speaks in a low, smooth voice. “Who sent you?”

You don’t answer, staring up at him defiantly. A muscle in your jaw ticks.

”Nino,” he confirms for you. Of course it’s Nino. Who else would it be?

You don’t move or speak, performing your own little form of stubborn rebellion by doing so.

“Why’d you take the job?”

You blink, not anticipating the question. Why hadn’t he just brought that hammer down on your skull and ended it already?

”Because saying no wasn’t an option,” you say finally. And you mean it.

Driver notices the way your eyes flicker to every possible exit in the room, the exhaustion under your eyes, the faint bruise on your cheekbone. He notices everything.

And suddenly, the hammer in his hand is lowering. You furrow your brows in confusion at this, still staring into those deep blue eyes of his. He doesn’t remove his arm from your throat, but the pressure has lessened slightly. There’s a faint thunk as the hammer falls to the floor.

He’s looking at you now with a very predatory look, and your heart races. Against your will, a deep warmth pools in your body, flowing from your chest down, down to the apex of your thighs at that look. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly moves his now free hand down to your hip, fingers grazing the dark fabric of your jeans.

They dance along the hem before sliding back to the knife clenched in your fist. Gently, as if handling something fragile, he slowly wraps a large palm around your knife hand and moves it up, pinning it and the knife against the wall above you. He doesn’t look away from you once. The heat in your body flares brighter; you feel like a rabbit being pinned down by a dog.

With spine-chilling realization, you now know that you entered this apartment as the predator, but are now the prey.

With one hand pinning yours against the wall, his other one moves to replace his forearm on your throat. He doesn’t squeeze hard, but still presses. His hands are so large they almost reach all the way around your throat.

You can feel your pulse thudding painfully against his warm skin and you wait with bated breath, anticipating the cold slide of your knife into your belly.

But Driver doesn’t intend to kill you. No. His eyes flicker from your eyes, to your lips, the back.

“If you wanna tail someone, you should try harder to blend in,” he says softly, lowly. Then, his lips are on yours.

You gasp into the kiss; his lips are warm, soft, and hungry. He kisses you like a man starved, tilting his towering form into yours. Your body flares as if it’s been lit on fire, and your knife hand above you slowly relaxes. The knife clatters to the floor.

Driver replaces the weapon with his own hand, lacing his fingers through yours against the paint possessively.

Every nerve within your body is buzzing. The sensation of his lips moving against yours makes your head spin. As if sensing the weakness in your knees, he moves a jean-clad thigh between your legs. The sudden contact of the denim on your core sends an electric shock up your spine, and you accidentally bite down on his bottom lip. The coppery taste of blood washes across your tongue.

You expect him to grow angry, to throw you to the side and end you, but instead he whines. Like a dog. The noise almost short circuits your brain.

Sticking your tongue out, red with blood from his now cut lip, you drag it up his neck, leaving a faint trail of crimson. He groans deep in his throat; in one smooth motion, his hands leave your neck and palm and shoot to the bottom of your thighs as he lifts you into the air. You dangle, wedged between the wall and his hard body. Your legs wrap around his slender waist, and he dives in to kiss you again, even hungrier than before.

”Think you can break into my fucking apartment without me knowing?” He snarls against your lips. Your eyes roll back into your head at the gruff tone.

His tongue slides into your mouth without permission, lapping up the coppery tang of his blood. He rolls his hips into yours and you moan at the hardness pressing through his jeans into your core.

You couldn’t believe what was happening. You were supposed to kill him; instead you were two seconds away from being fucked against the wall.

In a split second, you decided, you weren’t killing this dangerous predator. Nino could go fuck himself for all you cared.

”What are you going to do about me breaking in?” You gasped as he sucked at the soft skin on your neck, where your jaw met your ear. There was undoubtedly going to be a mark after.

He bit down and you yelped. “No talking. You’re gonna keep your mouth shut unless I tell you to speak.”

He sank to his knees fluidly for a man with such long and gangly limbs, and expertly popped the button of your jeans with one hand. His heated gaze never left yours as he slowly and tantalizingly pulled your jeans down, leaving you in your underwear. When the article of clothing reached your ankles, he gripped your hips tight enough to leave bruises and stared at the soaked front of your panties.

“Up,” he commanded, and you obeyed like a loyal puppy, lifting your right leg as he pulled the jeans down and over your sneakers. He repeated the process with the other side.

You stared down at him, breathing heavily and pupils blown wide as he rubbed one long finger on your clit through the fabric covering your cunt.

”Stupid slut, you came in here to kill me and now you’re soaked. You should be ashamed.”

Normally you would’ve bristled at the words, but instead they sent a fresh wave of slickness to the apex of your thighs. You moved against his finger, desperate for friction. “Please…”

The whispered words from your pretty lips made his jaw clench; he leaned forward and mouthed at your covered clit, tongue swirling over the soaked folds. He groaned and grabbed your leg, throwing it over his shoulder. He used two fingers to pull your panties to the side and dove into your slick.

”Oh fuck,” you yelped as he lapped at you. You’d never been eaten out like this before and your body was reacting with alarming speed as your fluids began to slowly drip down your thighs.

He licked, sucked, and ate like a man on death row, moaning deeply all the while. The band in your lower belly was beginning to tighten already, threatening to snap. Just when you thought the sensations couldn’t get any more overwhelming, two of his long fingers were entering you. Between the sounds of his mouth, fingers, and your combined groans, the noise in the room was filthy, almost embarrassingly so. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt this good.

You clenched around his fingers and he began to palm himself through his jeans with one. hand, thrusting up into the air. The sight sent you over that cliff edge and you cried out as you came all over his face.

He didn’t even give you time to recover. As you struggled to come down from your high, he was standing and undoing his belt buckle; it clinked in the room as you gasped. Not even bothering to pull down his pants, he freed himself from his briefs. Your eyes went wide.

He was long with a thick vein pulsing on the side of his shaft. It curved slightly to the left as it stood straight out, the tip angry and red and leaking precum.

He grabbed your jaw in one hand and kissed you hard; you could taste yourself on his lips. “I’m going to fuck you against this wall now, and I better not hear silence while I do it.”

You whined at his words and moved your hips eagerly, desperate for something. Anything.

He picked you up again without any effort and your legs immediately locked around his waist again. You nearly sobbed as the tip of his cock brushed your entrance.

Without even needing guidance, he pushed up into you, grunting with each inch. You felt a brief pinch of pain as your body stretched to accommodate his length before it faded to pure bliss. When he was fully seated inside, he groaned weakly and dropped his face against your neck; his forehead was slick with sweat.

He began to move slowly, almost teasing, lips against your ear. You gasped with each thrust, stars bursting behind your eyes.

“When this is over,” he grunted into your ear, speeding up, “You’re not going to go back to Nino. You don’t belong to him anymore.”

You cried out as his balls smacked against your ass; the room was filled with the sound of skin meeting skin mingled with wet slaps.

He rutted up into you even harder, possessively. “I’m going to kill Nino. Then you and I are gonna get the fuck out of this city.”

The tip of his cock was hitting that spongy part of you perfectly and you could feel the edge of the cliff nearing. You wrapped your arms around his neck and fisted his hair as your body jolted up against the wall with each thrust.

He moved his head back to look directly into your eyes. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

“You understand?” He breathed in that calm voice.

”Yes, yes,” you cried out, absolutely fucked out of your mind with bliss. “I’m yours now. I’m yours.”

At your words, his hips stuttered and he groaned through gritted teeth. As his warm essence pumped into you, you tumbled over the edge with him.

You both moaned loudly, certain the neighbors would hear. He thrust a few more times, milking himself on you, and you jolted with the overstimulation.

He gently set you down on your feet and pulled out with a wet squelch. He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard. You stared up into his eyes, the irises almost completely swelled by his pupils. He gripped both your hips tightly.

“What happens now?” You gasped.

Driver looked at you for a long moment. He lifted one hand to brush a strand of sweat-soaked hair from your cheek. “Don’t answer your phone.”

He stepped back slowly, gaze never leaving yours.

“Nino is done.”

[stxrrrdusttt]

Not a request I just needed to let you know that I need Henry Letham biblically

YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKIN ABOUT

i NEED him

but i also need to hug him and take care of him and tell him that everything is gonna be okay :(

oh he hurts my soul i adore him

that's my BABY :(

LOOK AT HIM

i'm so unbelievably upset over him at all times it's a problem oh wow

i love him

i love him so much

[binchidavinci]

Mister Fix It

(Ryland Grace x reader)

‘Times Ryland mindlessly used his sleeper strength to fix things for you without batting an eye.’

Ryland doesn’t think of himself as strong: he never used to go to the gym because the one time he went, he slipped straight off the stair master and never went back.

Of course, aboard the Hail Mary and on Erid, it’s a different story: Ryland woke up from the coma in decent shape, found that being in even better shape helped you two to navigate space life much easier, and started doing a home workout routine once a day, or jogging along the coast. Muscles for Ryland were not an aesthetic choice; it was just practical to be able to move heavy stuff when you’re one of two people on a space craft (though, once he gets word that you really like looking at his thick thighs and biceps, he starts putting extra work into the more visible muscle groups).

You first discovered your penchant for his strength when you were struggling to move one of the heavy supply crates in the sleeping area. You huffed and puffed, pushing with all your body weight against the box. Ryland walked in mid-conversation about Eridian atmospheric models, still talking animatedly. He stopped short when he saw you panting: you'd always been to proud to ask for help. “Oh, here. Let me get that." He reached down with one arm, gripped the side of the massive metal crate, and lifted it effortlessly onto the shelf while continuing to talk. “—and that’s why Rocky thinks the methane levels might spike next cycle. What do you think?” His bicep flexed and his shirt rode up, revealing a fantastic V-line as he adjusted the crate’s position with one hand.

You just stood there, staring, heat rushing to your face. Ryland finally noticed your silence. Blinking innocently behind his glasses, he furrowed his brows. “Y/N? You good?” You nodded and closed your mouth, a little dazed. “Yeah! Sorry. Just— you’re really strong. That box was like... thirty kilos.” Ryland looked genuinely surprised. “Am I?” He glanced at his arm like he’d never considered it before. “Huh. Anyway, about the methane…”

Later that week, you were trying to reach a book that had fallen behind the small library corner you and Ryland had built in the sleeping area of the ship. It was a bit pathetic since you hadn't been given many books: it was mostly made up of instruction manuals and physics textbooks, but nonetheless, you made it cosy.

Ryland walked past on his way to the lab, but froze and back-tracked, unsure what you were doing. He leaned against the doorway for a moment, amused by your lying down on the floor, groaning and trying to grab the book that had fallen down the back. Finally, you stopped and dropped your head onto the floor, sighing in defeat. "Ryland! Ry!" you shouted over your shoulder, hoping Ryland would hear you from the lab, where you thought he was. "Need some help?" he replied, arms folded over his chest. You almost jumped out of your skin. "Grace! Don't sneak up on me like that!" you huffed. "And yes, obviously, I need some help, please." Ryland obliged, smiling, and strode toward you. He placed one hand on the side of the tall bookshelf and lifted the entire thing a few inches off the ground so you could grab the book trapped underneath.

You peered up at him as he towered over you: his bicep strained visibly against his sleeve as he held the heavy piece of furniture, lightly huffing in effort. He looked down at you; you continued to ogle up his shirt, effectively lying between his legs. "Uh, Y/N?" "Yeah?" you replied, still admiring the view up his shirt. "This is pretty heavy." Your eyes snapped up to his. "Right— sorry." You grabbed the book and rolled out from under the shelf, cheeks burning. Ryland set the shelf back down gently and cleared his throat awkwardly. "I'm gonna just... I'll be in the—" "Yeah." You both walked away briskly, unsure what had transpired.

Once you'd finally recovered from that indiscretion a good few hours later, you returned to the lab. Ryland, of course, had forgotten all about it, too immersed in his work. "There she is!" He scooted his wheelie chair back and plucked the goggles from his face. "Wanna help me with this? New paste! Might not taste like—" "Dogshit?" you asked, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Yeah," he nodded, "might not taste like dogshit." You laughed: it was so rare to hear Ryland swear, but you loved to make him blush.

And so you got stuck in helping to reorganise the samples, until one of the large diagnostic machines froze up. Ryland walked over to where you were smacking the machine, half-listening to him explain the new nutrient formula to you. “Oh, stupid thing, it keeps jamming,” he said, interrupting himself. He squatted down next to you, gripped the side of the heavy machine with one hand and tinkered with the underneath, muscles shifting under his shirt and jeans as he repositioned it perfectly without so much as a strained groan. "Try it again?" he instructed, peering up at you over his glasses. You fought to follow his instructions instead of just ogling him for a moment more. "Uh— yeah, s'working now," you stuttered. "Awesome. So, like I was saying, if we adjust the nitrogen ratio by point zero three percent, we should see better growth in the—”

God. You wished he'd cotton on, already.

You were enormously relieved to land on Erid, having been sharing such a close space with Ryland over the past few years. You thought you'd finally gotten away from your perversions, that your fantasies about his thick biceps were just the product of spending too much time with him. Sadly, that was not the case, and his strength continued to be one of your biggest weaknesses.

On one such occasion, you and Ryland were moving supplies off of the Hail Mary and into the biodome. You realised that you’d overpacked the large, garden-refuse style bags, and were now fighting to lift even one up.

“Fuck! Ow,” you cried out: you’d dropped the bag on your foot, leaving you hopping on the spot and cussing in pain. Ryland exited the spaceship, one big bag slung over his shoulder, and headed back down the Xenonite tunnel to the dome. He caught sight of you hopping and immediately furrowed his brows. "Oh— ouch. You ok?" "Yeah, sorry. Just dropped this fucking heavy bag on my left foot—" Before you could finish, Ryland took the bag from you in the arm already carrying one, tucking his arm through the carrier handles. Then, without a second guess, he scooped you up with the other arm, carrying both you and the heavy bags like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Ryland," you moaned, "I can walk.” You protested weakly, face burning as you felt the strength in his bicep supporting you against his side. “I know,” he said, completely oblivious to how affected you were. “But you looked hurt!”

Weeks later, you couldn't take it anymore: you'd taken to openly ogling him whenever he did something remotely related to strength, accepting your fate in the most pathetic way possible.

During a walk near one of the cliff faces in the Biodome, a heavy branch had fallen from a nearby 'tree' (or what Eridians had scrambled together to resemble a tree— to their credit, it looked like the real thing) and blocked the path. Ryland was in the middle of excitedly telling you about a new theory when he noticed. “Oh no, hang on a sec,” he said. He reached down with both hands, gripped the trunk, and rolled it clear off the path. His bicep bulged under his sleeve as he casually moved the heavy obstacle aside and set it down, much as your eyes bulged in surprise. No matter how many times you'd seen Ryland exert his strength, it always amazed you: he just didn't seem the type.

He wiped has hands on his jeans, barely throwing a glance over his shoulder as he kept walking up the path, talking like nothing had happened. “...which is why I think the atmospheric nitrogen might actually be—” You stopped in your tracks, unable to contain yourself any longer. "Would you stop doing that?" you hissed. Ryland turned quickly, tilting his head with an adorably concerned expression. His eyebrows were stitched together in worry. “Huh? Did I say something?” You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. "No, Ryland, sorry. It's just—" you paused, suddenly embarrassed. "You are like— built. Like you do all these things, like picking me up and throwing a tree trunk off the path—" Ryland scoffed, interrupting you. "It was hardly a trunk—" You continued, ignoring his logic. "—and it's distracting! You don't even seem to know that you're like... freakishly strong, and It's driving me crazy!" You ceased your barrage, suddenly out of breath. Had you actually just told your only surviving crew-mate, and only human friend for the foreseeable future, 'distracting'? Ryland, too, didn't move; he blinked down at you.

Finally, he spoke. "Are you... objectifying me?" You paused, worried he was serious, until he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Because, I totally get it if you are." "Oh my god!" you shouted, laughing in relief. "You are literally the last man left on this planet: do not get cocky!" You slapped his upper arm until he grabbed you and threw you over his shoulder fireman-style. You squealed, thrashing against his back. "The last and most handsome man on this planet," he smirked.

[graceinorbit]

Chat how do I deal with my husband who is starting to become jealous of a 45 year old blonde man who I’ll probably never meet in my life

[graceinorbit]

So I just finished Stay

What the fuck was that

I literally can’t it was so amazing

Help I’m not gonna stop thinking about it

[caramelc0rgi]

10 sets of bouncing on it CRAZY STYLE

[thiccbeef]

*Panting and shaking like im in heat*

[graceinorbit]

I wanna kiss people that follow me and then spam me with likes so bad I adore it

[gosverse]

europa‧₊˚♪ 𝄞𝄢 | “i’m your jazz singer, and you’re my cult leader.” [hcs]

sebastian wilder x jazz singer!fem!reader

—strangers to coworkers (?) to lovers

𝄢 sebastian only hires you because his actual friday night singer cancels three hours before opening. he’s already stressed out of his mind when you arrive. he spends most of the afternoon pacing around the club muttering to himself while staff avoid eye contact. he’s sweaty, irritated, sleeves rolled to his elbows, while he argues with somebody over the phone about “musical integrity.”

𝄢 then the door opens. and everything goes quiet in his head for a second. because you walk into the club like you’ve already belonged there for years. elegant in this effortless old-hollywood kind of way. gold silk dress, gold hoops catching the warm amber lighting, lipstick perfect despite the rain outside. ridiculously calm.

𝄢 and sebastian, who usually has opinions about every musician he meets, just stares at you for a second too long before remembering how words work. that’s the replacement singer?

𝄢 “you know jazz?” he asks cautiously, still halfway expecting disappointment because he’s spent years dealing with people who say they understand jazz and then proceed to butcher it. you just smile softly. “i know good jazz.” that should annoy him but instead, it completely derails him.

𝄢 rehearsal is supposed to be quick. just one song, maybe two or three. just enough to survive the evening. but then you step up beside the piano and ask: “what do you want to hear?” sebastian studies you carefully before playing a few opening notes from “is it a crime?” almost experimentally. because how can you fuck that up? it’s a classic.

𝄢 most singers oversing it. push too hard and mistake restraint for lack of emotion. but you don’t. you sink into the song slowly like smoke filling a room. low velvet voice and perfect timing. no unnecessary dramatics. and sebastian— for the first time in his life, sebastian completely misses his next chord because he’s too busy staring at you.

𝄢 because suddenly the club sounds exactly like the version he’s carried around in his head for years. it’s intimate, it’s warm. late-night golden. it’s alive.

𝄢 when the song ends, there’s silence for a second. you glance over at him curiously. “well?” sebastian just blinks, then: “where the hell have you been?”

𝄢 the first performance is supposed to be forgettable. background music while people drink overpriced whiskey and pretend to understand coltrane. then you start singing and the entire room changes. not dramatically at first. quietly. all conversations slowing. glasses lowering. people turning in their seats without realising they’re doing it. because your voice doesn’t sound forced or theatrical. it slips through the room slow and warm and intimate, like smoke curling through dim light. smooth in that impossible sade kind of way. effortless. sensual without trying to be.

𝄢 sebastian’s standing by the bar when he realises he’s completely stopped moving. he’s just staring because suddenly the club sounds like the version he’s had in his head for years. not polished. not commercial. not obnoxiously drunk and loud. it’s full of soul.

𝄢 and the worst part is that you catch him watching halfway through the set. your eyes meet across the club while he’s frozen beside the piano and you smile slightly into the microphone.

𝄢 sebastian almost misses his cue entirely. after the performance the crowd applauds harder than they ever have before in that club. and sebastian, who normally acts deeply emotionally constipated about praise, immediately corners you backstage. “you free tomorrow night?” you raise an eyebrow. “for another emergency?”

“for employment.”

𝄢 from that point onwards, the club changes completely. because people become obsessed with the two of you. not just the music. you and sebastian. the chemistry is visible from the stage immediately and neither of you are subtle enough to hide it properly. sebastian watching you while he plays piano like he’s witnessing divine intervention.

𝄢 you leaning against the mic stand smiling at him knowingly during solos. the quiet little conversations between songs that feel far too intimate for an audience to be witnessing. people start coming back specifically to watch the dynamic unfold. entire tables placing bets on whether you’re secretly together.

𝄢 sebastian doesn’t call it “being attracted to you” at first, he calls it as “professional curiosity” which is his favourite lie to himself. he tells himself he’s just fascinated by how you bend timing, how you sit behind the beat like you’re refusing to be chased by it

𝄢 you notice him noticing you before he ever speaks properly. it’s not obvious attention, it’s worse: quiet attention. the kind that lingers too long on your phrasing after you’ve finished a line, like he’s trying to reverse-engineer you

𝄢 the first real shift happens when you start changing small things just to see if he reacts. a held note slightly longer. a lyric twisted into something more playful. he reacts every time, even if it’s just a micro-expression in his jaw. you start playing to him specifically without meaning to. not in a performative way, more like your instincts adapt. you lean into certain phrases because you know he’ll recognise them as a challenge

𝄢 there’s a night where you hold eye contact during a long instrumental break and neither of you looks away first. after that, everything changes slightly. not dramatically, just enough that it can’t be undone

𝄢 sebastian starts doing small, unnecessary acts of care that he immediately tries to rationalise: saving you a seat near his piano during your breaks without acknowledging it. adjusting the stage light so it doesn’t hit your eyes directly. rewriting the set order so your hardest song isn’t first

𝄢 he watches you more than he means to. not in a staring way at first, more like his attention just keeps drifting there. when he catches himself, he looks away too quickly and pretends he was listening to the band. you start catching him at it. sometimes you pause mid-sentence just to see if he’s paying attention. he always is. he just looks like he isn’t.

𝄢 he starts walking you out without announcing it, like it’s obvious. he takes your coat off the back of a chair without asking and holds it out. when you look at him, he says: “you’re slow when you’re cold.” and refuses to elaborate. you begin timing your exits so you meet him in the same corridor after shows. neither of you admit this is planned.

𝄢 sebastian starts getting protective in very quiet, socially unacceptable ways. if someone interrupts your set, they mysteriously don’t get booked again. if someone talks over you, the sound balance “accidentally” shifts so they can’t hear themselves properly. if someone flirts with you after a show, sebastian suddenly appears beside you with a question about “logistics”

𝄢 he never acknowledges jealousy. he reframes it as professionalism. “they’re distracting the room.” “they’re not respecting the music.” “they don’t understand timing.” you call him out once: “you don’t like people talking to me.” and he replies, without looking at you: “i don’t like people wasting your time.” that lands harder than he intends. he goes quiet for the rest of the night.

𝄢 he begins adjusting the club’s rhythm around you. not in big changes. just tiny edits that make your presence feel inevitable rather than scheduled. you start leaning into him emotionally in small ways without naming it: “was that set alright?” “you’d tell me if it wasn’t, wouldn’t you?” and he always answers honestly, which surprises both of you.

𝄢 sebastian becomes slightly worse at pretending he doesn’t care. people notice before he does. someone says: “you’ve got favourites now.” and he replies: “i’ve got standards.”

𝄢 you start noticing he only fully relaxes when you’re still in the building after your set. not speaking, just present. one night, you ask: “do you ever go home?”and he says: “eventually, but not when you’re still here.” he immediately regrets it. you don’t let him retract it. you just nod like it makes perfect sense.

𝄢 sebastian is falling in love and he feels like control he regained after mia is slowly failing in very precise ways. he starts waiting for you to arrive because it’s the best part of his day. he begins smiling slightly when he hears your voice before he sees you. and your falling in love looks like familiarity turning into dependency. you look for him first in any room. you sing differently when you know he’s listening. you start staying longer just to see what he’ll say when the crowd leaves

𝄢 neither of you define it, because if you do, it stops being something you can hide behind work. and right now, the work is the excuse that lets him stand close enough to you without falling apart.

𝄢 bar goers openly complaining about the way sebastian looks at you. band members hanging around after hours just to witness whatever strange romantic tension keeps happening onstage.

𝄢 because sebastian wilder, chronic snob and professional emotional avoider, becomes ridiculously obvious about you. he’s impossible. introducing you every night with increasingly lovestruck descriptions disguised as professionalism. “and now, the reason any of you people actually showed up tonight…” or: “if you talk during her solos i’ll have you removed physically.”

𝄢 meanwhile you stand beside the piano trying not to laugh while the audience loses their minds over him. he starts dressing even better than he already does too. not intentionally at first. but suddenly his nice button ups are nicer. his shoes extra polished. his hair actually brushed perfectly instead of loosely.

𝄢 because you complimented one outfit once and sebastian has apparently decided to build his entire self-esteem around that interaction forever.

𝄢 the rehearsals become unbearably intimate. all dim lighting and old records and lingering eye contact. sometimes you stay after closing while sebastian plays piano softly just for you, tie loosened, whiskey abandoned somewhere nearby while the city glows outside the windows. and he talks more around you. that’s what surprises everybody most. because sebastian usually keeps people at arm’s length emotionally. he hides behind jazz trivia and pretentiousness and sarcasm. but around you? he softens completely.

𝄢 suddenly he’s telling stories about childhood records he used to play. talking about music like it still hurts him a little. looking at you after songs with this open vulnerable expression like he forgot how to hide for a second. and you always notice.

𝄢 one night during rehearsal you quietly tell him; “you only tap your fingers like that when you’re nervous.” sebastian looks genuinely alarmed. “you can tell?” you smile, “i can tell everything with you.” he spends the next hour completely unable to make eye contact.

𝄢 the audience notices that shift too, because your chemistry evolves from flirtation into something softer and infinitely more dangerous. suddenly there are moments onstage where you look at each other too long after songs end. little smiles meant only for each other. sebastian adjusting the microphone for you with absurd tenderness before performances start. and the crowd eats it alive every single night.

𝄢 articles start appearing about the club. “the jazz revival hidden in downtown la” “the impossible chemistry keeping audiences returning weekly” sebastian pretends to hate the attention. meanwhile he keeps every article folded carefully beneath the counter in his office.

𝄢 after shows the two of you always end up sitting together in the empty club long after everyone leaves. exhausted. half-drunk on whiskey and adrenaline. music still humming softly through the speakers. sometimes you sit on top of the piano while sebastian talks nonsense beside you at three in the morning. sometimes he plays quietly while you sing only for him. those are his favourite moments. no audience, no applause. just you in the dim golden light sounding like true love and velvet.

𝄢 sebastian falls first obviously, catastrophically too. because you understand music the way he does. you make jazz sound intimate again, human again.

𝄢 and sebastian looks at you like you saved something inside him he thought had died years ago. one night after a packed show, you find him alone at the piano after closing, absentmindedly replaying one of your songs. he doesn’t notice you immediately but he feels you there. he’s smiling to himself softly while playing. completely gone. “you know people think we’re sleeping together,” you tease lightly from the doorway.

𝄢 sebastian glances up. and the look on his face is so fond it almost catches you off guard. “yeah?” he says quietly. “they’d probably lose their minds if they knew i’m actually worse than that.” you lean against the piano curiously. “worse how?”

𝄢 sebastian looks at you for a long moment. then admits, voice soft and helpless: “i think i’m in love with you.”

[graceinorbit]

RESIDUAL

CHAPTER 5: ARTIFACT

The sound of birds chirping merrily mingled with rustling trees and animal calls, dancing around each other in a peaceful waltz. The sound did little to calm the storm raging in Mira’s head.

She was sitting in the mental health dome on the ship, walls of bright screens surrounding her depicting a serene forest of green. She’d stumbled upon it in a daze, figuring Grace had forgotten to show it to her. It would’ve been a useful space to have when she’d discovered she was trapped in an endless void in the middle of the universe.

On her crossed legs was a small notebook she’d pulled from her duffel bag. Its first dozen pages or so had been ripped out hastily, much to her chagrin. Almost like whoever had slipped it into her bag didn’t want her to have any information from her prior life.

On the current page before her was a list of questions, much like the ones Grace had written on the whiteboard in the lab.

Why am I here?

A good chunk of memories had chosen to surface in her brain, but not one of them had the answer to that question. She’d wanted to be a teacher at Georgetown, but that dream had been ripped away from her mercilessly by the Petrova Crisis. She understood that she specialized in communication and behavioral science but…

How is that useful on a spaceship twelve light-years away?

Mira watched a bird on the screen to her right as it flitted from branch to branch, ruffling its sky-blue feathers.

Her thoughts turned to the woman from her memories: Eva Stratt. Mira had had dealings with her before during her government work, that much was clear, but she still couldn’t understand why the stoic woman had chosen to approach her. Had she been the one to put Mira on the ship? What did she see in her that Mira didn’t see in herself?

Ryland Grace is a molecular biologist. His role was clear. Yao was probably military, and Ilyukhina had probably been some type of engineer or pilot.

Mira closed her eyes, not wanting to think of the two dead crew members who still lay in the dormitory, covered by sheets. She’d avoided that area of the ship like the plague, only entering to grab the notebook from her bag, use the restroom and shower, or eat. Each time, she scrambled back up the ladder like a monster was on her tail.

The ship—now known to Mira as the Hail Mary after glimpsing an operation manual—had a ventilation system that made sure no decomposing smells lingered around, but every time Mira entered the room, she swore she could almost taste the sickly sweet aroma on her tongue. It made her want to vomit everything in her stomach.

Mira looked back down at her notebook, gray eyes scanning the elegant scrawls—her own handwriting. Her fingers tightened on the marker in her right fist, threatening to snap the writing utensil.

Ryland Grace - Molecular Biology

Yao - ?

Ilyukhina - ?

Mira Bennett - Communication

What am I communicating with?

One memory unsettled her more than the others: meeting Ryland Grace. Each time she tried to sort out these questions, her mind constantly drifted back to him like a stone bobbing in a river.

She remembered his fear, his defensive attitude. But most of all, she remembered the way he threw her off.

She hated it.

Mira prided herself at her ability to read people and act accordingly, but the scientist was a completely different ballgame.

Growing frustrated at her inability to wrangle in own thoughts, Mira slammed the notebook shut and stood. Her white sneakers — plain off-brand running shoes — thumped against the metal rungs of the ladder as she crawled out of the domed room, leaving behind what little peace had been there. Sitting around thinking wasn’t going to help anything. Action was needed.

If Mira was going to have any chance at remembering her role in all of this, she needed to bite the bullet and examine her belongings for some trace of herself.

Grace was not in the lab as she stormed past, focused intently on her mission. Darkness spilled from the open hatch to the dormitory, indicating his lack of presence there as well. He must’ve been in the control room, doing God knows what.

Good, Mira thought as she climbed down the ladder. She didn’t need his physical presence around when it was already taking up way too much space in her mind.

The fluorescent lights automatically turned on at the motion of her entrance, and she made an extra effort not to look at the still forms on their beds in her descent.

Grace’s bag was no longer thrown in the corner, and all the clothes thrown haphazardly across the floor had been removed. Only Mira’s bag remained, unzipped, but not fully open. Sitting cross-legged on the padded surface, she slowly reached in and began removing items, taking stock.

There were lots of clothes, mostly in dark or dull colors: sweats, plain t-shirts and sweaters, and a black and white trucker hat with a patch on it, along with the ship’s name, and a book. A thriller, dog-eared from use. Likely read next to the window in her DC apartment while rain fell from the sky in droves. None of these were surprising, but the next item she unearthed gave her pause.

A small keychain with an otter charm. The aquatic mammal looked like it had been welded together by a child, but was unmistakably an otter. A memory began to twinge deep in Mira’s mind.

A hand, its owner faceless, handing her the chain over a table with two beers.

Before she could grasp the memory’s string and pull, it vanished back into the depths. Mira stared at the charm for a moment longer, turning it over in her fingers. It had clearly been significant enough to be sent along with her, but by whom? And whose hand had given it to her?

It really was quite a hideous thing; its paint was chipped and the surface was worn, as if it had been held many times. Why would she even keep something that ugly? And yet, its appearance suggested it was important.

Mira tucked it into her pocket absentmindedly.

A Polaroid was unearthed next, its corners slightly bent from being stuffed in the bag. There was no writing on it, and the person in the image was a complete stranger.

Which was odd, because the subject was her.

In the photo, she sat at a counter on a tall stool, a small lab in the background. Her head was bent low over something, her dark hair obscuring whatever was on the surface before her. Her brows were furrowed in concentration and her tongue poked out from the corner of her lip. It had clearly been taken without her knowledge.

A startling thought occurred to Mira and she shifted on the ground, fingers tracing the outline of her face. Someone had cared enough to take this photo of her, which didn’t align at all with her currently known memories.

It was clear that she had been a bit of a loner, choosing only to prioritize career and facts. The Mira in the memories didn’t seem like an individual that went out each weekend with friends or colleagues for a beer.

An uncomfortable feeling bloomed in her chest and she looked away from the photo. She’d been lonely.

Who was I comfortable enough with to allow them to take this photo?

Mira stared off into space, pondering, when a sliver of yellow peeking out from between the pages of the thriller book caught her eye. She hadn’t seen it before. Flipping the novel open, she found a piece of paper stuffed in it carefully, as if the person who’d put it there knew she would find it.

Besides it being a common yellow sticky note one would find in an office, there was nothing was special about it. Only a few words were written on the paper, not in MIra’s handwriting.

Take care of him.

The author left no signature or explanation.

Mira’s hands shook as she tucked the Polaroid back in her bag. Unlike the keychain, this artifact didn’t trigger any memories or recognition. It was comically nondescript. So why did the sight of it make her heart race with dread?

Questions flew through the brunette’s head faster than she could keep up. Who wrote this? Who is “him”? Why is it in her favorite book?

Why was I responsible?

The only man she remembers, other than Carl, is Ryland.

That realization made her stomach curdle.

Mira closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply, attempting to regain control, and reminded herself that only action would serve her. Not spiraling about “who”, “what”, and “when”.

Her legs began moving before she prompted them, bringing her to her feet with a faint crackle in her knee joints. She climbed up the ladder, quickly pocketing the note, where it sits like a grenade next to the charm. It was only a question of when the grenade would detonate, bringing answers.

But for now, someone else on this ship might also have answers. Mira doesn’t know whether the scientist can be of any help or not, but she does know one thing:

That note frightened her.

When Mira’s head popped up from the lab hatch, she spotted her query in the corner, hunched in front of a small mirror, scissors in hand.

Strands of Grace’s blonde locks littered the floor at his feet as he snipped away carefully, muttering to himself. One side of his head was shorn short while the other still held jagged waves. He cut off a particularly large piece of hair and cursed conservatively when he saw how much had come off.

Mira crept up behind him, observing his jerky movements of frustration as he continued to make more mistakes in the process of trying to fix the cut. The corner of her mouth twitched upward; not quite with humor, but curiosity, like she was studying a new kind of animal species.

“What are you doing?” she said suddenly.

Ryland jerked, his head colliding with the bottom of the cabinet above him with a comical bang. Disturbed by the movement, a comb and flashlight clattered off the counter, and Mira winced as the loud sound echoed in the small space. He looked at her reflection in the mirror with startled eyes.

“Attempting a haircut. I figured the hobo Jesus look was out of style.” He deadpanned. “I’m losing.”

Mira raised an eyebrow as he continued to cut frantically. “It’s asymmetrical.”

”Thank you. I had somehow missed that fact.” He slightly scowled at her in annoyance.

It took a great deal of effort to not smile. Instead, Mira gestured to a nearby stool. “Sit down.”

Ryland looked over his shoulder at her suspiciously, before shuffling over to the stool and plopping himself down. “You, uh, didn’t happen to have a cosmetology license back on Earth, did you?”

”Nope.” Mira grabbed the scissors from his fingers and got to work while the scientist clenched his fists nervously.

She worked in silence, trimming away the uneven hair while also doing away with the longer strands that still hung to his shoulders. As the hair drifted to the floor, a faint whiff of some type of clean shampoo filtered up to her nostrils. The locks were soft beneath her fingertips.

Grace tapped a finger on his knee restlessly, then said, “So…Did I ever get that gold star?”

Her hand slipped in the middle of cutting, taking off a much larger piece than she’d hoped for. As it falls to the floor, she stares at the back of his now short hair with a dry mouth.

He quickly runs his hand over the back of his head, having felt the weight disappear from his scalp. “That seemed bad.”

Mira didn’t move. “Yes,” she breathed.

”How bad?”

”Very.”

”Scale of one to bald?”

She doesn’t answer. She’s too busy staring at him, replaying memories of him standing in front of a classroom full of frightened children, desperately firing off questions about their future. When he hears nothing, Ryland turns around, spotting her wide eyes and slightly slack mouth. Her gaze roams over his new look, the haircut causing his neck to seem longer and jawline to be sharper. He looked much more like the man from her memories. The teacher.

”You remember.”

He shrugs, one shoulder moving up before dropping. “Some of it.”

”How much?”

He purses his lips and removes his glasses, wiping the lens on his shirt. It’s a silly science pun shirt, black with the periodic table on it. “Not enough,” he replies after a moment, not meeting her eyes.

Emotions are swirling within Mira, none of them recognizable to her. She watches as he cleans his glasses slowly, methodically. A vein in his bicep twitches with the movement, standing out stark against his slightly California-tanned skin.

Before she can stop the words, they’re spilling out of her lips. “I’m sorry.”

Grace pauses and looks up at her, squinting faintly. “For what?”

She suddenly can’t bring herself to meet his eyes and instead busies herself with setting the scissors back on the counter, next to the mirror. She replaces the felled flashlight and then retrieves the comb before walking back over to him. She runs the teeth through his shorn locks, removing any loose pieces that hadn’t fallen. Ryland sits still while she works, eyebrows furrowed together and blue eyes locked on a space just past her hip.

Mira wet her lips and finally replied, “For lying to you. About why I was there that day.”

”You were just doing a job,” he said quietly, thinking of Stratt and the way Mira had seemed to shadow her in front of the school. Then, he gave a short laugh. “I was just disappointed I wasn’t actually getting evaluated by the district. I was hoping to get a raise.”

As Mira ran the comb through his hair one final time, she actually smiled softly, knowing he couldn’t see her face. She hadn’t needed to touch up his hair as much as she had, but she needed something for her hands to do at that moment.

She crossed a few feet back to the counter and retrieved the small mirror, then held it out to Grace. “Done.”

Ryland held the mirror up, turning his head this way and that. He nodded, impressed, and raised his eyebrows at her. “Wow. You’re full of secrets.”

Carefully, Mira shrugged and leaned against the counter, folding her arms. Guarding herself against his stare.

Silence fell. Uncomfortable. Thick. Mira studied Grace, attempting to predict his thoughts by his body language alone, but he wasn’t giving her much to work with. In fact, he had his own arms crossed across his broad chest, head cocked to the side as he stared right back over the rims of his glasses.

So we’re going to play that game.

Unsaid memories hung in the air between both adults, but neither one of them were willing to acknowledge them.

Finally, when Mira narrowed her eyes slightly at him, he broke.

He said, casually, arms still folded, “At least I remember one thing.”

Her heart stuttered at the potential of receiving new information from him. “What?”

”I wasn’t supposed to be trapped on a spaceship with two dead people.”

The atmosphere changes, the temperature slightly growing colder. The tension is still thick but…different now. All humor in Ryland’s eyes fades away.

”We should probably stop pretending they’re not down there,” he remarks quietly while leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees.

Mira watches his fingers fiddle with one another, the nails bitten down short and rough. “Do you remember them?”

”Not really.” He breathes in deeply. “…which feels awful.”

Mira tilts her head to the side, processing his words. It was one of the rare times since waking up on the ship that he was being forthright about his feelings and not hiding them behind some quip or joke. It was interesting.

She says, “Why do you think we’re not sadder?”

”I mean…” Grace trails off while searching for the words. The black fabric of his shirt stretches tightly across his toned back muscles. “I feel sad, but in the same way you feel sad when you hear something bad happens to someone you don’t even know. It feels…”

Mira nods before finishing for him. “Like detachment.”

Ryland looks over at her then, and nods softly. “In a way, I’m glad it wasn’t me. Which feels even worse.” He watches as her chest rises heavily at that, then falls. Her face transforms from thoughtful to stone. Back to the regularly scheduled Mira.

”We need to figure out what we’re supposed to be doing here. Obviously, we can’t remember anything right now, and it’s not going to help to just sit here speculating.”

He dragged a hand down his face, pulling his glasses with the gesture and hooking an arm on one ear. “Okayyy…How do you propose we do that?” His tone was full of exasperation. He’d been so close to getting some kind of emotion from her, only for it to slip through his grasp.

“We’re on a spacecraft,” she snapped. “People don’t build those because they feel adventurous. You’re the scientist here.”

”Astute observation,” he replied sarcastically. Her jaw clenched at the attitude that he lobbed back, as if they were in a game of catch.

Then, Ryland abruptly stood from the stool, his mouth parted. Mira cocked an eyebrow at him. He shook his finger in the air and began walking toward a series of metal cabinets in the corner of the lab, speaking quickly. “I remember something from when I was looking around the ship when you were still asleep. I was drunk, but I remember it clearly.”

A small pang of guilt hit Mira, but she mentally slapped it away as if it were an annoying fly. He began frantically opening cabinet doors at random, mumbling under his breath.

”Where were they…”

”Care to clue me in?”

”Do I really need to? You already watch my every move like I’m a science experiment,” he threw over his shoulder. That attitude again.

Mira bristled. “You leave me no choice when you’re hardly ever honest about what you’re thinking.”

”Believe it or not, maybe I don’t need you to know every thought in my head!”

She gaped at iciness in his voice. As if sensing her surprise, he sighed and planted his hands on his hips, looking down at the ground. She was unable to see his expression as his back was turned to her.

Suddenly, she was hit by that disorienting sense of Déjà Vu again. Deep down, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t the first time they’d had an argument like this. She began to feel nauseous and planted a hand on the counter to steady her legs.

He turned and met her eyes, and they were full of regret. It didn’t take a degree in communications and behavioral science to sense that he recognized the familiarity as well. Mira couldn’t explain the tight feeling beginning in her throat.

”I’m sorr-“

”It’s fine.” She held a hand up to stop him. Taking a deep breath, she said something that was completely out of character for Mira Bennett pre-space coma. “We’re not going to find any answers if we fight each other. The success of the mission is dependent on us working together, so…” She exhaled slowly, carefully.

”Let’s work together.”

Grace’s blue eyes softened and he nodded, once. Let’s work together.

At her single nod in response, he turned back to the cabinets more slowly and opened the last one, revealing a shelf full of small vials. They were each labeled with print that was too small for Mira to see from across the lab. He removed one from the stands they sat in, pinching it between two long fingers. Then, he walked back over to her and held it up.

Now that it was closer, she was able to see the dark, oil-like liquid within the glass container. She craned her head sideways to read the label, and her brows furrowed. “Astrophage.”

”Astrophage. It means ‘Star Eater’.”

A cold tingle slid down her spine, as if a finger was caressing the skin there. “The dots from the Petrova Line. They were dimming the sun.”

Ryland nodded in confirmation and turned to a microscope that was bolted down on another counter. “They obviously sent samples with us for a reason.”

She watched silently as he gathered tools and supplies: gloves, glass slides, q-tips, and other unfamiliar equipment. He moved gracefully through his work, eyes narrowed in focus. It was the complete opposite of his usual fumbling mannerisms.

Mira realized at once that she was looking at a scientist, not a teacher. When it came to performing experiments, he was completely in his element.

A grudging expression resembling respect crossed her features. Ryland didn’t turn to her, but smirked softly, not missing the look she was wearing.

After removing a sample of the Astrophage and dabbing it on a slide, he placed it on the microscope’s viewing platform and — quickly putting his glasses on — pressed his eyes to the viewfinder.

“Wow, amazing,” he commented softly. Mira leaned forward, but all she saw was the black substance smeared across the glass. Whatever he was seeing, it was too small for the human eye alone.

As her eyes lost focus, she could distantly hear Grace talking, but it was muffled. Suddenly, she was no longer on the Hail Mary, but somewhere else, lost deep in the dark murk that was her memories…

The first thing Mira noticed about the old office warehouse was how musty it smelled. Not even the scent of the millions of dollars worth of the top-of-the-line lab equipment on the other side of the glass was enough to drive the stale air away.

The small room they were shoved into was crowded with different government officials, military specialists, and scientists. At the front of them, face pressed to a large glass viewing window, was Eva Stratt.

Around Mira, multiple languages were being spoken quietly under breaths. She could understand most of them. They were all murmuring doubts regarding the high school teacher they’d basically just kidnapped, questioning his credentials and knowledge.

”We should be consulting the scientists from Harvard on this issue, not a cocky middle school teacher,” a woman said to her companion in Welsh. Mira gave no indication that she’d heard, not entirely sure yet if she agreed or not.

The car ride to the empty warehouse had been tense, to say the least. The trip had been filled with Dr. Grace’s incessant questions regarding the situation. Stratt had, of course, given minimal information beyond that they needed him to tell them what the samples contained. Meanwhile, in between blurted questions and nervous jokes, Grace had proceeded to throw dirty looks at Mira in the seat next to him.

He’d clearly still been offended about her classroom intrusion.

Now, the scientist was on the other side of the glass in a secure, airtight lab surrounded on all sides by clear walls. He wore a white hazmat suit and stood among the equipment, hands held limply at his sides, looking like he was Alice after falling into Wonderland.

Beyond the enclosed lab, exhausted government agents milled around, keeping a watch on all entrances. This was, after all, a top secret operation.

Eva had never bothered to explain to Mira how she’d gotten access to a random warehouse in the middle of San Francisco. The communications specialist had just assumed Stratt had used her magic powers to obtain it, like she did with everything.

To Mira’s left, Carl let out a cough and discreetly passed her another stick of gum, which she took, grateful to have something to do.

Outside the viewing room, through the window, Grace raised his gloved hands up in the air uncertainly. His voice crackled through the loudspeaker mounted up in the corner with a whine of feedback, causing the inhabitants to wince.

”Is all of this really necessary?”

As he spoke, Mira translated quickly in multiple languages: Russian, Welsh, French, etc. Stratt pressed the intercom button to reply.

”Yes. Please analyze the Petrova sample.”

With a bewildered look, the scientist turned to the sample, which was sealed in a tight metal box on the lab table behind him.

Another click from the intercom. “Just one thing, the entire room is filled with argon. Just try not to rip your suit.”

Grace’s eyes went wide and he looked around the enclosed lab, as if he could see the invisible gas in question. “Uh, am I expendable? Is that why you want me?”

Sighing, Mira translated and there were a few amused chuckles around the room. Through the glass, Grace briefly met her eyes; they seemed to pierce right through him. Mira shook her head at him, once. Here he was, stood before some of the most powerful people from around the planet, and he chose to opt for unprofessionalism.

“That’s not the only reason,” Stratt replied.

“It’s almost like you don’t care if I die.” He chuckled nervously.

Dear God, Mira thought, rubbing her temple with one finger. Stratt turned to look over her shoulder in question, meeting Mira’s gaze.

The communications specialist glared at her, almost as if to silently say, Don’t you dare, not after all the effort we had to go through to get him.

“Hold on, you have to talk about it?” Grace prompted as he frowned at their looks.

Stratt nodded once at Mira and pressed the intercom. “The consensus here is that it would be preferable if you did not die.”

Grace smiled at the strawberry-blonde humorlessly. “Thanks guys.” Then, his eyes landed on Mira quickly; she rolled her eyes as his mouth cracked open in a bit more of a cheeky grin, a small flash of white teeth. He then turned back to the sample and got to work.

The next couple of hours passed by at a snail’s pace; Mira continued to translate the blonde’s sarcastic comments as he worked, people yawned and took a seat where one was available, and Eva removed her coat to settle in.

Experiment after experiment yielded no new answers, but it did reveal one new interesting observation for Mira: Ryland Grace was a natural in the lab. He moved efficiently, leaving no stone unturned as he handled the different unfamiliar instruments and tech. His verbal observations were clinical and straight to the point. It was like seeing a whole new person than the teacher she’d watched only earlier that day, which already felt like a lifetime ago.

She furrowed her brows as her brain, incapable of not cataloguing new behaviors, came to a single conclusion: he was good at this. Very good.

Not that his dissertation on water hadn’t showcased the molecular biologist’s intelligence, but research and actual experimentation were too completely different things. Hypothesis versus results.

As each second ticked by on the clock, slower than the last, Mira Bennett found herself feeling a grudging amount of respect that wasn’t there before. It was still tiny, but existing nonetheless.

Finally, after what seemed like eternity, Grace came to the conclusion that the sample was full of cells. Alien cells. She felt like she should’ve been more impressed at the discovery as she translated for the audience; they cheered in excitement and relief at some type of progress, albeit small.

However, any trace of hope within Mira popped like a balloon as Ryland Grace began throwing a tantrum that could rival a toddler; the cell was made completely of water, essentially obliterating any ideas brought forward in his paper.

He threw trash cans, smashed beakers, and punched walls in rage. Pursing her lips, Stratt turned to catch Mira’s eyes as the outburst transpired in the lab.

Mira only stared back at her in exhaustion while the foreign officials muttered at the scene.

Told you he wouldn’t be the best option.

Well, they had what they needed now. From here, they could pass the information to all of the biologists on standby around the world, ready to study the sample further in hopes of discovering how it can be killed. Everyone filed out of the small room, breathing a sigh of relief as they all escaped the stuffy space. After exiting the lab to presumably be hosed down before removing the hazmat suit, Grace disappeared to take a breather, shame burning in his cheeks as he left behind the broken equipment.

After exiting, Stratt pulled the communications specialist off to the side so they wouldn’t be overheard. “What do you think of him?”

The brunette pressed her lips together tightly and replied, “He’s disorganized and emotionally reactive.”

He’s kind of brilliant, is what she didn’t say out loud.

”Good.”

”Good?”

Stratt smiled. “You’re evaluating him.” As if she could sense Mira’s next words, Stratt held up a hand.

”I know what you’re going to say, but it doesn’t matter. We have what we need. We’re going to get ready to transfer to the aircraft carrier and distribute our findings. We need to move quickly.”

Mira nodded. “When do we leave?”

”I need you here to perform a final evaluation on Dr. Grace. I have full confidence that he will want to be a permanent part of the taskforce. Once finished, we will arrange for you to be transported to the ship to continue your work there.” Stratt said it quickly, without emotion. All business.

Mira gaped at Stratt. “Did you watch the same thing I just did? He destroyed thousands of dollars worth of equipment.”

To her surprise, Stratt’s face softened, almost imperceptibly. “He just found out he was wrong about one of the only original ideas he’s ever had. Equipment can be replaced.” She paused. “Money doesn’t matter right now when we’re trying to save our species.”

When Mira didn’t reply, still looking doubtful, Stratt placed a hand on her shoulder, almost tenderly. ”He’s our best shot. We need him if we have any hope of making this work.”

With that, Stratt strode away, leaving Mira to stand there and contemplate the new turn her life had taken.

Ryland Grace sat at the small table, fingers tapping impatiently on the scratched wood as he tried to comprehend the last few hours of his life. He’d gone from eating a soggy bowl of Grape Knuts cereal and teaching middle-schoolers to being kidnapped by government officials in suits straight out of a Men in Black film. Not to mention, one of the officials was beautifully intimidating with her ghostly gray eyes that constantly seemed to study him like he was a microorganism. Then, he’d been the first to discover actual alien life. Just a normal Tuesday.

Now, after basically being voluntold by Stratt to experiment further on the cells and being shepherded around like a goat, he’d been shoved in a small meeting room that resembled an interrogation scene from every other crime show on TV.

The chair didn’t match the table, the table itself was wobbly, the walls and ceiling were dirty, and there was an acrid smell of burnt coffee lingering in his nostrils.

Carl hadn’t bothered to provide anything more than clipped answers to his questions which, even then, weren’t really answers. All Ryland had been told was to sit tight for a moment and someone would be with him shortly.

He fumed in the chair, growing exceedingly more irritated with every passing second. He was tired, hungry, and eager to get back to observing the cells despite the headache beginning to pound at his temple.

Ryland liked to think of himself as very patient—excluding his outburst earlier (hey, he’d happily sacrificed his career in academia to stand by his hypothesis regarding water, only to find out that he was wrong all along. Sue him. He had every right to be throwing things.).

Glaring up at a camera mounted in the corner of the room, he continued to tap his fingers more angrily. “Can I at least get a coffee that doesn’t smell like it’s been burnt under a magnifying glass?” His voice, raspy from thirst, echoed dimly around the small office.

There wasn’t a reply, to no surprise.

He sighed.

The single door leading into the room opened then, and that woman with the gray eyes stepped in, a binder clutched in one arm.

She was the epitome of government operative: black pantsuit with no wrinkle in sight, brown hair pulled back tightly in a low bun, except for one strand dangling on the side of her freckled cheek, expression purely nothing but professional. Analytical.

Grace’s eyes flicked down to her name tag clipped to her waist: Mira Bennett.

She stared at him intently as she sat down in the empty chair across the table. Ryland’s eyes locked onto that strand of hair swaying against her cheek, the primal male in him abruptly wanting nothing more than to brush it away. He blinked to himself, startled at the thought. If she caught on to his micro expressions, she didn’t let on.

Instead, Mira set the binder on the table, perfectly straight, and folded her hands on top of it. “Hi, Dr. Grace. We haven’t had a chance to officially meet. Mira Bennett, Behavioral and Communications Specialist for the Petrova Taskforce.”

Before he could stop himself, “Oh, you mean that was someone else back at the school?” It was sarcastic and biting.

She stared at him, expression completely frozen. Not even an eye twitch at his attempt to rile her up. “Can we get you anything? Water?”

”I’d like to go back to my normal life, but it doesn't seem like that’s an option on the table.”

”It seems that way.”

Grace squinted at her and folded his arms. He’d replaced his suit jacket from the school with a white cardigan that had foxes embroidered on both sides; his favorite. But now, the room was beginning to feel too hot for the wool as his irritation only grew.

Mira ploughed on, undeterred. “Dr. Grace, I’m here to conduct a final evaluation on you. My job on the Petrova Taskforce is to determine communication styles between the team and help streamline interaction. We have one chance to save our species, and we can’t do that if we have scientists and colleagues bickering between one another.” She waited for him to respond with some sort of quip, but continued when he didn’t.

“You have a history of conflict with colleagues,” she remarked while opening the binder. It wasn’t a question.

”I have a history of not liking arrogant people.”

Mira glanced up at him as she began writing. “That is not the same thing.”

”Sometimes it literally is.”

To his chagrin, that focused expression appeared on her face; the same one she seemed to wear whenever she was analyzing someone. She’d pretty much been using it all day on him, and it only made his anger grow.

”Are you writing psychological notes about me in your head right now?”

She smiled tightly. “I don’t need to write them down.”

”Somehow that’s worse.”

”Dr. Grace,” she began tiredly. “The quicker you cooperate, the quicker you can be rid of me which, believe me, is something we both want right now.”

A tiny glimmer of triumph began to burn in his chest, and he sat up, cocking his head to the side the same way a bratty teenager would when being scolded. She seemed to think she was the only one with the ability to observe people, but two could play at that game.

And Ryland didn’t miss the note of irritation beginning to bleed into her words. She could crack, if only he pushed hard enough. A small thrill went through him.

He said, “How can I cooperate with your assessment effectively when you walked in here with a conclusion already picked out?”

Her hand twitched, tightening on the pen. “That’s not true.”

”I think we both know it is.” He grinned at her. “You decided who I was before I even sat down. Heck, you decided that right when you walked through my classroom door.”

Her jaw clenched. A rush of dopamine coursed through Ryland’s brain at the sight of her freckled cheeks slightly pinking.

Abandoning the cocky smile, he settled for a smirk instead. “You’re not the only one who watches people. I have a Doctorate in microbiology and have worked with some of the top scientists in the field. I’m not an idiot, despite what you think. See, I’ve been watching you all day too.”

Mira’s whole body felt hot with sudden rage, and yet, her face was still a mask. Her lips pursed thinly. She was very aware that her cheeks were hot, and it only served to fuel the fire raging inside her more. In fact, her hand was itching to smack the smirk right off of the blonde’s face.

Mira genuinely couldn’t even remember the last time she’d felt this way. The knowledge that came with that fact unsettled her deeply.

With clipped, precise movements, she shut the binder with a snap and stood, her chair squealing on the dirty tile. Meanwhile, Ryland Grace continued to smirk up at her, arms folded across his chest and glasses hanging off one ear.

Inhaling once through the nose, Mira said, “We’re done here.” Without a further word, she exited the room, slamming the door shut behind her with a rattle.

The adrenaline coursing through Ryland’s veins grew as he came to a realization: he’d just won the battle.

Unfortunately, he was also coming to realize that this was likely going to be the first of many battles with Mira Bennett.

Mira didn’t wait for Stratt’s greeting as the phone finished dialing. She paced around outside the warehouse as dusk fell. The cool ocean breeze did absolutely nothing to chase away the anger inside her. “Take me off the assignment. Now.”

”No,” Stratt replied immediately with zero emotion.

Mira growled softly. “He’s combative, emotionally reactive, and impossible to direct. It’s not going to work. Take me off the assignment.”

There was silence on the other end for a moment. Just as Mira was getting ready to snap, Stratt’s voice came through.

”Interesting.” Mira swore she could hear the woman smiling.

”That is not a compliment!”

”No,” Stratt replied. “It’s an observation.” Silence. Then, “Your job was to evaluate him.”

”And I have.”

”Good.”

”You aren’t listening.”

”I am listening perfectly.”

Mira resisted the urge to throw the government phone, consequences be damned.

Stratt continued, “Dr. Grace is staying on.”

”Eva-“

”And so are you. Be ready at oh five hundred for your transport.”

The line went dead with a click.

“-Mira? Mira?”

She jumped, startled out of her daze. She looked around at the ship’s lab and realized that she’d backed into a table and was gripping it tightly. She was sweaty and her heart raced behind its rib cage.

Grace was staring at her in concern, blue eyes wide and glued to her. He was frozen with his hands up in midair, almost as if he’d been about to touch her. She struggled to look at him as the memory flashed right at the forefront of her mind.

”You okay?”

She gulped and nodded, physically shaking herself out of the stupor. A headache was pounding behind her eyes. “Yeah. Yes. Sorry, just zoned out. Continue, please.” She gestured to the microscope.

Grace stared at her suspiciously, but didn’t push. He turned back to his work.

“Anyways, I was just saying how something is really bothering me.”

When Mira replied, her tone was almost too sweet, as if she was desperately trying to disguise the fact that she’d apparently hated this man back on Earth. “The extinction event that’s gonna wipe out all of humanity?”

Grace barked out a laugh. “Good one. Besides that.”

She waits. He continues gazing into the scope’s viewfinder.

”I have a doctorate.”

Mira blinks.

“A whole doctorate,” he continued. “And I still have absolutely no idea what I’m looking at.”

A sharp huff of air left Mira’s nose, dangerously close to a laugh. Grace stretched his arms towards the ceiling, his shirt riding up a bit to reveal toned abdominal muscles. Mira quickly averted her eyes.

He said, groaning, “I’m gonna keep looking at this for a little while. Why don’t you go get some sleep?” He looked over at her with those vivid blue eyes.

All she could see were those same eyes staring at her from across the table back on Earth, accompanied by biting words.

She nodded and slowly shuffled away, stuck deep in the memory. In actuality, she had absolutely no intention of sleeping in the dormitory with Yao and Ilyukhina in there—they were going to need to do something about that sooner than later. Instead, her feet carried her to the mental health dome. Once at the bottom of the ladder, she curls in the corner, arms folded around her knees. The forest scene immediately turned on at the motion.

Ryland Grace. She’d despised him. She’d requested to be reassigned away from him. No one in the history of Mira’s past, that she could remember, had ever affected her that way.

And now, that same man had somehow ended up twelve light-years away from Earth with her.

The same man who is now the only familiar thing she has left on this ship.

Her hand drifts to her pocket and grasps the note, now crumpled from its time in there.

Take care of him.

For the life of her, she still couldn’t understand why.

[graceinorbit]

Chapter 5 of Residual coming along so nicely should be posted sometime today

[thiccbeef]

This photo is red sauce that makes me go violent and hurt myself and others

IM GONNA DO UNHOLY THINGS TO YOU LARS