Step softly and stay awhile— you’ve just wandered into the gentle, glittering world of SEVENTEEN’s beloved maknae, where stardust lingers in the air and every moment feels a little more magical. Byeol is the group’s brightest little starlight, full of soft smiles, mischievous charm, and a glow that quietly brightens everyone around her, both on stage and off.
This masterlist is your gateway to everything that makes her her— from tiny habits and iconic moments to stories, edits, and all the dreamy details in between. Whether you’re here to fall for her all over again or discover her for the first time, you’re in the right place.
So get cozy, follow the sparkle, and welcome home… because in Byeol’s dreamland, the stars always feel a little closer . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ᯓ★
“Starlight, star bright, Byeol will shine tonight!”
SEVENTEEN’S DARLING STARLIGHT FILES ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁
⤷ ゛who is byeol? ˎˊ˗
k-profile ۶۟ৎ mbti test ۶۟ৎ what’s on byeolie’s phone? ۶۟ৎ byeol’s iconic lines
⤷ ゛her relationships ˎˊ˗
vocal unit ۶۟ৎ performance unit ۶۟ৎ hiphop unit ۶۟ৎ byeol’s dating history
⤷ ゛her career ˎˊ˗
byeol’s pre-debut ۶۟ৎ produce 101 ۶۟ৎ SVT’s maknae over the years ۶۟ৎ acting career ۶۟ৎ producer
⤷ ゛her socials ˎˊ˗
instagram ۶۟ৎ weverse ۶۟ৎ twitter
⤷ ゛ a glimpse of her little mundane life ˎˊ˗
gose ۶۟ৎ in the soop ۶۟ৎ nana tour ۶۟ৎ writings ۶۟ৎ starlight vlogs
a/n: don't really know how I feel about this part since it was a little rushed 😔
Masterlist series!masterlist previous part next part
redbullracing made a post
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redbullracing Our new favourite duo 🫣
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User2: please tell me she's friends with Yuki already, they'll have so much chemistry🙏🏻
User5: I can't wait for Lewis to "mentor" her to annoy Max😭
georgerussell63: more like nightmare duo 😔
arthur_leclerc: good luck Max, you'll need it👍🏻
maxverstappen1: thanks I guess 🫡
user6: I've been waiting YEARS for someone to match Max's energy and HERE SHE IS🔥🔥
User63: literally father daughter duo???
User2: RIGHT!?
User9: Max = a dad who didn't want a teenage kid. Yn = kid who showed up anyway
User8: I just know Admin giggled while writing the caption 😭
User10: tell me why they look like they're about to drop a rap album...
User3: Dts just got a whole lot more interesting 🙏🏻
Stepping back into the HQ felt somehow even more intimidating than the first time. The walls practically hummed with energy and was lined with trophies that glared down at you like "don't fuck it up!"
Max as expected was no help. "Don't worry" he smirked while handing you a red bull," if you crash in the sim, nobody will know... except the few engineers watching you."
You rolled your eyes so hard , you swear you saw your brain. "Thanks, coach."
Your simulator runs were absolutely brutal,not because of the endless laps,but because every time you accidentally clipped a corner, Max leaned against the wall with what you swear was the most annoying commentary.
"Bit deep there"
"Brake earlier"
"Yeah...I could've done that in my sleep..."
You made a promise to yourself then and there that you would try to not strangle your wdc teammate on the first day. Maybe on day three
Ynuser made a post
liked by redbullracing, maxverstappen1 and 69,796 more
Ynuser Day one✅ Guess I work here now👀
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maxverstappen1: delete that last pic or I'm reporting you
Ynuser: cry about it❤️
maxverstappen1: reported for defamation 🫶🏻
User5: I love her already 😭
charles_leclerc: welcomeee🔥
User6: hm...chaos...i like it
User2: was max sneezing mid pic or what😭😭
User12: iconic behaviour already 😔
When your first day came to an end,your brain was fried from data ,the sim and Max's endless chirping
You needed a breather so you went on your phone. You were stunned when your feed was flooded with plenty of fan edits of yourself and max
One silly fan made an edit of Max and you in split screen interview that was captioned with " big bro energy vs little sister energy"
You weren't so sure about the little sister and big bro parts but you appreciated that fans already took interest in you.
As you looked through the comments your heart fluttered at the kind words people left. Of course there were not so kind words,but you knew you shouldn't mind them even though it still hurt.
You knew you deserved the seat that you now have and that nobody should tell you otherwise and you would do everything in your power to prove that you came to win.
You’re Beacon Hills High’s golden girl. Popular, polished, besties with Lydia, and secretly obsessed with the one boy no one else sees the appeal of - Stiles Stilinski. When a biology partnership forces you together, your carefully hidden crush spirals. One night, one assignment, and one very overwhelmed Stiles later, you finally get exactly what you’ve been fantasising about.
Warnings: sexual references, smut, kind of fade to black
———————————————————————
You were halfway through telling Lydia about the absolute dumpster fire that was yesterday’s physics quiz when the sharp crash of textbooks slamming onto linoleum echoed down the hallway. Lydia didn’t even flinch, but you did. Your head snapped toward the lockers, and there he was.
Stiles Stilinski. In all his lanky, chaotic, flannel-wearing, graphic-tee-underneath, frazzled glory.
He was kneeling on the floor, scrambling after a rainstorm of books and loose papers that had spilled from his locker like it personally hated him. His backpack was half unzipped, one shoelace untied, and even his buzzed hair somehow looked messy. In other words, he looked perfect.
You felt that familiar, shameful little kick of attraction deep in your stomach. The one you never admitted out loud, not even to Lydia. Especially not to Lydia.
Lydia arched an eyebrow when she caught the direction you were staring. “God,” she muttered under her breath, “how is he still alive with motor skills like that?”
You tried to play it cool, texting something on your phone that you would absolutely not remember typing later. “He’s…uh. He’s fine.”
“Fine as in ‘not dying,’ sure,” she said. “Fine as in ‘hot’? Absolutely not.”
Your face heated. You prayed Lydia didn’t notice. Across the hall, Stiles shoved the pile of disaster into his locker, missed completely, and dropped everything all over again. He let out a frustrated noise, cheeks pink, mumbling to himself.
You quickly looked away. You weren’t supposed to think he was cute. Not when everyone else saw him as the weird, awkward loser who talked too fast and tripped over air. But you did. God, you did. And you hated how much you wanted him.
You cleared your throat, forcing your voice steady. “Let’s just go. We’re gonna be late.”
Lydia linked her arm with yours. “Lord help the soul that ever hooks up with Stilinski,” she said casually, “He’d probably shove it in the wrong place.”
You laughed like that idea was hilarious. Like hooking up with Stiles wasn’t something you fantasised about at night.
———————————————————————
You were barely listening when your teacher announced partners for the semester project. A couple names, some groans, flipping pages. You were scrolling through your phone under the desk while you waited for your name to be called.
“Stilinski…and Y/L/N.”
Your head shot up. Stiles froze in his seat two rows over, eyes wide like someone had pointed a gun at him. He looked at you, startled, almost apologetic, and completely unaware of the way your pulse jumped.
You sat up straighter, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear like you didn’t care at all. Like your heart wasn’t slamming against your ribs. Lydia glanced at you from the next table. She was suspicious, and too perceptive for her own good.
You forced a shrug. “Ugh. Of course I get stuck with him.”
But inside? You were screaming. Absolutely thrilled.
Stiles awkwardly approached your table, nearly bumping into the chair behind him. “H-hey,” he said, voice cracking halfway through. “So…um. We’re partners.”
“Looks like it.” You crossed your legs slowly, pretending to be bored while you fought down a grin. “We’ll figure something out.”
His eyes flicked down to your legs, then up so fast you almost laughed. “Right. Yeah. Totally. I’m, uh, I’m good at biology. Well, not good. Medium. Like, average. But! I try hard.”
Lord help you, he was adorable. Too adorable. You smirked in amusement. “I’m sure we’ll make a great team.”
He visibly swallowed, and boy did you love the effect you had on him.
———————————————————————
At lunch, you spotted Stiles before he saw you. He was at his locker, muttering to himself as he rummaged through an avalanche of papers. His flannel was rumpled, his backpack was sliding off one shoulder, and he kept ruffling his buzzed hair in these nervous, distracted little motions that made you want to grab him by the collar and ruin him against the locker door.
This was perfect. You needed to get him alone, needed to get him into your room and on your bed and…Focus.
You walked straight up and touched his arm. He jumped like you’d tasered him.
“Shit! Oh, hi,” he sputtered, hand flying to his chest. “Sorry, I didn’t, uh, see…Hi.”
You slid your hand down his forearm slowly, casually, like you weren’t imagining how you’d be dragging it down his ribs later. “Relax,” you said gently, giving him your best smile. “You free to come over today? We should start the assignment.”
He blinked. Twice. Then a third time for good measure. “Today?” His voice cracked on the word. “At your house?”
You almost laughed. The way his brain short-circuited at the idea of being someplace as private as your bedroom? God, it made you want to drag him into the nearest storage cupboard and kiss him breathless.
He looked like someone had hit him with a frying pan. Like a very confused, startled, incredibly-cute, frying pan victim. You stepped closer. Close enough that he had to tilt his chin down just slightly to look at you. Close enough to let him know you were invading his personal space on purpose.
“Unless you’re busy,” you teased, voice dropping into something lower and sweeter. “But I figured getting a head start might be good.”
His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. He was goldfish-ing. “No, no! Oh my God, no, I’m not busy,” he blurted. “I’m, uh, I’m free. I’m completely free. Totally free. Like…aggressively free.”
You had to bite your lip hard to hold yourself back. This boy was going to kill you. “Good,” you murmured, leaning in just a little bit more. “I like a guy who’s…available.”
His eyes widened. You could practically see the thoughts hitting him one after another, like dominos falling. Does she mean that? Is she joking? She smells really good. Why is she so close? Do NOT look at her lips. Oh god, I looked at her lips.
He did. He absolutely did. And you let him. You loved it. “So,” you said softly, letting your fingers trail up the sleeve of his flannel before pulling back, “come over at five?”
He swallowed so hard you saw his throat bob. “Y-yeah. Yes. Five. I can do five. I’m, uh, very punctual. I can be earlier if you want earlier I can—”
“Five,” you repeated with a slow smile. “I want five.”
His ears turned pink. Deep pink. The kind of pink that told you he was fully imagining it - imagining being in your house, in your room, alone with you. Good. That was the goal.
You stepped backward, walking away with deliberate sway in your hips, and he watched. He tried not to, but he absolutely failed. Just before you disappeared around the corner, you glanced back over your shoulder.
“Don’t be late, Stiles.” You called back to him, and he looked like he was about to faint at just the sound of you getting his name right. He stood frozen, locker still hanging open, looking like he had just been both blessed and attacked.
You couldn’t wait for five o’clock.
———————————————————————
You had spent the entire hour before five obsessively checking your hair, your outfit, your bed, your perfume, everything. It wasn’t nerves, it was strategy. You wanted Stiles walking into your room and short-circuiting so hard he forgot how to blink.
When the doorbell rang at exactly 4:59, you smiled. Of course he was early. Adorable. Your parents were out until late. Everything was ready.
You opened the door, leaning one shoulder against the frame, a picture of effortless confidence. Stiles stood there gripping his backpack like it was a parachute and he’d just been thrown out of a helicopter.
His eyes dragged over you and stopped. Hard. “Oh,” he breathed. “Wow. I mean, hi. Hi. Sorry. Hi.”
You smirked. “Come in, Stiles.”
He obeyed instantly, like you’d flipped some internal switch. You led him up the stairs at a slow pace. Slow enough that he had no choice but to look at your legs, your hips, the casual sway you added just for him. And boy, did he look. He tried not to. But he did.
You closed your bedroom door behind you and paused, waiting for him to walk further inside before you.
He set his backpack down, clearing his throat. “S-so! Uh. Chapter five. Cell division. Pretty riveting stuff.”
You sat on the edge of your bed, crossing your legs, letting your already-short skirt ride just a little higher. “We can start there…if you want.”
Stiles sat in your desk chair like he was afraid it would bite him. He tugged at the strings of his hoodie, eyes darting everywhere but at you. You tilted your head. God, he was nervous. It was intoxicating.
He fumbled with the textbook. “Right, so, um, mitosis…”
You stretched out luxuriously on your side, fluffing your hair as your camisole lifted just enough to show a hint of stomach. “Stiles.”
“Mm?” His voice squeaked.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not looking.”
He swallowed. Hard. “I wasn’t! I mean, I was, but I wasn’t…Looking is…sometimes it’s involuntary, like blinking, and, ah fuck.”
You laughed softly and patted the bed beside you. “Come sit over here. We’ll work better side by side.”
He hesitated, then stood and crossed the room like a man approaching a dangerous animal aware he might be devoured, but unsure if he minded. He sat beside you, leaving a polite gap. You closed that gap immediately, sitting up and sliding your thigh against his. His breath stuttered.
“Comfortable?” you asked, pretending innocence.
“Not even a little,” he whispered before he could stop himself.
Your smile grew. Good. You leaned over him to grab a pen from your nightstand, intentionally brushing your chest against his arm. Stiles went absolutely still, like you’d pressed a freeze button on him. When you sat back, your faces were incredibly close.
“Stiles,” you murmured, “why are you so nervous?”
He blinked rapidly. “Because you’re…You’re you. And we’re…we’re on your bed, in your room, and you’re wearing that and looking like that, and I’m…I’m a normal human man with, uh…organs.”
You snorted. “Organs?”
He covered his face with both hands. “Oh my God.”
You gently pulled his hands away. “I like when you ramble.”
“You do?” he said, completely thrown.
You nodded, voice dropping lower. “I like a lot of things about you.”
His cheeks flamed. “Name one.”
You leaned close enough that your lips almost brushed his ear. “Your smile. Or maybe it’s just your mouth in general.”
He made a helpless sound that was half choke and half whimper. That noise ignited something deep and hungry in you. You pulled back, watching his pupils blow wide. He was so into you. So flustered. So unbelievably, deliciously out of his depth. It drove you insane.
“Stiles,” you said softly, “do you know I’m flirting with you?”
He stared. “I…had suspicions?”
You bit back a smile. “No. I mean I am aggressively flirting with you.”
“You…are?”
You sighed dramatically, swinging a leg over his lap in one smooth movement, settling onto him with slow, deliberate pressure. His breath punched out of him. His hands shot to your hips like instinct.
You looked down at him, pinning him with your gaze. “Let me make it very, very clear.” You braced your hands against his shoulders, leaning in. “I want you, Stiles.”
A beat passed and his mouth fell open. “You…you do?”
You rolled your hips once, watching his eyes roll back just a little. “Yes,” you breathed. “I’ve wanted you, for a while.”
Stiles made another strangled noise. “You…? You want to…? To—”
“Hook up with you?” you finished for him. “Yeah. I do.”
His hands tightened on your waist. “Oh my God.”
You kissed him before he could spiral further. It was firm, slow, wanting. He gasped into your mouth, surprised but instantly responding, grabbing at you like he was afraid you’d vanish. He tasted like spearmint gum and he kissed like he’d fantasised about this just as much as you had. You shifted closer and he pulled you tighter. You nipped at his bottom lip and he let out a soft, desperate sound you felt in your core.
You broke the kiss only long enough to breathe against his mouth. “Lie down.”
He did. Instantly. You loved how obedient and responsive he was. You crawled over him, hair falling around your face, watching him pant beneath you, eyes wide, chest rising quickly. He looked wrecked already. Overwhelmed. Turned on out of his mind. You kissed down his neck, slow and lingering.
He arched under you. “Oh God! Okay! Oh, wow, yes!”
You smiled against his skin. “Sensitive, huh?”
“N-not usually,” he managed, “but you…holy shit!”
You rolled your hips down onto his again, and his head thumped back against your pillow, a helpless moan slipping out before he could catch it. “You like that?” you whispered.
“Yes,” he breathed, hands gripping your thigh, your waist, your back, anywhere he could touch. “Yes, fuck, yes.”
You kissed him again, though this time it was messier, deeper, and hungrier. He kissed back with enthusiasm that made your stomach flip, his hands skimming under your shirt, trembling but eager. You tugged off his hoodie, then his shirt. He made a nervous little sound, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands now that his brain was soup. You guided them to your hips.
“It’s okay,” you whispered. “Touch me.”
He did. Carefully at first. Then less carefully when you gasped. “Stiles,” you whispered, “I want you.”
He swallowed, eyes blown black. “I—I want you too. So much. You have no idea.”
“Oh,” you murmured, grinding down deliberately, “trust me. I do.”
What happened next was a blur of heat and breathless laughter, of him whispering your name like it meant something, of you scraping your nails over his buzzed hair and watching him fall apart under you. He was needy and sweet and overwhelmed in a way that made your whole body thrum.
And when you finally pulled him fully beneath you, skin to skin, his voice broke on a sound that made your stomach drop into your knees. “God, you’re perfect.”
You kissed him breathless for that one.
———————————————————————
The room smelled like you, and Stiles, heat and sweat and something musky that made your whole body hum like a live wire. You lay on your back, sheets beneath you rumpled, hair a complete disaster across the pillow. Your breathing was slow and heavy, every nerve ending relaxed in a way you hadn’t felt in…a while. And fuck, you were satisfied. More than satisfied.
Stiles was lying beside you, flat on his back, hands still half-curled in the air like he hadn’t figured out what to do with them after using them so very well on you. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his face bright red, wide eyes even wider than usual. He looked wrecked. Adorably, completely, wrecked.
You rolled your head to look at him. He immediately jolted like he’d been caught committing tax fraud. “I swear I don’t usually do that, like that. I mean I don’t usually do anything, actually, I’ve literally never…Well, I mean, I have hands, obviously, so technically I’ve done things but not with a real person who’s, uh, alive. Oh my God, please tell me to shut up. Why aren’t I shutting up?”
You laughed softly, still breathless. “Stiles.” He shut his mouth instantly. You propped yourself on one elbow and let your eyes glide over him, slow and deliberate. His cheeks turned even redder. “I liked it.”
He blinked. “You…what?”
“I liked it,” you repeated, leaning closer. “A lot.”
Stiles sat up too fast. Way too fast. So fast that he immediately fell off the side of your bed with a loud thump.
You dissolved into laughter. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he wheezed from the floor. “Totally fine. Nothing damaged except my dignity. Actually no, that’s been gone for years.”
He scrambled upright as he tugged his pants back on, tripping over your backpack, then your laundry basket, then nearly launching your lamp off the nightstand trying to steady himself.
You watched him, chest warm, a stupid smile tugging your lips upward. He was so nervous. So messy. So wildly flustered. And you were obsessed with him. More than before. Way more than before. And honestly? You were impressed. Stiles Stilinski - anxious, fidgety, always-apologizing Stiles - had been extremely good with his hands. Not confident, exactly…but diligent. Intentional. Focused like he was trying to ace a final exam he’d studied for all year. You wanted more. Immediately, if possible.
Stiles was finally pulling on his shirt when you decided to test something. You slid a hand along his bare back, nails lightly dragging.
He choked on air. “You’re…uh…you’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Literally. I’m gonna die.”
You smirked. “I’ll be gentle.”
“No, see, that doesn’t help—”
Before you could tease him further, you heard a door open downstairs. There was the echo of voices and keys hitting the kitchen counter. Your parents were home.
Stiles went white. “Oh! Oh God! Oh no! Nope! Nope, absolutely not. I cannot be here, I should not be here, your parents will shoot me, your mom will throw holy water at me. Where are my shoes?!”
“They’re right there,” you laughed, pointing.
He grabbed them, tripped over your rug, caught himself on your dresser, sent two perfume bottles toppling, caught those mid-air, looked proud, then hit his head on your open dresser drawer. “OH THE PAIN!” he whisper-screamed.
You buried your face in your pillow, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. He pulled his hoodie over his head and the zipper got stuck on his shirt, trapping him. You had to sit up to help him. He thanked you like you’d rescued him from a burning building.
Downstairs, your dad’s voice called, “Honey? We’re home!”
Stiles froze again. “I have to go. I have to go right now.”
You stepped close, fingers hooking the front of his hoodie, pulling him down into a slow, warm kiss. He melted instantly, grip tightening on your waist. When you pulled back, his lips were parted, eyes wide, breath shaky.
“I want to do this again,” you whispered.
Stiles stared like he’d just witnessed a miracle. “Y-you do?”
“Definitely.”
He made a soft, overwhelmed sound. “I…I’ll text you. Or you text me. Or we could, uh, coordinate schedules. God, I’m so sweaty! Is it hot in here? It’s hot in here.”
“Stiles,” you whispered, amused, “go.”
He nodded vigorously, kissed you one more time - quick but desperate - and bolted for the stairs, trying to tiptoe but failing miserably.
Halfway down he whispered-shouted, “I LIKE YOU SO MUCH, THIS IS TERRIFYING.”
You smiled into your pillow again. Yeah, you needed more of him. Soon.
———————————————————————
You walked into school the next morning feeling different. Not outwardly different. You still looked like yourself, still had your perfect outfit and mascara and the confidence everyone expected from you. But inside? Inside you were warm. Glowing. Buzzing with the memory of the night before. Your body still hummed. Your brain still replayed his hands, his mouth, the way he’d looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.
And now, here he was. Stiles Stilinski, leaning against his locker, attempting (and failing) to open a granola bar without tearing it into shreds. His jacket was messier than usual, his hoodie slightly crooked, his shoelaces completely untied.
You couldn’t look away. Your eyes went straight to the faint red mark on his neck. The one you had put there. Heat curled through your stomach.
He spotted you before you could pretend you weren’t staring. His whole body froze like someone had hit the pause button. His eyes went wide, his face instantly flushed, and he accidentally crushed the granola bar in his hand. It exploded everywhere.
“Oh God, no! WHY? Why does food hate me,” he muttered, dropping to the floor trying to gather the crumbs.
Your lips curved into a smile you couldn’t hide. You walked toward him slowly, and he visibly panicked, eyes darting left-right-like he was calculating an escape route. “Morning,” you said, low and warm.
Stiles nearly fell backward. “M-morning. Hi. Hello. HOW are you?” He articulated each sound like he’d forgotten how English worked.
You bit back a laugh. “I’m fantastic.”
He swallowed, staring everywhere except at you. When he finally met your eyes, it lasted half a second before he looked away like you were the sun.
“See you around, Stiles.” You winked at him and started to walk away, making sure to add a sway into your hips that made your skirt rise.
He was freaking out, and you found it adorable. Dangerously adorable. You were still admiring him from your locker when Lydia suddenly appeared at your elbow like a stylish jump scare. “Why are you staring at Stilinski?”
You didn’t jump. You did not jump.
Lydia narrowed her eyes. “You flinched.”
Okay, maybe you flinched a little. “I didn’t.”
“You did,” she said. “And you’re staring at him.”
“I’m not,” you said too fast. Way too fast. “He’s just…being weird. As usual.”
She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. Stiles glanced over and saw Lydia looking at him. He immediately dropped all his textbooks. All of them. It was like his body couldn’t handle being perceived by Lydia Martin.
Lydia frowned, confused. “What is with him today?”
You shrugged, trying to look disinterested when all you wanted to do was pull Stiles into an empty classroom and kiss him until he forgot his own name. “I have no idea,” you lied smoothly.
But Lydia wasn’t stupid. She followed your gaze back to Stiles, who was currently spinning in a circle because his backpack strap had gotten caught on his locker door and he didn’t realise it. “…something is off,” she muttered.
You forced a dramatic sigh. “Lydia, nothing’s off. He’s always like that.”
“Hm,” she hummed, unconvinced, and marched off.
Stiles looked relieved like he’d escaped a predator. You approached him again once Lydia was gone. He backed into his locker like you were cornering him. Like last night had short-circuited his entire nervous system.
“Oh shit,” he whispered, eyes flicking to your lips then away. “What are you doing? You’re still…you. And I’m still…me.”
You stepped closer, voice soft. “Is that a problem?”
Stiles made a noise that sounded like a dying kettle. “Not a problem. Just a…situation. A, uh, unique challenge.”
Your smile widened. “Stiles. Look at me.”
He did, for exactly one moment. And in that moment, his expression softened. It was almost reverent. Like he was remembering every second of last night. Like he wanted more but had no idea how to function now that he’d actually gotten you once.
Your chest tightened in a way you didn’t expect. But then you heard footsteps, and Stiles practically launched himself away from you like the hallway floor was lava.
“I CAN’T TALK TO PEOPLE RIGHT NOW,” he blurted, speed-walking down the hall.
You pressed your lips together to hide your grin. God, the way he panicked after hooking up with you was almost just as fun as the actual hooking up part.
———————————————————————
He didn’t look at you for the next two classes. Correction, he didn’t look at you directly. But he stared constantly. Through the gaps between books, around corners, over his shoulder, and in the reflection of classroom windows. Every time your eyes met his - accidentally - he spun away like a malfunctioning Roomba.
During lunch, Lydia kept watching the both of you suspiciously. After fourth period, you found Stiles at his locker again, pretending to look inside it even though it was almost empty. You walked past casually, brushing your fingers against his hand. Just a graze, lightning quick.
Stiles shivered. Full body. You slipped a folded piece of paper into his palm. He looked down at it like you’d handed him a live grenade. He unfolded it, then stared at it, swallowed hard, then looked up at you. He didn’t speak, he just nodded. And it wasn’t nervous. Not this time. This time it was hungry.
———————————————————————
You and Lydia sat on the bleachers like you always did, your skirts smoothed neatly beneath you, your bags dropped at your feet. Jackson and the rest of the team were running drills on the field, shouting, cursing, and sweating. It all should’ve had your attention. Jackson was objectively good to watch. Everyone knew that. But your eyes weren’t on Jackson. They were glued to Stiles.
There he was in full lacrosse gear that looked like it weighed more than his entire body. His helmet was slightly crooked, he kept adjusting his gloves like they were personally torturing him, and his stick handling was…well, abysmal.
“God,” Lydia scoffed, flipping her hair. “Stilinski and McCall are actual public embarrassments. I swear to God, watching them play is like watching baby giraffes try to walk for the first time.”
You snorted on instinct, but your eyes were glued to Stiles’ thighs as he sprinted. Jesus. Why were his legs that good? You followed the way the muscles in them tightened, how his jersey clung to his back, damp from sweat. At one point he pushed his helmet up to wipe his forehead, and you got a full view of his messy, sweat-mussed hair, cheeks flushed pink.
And all you could think of was how he’d looked the night before. Flushed. Breathless. Gorgeous. You crossed your legs tightly and tried to play it cool.
“Totally,” you said, even though your voice came out breathier than intended.
Lydia didn’t notice. She was too busy dissecting Jackson’s technique and muttering coaching tips he’d never hear. But you kept watching Stiles. Watching the way he stumbled and caught himself. Watching the way he laughed at something Scott said, chest heaving with exertion. Watching the way the uniform clung to places you’d had your hands on last night.
And all you could think was, God, I want him again. I want him pressed against me in that stupid uniform. I want him sweaty and breathless for an entirely different reason. He bent down to tie his shoe and you swallowed thickly. You were done for.
Lydia elbowed you lightly. “You’re zoning out. What are you even looking at?”
“Uh, Danny,” you lied quickly. “His…form.”
Lydia hummed. “Hm. Must be a new angle, because you are staring awfully far down the field.”
You forced a laugh, but your stomach twisted. You had to get out of here before she put anything together. When the coach finally blew the last whistle, the team started heading toward the locker rooms.
Lydia stood, brushing off her skirt. “Practice is over. Want a ride home?”
Your heart thumped. You heard yourself say, light and airy, “Oh, no, I’m gonna stay back and study.”
Lydia paused, her eyes narrowing into that terrifyingly observant Lydia Martin look. “With who?” she asked, voice sharp in that sweet way of hers.
You shrugged with practiced casualness. “Just by myself.”
Suspicion colored her whole face. “You’re acting weird.”
“I’m acting completely normal,” you insisted. “You’re the one who’s been strange today.”
Thankfully she didn’t push further. She just gave you that look, like she’d circle back later, and grabbed her bag. “You better text me later,” she warned, heels clicking away down the bleachers.
You exhaled shakily as she disappeared. Then you grabbed your own bag and slid quietly beneath the bleachers, stepping into the shadowed space underneath. The air smelled like grass and dirt and old metal. The sound of the team laughing somewhere near the locker rooms drifted through the field.
You waited exactly where you’d told him to meet you in the note you’d slipped into his hand earlier. Your heart fluttered with anticipation, nerves, and excitement. He’d come. You knew he would.
You leaned against one of the beams, pulse picking up at the thought of seeing him again. Of what you might end up doing to him if he let you. You bit your lip. God, you hoped he’d let you.
———————————————————————
You heard the footsteps before you saw him. They were fast, uneven, like he’d jogged the whole way from the locker room. Then Stiles appeared through the shadows.
His hair was damp and sticking up in ridiculous directions, clearly from a rushed shower. A few droplets still clung to his temples. He wore low basketball shorts slung loose on his hips and his lacrosse jersey, the fabric stretching deliciously across his shoulders. His cheeks were pink from the heat of the shower, or nerves.
“Hey,” he said, stopping short like he’d run face-first into an invisible wall. “I got your note. Obviously. Because I’m here. Uh, hi.”
You didn’t bother answering. You stepped forward and grabbed the front of his jersey, yanking him under the bleachers fully, into the shadows.
His breath caught. “W-wait, are we…? Are we doing this again?” he stammered.
“You took too long,” you whispered, and before he could reply, you kissed him. Hard.
Stiles made a startled noise against your mouth, like his brain short-circuited in real time. But then his hands were on your waist, hesitant at first, then gripping tighter when you deepened the kiss. His lips were warm, soft, a little desperate (he was always desperate) and you loved it.
You pressed him back against one of the metal beams, kissing him again and again, biting his bottom lip just to hear the sound he made when you did.
Stiles exhaled shakily. “You…you can’t just…God!”
“You smell good,” you murmured against his throat. “Fresh out of the shower?”
He nodded, dazed. “I ran. I didn’t want you waiting and thinking I ditched you. I would never ditch you. I mean, unless you wanted me to ditch you. In which case I—”
“Stiles,” you breathed, “shut up.”
You kissed him again, deeper this time, and he made a soft, helpless sound that lit you on fire. Your hands slid under his jersey, over warm skin and tense muscle. Stiles jolted, inhaling sharply.
“Oh my God,” he whispered. “I think I’m gonna have a heart attack.”
“Not today.” You tugged him closer by his waistband, feeling his breath hitch, watching the way his eyes went wide and dizzy. You loved how every thought he had showed right on his face. Panic, want, awe, panic again.
“I’ve been thinking about this all practice,” you said, voice low. “About you. In this stupid uniform.”
Stiles swallowed like he physically had to work moisture into his mouth. “Yeah? Because I-I’ve been thinking about last night.”
That heat shot straight through you. He was so painfully honest. So bad at hiding what he felt. So good at making you feel wanted without even trying. You kissed him again, dragging him by the wrist as you started walking. “Come on.”
“Where are we—“
You anticipated his question before he could finish and cut him off in a hurry. “To your car.”
Stiles nearly tripped over his own feet. “My car? Like, now?”
“Unless you want to stay out here,” you teased, pulling him past the last metal pillar and into the open. The parking lot was empty, with just his powder blue Jeep sitting alone, a far distance from the nearest light pole.
Stiles stopped dead. “We’re…we’re not seriously…?”
You didn’t let him finish. You pushed him back against the passenger door and kissed him again, hard enough that he gasped slightly. He was warm and flustered and breathing too fast, hands hovering uselessly like he didn’t know where to put them.
Then he finally settled them, one on your hip, one at the back of your neck, and kissed you back with a sudden confidence that made your knees weaken. “Back seat,” you breathed.
Stiles fumbled with the door handle. Dropped his keys, picked them up, then dropped them again.
“Jesus, Stiles,” you laughed softly, “you’re adorable.”
“That’s not…I’m not trying to be. I’m just…you’re—” He made a vaguely strangled sound and finally yanked the door open.
You climbed in first, pulling him by the jersey until he practically fell into the Jeep on top of you, laughing breathlessly as the door slammed shut behind him. His hands were steadier this time. His kisses deeper, more sure. Still clumsy in the way that made your heart ache, but better. So much better.
“Last night probably wasn’t the best,” he murmured, almost embarrassed. “But I paid attention. I can do that. I like doing that. Paying attention to you.”
That spark shot straight through your spine. You kissed him again, and the rest unfolded in a tangled rush of heat, hands, breathless laughter, soft curses, and the kind of desperate closeness you’d been thinking about all day. The windows fogged. The Jeep rocked just a little.
And Stiles - sweet, frantic, unbelievably good Stiles - was even better than he’d been the night before.
———————————————————————
The world settled slowly around you. Your breathing, your heartbeat, and the soft hum of the Jeep’s engine cooling. The windows were fogged so heavily you could barely see the field outside, and the air inside was warm and sweet and full of the lingering adrenaline between you.
Stiles lay half on top of you, half beside you, one arm braced awkwardly near your head, the other somewhere on the seat because he genuinely didn’t seem to know where to put it. His buzzed hair was a mess again. His cheeks were flushed. His breathing was uneven in that adorable ‘trying to pull myself together’ way.
“Wow,” he said softly, blinking at the ceiling of the Jeep like it had personally changed his life.
You laughed, brushing your fingers gently over his forehead. “Yeah. Wow.”
He swallowed, his eyes darting anywhere but yours. To your face, the window, the car ceiling, your lips, and then immediately away from your lips like they were radioactive.
“You…you keep doing that,” he mumbled.
“Doing what?” you teased, tracing your fingertips down the side of his neck.
“That.” His voice cracked. “Being…like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like, into me.” He said it like it was a foreign language.
You felt your chest warm. “Stiles. I literally climbed into your car to have my way with you until your windows steamed up.”
“Yeah, but, like, on purpose.” He sat up slightly. “That’s wild.”
You gently pulled him down for a soft, slow kiss. It was sweet and unhurried. The kind that made your stomach flip in a different way. Stiles melted into it, then immediately shot up again like he remembered something embarrassing.
“Oh my God. My car, my jersey, I probably smell like…like locker room death!”
“Relax,” you laughed, pushing lightly at his chest. “You smell good. And you look cute.”
He blushed all the way to his ears. “Cute?” He repeated it like it was a holy word.
“Very.”
He tried to get off the back seat gracefully. He failed spectacularly. His foot got caught in the strap of his duffel bag and he pitched sideways into the front seat console with a loud clunk.
“Ow, okay. No, I’m good, I’m good,” He scrambled up, knocking something else over. A water bottle rolled, hit the door, and fell onto the floor of the car.
You pressed a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, rubbing his elbow. “Totally fine. Not in pain. Definitely not in pain. I’m…I’m gonna drive you home now.”
“Okay,” you giggled, sliding out of the back seat.
You climbed into the passenger seat, still a little breathless, still a little flushed. Stiles started the Jeep, cleared the fogged windshield with his sleeve (somehow making it worse), and finally got the wipers to do their job.
He was still nervous. But something in him had shifted. There was a warmth now. A glow of confidence under all the fluster. He tapped the radio on. Fleetwood Mac filled the Jeep - ‘Dreams’ drifting softly through the speakers.
You blinked. “You like Fleetwood Mac?”
Stiles glanced at you, surprised. “Uh, obviously. I’m not a monster.”
You grinned. “I love them.”
His shoulders relaxed. “Yeah?”
“Especially their Rumours album.”
Stiles’ mouth slowly curved into a smile you hadn’t seen before. It was shy, but proud. “Okay hold on, wait, what else do you listen to?”
“Dad rock,” you admitted. “My parents raised me on classic rock and 80s hits.”
Stiles slapped the steering wheel lightly. “No. No way. I thought you were like, top forty hyperpop, or whatever Lydia listens to.”
“I mean I like that too,” you said. “But I love the old stuff.”
He turned down the music just a little. “Name your top three.”
“Bon Jovi, Nirvana, some Lana.”
Stiles’ jaw dropped. “Bon Jovi? You like Bon Jovi?”
You raised a brow. “You don’t?”
“Oh my god, this is insane!” he muttered, shaking his head dramatically. “You’re like a sleeper nerd.”
You burst out laughing. “A sleeper nerd?”
“Yes. A nerd hiding in a popular girl’s body. A stealth nerd.”
“I’m not a nerd,” you insisted, still laughing.
“Really?” Stiles shot you a sideways look. “Because that’s what they all say before I find out they know every line to Star Wars.”
You froze. Then raised a slow eyebrow. “Does it have to be every line?”
Stiles gasped. Loudly. “NO.”
You bit your lip. “Yes.”
He threw his head back against the headrest. “Oh my GOD. You like Star Wars! This is…this is huge! This is like discovering a new species.”
You shoved his shoulder playfully. “Shut up.”
“No, I mean it,” he grinned. “I had no idea you were secretly cool.”
“Secretly?”
“I mean, you’re hot,” he said immediately, then panicked. “I mean like, obviously, you know that. Everyone knows that. BUT you’re also secretly cool and kind of a nerd and it’s honestly messing with my brain.”
Your heart fluttered and you looked at him and for the first time, the crush in your chest didn’t feel like just lust. It felt like interest. Connection. Something warmer, deeper, and sweeter.
You smiled. “Maybe you just never bothered to get to know me.”
Stiles’ voice softened. “I’m getting to know you now.”
———————————————————————
Stiles practically burst through his front door when he got home.
“Hey son, how was prac—”
“CAN’T TALK, DAD!” he yelped, sprinting past Sheriff Stilinski like he was escaping a crime scene.
He bolted upstairs, slammed his bedroom door, and immediately collapsed face-first onto his bed with a loud, muffled groan. It was the groan of a man who had just gotten everything he ever wanted and had no clue how to emotionally process it.
He lay there for a good ten seconds, kicking his legs like an overwhelmed Victorian maiden, before ripping his phone out of his pocket. He dialed Scott and his best friend picked up on the third ring, sounding tired. “Dude, it’s almost nine. What’s up?”
Stiles inhaled like he needed fresh oxygen to speak. “SCOTT.”
“…Stiles?”
“SCOTT.”
“Why are you yelling?”
“She kissed me.”
There was a pause. “Who kissed you?”
“She kissed me.” Another pause.
“…Stiles, you need to use a name. Preferably a real one.”
Stiles sat up, eyes wide and wild as he told Scott your name. “You know, Lydia’s best friend. The girl who wears lip gloss that costs more than my monthly car insurance. The girl who sits two rows ahead of you in Econ. The girl who is - objectively - way too hot to be seen with someone who collects limited edition Star Wars socks.”
Scott blinked audibly through the phone. “She kissed you?”
“YES.”
Scott’s voice softened, warm and supportive. “That’s great, man!”
Stiles choked. “It…it gets better.”
“Oh.” Scott hesitated. “Uh, define ‘better.’”
“She kissed me under the bleachers.”
“Okay…”
“She dragged me to my car.”
“Uh-huh…”
“And then we…We…” He violently flailed one hand in the air, even though Scott couldn’t see him. “WE DID…THINGS, SCOTT.”
“Oh my God, Stiles.”
“WE DID THINGS TWICE. This was the second time it happened.”
Scott made a strangled noise. “STILES.”
Stiles threw himself backward onto his pillows, kicking his feet in the air like a flustered hamster. “And she likes Fleetwood Mac, Scott. Fleetwood. Freaking. Mac.”
“Okay, cool—”
“And STAR WARS.”
“Everyone likes Star Wars.”
“No, Scott. She knows the lines.” He sat up, deadly serious. “She’s a total sleeper nerd.”
Scott paused. “…Whoa.”
“RIGHT?” Stiles stood up, started pacing. “She’s, like, the hottest girl in school, and she’s secretly a nerd and she likes me and she keeps kissing me and I don’t…Scott, I don’t know what to do with ANY of this information.”
“Stiles, it sounds like she just…likes you.”
Stiles froze mid-pace. His brain short-circuited. “No,” he said immediately, too quickly, voice cracking. “I physically can’t deal with that. I’m not…nope. That’s not…I don’t—”
Scott sighed. “Dude. You’re gone.”
“Gone where?” Stiles asked, panicked.
“Gone. Like…crushing. Hard.”
Stiles’ mouth opened, closed, opened again. “I, no, I don’t…Okay, I like her but not like…I mean, okay, I do like her but that’s only because she smells really good and laughs at my jokes and is secretly a nerd and has really nice…well, everything.”
“Stiles,” Scott interrupted gently. “I can hear you blushing through the phone.”
“What if she wants to do this again? What if she wants it to be like a regular things?” Stiles collapsed back onto the bed again with a loud dramatic groan. “Oh my god, Scott. I’m going to die.”
“You’re not.”
“I am. I am catastrophically unprepared for this.”
“Just…talk to her,” Scott said. “Hang out. Be honest. You don’t have to freak out.”
“I DO have to freak out,” Stiles shot back, gripping his pillow like it was a flotation device. “Because she…Scott, she kissed me like she meant it.”
There was a smile in Scott’s voice when he answered. “Well…maybe she did.”
Stiles went silent, his heart thundering as eyes wide. “…Holy crap.”
———————————————————————
It happened slowly, then all at once. A pattern formed between you and Stiles. A rhythm. A secret life you lived only with him. What started as desperate kisses and rushed hookups - stolen moments after school, under bleachers, in dark corners - turned into something else entirely. It became routine. Comfortable. Addicting.
You started meeting up without even needing to plan it. You’d text ‘hey’, and he’d reply ‘on my way’, and within ten minutes he’d be at your doorstep, half-panicked, half-excited, always breathless.
Sometimes it was at your place, sneaking him up to your room while your parents were at work. Sometimes at his house, while his dad worked late and Stiles pretended to do homework. Other times it was the back seat of the Jeep on a back road off the highway, windows down, wind blowing through your hair while Stiles kissed you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Once, it was on a blanket in the preserve under a sky full of stars - a moment that surprised both of you with how soft it felt, how slow, how unhurried.
And slowly, something shifted. Because it wasn’t always physical. There were days you two didn’t hook up at all. Days where you just…hung out. You watched movies together. Old ones he loved, new ones you made him watch. You talked for hours, lying upside down on his bed or sprawled on your carpet, laughing about the stupidest things.
You listened to music together, trading songs and arguing about which album was best. Little by little, you began to crave his presence, not just his touch. And he started relaxing around you. Getting funnier. Goofier. More Stiles. Before you even realised it, you and Stiles weren’t just sneaking around anymore. You were seeing each other. You were becoming something. Even if neither of you said it out loud.
The night it shifted fully, you were in the preserve again. You’d driven with him into the trees until the path grew narrow and the canopy blocked out most of the sky. The Jeep sat in the clearing, engine off, crickets humming around you. The two of you climbed into the back seat automatically, the same way you always did, but something felt different immediately.
Stiles looked at you like he was trying to memorise you. Not like he was nervous you’d disappear. Not like he was overwhelmed. Just…struck.
“You okay?” you whispered, brushing his hair back without thinking.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “I just…I like being here. With you.”
Your chest tightened in a way that scared you and thrilled you at the same time. You leaned in to kiss him, expecting the usual rush of heat, urgency, the frantic rhythm the two of you always fell into.
But Stiles kissed you slower. Softer. Like he had all the time in the world. His hand slid into your hair, fingertips brushing your scalp gently, sending a warm shiver down your spine. His other hand rested on your waist, steady and sure, guiding you closer instead of pulling frantically.
His lips moved with yours in perfect, tender sync. You melted. It wasn’t the familiar wildfire of wanting him. It was something deeper. You pulled back slightly, breath shaky, eyes meeting his in the dim light.
“Stiles…” you whispered, not even knowing what you were about to say.
He touched your cheek, thumb tracing along your jawline like he couldn’t help it. “I know,” he said softly. “Me too.”
You kissed him again, your fingers sliding into the hair at the base of his neck as he moved with you, warm and gentle and so heartbreakingly present. It felt less like hooking up. More like falling.
Your bodies found each other naturally, slowly, hands exploring with intention instead of urgency. His kisses trailed along your jaw, down your neck, and for once you didn’t feel rushed, or hidden, or like you had to stifle your breathing. You felt seen.
Stiles paused only to look at you again with the kind of look you usually avoided out of fear it would reveal too much. This time, you held it. Your hands rested on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. He covered your hand with his own, fingers lacing with yours without hesitation. You’d never held hands during…this. But now, it felt like the most intimate thing you’d ever done together.
Everything between you moved gently - warm breath, warm skin, warm hands - like you were synced without needing to talk. And when you came together, it wasn’t rushed or chaotic. It wasn’t about desperation or thrill anymore. It was emotional. Connected. Equal. It was the kind of closeness that made your eyes sting in a way you didn’t dare acknowledge.
Stiles held you afterward, his arms wrapping around you, your cheek resting on his chest. His heart was still beating a little too fast, but steadier than usual. He stroked your back absentmindedly, like he was touching you just to reassure himself you were still there. You swallowed hard, overwhelmed by how safe it felt.
He whispered, almost too softly to hear. “This…feels different, right?”
You nodded against him. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It does.”
Stiles exhaled, shaky but hopeful, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. Neither of you said the word for it. Neither of you dared to. But you both knew, it wasn’t just hooking up anymore. Not even close.
————————————————————
You didn’t even notice Lydia watching you at first. You were at your locker between classes, still a little dazed from the night before. The memory of Stiles’ hands on your waist in the back of the Jeep occupied the forefront of your mind - the slow, aching kisses that had made your chest tighten in a way you weren’t prepared for. You were smiling at your books like a complete idiot when a manicured hand slammed the locker door shut right in front of your face.
You jumped. Lydia stood there with her arms crossed, hip cocked, eyebrows raised like she had just solved a murder case.
“So,” she said. “You want to tell me why you smell like men’s deodorant? Specifically cheap men’s deodorant?”
Your heart stopped. “I…what? Lydia, I do not. That’s insane.”
She scoffed. “You’re a good liar, but you’re not that good. You’ve been hooking up with someone, and I wanna know who. Spill the beans.”
“There’s no one, Lydia.” You insisted, shaking your head.
“I know there is, so why don’t you just tell me?” Lydia scoffed.
Your stomach flipped. You forced a laugh, tried to look casual. “Why would you even assume there is anyone.”
“Come on.” Lydia leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You disappeared for all of lunch last week and when you finally got to English, you had closet hair. I’ve never seen you going to the library to ‘study’ this much in your life. You never answer your phone late at night anymore, and you’re always busy but you’re never doing anything.”
You touched your hair automatically. Damn her. She missed nothing.
“So?” she continued to prod sharply, “Come on, it’s not like it’s Stilinski, right, so how bad can it be?”
You froze. Lydia watched your face, saw the reaction, and her eyes widened. “Oh. My god. No! Stilinski? You are!”
“Lydia—” you began.
“You’re hooking up with Stiles Stilinski?”
You looked away, cheeks burning, and that was answer enough.
Lydia blinked at you like you’d just told her you were dating a garden shovel. “Why? He’s…he’s Stiles.”
Something ugly twisted inside you. Embarrassment, yes, but anger too. Shame. And suddenly you were ashamed of being ashamed. You straightened slowly. “And what exactly is wrong with Stiles?”
Lydia opened her mouth. You didn’t let her. “No, seriously. Tell me. What’s wrong with liking someone who’s smart and funny and actually treats me like I matter?”
Lydia looked startled. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” Your voice trembled, but you didn’t care. “And I’m really tired of pretending I don’t care about him just because you and Jackson think he’s some kind of loser.”
Her face tightened. “I just…don’t want you to tank your social life for someone who—”
“Someone who what? Isn’t Jackson?” you shot back. “Newsflash, Lydia, I don’t want someone like Jackson.” She flinched. You felt the hit land but couldn’t stop now. “I like him,” you said, soft but firm. “I like Stiles and I’m not embarrassed about it. Not anymore.”
Lydia stared at you, but for once, she had no quick reply. You turned on your heel before she could form one.
Stiles was at the end of the hallway, rummaging in his backpack like he was fighting with it. Scott was beside him chatting. A few other students walked past. Normal scene. Totally ordinary. Except everything inside you was rushing and roaring. Stiles looked up and froze when he saw you marching straight toward him.
“Uh, hi?” he said, voice squeaking in that adorable Stiles way.
You didn’t even slow down. You grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him down, and kissed him full on the mouth right there in the crowded hallway. A wave of gasps rippled across the student body. Someone even dropped a binder with a loud BANG!
Stiles made a shocked little noise against your lips, then melted. Hands grasping your waist, pulling you closer, kissing you back like he’d been starved for days. When you finally pulled away, Stiles blinked rapidly, dazed and breathless.
“Wh—what? What is happening?” he whispered.
“I’m not hiding us anymore,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “If you still want this.”
His swallow was audible. His eyes were so wide and warm and stunned. “If I still want this?” He gave a helplessly smitten laugh. “I’ve been in, like, a constant state of cardiac arrest over you for weeks.”
You grinned, grabbed his hand. “Good,” you said softly. “Come on.”
Still in shock, Stiles let you drag him away down the hall, past the staring students, past Lydia frozen with her mouth slightly open, past everything. You didn’t look back. And Stiles didn’t stop smiling.
————————————————————
By the time the afternoon bell rang, the entire school knew. You and Stiles had kissed. Not just kissed, but kissed kissed, in full view of a hallway full of gossips and amateur Instagram detectives. Everywhere you walked, people whispered.
“Wait, her? And Stiles?”
“How did that even happen?”
“Well, good for him.”
“Did she lose a bet?”
“No way, I think she actually likes him.”
You squeezed Stiles’ hand tighter every time someone stared too long. He squeezed back, though his ears had been pink since third period.
“Are you okay?” you murmured as you walked toward the exit.
He inhaled sharply. “I’m either fine or I’m dying. Hard to tell. But I’m definitely holding your hand so that’s…winning.”
You bumped his shoulder with a smile. “You’re adorable.”
He made a little strangled sound but didn’t let go. You were two steps from the doors when someone grabbed your elbow and tugged you aside.
Lydia.
Stiles blinked, startled and wary. “Uh, I can wait over there? Or, like…pretend to be invisible? Which is my specialty.”
“It’s fine,” you said quickly, but Lydia’s expression was unreadable.
Stiles hesitated, then moved a few feet away. He was close enough to keep an eye on you, far enough to give you space. You turned to Lydia, already bracing.
“If you’re going to tell me how big of a mistake this is—”
“I’m not,” she cut in.
You froze. Lydia folded her arms, not defensive, just…small. “I’m here to apologize.”
That shut you up completely. Lydia looked down at her shoes before meeting your eyes again. “I was awful earlier. Judgmental and and honestly? Really rude.”
You blinked, thrown off balance. This was not the ambush you were prepared for.
She exhaled shakily. “I think I reacted that way because…I didn’t understand. And maybe because I’ve never seen you choose someone based on how he makes you feel, instead of how he makes you look.”
Your irritation softened a fraction.
“And Stiles…” Lydia shrugged helplessly. “He’s not what I imagined for you. But that doesn’t mean he’s wrong for you.”Her voice gentled. “I see the way he looks at you. Like you hung the moon. And I saw the way you looked at him today.” Lydia’s lips curved in a small, sad smile. “No one’s ever had you look that soft.”
Heat pricked the backs of your eyes unexpectedly.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, sincere and quiet.
You exhaled slowly, the tension leaving your shoulders. “I love you, Lydia. But you were being a bitch.”
Lydia nodded. “I know.”
“But,” you added, “I forgive you.”
That earned the faintest relieved smile. Lydia squeezed your hand. “Just…don’t get hurt, okay?”
“I won’t,” you said, and you meant it. You stepped away from her and walked back toward Stiles.
He perked up immediately, like a golden retriever waiting for permission to wag his tail. “Everything okay?” he asked softly.
“Yeah,” you said, threading your fingers through his again. “Everything’s perfect.”
His grin lit up his whole face as you pulled him with you out into the parking lot. The two of you no longer a secret, no longer hiding, and no longer pretending this was anything less than real.
Can people stop being cowards and write men crawling, begging and being desperate for the readers forgiveness idgaf why are WE FORGIVING A MAN who cheated on us like i read fanfics so that i can see men beg and grovel, if I wanted to see men being forgiven for cheating i might as well not read fanfics at all
Pairing: Jasper Hale x Reader
Summary: Jasper is a southern gentleman. He hates showing any sort of aggression around you, flashing teeth or using his strength. But you're human and you're fragile -- and not everyone acknowledges it. Some people (or wolves), he just has to correct.
Themes & Warnings: fluff, protective!Jasper, Eclipse era, slight violence, Jasper is such a sweetheart i love him <3
When you said you had the sweetest, most trusting husband in the world, it wasn't just a lie like other women told. You were serious. Jasper Hale was seriously the softest, cuddliest, most gentlemanly killing machine on earth.
Being the most protected woman in Washington or even in the world was a wonderful feeling. You never had any doubts in your husband, despite the horrible things you'd been through with him and his family. He treasured you, respected you, catered to all of your needs, and really was a perfect Southern gentleman, just like he'd told you he was the day you met him.
You'd just been married after being together for years. In fact, the plan was to turn you as soon as a solid window of time allowed. But, of course, danger and turbulence with Bella had disturbed your plans. You were still human and still fragile. You would've thought he was going to hover over you at all times, like Edward did Bella. But it was different. It helped that he could feel when you were scared or uncomfortable, but Jazz was comfortable at a distance, trusting you in your ability to identify a dangerous situation and be smart about needing help. And when you did need him, he eliminated the threat swiftly and effectively, reminding you and everyone else just how deadly he was.
The current threat was the newborn army. Most definitely organized by Victoria, it held a certain amount of weight, a palpable danger. Jasper had been tense lately -- he could feel the unease of everyone around him. And you, his human mate, were directly in danger, at risk of bloodthirsty newborns every time you were alone.
He'd recently decided that now, while things were so risky, you'd be by his side under constant protection. Knowing the threat and knowing Jasper's story, his experience with newborns, you didn't complain. You just followed your Major's orders.
Today, you were in the clearing, listening to your husband teach the family and the Pack about how to defense and offense. You couldn't lie, Jazz was dangerously hot like this.
Jasper Hale was never louder than necessary. He didn’t bark orders or boast about his skills. He simply moved and spoke with such controlled confidence that the entire clearing naturally stilled around him.
He stood at the center of the field, broad shoulders squared, golden eyes scanning everyone like a quiet commander taking stock. The tension in his jaw only made him look more dangerous. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, exposing pale, scar-marked skin that shimmered faintly in the weak light -- reminders that he'd lived through so much violence and survived.
His hair was windswept, messy from combat demos, strands falling over his forehead. Somehow, that only made him hotter.
When he moved, he was all precision: a blur of muscle and reflex, striking with the speed of someone who didn’t hesitate. He never wasted energy. Every movement was elegant, efficient.
There was something deeply attractive about the way he balanced that lethal force with his gentlemanly calm. He wasn’t showing off, he was teaching. Guiding. Protecting.
“Newborns don’t think. They react. You use that. Wait for them to lunge -- then redirect their momentum.”
“Don’t aim for the head first. You want the arms, the legs. Disable them. Then finish it.”
“Stay low, keep your center of gravity under control. Don’t rely on brute force if you don’t have to.”
“Speed isn't enough. You gotta predict. Anticipate. That’s how you outlast ‘em.”
“Rosalie, you’re telegraphing. I could see that from a mile off.”
(a soft smirk, drawing a glare from Rosalie)
“Don’t swing wide, Emmett. This isn’t a bar fight. That move would’ve gotten you killed a hundred years ago.”
He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t need to. That Southern drawl carried low and smooth, just loud enough to demand attention. You could tell he was holding back, like every part of him was wired to snap, but he was too controlled, too good, to let it show.
Watching Jasper fight was like watching a storm gather in the distance: quiet, beautiful, and inevitable.
Could be anyone. Wolf or vampire. They were quickly and strategically disarmed, usually with one move. It was like Jasper could tell exactly what they were going to do before they did it -- because likely, he could. He could feel whether they were cool headed, overconfident, agitated, restless. He was truly formidable. It was incredibly sexy to you.
Every once in a while, Jasper could feel your stares. He could feel your feelings of.. affection.. too. He tried to stay focused, his eyes locked onto whoever he was speaking to or whoever was swinging at him, but you could tell he knew. A crooked lift of his lip in a slight smirk would expose him.
Now, he stood facing off with Paul.
You'd never liked Paul. He was temperamental, cocky, arrogant and out of line any time you'd talked to him or been around him. But he was part of the pack and needed to be trained, so he was here.
Jasper could immediately feel your discomfort. His golden eyes met yours knowingly, reassuringly, in an attempt to soothe you. You felt yourself calm down considerably before you leaned back against the log, sighing.
He turned back. Paul was already snarling, fur prickling up in confidence and aggression. He hated vampires, whether they were fighting for the same cause or not. He wouldn't take it easy on Jasper, not that it mattered. Jasper never needed anyone to be careful, never needed to take it easily. He was almost sure that if Paul could, he'd go for the kill.
You swooned at Jazz. His face was still calm, staring down at the beast with anticipating eyes. Relaxed stance. He nodded, curving a hand to show Paul that it was time.
“Give it your best.” He said, one final statement, before Paul growled.
Paul lunged, massive wolf body coiled with muscle and teeth.
Jasper shifted just enough to the side, one pale hand shooting out to catch Paul by the ruff of his neck. He used the wolf’s own momentum to slam him to the ground, pinning him with one knee between his shoulders.
His voice was low, unbothered:
“Far too predictable. A newborn would've snapped your neck,” he said. “You need to think it through before making an attempt. You have to be better than them -- more patient, more measured.”
Paul snarled and bucked under him, forcing Jasper to release him. The wolf twisted, hackles raised, and launched again with a furious roar.
Jasper didn’t flinch. He waited, eyes cool, then sidestepped at the last second, hand flashing out to catch Paul’s foreleg mid-swipe. With a sharp jerk and a twist of his hips, he threw the massive wolf onto his back, sending him sliding into the treeline.
Jasper leaned in slightly, voice calm but firm.
“Again. But try learning this time.”
With a furious roar, Paul gave it one more shot.
He jumped into the air, not taking Jasper's advice, not thinking, but heading for the southern man full force. With an audible and disappointed "tsk," Jazz landed another blow, a final push, intended for teaching. The blow made contact, once again sending Paul towards the trees. He barreled into them, knocking two over.
Jasper turned around to the group, using it as a teaching example.
“That's why you have to think. Control yourself,” he explained, gesturing towards the direction he'd flung Paul. “They're stronger than you and far more excited to fight. Even more excited to kill. You can't be sloppy.”
While Jasper was explaining, Paul got angrier and angrier.
He hated being beaten. Hated being embarrassed. Hated being talked back to. And hated vampires.
You sat across the clearing, watching him get up from the trees. His teeth dripped with spit, a permanent snarl etched onto his glaring face. His paws were heavy in the dirt.
And the direction he stalked? It wasn't towards Jasper.
It was towards you.
He was angry, embarrassed, and wanted to teach Jasper a lesson by terrifying you. Of course, by pack law, he wasn't allowed to touch you. But scaring a vampire's mate seemed to be equal punishment for the embarrassment.
Your eyes widened as you straightened off the log. Paul got closer and closer, drool dribbling off his teeth and lips, looking positively murderous. He was now within five feet of you, paws crossing the grass in enormous strides.
Jasper’s voice faltered for half a second as he felt the shift in you -- the jolt of fear, sharp and cold.
His golden eyes flicked immediately to you, then the aggressive, snarling wolf right in front of your face. Less than five feet now, pushing you back, making you cower against the wood log.
Jacob spoke from behind Jasper first.
“Paul! Stop!”
It was too late. The damage had already been done. Jasper was angry now.
Jasper didn’t explode.
He didn’t shout, didn’t bare his teeth or make a scene.
He simply went silent.
So silent that even the wind seemed to still in the trees.
And in that breathless, deathly quiet, he moved.
One blink and he was no longer in front of the pack or your family. He was between you and Paul, standing nose-to-snout with the enormous wolf, whose growling abruptly cut short at the sudden presence of something far, far more dangerous.
Jasper’s hand shot out, not to strike, but to press, flat and firm, against Paul’s fur covered shoulder, holding him back like he weighed nothing at all. His voice came low and dark, quieter than anyone had ever heard it.
“Foolish dog.”
Paul snarled, tried to shove forward -- instinct, fury, shame. He didn’t make it an inch.
With one hand still on Paul’s shoulder, Jasper’s other came up in a blur -- grabbing the wolf by the scruff of the neck and slamming him into the earth with a crack of force that shook the ground.
Gasps, footsteps, and whining from the pack echoed behind you.
Jasper didn't look at anyone else.
“I gave you every chance,” he said, voice thick with venom now, words curling with Southern fire. “I trained you. I warned you.”
He leaned into the wolf's snarling face again, letting him snap and growl at him, unfazed. His eyes were deadly, but his face was relatively relaxed.
“You won't make it on the field if this is how you present yourself,” he hummed, squeezing tighter onto Paul's body. “I cared at first. But now?”
Paul growled and twisted. Jasper slammed him down.
“I'm almost certain this world could use one less insolent mutt.”
The threat in his words wasn’t shouted. It was drawled, cold and certain, landing heavier than any yell could have. Paul let out a strangled, furious snarl, thrashing harder beneath Jasper’s unyielding grip. Dirt and grass tore up under his claws.
Jasper didn’t even blink. His golden eyes stayed locked on the wolf’s, steady and unflinching.
“You think you’re ready to fight newborns?” he asked, tone dipping almost to pity -- almost. His fingers tightened just enough to make Paul yelp. “You can’t even manage your temper.”
He waited for the next lunge. When Paul tried to twist again, Jasper slammed him down harder, making the ground quake.
“You’re sloppy. Predictable. And worst of all?” Jasper dropped his voice to a harsh whisper.
“You’re willing to threaten something of mine to save your own pride.”
Paul went still beneath him at that. Breathing hard. Growling, but with a tremor that wasn’t all rage.
Behind them, the clearing had gone silent. The pack frozen. Cullens unmoving. Even the wind felt like it held its breath.
Jasper’s lip curled faintly, not quite a smile.
“Consider this your only warning.”
He held Paul down one second longer, driving the point home. Then he stood smoothly, brushing the dirt from his hands like he hadn’t just manhandled a half-ton predator into submission.
“If you ever step foot near her again,” he drawled, Southern lilt dark as pitch, “I’ll put you down myself.”
He let that promise hang in the frozen air.
Then he turned, utterly calm, and walked back toward you without another glance at the wolf.
His cold hands met your skin immediately, gently nudging you into a standing position and smoothing your clothes out. He searched you silently for injuries -- you prayed he didn't find a single scratch. Even if Paul hadn't done it, he'd still pay the price for it.
Jasper’s touch was careful, almost reverent, as though he feared he might hurt you just by being too rough. His cold fingers brushed along your arms, checking for any sign of bruising. He smoothed your hair back from your face, golden eyes scanning you with laser focus.
“Hold still for me, darlin',” he murmured, voice lower now -- gentler, but still taut with restrained fury.
You swallowed hard, letting him fuss over you. His thumb grazed your jaw, tilting your face toward the light to check for any marks.
Nothing. Not a scratch.
He exhaled, slow and shaky despite the careful control on his face.
“Good,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
His hands lingered at your waist, gripping you just enough to anchor himself. He didn’t look back at the pack, didn’t even acknowledge the others. For Jasper, in that moment, there was no one else but you.
As he felt you relax against him, Jasper’s hold softened even more. His thumbs brushed soothing circles at your waist, the cold of his skin forgotten in the warm hush between you.
“That’s it,” he murmured, southern lilt a low rumble only for your ears. “Easy now, sugar. I’ve got you.”
He dipped his head just low enough to press his lips gently to your forehead, leaving his lips there for a few seconds and letting his eyes flutter shut. Grounding himself. The tension bled out of him by slow degrees, like smothered coals on a fire being put out.
One of his hands drifted up to cup your cheek, wiping the startled tears from under your eyes.
“No more cryin’, sweet angel. He’s never gonna come near you again.”
Once you were sufficiently comforted, Jasper returned to the training session, but decided that he wasn’t going to do any demonstrations. For the rest of the day, you’d be by his side where he could focus on you.
However, Jasper was a practical and respectful man. A warning always came before he broke loose.
Jasper didn’t raise his voice or even turn fully away from you. He just lifted his head enough to look past you, eyes finding the pack’s leader with that glint of cold command still in them.
“Sam,” he called evenly.
Sam’s ears flicked forward in wolf form, body tense, watching every move. No one had much to say, just stared. Emmett and Edward watched cautiously, awaiting a fight to break out.
Jasper’s jaw flexed once before he spoke, his tone unyielding.
“You’ll be down a pup if you ever let one of yours so much as growl at her again,” he asserted, tone cutting through the air like a knife. “She’s human. If you’ve forgotten your rules, if you’ve forgotten the treaty, I can be your reminder.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Didn’t need one.
His gaze lingered on Sam another beat, making sure the threat was received in full, before he lowered his eyes back to you, all that deadly fire softening in an instant.
⤿ JOHN LOGAN was a firm believer that love at first sight was fake, then he saw you get checked into the boards at full strength. That was enough to convince him you were his soulmate.
!! wc: 4.5k. fluff. fem!reader. yearner!logan. hockey player!reader. dean and tucker cameos of course. should i make a mini series about logan x hockey reader. taglist open. ENJOY. COMMENTS ENCOURAGED.
The rink smelled like cold air, sweat, and freshly resurfaced ice, the familiar combination settling heavily into your lungs every time you pushed off the bench and stepped back onto the surface.
Your legs already ached.
The game had turned aggressive halfway through the second period after one shitty call spiraled into another, and now every shift felt sharper around the edges. Faster. Meaner. The kind of game where players stopped caring about penalties and started caring about pride instead.
You preferred games like that, if you had to be honest.
Your ponytail stuck damply to the back of your neck beneath your helmet while you skated toward center ice, adjusting your grip against your stick as the referee dropped the puck between you and the opposing center.
The collision happened almost immediately after that.
Sticks clashed. Skates carved violently against the ice. Somebody shouted from the bench behind you while bodies slammed together hard enough to rattle the boards, but your focus narrowed the way it always did during games until the rest of the rink became background noise.
You stole the puck cleanly and pushed forward.
A defender cut toward you from the left.
You dipped your shoulder, trying to slip around her.
Instead, she drove straight into your side.
The impact sent you hard against the glass with a crack loud enough to echo through the arena, pain blooming sharply along your ribs as the boards shook beneath you.
The crowd reacted instantly, and so did your teammates.
But you barely had time to register any of it before irritation outweighed the pain completely.
You shoved off the glass immediately, stealing the puck back before the defender could recover properly, and skated straight down the ice with enough force behind your strides to make your thighs burn.
Somewhere behind the opposing bench, somebody yelled, “Holy shit.”
The puck left your stick seconds later, and the goal light flashed red.
You barely had time to breathe before gloves slammed against your helmet and arms wrapped around your shoulders, the team crowding around you near the bench while the arena noise swelled louder overhead.
“You’re insane,” your captain laughed breathlessly against the side of your helmet.
You grinned despite yourself, adrenaline still racing violently through your system.
The celebration around you lasted only a few seconds before the line changed again and everybody scattered back into position, skates carving sharply across the ice while the energy in the rink climbed even higher after the goal.
You pushed a hand briefly against your ribs while skating backward toward center, testing the ache already beginning to settle beneath your padding.
It hurt.. not enough to matter, yet.
Across the arena, Logan still had not looked away from you.
He sat forward in his seat slowly, forearms resting against his knees while the rest of the crowd blurred into noise around him. The game continued moving at full speed beneath the arena lights, players shouting over one another while the referees reset the faceoff, but his attention stayed fixed entirely on you.
Dean noticed first, because of course he did.
“You good, bro?” he asked, glancing sideways from his seat beside him.
Logan barely blinked. “Who is that?”
Dean followed his line of sight toward the ice where you were circling near center.
“The defenseman?”
“The one that just got launched into the glass.”
Tucker snorted from Logan’s other side. “That doesn't narrow it down at all. They've been nasty tonight.”
Logan ignored him completely.
You pushed your helmet back slightly while talking to one of your teammates, visibly unfazed by the hit you had taken less than a minute earlier, and something about that seemed to irritate Logan further.
He wasn't irritated with you.
At the fact that nobody else on the ice appeared nearly as bothered by it as he was.
“She’s fine,” Dean said casually, mid bite of his overpriced arena pretzel. “Women’s team plays mean as hell.”
“That wasn’t a casual hit.”
Dean shrugged. “She got back up.”
“Not the point.” Logan groaned, leaning back in his seat and letting his legs spread a bit.
Tucker looked over slowly then, eyebrows lifting slightly as realization started creeping into his expression.
“Oh my God,” he muttered. “You’re obsessed with her.”
Logan finally tore his eyes away from the ice long enough to glare at him.
“I’m not obsessed.”
“You looked ready to fight somebody for checking her.”
“She hit the glass hard.”
“She also scored immediately after.” Dean piped up with a shrug and a wink.
Logan’s jaw tightened slightly.
The game resumed again before Dean could say anything else, but Logan’s attention kept drifting back toward you no matter how hard he tried to focus elsewhere. Every shift you played seemed sharper than everyone else’s. Faster. More aggressive.
You didn’t hesitate.
Most players slowed right before impact without even realizing they were doing it, bodies instinctively bracing against pain before collisions happened.
You didn’t.
You kept driving forward like fear genuinely never occurred to you.
Halfway through the third period, you slammed another player into the boards hard enough that Tucker actually winced.
“Jesus Christ,” he laughed. “She’s terrifying.”
Logan said nothing.
Your helmet turned slightly while backing away from the boards afterward, and for a brief second the arena lights caught the side of your jersey clearly enough for him to see the number stretched across your back.
Twelve.
Before he could make out the name above it, you skated off toward the bench again.
Logan leaned forward immediately.
“Twelve,” he repeated.
Dean stared at him. “What?”
“Her number.”
Dean burst out laughing. “You’re actually trying to identify her right now?”
Logan reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled his phone out without answering.
“Oh, this is bad,” Tucker said, grinning openly now. “He’s gone.”
Dean leaned over slightly while Logan opened the Briar women’s hockey roster, scrolling quickly with his thumb while the game continued in the background.
“Twelve,” Logan muttered quietly to himself.
The roster loaded slowly.
Tucker watched him with open amusement. “You don’t even know this girl.”
Logan’s eyes stayed fixed on his phone. “Working on it.”
Dean laughed under his breath. “You got all this from one hit into the boards?”
Logan finally looked back toward the ice.
You were standing near the bench listening to your coach, one glove hanging loosely from your hand while you nodded along absently, cheeks flushed from exertion and baby hairs sticking damply to your forehead beneath your helmet.
Then you smiled at something one of your teammates said.
Five minutes ago you had looked vicious enough to start a fight in the middle of the rink. Now you looked warm and relaxed. The contrast was something that Logan understood and admired.. something that was also making him constantly reconnect his wifi in the hopes that it would load faster.
Logan looked back down at the roster immediately.
“There,” Dean pointed suddenly, leaning closer. “Number twelve.”
Logan’s thumb stopped scrolling.
Your name sat there on the screen beneath your player photo.
Defense. Junior. The same number stitched across your jersey.
For some reason, finally knowing your name only made the strange tight feeling in his chest worse.
Tucker looked between Logan and the phone before laughing again.
“You’re done for, bro.”
Logan barely heard him.
Down on the ice, you stepped back into play again, completely unaware that a man several rows above the rink had just memorized your name like it was something important.
By the final stretch of the third period, Boston College had stopped looking organized and started looking frustrated.
Every pass they attempted felt rushed, every hit carried just a little too much irritation behind it, and Briar only seemed to feed off the shift in energy. The game had become brutal in the way rivalry games always did once pride got involved, fast and physical and loud enough that the sound of skates carving into the ice blended together with the roar of the crowd overhead.
Your lungs burned every time you pushed off into another sprint, exhaustion settling heavily into your legs beneath the adrenaline, but it barely registered anymore. The ache in your ribs from earlier pulsed every time you twisted too sharply, yet even that felt distant compared to the rush of momentum building around your team.
The scoreboard hanging above the rink read 5–1.
Boston looked furious about it.
You stole another pass near center ice before one of their forwards could recover properly, intercepting it so cleanly that she nearly lost her footing trying to turn around after you. The crowd reacted immediately, noise erupting through the arena while you accelerated down the ice with one of your teammates racing alongside you.
A defender moved toward you.
You waited until the very last second before sliding the puck across the ice.
Your teammate buried it immediately.
The red goal light flashed, and before you fully registered it, the arena exploded.
By the time you reached the boards again, your teammates were already swarming you, gloves smacking against your helmet and shoulders while somebody nearly crashed hard enough into your back to knock you forward.
You were laughing before you realized it, adrenaline making everything feel sharp and electric beneath your skin while the Boston goalie snapped her stick against the post in frustration somewhere behind you.
Several rows above the glass, Tucker stood abruptly from his seat with the kind of dramatic excitement only hockey players seemed capable of.
His hands coming together with immense force as his claps echoed alongside the rest of the cheers in the arena.
Dean laughed immediately beside him, though his attention shifted toward Logan a second later once he realized there had been absolutely no reaction.
Logan had not looked away from the ice.
Not once.
His forearms rested against his knees while his eyes tracked you, a small grin tugging at his lips despite the intent behind his eyes.
Dean noticed it first.
Or maybe he had noticed earlier and only now found it entertaining enough to comment on.
“Y'know,” he said slowly, “most people blink occasionally.”
Logan barely reacted.
“You’re staring at her like you’re scouting for the NHL,” Tucker added, dropping back into his seat.
“She’s good,” Logan answered simply.
It came out quieter than either of them expected.
Not dismissive. Not casual. He was just certain.
Dean glanced sideways at him then before looking back toward the ice again where you were circling near the bench waiting for the next line change.
“That is not a normal amount of interest for someone you’ve watched exactly one game of.”
Logan didn’t answer immediately.
The truth was he had stopped paying attention to the rest of the game almost twenty minutes ago. Every time you stepped onto the ice, his focus shifted toward you without thinking. The speed, the aggression, the complete lack of hesitation every time another player came near you. You played like somebody who trusted herself completely, and there was something about that confidence that had rooted itself beneath his skin almost instantly.
The final buzzer sounded not long after.
Briar won 7–1.
The entire team spilled onto the ice immediately afterward while music blasted through the arena speakers and students crowded harder against the glass cheering. Your helmet disappeared during the celebration at some point, leaving your hair flattened messily around your face while one of your teammates jumped against your side hard enough to throw both of you off balance.
You caught her automatically, laughing hard enough that Logan could see it even from the stands.
Dean leaned back in his seat slowly.
“Oh, you are fucked,” he muttered.
Logan finally dragged his attention away from the rink long enough to frown at him slightly. “Fuck off." He shoved Dean's shoulder while the two of them laughed as Logan's eyes wandered back to the ice.
You were standing near the bench now talking to your coach, your gloves tucked beneath one arm while you nodded along absently. The arena lights reflected faintly against the sweat still shining along your forehead, and even exhausted, you still looked completely awake somehow. Alive in a way that made it difficult to stop looking at you once he started.
After a short victory lap, the team slowly started disappearing through the tunnel beneath the stands while the energy in the arena softened into postgame noise. You lingered near the ice longer than most of your teammates, still talking to someone through the glass while tossing a puck over for a kid with a little Briar hockey jersey on.
Then your head turned slightly toward the stands.
Toward him.
Logan went still.
Even from this far away, he could see the brief flicker of awareness cross your expression as your eyes passed over the crowd and paused for half a second too long in his direction.
It wasn't recognition, despite the fact that he wanted it to be. It was really just awareness.. like you had felt someone watching you.
Before either of you could hold the moment long enough for it to become anything real, one of your teammates grabbed your arm and dragged your attention away again, pulling you toward the tunnel with the rest of the team.
Logan kept looking toward the empty space you had left behind long after you disappeared from sight.
The next morning felt painfully slow after the energy of the game the night before.
Campus had settled back into its usual rhythm by the time Logan crossed the quad toward his lecture hall, students moving in uneven streams through the cold while coffee cups steamed between gloved hands and backpacks bumped against shoulders in crowded walkways.
He barely noticed any of it, all he could think about was crawling back into his bed after his classes wrapped up.
Not because anything was wrong, which honestly only irritated him more, but because every time he closed his eyes he kept replaying flashes from the game in frustratingly vivid detail. The sound of skates against the ice. Your laugh during the postgame celebration. The way you kept getting back up after every hit like it genuinely offended you to stay down.
Dean had called him pathetic three separate times already that morning.
Logan still wasn’t entirely convinced he was wrong.
He pushed open the door to the lecture hall a few minutes before class started, stepping into the familiar low buzz of conversation and keyboards tapping. The room smelled faintly like coffee and winter air dragged in from outside, students already settling into seats while the projector glowed dimly against the front wall.
Logan started down the steps automatically, his hands settled in his pockets while he made his way towards the usual row he sat in.
Then, his steps came to a screeching halt.
Three rows from the front sat a navy blue Briar athlete backpack slouched beside one of the seats.
Women’s hockey was embroidered, and small along the top of the front pocket.
His eyes caught on the small keychain hanging from the zipper almost instantly.
#12.
For a second, he just stared at it. Then his gaze lifted higher.
You sat half turned in your seat talking quietly to the girl beside you, one sleeve pulled over your hand while you absentmindedly highlighted something in your notebook with the other. Your hair was perfect, and despite being beneath a helmet earlier that morning for practice, he was sure it smelled like vanilla.
Without all the gear and arena lights around you, you looked softer somehow. Still pretty enough to make his chest tighten annoyingly hard. Just… real now. Close enough to touch.
Logan stood there long enough that somebody behind him had to awkwardly step around him to get down the stairs.
He moved automatically after that, though his attention stayed fixed on you the entire way down the aisle.
You still had not noticed him.
Part of him almost preferred it that way, because now that he was actually standing in the same room as you instead of watching from the stands, he realized he had absolutely no idea what to say.
Which was new.
Logan was not usually nervous around women. Confident, relaxed, occasionally arrogant if Dean was being honest, but never nervous.
Yet suddenly he was hyperaware of everything. The sound of his shoes against the lecture hall floor. The fact that his heartbeat felt stupidly loud. The way your fingers tapped absently against your pen while reading over your notes.
He passed your row. Kept walking. Then, immediately regretted it and pretended to take a phone call to abort back up a few rows.
By the time he dropped into a seat a few rows higher, Dean — who had walked in behind him at some point — looked close to losing his mind laughing.
“Holy shit,” he whispered while sitting beside him. “You panicked.”
“I didn’t fucking panic.”
“You literally walked past her like a Victorian dude seeing an ankle.”
Logan stared straight ahead. “Shut up.”
Dean leaned back in his chair, visibly delighted. “You’re down horrendous.”
Logan ignored him, though not very successfully considering his attention had already drifted back toward you again.
You were still focused on your notebook completely unaware of the crisis currently happening several rows behind you.
Then, as if sensing it somehow, you glanced over your shoulder.
Your eyes landed on him immediately with a flicker of recognition swiping across your face almost instantly.
Logan watched the exact second you noticed him noticing you. You looked away first, and that was enough to make warmth crawl unexpectedly up the back of his neck.
Dean saw the entire interaction and looked ready to combust.
“You made eye contact,” he whispered dramatically, his eyelashes batting in a playful fashion.
“Please be quiet.”
“Are you in love?”
Logan rubbed a hand slowly over his face.
Class started before Dean could keep talking, though that honestly did not help much, considering Logan spent the first twenty minutes hearing absolutely none of the lecture.
His focus kept drifting. He noticed how you chewed lightly on the end of your pen while reading. The way you fidgeted with your necklace while listening to the professor. You wrote quickly, confidently, barely ever crossing things out or hesitating before moving onto the next line.
At one point, you stretched slightly in your seat and winced.
Subtle and quick. But Logan noticed immediately, of course he did, he was noticing everything you had done for the past 30 minutes.
Your ribs.
The hit from yesterday had clearly bruised you worse than you’d acted like it did. The thought of that was enough to bother him for the rest of class.
When the lecture finally ended, students started gathering their things immediately, backpacks zipping loudly while conversations picked up around the room.
Logan watched you zip your backpack shut carefully before standing. Then he watched two different guys notice you at exactly the same time.
One of them moved before he was able to finish fumbling to put his laptop away.
Of course he did.
Tall, confident-looking business major type. The kind of guy that was probably in a frat with a snap score of at least 2 million.
Logan felt irritation spark instantly.
The guy smiled at you while adjusting the strap of his backpack. “Hey, you’re on the hockey team, right? You played last night?”
You looked up politely. “Oh-.. uh, Yeah.”
“You were really good.”
Logan hated how genuine the compliment sounded, he was expecting this douche to be superficial and just ask for your snap to add to his roster.
You smiled softly anyway. “Thank you.”
The guy opened his mouth again, clearly gearing up to continue the conversation.
Then Logan stood.
Dean looked up immediately with the kind of excitement usually reserved for live sporting events.
“Ho-ly shit,” he muttered.
Logan ignored him completely before heading down the stairs.
He wasn’t entirely sure what his plan was, only that the idea of walking out of this room without talking to you suddenly felt impossible.
The guy was still talking by the time Logan reached the bottom of the stairs.
Something about study groups, or maybe coffee. Logan honestly was not listening closely enough to tell the difference.
Your attention stayed politely fixed on him while you adjusted the strap of your backpack higher onto your shoulder, though there was something slightly distracted about your expression, like your mind was already somewhere else entirely. Exhaustion lingered faintly beneath your eyes from the game the night before, softened only slightly by the fact that you still looked unfairly pretty standing there in your Briar hockey sweatshirt and sweatpants.
The small keychain hanging from your backpack zipper knocked lightly against the fabric every time you moved.
#12.
Logan’s eyes caught on it again before he could stop himself.
“You play unbelievable, by the way,” the guy continued. “That goal in the third period was insane.”
You smiled politely, surprised that this guy actually had gone to the game, and wasn't just using it as an excuse to hit on you. “Thanks, Boston's never an easy opponent.”
The conversation should have ended there.
You clearly wanted to end it there.
But the guy kept standing in front of you anyway, lingering just enough that Logan recognized the strategy immediately. Stretch the interaction out long enough and eventually it becomes something else.
Normally he wouldn’t have cared.
Except now he did, annoyingly so, at that.
Before he could overthink it, he stepped closer.
“You should probably ice your ribs.” The words came out naturally, low and calm, though the moment they left his mouth, you turned toward him immediately.
Recognition crossed your face faster, and it wasn't just vague familiarity, but rather memory this time.
You had seen him in the stands last night, and Logan got to watch the exact second it clicked for you.
“The guy from the game,” you smiled before seeming to realize you had spoken out loud.
Your voice sounded rougher than he expected, slightly worn at the edges from yelling over rink noise the night before.
Something about it settled heavily in his chest.
“Yeah,” Logan answered quietly.
For a brief second, the other guy still standing beside you looked deeply confused by the interaction happening in front of him.
“You know each other?” he asked.
“No,” both of you answered at the exact same time.
That seemed to catch you off guard a little because your mouth twitched faintly afterward, like you were trying not to laugh.
Logan felt warmth spread unexpectedly through his chest at the sight of it.
The other guy looked between the two of you again before apparently deciding he was suddenly no longer part of the conversation.
“Well,” he said awkwardly, adjusting his backpack strap, “I’ll see you around.”
You smiled politely again. “See you.”
The second he disappeared into the crowd of students leaving the lecture hall, silence settled briefly between you and Logan.
Up close, he noticed details he hadn’t been able to see clearly from the stands. A faint bruise near your jaw partially hidden beneath your hair. The exhaustion lingering beneath your eyes. The slight stiffness in your posture every time you shifted your weight too quickly.
You were definitely hurting more than you wanted people to notice.
“You really should ice those ribs,” he repeated more quietly this time.
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “You could tell?”
“You flinched during class.” The answer seemed to surprise you, no one besides your roommate paid enough attention to notice when you had an injury you were insistent on downplaying.
Heat crawled faintly into your expression before you looked away for half a second, adjusting the sleeve pulled over your hand.
“It’s fine,” you murmured. “Just bruised, at least nothing's broken. ”
Logan frowned slightly. “That hit looked bad.”
“It was bad.”
“Yet, you got right back up. Scoring after nearly breaking the glass is some insane shit.”
Something softer flickered briefly across your face then.
“Kind of have to in hockey.” You shrugged in amusement, a smile tugging at your lips that was much more genuine than with the frat guy from a few moments ago.
And Logan was taking that as a win.
Students continued filtering loudly around the two of you while the lecture hall slowly emptied, but Logan barely registered any of it anymore. His attention stayed fixed entirely on you, on the way you shifted your backpack higher against your shoulder or how your fingers tapped absently against the strap while thinking.
“So, you came to the game? There was more turnout than usual for our game's last night, it was fun.” you asked after a second.
The question sounded casual, though curiosity lingered beneath it.
Logan nodded once. “Yeah, I went with some of my roommates, we decided last minute because one of them wanted a fucking pretzel.”
“And now you’re giving medical advice to strangers?”
A smile tugged unexpectedly at his mouth. “You don’t really feel like a stranger.” The sentence slipped out before he could stop it, and immediately his eyes squinted a bit in regret, and his brows furrowed.
Your eyes lifted back to his immediately.
For one horrible second, Logan considered the possibility that he had just sounded insane, but your expression softened instead in a very subtle way.
“Well,” you hummed quietly, “you still don’t know me.”
“I know your name.”
The moment he said it, your eyebrows lifted again.
“I-... uh, looked up the roster.” Logan had the decency to look slightly guilty as the words left his mouth.
You stared at him for half a second longer before laughing softly under your breath, and the sound hit him with the same force it had the night before in the arena.
It was soft and warm, to anyone else it would be like music to their ears, but to Logan? It was dangerous.
“That’s a little insane,” you told him, playfully putting on a disapproving face that quickly dissolved into a smile.
“Yeah, no, for sure.”
The honesty of the answer seemed to catch you off guard enough that you laughed again, shaking your head while starting toward the aisle leading out of the lecture hall.
Logan naturally fell into step beside you without thinking about it. From across the aisle, Dean held up two thumbs-ups and mouthed 'Fuck yeah,' which Logan was happy to drown out with the conversation that was slowly building between the two of you.
hi? omg i feel like i’ve been gone for almost a month now. I do apologize for the short hiatus— I literally got busy with hospital duties and finalizing my final days in senior year. I also did like 5 100 type exams in Nursing which killed me LMAOOO. I’ll try to publish the GoSe chapter by tomorrow. I hope y’all understand<33
summary: during your period, eridians, Rocky, and his mate, Adrian, fuss over you! eridians purr. and rocky getting mad ragebaited at the idea of human 'engineering' (part of da 'saturday cuddles' universe!)
yaps!: thank you so much @saturnhas274moons for recommending this idea to me!! mhwamhwa, hope u like this..hehe..ook enough of angst (for now), for my next fic, what would u guys want?? more fluff or ANGST..lmk! listened to "Saturn" by Sleeping At Last, and "And The Winner is" while making this!
You are curled into a tight ball on the "bed"—that massive, reinforced platform layered with every soft textile and scrap of insulating foam salvaged from the Hail Mary. Every few minutes, a sharp, white-hot wave of pain rolls through your abdomen, a familiar monthly visitor that feels particularly cruel when you’re light-years away from a pharmacy.
Under your shirt, the jagged line of your "Rocky Scar"—the mark left behind when your Eridian friend saved your life—pulses in sympathy-like with the cramps. It’s a reminder of survival, but right now, you just feel like a mess of malfunctioning nerves and a waste of carbon.
A heavy, metallic thump-clack echoes across the floor. You don't have to look up to know it’s Rocky. His five-legged structure is as familiar to you as your own mind. Beside him, the lighter, more melodic tapping of Adrian’s claws follows.
"Question?" Rocky’s synthesizer voice rings out from the nightstand, clear and inquisitive. "Why is Human Y/N still in the insulation pile? The 'sun' has cycled twice. Teaching time is soon. Grace confused. I also confused."
You groan into your pillow, a sound that translates to the Eridians as a low-frequency distress signal. Adrian moves closer, her form rotating with concern. She reaches out a warm, stone-like limb, hovering it just inches from your back.
“Temperature is high,” Adrian’s whistles and clicks are translated by the small device clipped to her harness. “You are leaking heat. Is there a hull breach in your biology? Is human dying!? Please do not die! It would be very inconvenient and sad.”
"I'm not dying, Adrian," you wheeze out, squeezing your eyes shut as another cramp ripples through you. "It’s just... a human thing. My body is resetting. It hurts. A lot."
Ryland wanders in then, looking disheveled, holding a mug of chamomile tea the Eridians replicated. He sees the three of you huddled together and immediately softens. He knows the look in your eyes; he’s seen you power through lab accidents and alien microbes, but he knows this particular brand of misery is one that requires total surrender.
"They're worried about you," Ryland says softly, sitting on the edge of the platform and placing a hand on your shoulder. "Rocky thinks you’re melting because your core temp jumped a degree. I tried to explain human reproductive cycles to him, but he just got offended that your body 'destroys its own systems' once a month. He thinks it’s bad engineering."
“It IS bad engineering!” Rocky interjects, his claws clicking rapidly against the floor. “Why break the internal walls? Just keep the walls! If I built a ship that melted its floor every thirty days, Grace yell at me!”
"He's not wrong," you mutter, pressing your face into Ryland's thigh. "Ryland, tell them I'm okay. I just need to be a potato for about four days."
Adrian tilts her head, her eye focusing on where you are clutching your stomach. “You are in pain. Pain is for when predators bite. There are no predators in the dome. Except maybe the vacuum, but the dome is strong. If you are in pain, we must fix.”
"You can't fix it, Adrian," Ryland says, stroking your hair. "It just has to happen. Heat helps, though."
The word heat seems to trigger something in the Eridian pair. On a planet where the surface temperature could melt lead, "heat" is their specialty. They are technically biological furnaces, their carapaces radiating a steady, dry warmth that far exceeds any electric heating pad.
Rocky steps up onto the platform. The bed groans under his weight, but it’s sturdy. “I am heat, statement.” he declares with a flourish of his limbs. “I very good at being hot. I am the best heater on Erid. Adrian is also a good heater. We will insulate the problem.”
Before you can protest, Rocky moves with surprising gentleness. He doesn't crowd you; instead, he maneuvers his heavy, five-sided body so that he is braced against your back, his warm carapace pressing firmly against your spine. The heat is immediate and intense, sinking through your shirt and into your aching muscles. It’s a dry, deep warmth that seems to vibrate.
Adrian doesn't want to be left out. She climbs onto the other side, tucking her limbs in and resting her front-side near your abdomen, being careful not to put her full weight on you. She feels like a living stone warmed by a desert sun.
Ryland watches them with a look of pure, unadulterated affection, full of care. "I think you've been secured by the Eridian Heating Company," he jokes. He crawls into the middle of the pile, slotting himself behind Rocky so he can still reach over and hold your hand.
"This is... actually amazing," you whisper. The crushing weight of the Eridians combined with their radiating heat acts like a full-body pressure therapy. The sharp stabs in your stomach begin to dull into a heavy, manageable ache.
Then, the sound starts.
It begins as a low-frequency hum, so deep you feel it in your teeth before you hear it. It’s a rhythmic, pulsing vibration coming from both Rocky and Adrian. It isn't the musical whistling of their speech; it’s more primal, a steady thrum-thrum-thrum that echoes the beat of your own heart.
"Are they... purring?" you ask, your eyes fluttering shut as the tension finally drains from your shoulders.
"Yeah," Ryland whispers, his voice thick with sleepiness. "Rocky told me about this once. When they have 'pebbles'—their young—they communal-sleep. They produce a resonance in their carapaces. It’s meant to stabilize the heart rates of the young and keep them calm while they grow. It’s a biological lullaby."
“You are small,” Rocky’s translator chirps, though his voice is lower now, hushed. “You are un-harmonic. You are pebble today. We vibrate buzz pain away. Sleep now, statement. Grace, sleep. You are noisy when worry.”
Ryland chuckles, his fingers interlacing with yours. "Copy that, Rock'. Sleeping now."
The dome is silent save for that incredible, ancient purring. It’s a sound that has existed on Erid for millions of years, a song of protection and kinship. Nestled between the two aliens and the man who traveled across the stars with you, the pain in your body feels insignificant.
You feel the scar on your side—the one that matches the one on Ryland's arm. It feels warm, almost glowing against the heat of Rocky's shell. You aren't just a human in a dome anymore; you are part of their kin, a family that doesn't care about biology or species, only about the fact that one of their own is hurting.
The lavender and apricot light of the artificial sunset fades into a deep, restful indigo. As the Eridian purring synchronizes, your breathing slows. Ryland’s head drops onto your shoulder, his breath hitching in a soft, rhythmic snore. Adrian shifts her weight, her claws making a tiny, comforting tink against the bed frame.
The last thing you feel before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep is the overwhelming sensation of being loved—not just by a man, but by a planet. You are tucked into the safest place in the universe: a cuddle pile at the edge of the galaxy, guarded by two biological furnaces who think you’re a very poorly engineered, but very dear, friend.
Outside, the Eridian winds howl and bash against the glass, but inside, there is only the warmth, the purring, and the steady, unbreakable bond of home.
yippee, WHAT DO WE THINK GAIS.....once again, many thanks to @/saturnhas274moons and friends for proof-reading/inspiration! much love, Aντίο, atsisveikink, paalam, and adiós! thanks 4 reading!1! 💚🤞 next fic might be ry n u meeting rocky and adrians pebbles EHEHEHEHE....👀
pairing: Ryland Grace x Gn!reader
words: 900 words
warnings: none baby this is pure fluff from fluff land blessed by lord fluffsworth. fuh-lufffffffff. context tho: you're in space with him
a/n: This was small as heck and i wrote it on my phone but I HAD TO GET IT OUT OF MY SYSTEM. THIS MAN. OH MY GOD
Contrary to what someone who has never been to space might believe, being stranded light-years away from home with nothing to do except wait for an extended period of time gets boring after a while. Sure, the wonders never cease; it is space, after all, but at some point, you go into the "this might as well happen" zone. And there's no coming back from that one.
Which is how you were currently in the projection deck, eating a delicious tube of 'Day 294 - Meal 3', watching your third cheesy romcom of the day with one Dr Ryland Grace.
Ever the gentleman, Ryland didn't bat an eye when you slowly leaned into him sometime around romcom 2. Sure, he was freaking out on the inside, but he chalked it up to the fact that you were the only other person in a 12 light-year radius; of course, he would be thrown off by a little contact.
He had to test the waters, though. After all, he was a scientist. Yeah. It was for science. Eventually, he moved his arm to rest around you, ever so carefully. So gentle, and very obviously nervous and unsure, and in all honesty, so adorable you wanted to laugh. You eased his nerves by leaning into him more, and Ryland could swear that if you were silent enough, you could hear his soul leaving his body.
As time went on, you got more and more comfortable with each other, and by romcom 3 (i.e., the present), you were lying down on his lap, and he was haphazardly leaning on the makeshift "couch" you had made around week 6 with whatever bags and other junk were lying around.
This was uncharted territory. Literally, you were in space, that's as uncharted as it gets. But yes, in the figurative sense as well. Both your eyes were glued to the screens, but your focus on whatever was playing was long gone.
Ryland was hyperaware of the fact that your head was on his lap, and he was practising insane levels of self-control by not reaching out and running his fingers through your hair. It was right there. He could if he wanted to. It wouldn't even be much of an effort. No, no, he can't. He shouldn't. Should he? He could, right? I mean, friends stroke each other's hair all the time. Maybe. Do they? They probably do. God knows what's normal on Earth right now.
The movie was long forgotten at this point. To Ryland, it was white noise and the occasional laugh from you that made him feel something he doesn't even want to define. He did what any rational, normal person would do in such a predicament: Pros and Cons list of stroking your friend's hair.
Pros:
Pros: ...
Okay.
So, seemingly, there are no pros to this other than the fact that he really, reallllllly wants to.
Cons: This would make things really weird between the two of you if only one person were into it. You could have a thing about your hair where you don't like it if someone touches it. You could genuinely be disgusted with him at the fact that he so catastrophically misread the signs to the extent that he may have to jettison his ass into outer space.
Well.
It's a good thing Ryland Grace is anything but rational when it comes to you.
His hand trembled as he slowly lowered it towards your head. He was having a million second thoughts, his conscience already ready to berate him about this later. He hoped he wasn't breathing as loud as he thought, and he prayed to all the gods he knew that you couldn't hear his heartbeat, because he could hear it loud and clear from inside his head. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead, despite the centralised air conditioning. This was it. T-minus 3 seconds.
3...
2...
1—
"What Grace doing, question?"
"Gah—"
You both pulled away from each other like you had been caught in the middle of something unspeakable. You sat up so fast, one would think Ryland's legs were on fire. He retreated his hand, near Mach 15 speed, and nonchalantly pointed at the "night sky" on the projection deck, as though he were counting stars.
"Oh, hey buddy, didn't see you there," he tried to manage.
"What Grace and (Y/n) doing, question?" he inquired again, ever the curious.
"We were just watching a movie. Nothing much. Just... there was a movie, and we were watching it. That's it. Movie was being watched. By us. Just a couple... Movie watchers." Real smooth, Ryland Grace.
Silence. Unbearable, lethal silence. Ryland's eyes were closed in deep contemplation, running through what he just said. His face scrunched in regret. Rocky stayed still, which was worse than if he were moving, because this stance meant he was judging. Hard. And you? You didn't even know what to make of all of this. Jesus Christ.
"I'm gonna go check on the—" you started.
"Yeah, yeah. Absolutely. Of course," he interrupted.
"...Right. So I'll just—"
"Yeah, no, yeah. Go save the... world," He called after you as you left the projection deck, his voice trailing as he regretted every single thing that left his mouth in real time.
ryland grace’s students being shocked that he doesn’t have a wife, in which he’s quick to clarify, “girlfriend! she’s my girlfriend. i have to marry her for her to become my wife. that’s how this works.”
a kid off to his right raises his hand to say something. grace calls on him and the kid asks, “why are you guys not married? do you hate each other or something?” this is met with gasps and sounds of surprise. a girl in the back says “oh my god, you can’t just say things like that!”
grace simmers down the classroom and, very smoothly, tells his students “marriage is a very big commitment. and expensive. i have to buy her a ring that she likes, pick a venue, set up catering, buy decorations, plan the events—it’s a very large process that takes months up to over a year. maybe even multiple years.”
and then grace leans back on his desk, spinning the pen in his fingers and takes a moment to think. his face goes from narrow to warmly fond in seconds, then a small smile appears on his lips. he nods.
“but i would like to marry her one day… yeah. one day…”
half the class is touched by this. the other half let out a dramatic “eww!”
when he comes home that day, he’s sweeter than usual. you don’t know why… yet, you accept it. with no hesitation.
summary: after stratt hires you on as a documentation specialist for project hail mary, you find yourself being more and more drawn to one dr. ryland grace. (part ii here and part iii here!)
pairing: ryland grace x reader
word count: 4.5k
tags: (set on stratt's vat, pre-tau ceti) meet-cute, strangers-to-lovers, forced proximity, workplace relationship, idiots in love, fluff, will they/won't they, documentation specialist!reader
cross-posted to ao3
What would you do if the apocalypse started?
It’s a stupid hypothetical that you make up when you’re trying to get to know somebody. Something you say at two in the morning at a sleepover, or at work in the break room with absolutely nothing to do. It isn’t serious—never that—until the Petrova line. Until the pending death of the Sun. Until Eva Stratt comes knocking on the door of your high-rise apartment, asking you—really, telling you—to abandon your day job and leave for overseas.
She has you document everything. You take notes on all the major classified meetings. You transcribe conversations between officials, especially the particularly tense ones. When you’re not writing, she has you in front of a printer-scanner, making copies for the bi-weekly organizational debriefings. You went to school for technical writing, and now, it appears that you’ve been placed into the absolute life-or-death version of a dream job. It could be worse. You could be at home, knowing that the next thirty years will spiral into world crises and war over rations. At least you’re doing something.
Her latest project for you—and, allegedly, the most important—is technical writing regarding astrophage. For the past few weeks, you’ve done nothing but compile information from Stratt’s several global microbiologists. It isn’t until the big breakthrough—the “great American scientist” who figured out how to breed the little things—that the ball starts rolling. You’ve been hearing all about him, no matter how unwillingly. There’s plenty of reserved comments from Stratt about how reclusive he seems to make himself. From the scientists, who praise his findings. From the agents, too—a schoolteacher, he’s a schoolteacher, and he dresses like one, too.
The first time you meet him truly is ultimately… gratifying. Dr. Grace lives up to expectations. You’re at the other end of the table when Stratt leads him in: a mousy, blonde-haired thirty-year-old man. Glasses askew, and dark-blue eyes blown wide. It takes a lot of will for you not to tilt your head at the sight of him—the way his eyes dart around the room, his unsuccessful attempt to back himself out of it. It’s… amusing–like watching a baby bird get coaxed out of the nest. What comes next is rather productive. You type fast on your laptop: astrophage, single-celled, Venus, high-CO2, breeding, replication by mitosis. You aren’t able to focus much on him, per say. It’s more his words, his cadence when he talks about the discovery—and the following queries that come with debriefing him on Project Hail Mary. He’s cute. And there isn’t enough time in the world for you to think that.
—
The next time you see him is in the mess hall a couple days after. Clearly, Stratt has him settled in—probably placed him in a nice bunk with another one of the old scientists. He sits mulling over a bowl of cereal, looking almost identical to the way that he did in the meeting room. The greatest change, clearly, is his choice in clothing. He’s got a knit cardigan on, over some punny science t-shirt that you can only vaguely read. Dr. Ryland Grace sits alone. And, he’s in your spot.
Your imagination runs its course. Maybe, he likes solitude. Maybe, he’s still facing the fact that this ship is filled with some kind of Sisyphean effort to try and save the planet. You’re very sure, looking at him stirring his spoon pointlessly in the bowl, that this situation is too big for him. He wants to go home. You’ve got your own tray of breakfast—oats and bottled juice. Clearly, you’re not used to the barrack-like quality of the ship quite yet, or else you’d be able to sit down with just about anyone else. The only downside of your job is that you don’t have very much time to talk—buried in screens and stacks of files. You sit alone, too, most of the time, in this very spot that Grace has decided to occupy for himself.
You approach him slowly, waiting for him to notice your presence on the other end of the table. It’s regrettable that he doesn’t, so caught up on the swirling quality of his cereal. You have to knock your knuckle on the edge of the tabletop. “Dr. Grace,” you hum. He retracts his hand from his spoon like it’s red-hot and stands up to greet you.
“Hi,” he says, pulling his own tray back to make room for yours. “Please, please sit down.” You wonder if he’s going to try and reach out to shake your hand—but he’s back down as soon as you swing your leg over the bench. You follow suit, giving him a polite, tight-lipped smile. Grace hums, eyes squinting as he taps his fingers across the tabletop. “I recognize you,” he says, “You had the, uh, fast hands.” The observation comes out of his mouth disjointed and awkward—but, straight to the point.
“Stratt hired me on as a documentation specialist. Fancy title for making sure that everything gets dated and down on paper,” you tell him. You almost want to light up at the thought of him picking you out in that stuff-full room—but you’ve got to keep your cool. “I’ve been assigned to record all research regarding the astrophage.” Which means you’re going to spend a lot more time together.
“Important work. Historians will love you if everything turns out how it’s supposed to,” Grace nods. In truth, you’d never considered your job in that light. In your head, Stratt had simply wanted documentation as a contingency. If all Hell broke loose, there’d still be the logs that you maintained of all the work of the scientists, the engineers, the researchers… You hadn’t been able, in the rush of it all, to consider what it meant long-term.
“Right,” you chuckle, “And molecular biology’ll make a pretty shrine for you, too.” It’s a silly thought—Father of the Astrophage, on a platinum plaque. The flattery makes him shift in his seat, index finger coming up to push up his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. You have to soak it in a little bit, his nervousness up-close. It’s charming.
The two of you sit in silence for a moment, making ample use of your food by using it to keep quiet. Grace has his cereal, and you your oats. It’s easy. You feel like a little kid again, trying to make a friend in the cafeteria; you’re sure that’s what it looks like, too. You take a moment to crack open the lid of your juice, and Grace takes the opening. “Is this where you would’ve wanted it to end up?” he asks, “When… everything, you know—”
“Went to shit? No, not at all,” you huff. It comes up again. What would you do if the apocalypse started? Except, this time, it’s very clear that neither of you have much of a choice. Yes, it’s definitive now. Grace doesn’t know how he got here, still, despite the briefings. He’s in the middle of the ocean, and so are you; he wants advice. “I think most people hope for a conservationist sort of end. Like, in the middle of the redwoods, in a tiny cabin with a stone chimney, or something.”
He lets out a dry chuckle and stifles it quickly with the back of his hand. “Is that what you wanted?”
“No. I mean, I think I’m where I’m supposed to be now. It’s this or slow, slow death.” For an unquantifiable amount of people, you could add. You find it better not to.
“And, your family—?”
“—knows I’m here, if you can believe it. Stratt’s act of kindness. They think I’m doing administrative work for the U.N., which isn’t a complete lie,” you murmur under your breath. He can only nod solemnly. Carefully, you recall: “She told me that you didn’t… have anyone to contact.”
He doesn’t seem phased at all by the inquiry. “No, no. My parents passed away before I finished doing my doctorate. They were older. I moved to the Bay for my tenure track after that. It was the easiest decision I could’ve made, considering—” He doesn’t have to spell it out for you: he bombed his own career with a single dissertation—it was teaching or nothing at all. And, all things considered, Grace really loved to teach. “I lived alone in the end. No dog, one ex.”
Ex. You think it’s probably too soon—and, too much pressure—to tell him that you don’t have anyone else waiting for you at home, either. In some twisted way, you might want him to be curious about it. To wonder if there’s someone waiting for you at the shore, or if you’re hooking up with one of the pilots on-deck. It’s all a bit of harmless fun. Vaguely, you explain, “I had an apartment, too. Nice place. Took forever to hunt for it, lock down the lease, decorate—and then, nothing. Had to surrender the keys after Stratt made it clear she wanted me on-board.”
—
It’s all been a little bit less lonely since Grace’s boarded the ship. You practically have to be glued together on account of Stratt’s orders. “He should rarely leave your sight,” she tells you over dinner one night, in a cleared navigational deck, “It’s imperative that you have his calculations recorded down to the decimal and uploaded to the database.” Really, it isn’t the hardest task. After that first breakfast, he seems generally comfortable in your company. He floats towards you, seemingly, more than you do him. The greatest tell is his punctuality. Grace makes it early enough to morning meetings so that he can position himself right beside you.
When there’s much more dull conversation being held about different nations providing staff or material, you notice that he has the tendency to get more… distractable. Beneath the table, you can feel his knee brush against yours as he bounces his leg—sole of his sneaker scuffing against the floor. Of course, he doesn’t have nearly as much reason to listen when the conversations turn more diplomatic and less scientific. And, while you’re supposed to pay attention heartily and take your extensive notes, Grace is on the less helpful end of the spectrum.
He likes to pass notes. They vary in topic and seriousness. There’s one particular morning when he chooses to be heavy-handed with them. It starts as soon as the representatives begin to argue. With nimble fingers, Grace slips the note right next to the trackpad of your laptop. Britain is a tool. Britain being the politician from Britain, an older man with too-tight trousers who dissented to almost everything Stratt had to offer. You take the card and slip it between the front cover and the first page of your notebook.
More chatter, and you can already see him scribbling out the next one behind his walled-up hand. You peek over, and he slides it determinedly towards you. Hope they do something other than eggs today at caf. Yes, they’d served it five days in a row. You decided to keep your complaints about it in for the first three days, and broke on the fourth. Grace had heard the bulk of your argument—the grittiness of powdered eggs, and how you’d kill for a stack of pancakes. This note, you slide back over to him. It’s not nearly as taboo as the first, which means he can have it back.
The last one Grace has for you comes a whopping ten minutes later, after he gets pulled into a conversation about laser tech for the breeding tanks. Once that devolves into yet another disagreement, he turns his attention back over to you. This new note, he makes sure to fold in half before lodging it beneath the keyboard of your computer. It takes you another five minutes of conversation lulling for you to open it. You pry the two edges open to read it: What do you do with sick chemists? Helium. What do you do if they die? Barium.
This one makes you snort to yourself too loud for your liking. You brush the index card into your lap with your nose scrunched in realization of how much of a slacker you must look like. This routine of yours is beginning to set itself in most morning meetings, and you’re beginning to wonder if you should start giving him the silent treatment. Grace appears rather proud to have made you laugh, chest puffed out; he tries to hide his smirk by looking down at his lap. If Stratt has an opinion about it, she doesn’t say anything.
—
You’re staring, and you really can’t help it. Grace has his cardigan shedded and strewn across the nearest lab chair. He’s doing an awful lot of calculations, something on astrophage power output that you’ll have to ask him to spell out for you later. The graphic, of course, is no better than the rest of the shirts he’s worn all week. But, the real kicker is the way that the fabric of his short-sleeves are hugging around his biceps. You couldn't have guessed that Grace would be so… fit.
You can’t take your eyes off him now, as he takes a black Expo marker to the surface of the whiteboard. The shirt’s tight. You’re checking him out. It isn’t until he peeks over his shoulder at you that you become all the more conscious of it. It’s a fleeting moment; unwillingly, you peel your eyes off of his and onto your laptop on the desk in front of you. You’re supposed to be compiling a folder to send out to the Payload Systems team. Not… this.
“Sorry,” you shoot out mindlessly. You make an exerted effort to examine the inventory list on your screen and cross-check it with another spreadsheet on the tab over. Busywork. It’s better to look like you’re doing literally anything else.
Grace doesn’t take his eyes off the board as he continues scribbling across it. He lifts the marker off the board a moment: “What for?”
You suck in a deep breath. An apology implies that you’ve got something to be sorry about. You want to leave now—but there’s really no good excuse to. Stratt is off-site, which means that you’re only doing busywork ‘till she’s back with new news. So, you elaborate with an empty “…Nothing.”
“O-kay,” he enunciates. You can’t do anything but return back to your screen with an attempt at dutifulness. Grace stays at the board, head tilted to write some undecipherable combination of greek-letters at the upper-right corner, and you can go back to your previously abandoned work. It’s almost machine-like, the way in which he scrawls the information from left to right, without any hesitation. You write several lines down on the notepad to your left: Hermle centrifuge machine needs replacement. Polypropylene for containment units — CNPC bulk load. And, messily, at the corner of your page, In love with Grace?
It’s difficult to tell. You’re together ninety-percent of the time. You’re clearly attracted to him and his square frames and his dad clothes. He makes you laugh, lets you use his old iPod to listen to Oasis. And maybe it’s the close proximity speaking, but you feel deeply about Grace in a way that you aren’t sure how to describe. Like now, as he caps the white board marker and slides it into his back pocket, before coming over to check on you with quick steps.
“On a scale of one to ten, how illegible is that?” he asks you. You try not to cave as he rests both of his hands on the edge of your desk, toned arms straining right beside you. You squint as you stare at the board, trying to make sense of the numbers.
“I think I can get everything down except for that bottom-half. It’s not your handwriting, just the formulas,” you admit. You’d never been one for complex mathematics, and you need to make sure you can get the equations recorded exactly as they are.
He hums, “That isn’t bad at all. For now, just note the biomass—circled and labeled it wet weight, in tons. If you need to, you can send the number out to DuBois, see if I got the match right, and I…” Grace trails off, picking up the mug that he has set on the desk next to you. He makes an additional effort to peer into your own empty mug, before picking it up with his other free hand. “Will be right back.” He carries them out of the room without another word. Another plus: he fetches you drinks without any asking.
It’s more quiet when he’s out of the room, presumably at the espresso machine just down the hall. In Grace’s absence, you can actually think more clearly about the situation. You know that Shapiro and DuBois have their own version of a relationship—albeit, more or less casual. At the end of the world, nobody really bats an eye about it. All things considered, it’s actually better for morale. You have to wonder if that’s in the cards for the two of you.
It isn’t long before he comes back with the two mugs. First, he places his a safe couple of inches away from your computer. Then, he makes a slow gesture for you to take your mug out of his hands. “Careful. It’s hot,” he tells you softly, running his hand beneath the bottom of the cup to swipe off the possibility of a wet ring. As he gingerly passes the handle into your hands, your fingers brush against one another comfortably. You note, eyes glancing up from the steaming cup, that there’s a faint blush littering his cheeks. But, he’s too intent on the handoff to take his eyes off the coffee to look up at you. Yes, you think, In love with Grace.
—
Once you figure out that fundamental fact, you start to think it over too much. There’s nothing necessarily wrong with your finding. It’s natural, and probably inevitable, for you to have fallen for him. What’s more anxiety-inducing is what you’re supposed to do about it. Under any other circumstances, you’d be okay keeping your mouth shut and letting the opportunity pass you up. But, considering the timeline of the Earth at present, it seems like there’s no time to waste. At the end of the world, it isn’t the sort of thing you should keep to yourself. You should tell him. And still, you’ve been sitting on the idea of it for weeks.
You really hope that Grace hasn’t figured it out, as observant as he is—but it’s really very clear to everyone else on Project Hail Mary. You can tell by the way they watch you both, like it's morning television. Grace rambles on about astrophysics, and you listen. He goes off on tangents about old and wrong college professors, and you laugh. You talk about your life before the project, and he listens with his chin resting on his hand. He asks you questions about what you used to do, where you used to go—like you’re another thing to learn. And everyone fawns.
It’s a good night when you hole yourself in your bunk room. All the engineers and specialists and to-be cosmonauts are all gathered together for drinks and a movie. The simple act of slipping away, letting people assume that you’ve got a migraine or an extra load of paperwork, is easy. It’s in the comfort of your tiny twin bed that you get to listen to the ocean and wailing ship creaks, window propped open to let in the fresh air. It’s strange to think that this room has been yours for so many months; the gunmetal ceiling of it is familiar now.
You get to enjoy this for upwards of an hour, until footsteps come clunking down the hall. You’re sure you know who they belong to. There’s a couple of soft, metal knocks on your door. “Hey, buddy. You sleeping?” It’s Grace’s muddled voice on the other side of the door. “Dinner’s up and everybody’s wondering where you’re at.”
You raise your head off of your pillow, “Door's unlocked. Just come in.” It’s a quick scramble for you to sit up and toss your legs over the side of the bed. As soon as Grace makes it through the doorway, you give him a sheepish smile and a wave.
“Jeez, it’s freezing in here.” Grace’s cardigan is hanging on his right hand. Another tight tee tonight, vintage tour shirt for The Beach Boys. You have to look away as he tosses it on the desk chair adjacent to your bed and as he comes up to sit right beside you. “You know,” he starts, lowering onto the hard mattress, “If you’ve been feeling overworked, I already told you I’d tell Stratt I could handle my own documentation for a week. It’s lab standard, anyway—”
He’s not making it any easier for you. “No, it’s fine,” you insist. It isn’t very easy to tell him that you’re not overworked, that you just have stupid feelings for him. Your refusal only makes him work harder.
Dismissively, he continues, “You can just sit there and watch me work. Read a book or something. A little bit of downtime isn’t going to be the end of the world. And, yes, I know how it sounds given the current circumstanes—but I think you definitely deserve it with the amount of running around that you do.” He’s getting rather impassioned about you resting, so much so that when you mumble out his name—a soft-spoken “Grace”—he doesn’t even pick up on it. He only marches on, “When you think about it, it’d help my research, too. Because if you’re stressed, I’m stressed. And that’s just no good.”
“Ryland,” you blurt. He halts, lips parting and closing. You never call him that, and now he seems very, very dazed. You explain, “I’m not overworked. I just needed a bit of time to think. Alone.”
“Right,” he cedes. “I’m sorry.” You can see his shoulders slump in the slightest, all guilt-ridden about having disturbed you. Grace leans weight onto his sneakers, clearly in an attempt to get off your bed and dismiss himself. Too easily, you reach for his arm to hold him in place.
“No, I want you,” you retract it just as quickly with a blurted, “Here. I want you here.” Grace looks more puzzled than before, but sits himself more comfortably on the end of your bed. Open to listen. You clasp your hands together, “Okay. I’m going to give you a hypothetical… Say, you have a decent life, nothing crazy. Good job at a library. It’s modest, and you’re happy with it. Go You have a good place, good friends. No… partner.” Maybe, the two of you are more similar than you realize. “And that’s okay,” you add, paying no mind to the way Grace’s eyes soften behind the lens of his glasses.
You carry on: “You’ve been okay with that for a decent amount of time. Then… apocalypse starts. You find somebody by chance, who you’d probably never cross paths with otherwise, and you realize that you like being with them. And, suddenly, because the apocalypse has started, you probably won’t have another opportunity to like another person like you do this one. And you really like the one.” You can feel your palms clam up at the confrontation of it all, the vulnerability.
He blinks slowly once. Then, twice. Grace raises a slow index finger up towards himself, eyes peering just over the frame of his glasses, “That’s me.” He states it out like an educated guess, cut-and-dry.
“No, it’s Yao,” you shoot back. “Yes, it’s you, obviously. Who else would it be?”
“Okay,” he says, hand reaching up to take his glasses off. Grace stands up with a deep breath, hand ruffling through his spiky-blonde hair as he walks further away from your bunk. Again, he mutters out a soft, “Yeah, okay,” not far off from how he looks trying to expand out a calculation. Grace taps his foot on the floor, paces left, then right, rubs his palm over the scruff on his face. A torturous lack of response. Then, finally, he turns around. “So, the whole time you weren’t just really into microbiology?”
You have to gawk at him. “Are you being serious?” He looks completely serious, glasses hanging off of his chin, blue eyes inspecting the irked look on your face with doe-like curiosity.
“Well, can you blame me? You’re gorgeous, and you’re also impossible to read.” Gorgeous? He thinks you’re gorgeous. That’s nice. You can feel the warmth bloom in your chest at the implication—but you can’t help but scoff out of pure offense. He puts his hands up in a haphazard shrug. “I mean, now that I know, it makes a lot more sense why you look at me like… that. I wasn’t totally sure.” Now, it seems that he’s making a bit of a game out of it. You don’t care to ask him to elaborate on what “that” looks like.
Stubbornly, you tut, “I’m taking it back. I’m taking it back, and it was completely hypothetical!” You stand up from your spot on the bunk, walking narrowly past Grace to your desk. Briskly, you pick up his cardigan—disposed of on your desk chair—before bunching it up and shoving it towards him.
“No, no, no—you can’t take it back. Cat’s out the bag,” Grace insists teasingly, hands clinging to the cardigan. Before you can completely let go of the woollen fabric, he makes sure, next, to grasp his hands over yours. They’re significantly larger and warm, too warm; with your hands plastered to his chest, there isn’t really anywhere for you to go. You think he must feel the nervousness practically radiating out of you, because he seems to slow down: “Okay, I’m being difficult. I can grovel if you want me to.” Grace’s voice lowers down into a rasp.
There’s a cockiness about it that you haven’t exactly seen from him before. You can’t tell if it’s making you flustered or annoyed—both, likely—and in some bout of courage, you get on your tiptoes to press your lips against his. The cold, metal frame of his glasses nudges against your face as the two of you kiss. Grace takes one hand up to cradle your jaw, and you can hear a quiet, satisfied hum come out of him. It does live up to hypothetical expectation, the way his body melds against yours clumsily around the barrier of the cardigan. It’s very him, and it’s very you.
Grace can barely be convinced, with your hands pushing back against his chest, to let you take a breath of air. Once the two of you split, Grace has a sideways smirk. “I really like you, too. Not sure if I made that clear,” he murmurs. “So, would you come grab dinner with me?”
𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ryland grace & fem!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 after learning that you and grace are married, you both decide to jog your brains in an attempt to remember who you both were as a couple before your memories were tampered with, leading to a recollection of why you're here in the first place.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 1.8k
𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 i did not expect the last part to be received so well!! low key thought it was ahh so i was ready to sweep it under the rug but nope so here's part two yippieee!
ryland sits on his favourite spinning stool with wheels as you haul over a large white board to prop up against the wall and two white board markers. he does a little twirl in the chair before you toss a marker in his direction.
before he takes it, he spots the marker you're holding.
"i want the blue one."
you glance over your shoulder at him as you get rid of the old equations on the board with a dry eraser. with a sigh, you toss him your pen, giving him the blue while you catch the black from him. he gives you a single exaggerated nod in thanks for the trade.
"alright," you begin, "i know we'll eventually get all of the memories back, but i thought we could try get them faster by coming up with questions for us to think about together that'll help us remember more about this relationship."
"marriage," he corrects.
you internally panic, then nod. "marriage. right. sorry."
you spin around to the board and write up a heading at the top; 'WHO ARE WE?'. ryland hums in amusement.
you wordlessly jot down underneath: ‘HOW DID WE MEET?’
ryland furrows his eyebrows.
“school.”
you turn to him with a befuddled look. “what?”
“i remember that one. my school reached out to the hospital and you came in to talk to the kids about what it’s like to be a doctor.”
your writing hand falls limp at your side. the memory hits you in the face.
“why didn’t you tell me?”
“i thought you would’ve remembered!” he contended.
with a sigh, you throw the white board marker across the lab and sit down on the seat across from him. “this is stupid.”
he taps his blue pen on the table’s surface, thinking. then, he decides, “let’s just talk.”
you lift your head from being buried your hands.
“talk?”
he shrugs.
“talk. share what we each remember.”
you glance down at the wedding band on his left hand, letting out a deep exhale.
“alright.”
“yeah?”
“yeah.”
“okay,” he gives a little smile, tossing the beloved blue marker in the same direction as yours. “i’ll go first. i remember you used to pants me whenever i was winning an argument.”
“what?” you laugh.
he leans forwards on the table with a sigh.
“yup. i recall one time where you claimed that mercury is the hottest planet. common misconception.”
“it’s the closest to the sun!”
as soon as the argument comes out of your mouth, the memory of this exact conversation rushes in.
it was a sunday night. you were both in the kitchen, ryland making two peppermint teas while you sat on the counter to keep him company. he was reaching into the cupboard for a pair of mugs while responding to your false statement.
‘okay, sweetheart, yes it may be the closest, but mercury just doesn’t have the substantial atmosphere that’s needed in order to contain that much heat.”
you blinked. ‘but…’
‘no. no buts. you’re a doctor, honey. you’re smarter than this.’
with that, you frowned, then suddenly hopped off the counter to tug ryland’s sweatpants down his legs. they fell into a bunch on the floor, leaving him in his plaid boxers.
he didn’t flinch, just looked at you over his shoulder mid-tea pour.
‘really?’
you folded your arms across your chest.
‘yup.’
“i did do that didn’t i…” you say after you recall.
ryland catches the look of recognition on your face, eyeing you over the rims of his glasses with an amused smirk.
“alright, your turn.”
he pushes his glasses up his nose. you sigh, scratching the back of your neck as you jog your memory. you glance up at him.
“d’you remember how we ended up here together?”
ryland stops to think.
“they…they made me. by force.” he clears his throat at this part, but when he tries to remember where you fit into the equation, he frowns, eyebrows bunching together.
“where were you?”
you chuckle, running a palm up your arm as a self-soother. you begin to blush at the memory.
“i was already with you on the boat by that point after you demanded for me to be flown out…” you tease. “when the lab blew up, i didn’t have to be told to know that stratt would put you on the mission,” you say softly before suddenly stopping.
ryland notices the avoidance of eye contact, the glassy eyes and the tense jaw in your expression. he reaches for your hand across the desk and gives your fingers a squeeze, listening carefully.
“i nearly let you go, grace…” you whisper.
you remember his crying, his attempt of running away to god knows where, and the way he pleaded into the dirt when he was held down.
when they were taking him to be put into the induced coma, you were crying alongside him, squeezing his hand and peppering kisses all over his face, saying that it was going to be okay. stratt had convinced you that ryland would be making a courageous sacrifice for the rest of the world, but when you lost grip on his hand and he was taken from you, you approached stratt and seized her by the wrists.
‘let me go with him,’ you sobbed.
she tensed in your grasp, already visibly upset. ‘dr. grace, i am afraid that is not possible-’
‘i’ve been glued to his side practically the entire time,’ you insist, cheeks wet with tears. ‘i know the science—the stars, the astrophage, and like ilyukhina said to him, i can pick up the other stuff as i go along!’
stratt stared at you for what felt like a long time. you knew it wasn’t that simple, but if you could just make her feel like she owed you this.
‘you do understand that you would be giving up your life?’ she asked simply.
you let go of her wrists, your throat bobbed as you swallowed another cry.
‘my husband and i had plans to grow old and die together, stratt.’
your voice wobbled with every word.
‘if we can’t have the old part, at least let us have the dying part. i won’t…’ your throat tightened. inhale. exhale.
‘i won’t let you take him from me,’ you finished.
you knew then as you know now that that sentence wasn’t fair. but, she looked truly sorry.
stratt paused again for a long time, then looked you up and down. ‘you are a physician, yes?’
‘yes, ma’am.’
‘then for the record you will be designated the role of medic for the project hail mary mission.’ she turned to carl who looked like he was still staring in the direction ryland was taken in.
‘officer carl, bring her to the team and explain the situation please.’
carl snapped his head back into your direction, gave stratt a nod, and you a reassuring smile.
before being taken away, you remember flinging your arms around the other woman, squeezing your eyes shut.
‘thank you.’
she didn’t hug back, but gave an awkward pat on the back. you didn’t see that she had closed her eyes too, embracing the moment.
‘good luck,’ she whispered.
your eyes start to water, ryland’s grip only tightens on your hand. his eyes are widened ever so slightly, lips parted like he has something he wants to say.
your eyes shyly shift back to him.
“grace…?”
he can’t peel his eyes away from you. then he clears his throat.
“that- that doesn’t count…if i wasn’t there then that’s technically just one of your own memories,” he tries to jest lightly.
when you don’t laugh, he holds your gaze again, then murmurs, “you’re here because of me.”
it’s not a question. he sounds like he’s processing it. all you do is give a little nod while anxiously chewing on your bottom lip.
“if it weren’t for you, i’d be alone. ilyukhina and yao…they still wouldn’t of woken up. it’d just be me.”
ryland has stood from his seat, letting go of your hand, though his eyes haven’t left you once.
you glance down at you wedding rings. your favourite gemstone standing loud and proud on top of one of the bands. your thumb twists it a little.
“i’m not dying alone because of you.”
you stop. this makes you look up at him. because i love you, is what you want to say, but neither of you are sure how to approach that part of this dynamic just yet. so, ryland makes the first move by circling the table and suddenly scooping you up from your seat into a tight hug.
his chin rests on your shoulder, glasses hanging off his face, eyes squeezed shut. you’re too shocked to process any of it, but you eventually wrap your arms back around him, closing your eyes and melting into his warm embrace.
the security of his arms takes you back—it was a weekday after a particularly gruelling shift at the hospital. you and ryland had plans for a date, maybe the fifth or sixth. he came to your place to pick you up like the gentleman he is so the both of you could walk to the restaurant (he was still too shy to admit that he only owned a bike at this point).
when you opened the door looking just as nice as him, something came over you to see so much effort being put in for little old you. a sob left your throat, ryland panicked and immediately came closer to place his hands on each of your upper-arms. ‘what? what’s wrong? is it the tie? i wasn’t sure about it either to be honest, i just-’
‘no, no, i’m sorry, it’s just been a day…’ you whimper. ryland’s heart cracked open ever so slightly. he had bad days as a middle school teacher, so he couldn’t imagine the amount of stress you’d constantly be under as a doctor.
‘okay…okay, c’mere…’ he spoke softly before gently bringing you into his arms, squeezing tightly. you let yourself cry into his chest, shoulders shaking with each sob. ryland didn’t try to hush you, he just held you, eventually running his fingers through your hair in an attempt to comfort.
that night you ended up ordering takeout despite the reservation he had made. you two lounged on your couch, still dressed up, watching finding nemo.
your head found his shoulder when marlin and dory started bouncing around on the jellyfish.
‘the tie is ugly,’ you muttered. he smiled, then lifted an arm to wrap around your shoulder.
‘i knew it.’
you both pull away from the hug, though ryland’s hands stay firmly planted on your elbows as he looks down at you. you’re both teary-eyed, and you laugh as you push his falling glasses up his nose for him with your index finger. he smiles.
