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romerona · 3 months ago

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Ethera Operation!!

You're the government’s best hacker, but that doesn’t mean you were prepared to be thrown into a fighter jet.

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Awkward!Hacker! FemReader

Part II

You knew today was going to suck the second your alarm went off and you briefly, genuinely, considered faking your own death.

Not in a dramatic, movie-worthy kind of way. No, more like… vanish-into-a-data-breach, throw-your-phone-in-the-ocean, start-a-new-life-in-Finland sort of way.

But instead, you got up.

Because apparently, national security outranks your crippling fear of flight—not that it makes the simulator any less hellish, with its cold metal, stale coffee, and that faint chemical tang of fear.

You were strapped into the rear seat of a flight simulation pod, hands locked in your lap like they might betray you at any moment and start mashing random buttons. You exhaled slowly as your eyes flicked across the control panel. So many switches. So many lights. Half of them blinked like they were mocking you. The other half were labeled with words like “altitude” and “engine throttle” and “eject.”

Great.

You adjusted your headset as the technician’s voice crackled through. “Sim will start in thirty seconds, Doctor. We’ll be monitoring vitals and control input from the tower."

You forced a nod, even though your stomach was already trying to escape through your spine. Your breath fogged the inside of the visor. You clutched the tablet tethered to your vest like it was a stuffed animal and you were six years old again.

“Try not to scream this time,” came Cyclone’s voice through the comms, calm and flat like he was asking you to pass the salt.

You offered a shaky thumbs-up that somehow felt more like a surrender flag.

The sim operator spoke next, voice crackling through your headset once again. “Doctor, your objective is to remain conscious, keep your hands away from the panel, and activate the Ethera interface when prompted. We’ll simulate turbulence, evasive maneuvers, and mild G-force changes. Ready?”

No. Never.

“...Sure.”

The sim lurched forward with a roar, and your whole body snapped back into the seat. You let out a startled “whuff!”, eyes wide, heart in your throat. The room around you—walls disguised as sky—blurred as the machine banked hard to the left.

“OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGOD—”

There was no gentle start. No soft acceleration to get your bearings. Just a violent jolt forward, and then you were climbing—straight up, like gravity had been turned into a weapon and pointed directly at your lungs.

Pressure slammed into your chest. The world outside the cockpit blurred. You couldn’t hear anything except your own heartbeat.

“WHY ARE WE TILTING—”

“Initiating evasive pattern,” came the tech’s voice, calm as ever.

The sim jerked again, this time into a sharp roll. The world flipped sideways. Your ears popped. Something primal in your brain screamed: This is how you die.

Your ears were ringing. Your pulse thundered against your ribs. Somewhere beneath the pressure and panic, you could hear the tech’s voice cutting in again—calm, detached, and utterly unhelpful.

“Doctor, you need to deploy the program,” he said. “Fifty seconds. Starting now.”

Oh, shit, you couldn’t even see straight.

Your breath came in short, shallow gasps as the simulated jet banked hard to the right, pressing your spine into the seat like it wanted to keep it. The G-forces made your vision tunnel, your stomach lurching somewhere around your throat.

Your hand fumbled toward the tablet mount, fingers shaking so hard they were basically useless. You tapped the corner of the screen. Missed. Tapped again. The jet jolted. The tablet shifted. Your palm slammed into the side instead of the input.

Forty seconds.

The Ethera prompt blinked up at you—green, glowing, go—but it may as well have been a mirage. You squinted through the dizziness, swore under your breath in three languages, and tried again.

Thirty-five.

The turbulence kicked again, harder. Your chest seized. The tablet slipped slightly in its latch. You tapped the input.

Too late.

“Simulation failed,” the system announced flatly. “Target missed.”

Everything halted—the motion, the noise—everything except your pulse, which pounded on like it hadn't gotten the memo.

The sim pod cracked open with a sharp hiss, releasing a rush of cool air that hit your sweat-slicked skin like a slap to the face. You didn’t move. For a second too long, you just sat there, fingers clenched around the armrests like they were the only things keeping you from unraveling completely. The silence pressed in, thick with the weight of your own embarrassment, humiliation settling low and heavy in your gut like a stone.

Your fingers fumbled at the release on your helmet, hands still trembling from the G-forces and adrenaline. The inside of your mouth tasted like copper and failure. You tugged off the headset next, wires dragging like they were reluctant to let go. Everything felt too loud and too quiet at the same time.

Your boots scraped against the cold floor as you shakily swung your legs out, and there he was, Vice Admiral Beau Simpson, standing with arms crossed, expression carved from steel.

You wanted to disappear into the floor.

He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you. Not angry. Not even disappointed. Just… calculating. Like he was already assessing the cost of putting you on a real jet.

“I missed the mark,” you said first, because silence felt worse. “I know.”

Cyclone gave a short nod, like that much at least didn’t need explaining. “You froze.”

You exhaled slowly, willing your heart to stop trying to beat its way out of your ribs. “Yeah.”

His eyes didn’t waver. “You had a job. Not to fly. Not to fight. Just to stay calm. Deploy your program.”

“I know.”

“And you failed.”

You stood on legs that didn’t feel like they belonged to you, one hand gripping the edge of the simulator for balance, the other still clutching the edge of the tablet even though the prompt had long since vanished.

“If this had been real,” he continued, “that satellite would still be feeding your government false intelligence. That jet would’ve been intercepted. And you, Doctor, would’ve been dead, and so would've your pilot.”

You flinched. Not visibly—hopefully—but the words hit harder than they should have. You stared at the scuffed metal floor, heart thudding against your ribs.

“You’re not a soldier,” he said. “And you’re not trained for this. That’s clear.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe to defend yourself—but he raised a hand, cutting you off with one sharp motion.

“That’s not an excuse,” he added, voice sharp. “It’s a reality. One you’ll have to overcome, and fast. I don’t expect perfection but I do expect progress. And I expect you to walk into that sim tomorrow knowing what you did wrong—and ready to fix it.”

You blinked hard, your pulse pounding in your ears. “Yes, sir.”

Cyclone gave you one last look—disappointed, but not hopeless—and then turned, then paused, glancing back.

“And see medical,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “You’re pale as hell.”

Then he walked away, boots echoing down the corridor, leaving you standing there with a spinning head, a shattered ego and the feeling of wanting to curl up and cry.

As you moved to make your way toward medical—because yes, apparently nausea, disorientation, and a near-death experience weren’t enough on their own— you skidded to a stop just short of slamming into a very broad chest.

Of course. Of course, it was him.

The handsome, mustached pilot. The one who’d handed you your tablet like it was a glass slipper, back in the briefing room. The one who hadn’t laughed when you dropped it, but definitely thought about it.

His hair was slightly mussed, curls pushed back from his forehead like he’d run a hand through them one too many times. He held two water bottles, one in each hand, like he wasn’t sure if he meant to stay—or if he’d just pretend this was a casual “what a surprise” moment if anyone asked.

You froze. He straightened.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than you expected. A lot softer than earlier. Less smirk, more... sincerity.

“Uh… hi,” you said finally. Nailed it. Pure elegance.

His expression didn’t change much, maybe just a flicker of amusement at the corners of his mouth. He held out one of the bottles. “You looked like you could use this.”

You hesitated—more from surprise than anything else—then took it. You took it, fingers brushing his as you did. His skin was warm—too warm for how cold you felt. You tried not to notice.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, unscrewing the cap with hands that still trembled, ever so slightly. The water was blissfully cold against your throat, but it did nothing for the embarrassment still curdling in your stomach.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice gentler than you expected.

You hesitated, then tilted your head in a noncommittal shrug. “Define okay.”

A ghost of a smile touched his face. “Not crying, not puking, not passed out? That’s the general baseline.”

You cracked a reluctant laugh. “Oh, sure, I’m totally thriving.”

He nodded once, and the silence settled again—less awkward now, more… charged. The kind of quiet that hummed between words. The kind that made your skin feel too tight.

He looked like he might leave, but then he didn’t.

Instead, he shifted his weight, adjusting his grip on the second water bottle like it was some kind of anchor or maybe just something to do with his hands while he said, “You weren’t terrible in there.”

Your stomach jolted—sharp, unexpected. Like missing a step on the stairs. Heat bloomed beneath your collar, crawling up your throat as your fingers tightened around the plastic water bottle.

“You…” Your voice cracked a little, and you cleared your throat. “You were watching?”

God. No.

Why did you ask that? Why would you ever want confirmation?

His expression shifted—just slightly. Not quite sheepish, not quite smug. Just something in the middle.

“I was passing by,” he said, entirely too casual.

You groaned softly, dragging a hand over your face. “Fantastic. I didn’t just humiliate myself in front of the brass. I also had an audience.”

“Don’t take it personally,” he said, his voice laced with something between amusement and sincerity. “We’ve all been there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “In a classified sim seat with national security riding on your ability to not pass out?”

He grinned wider. “Well. Maybe not exactly there.”

You scoff, shaking your head as you take another sip of the water.

“You’re not supposed to get it right the first time." He said, "No one does. You think the rest of us were born knowing how to pull 7 Gs without losing our lunch?”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t believe him—maybe part of you even did—but because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure if it would come out as a laugh or a cry.

He noticed.

“You know, most people don’t get in the backseat of a fighter jet without years of prep. You? You've got a couple of days, a tech background, and a pulse. That’s it and you still got in. That counts for something.”

You stared at him. “Why do you even care if I mess this up?”

He looked at you then, long and quiet.

“You built something that could change the world,” he said with an easy shrug. “That kind of genius doesn’t come with an eject handle. So yeah. I care.”

You looked away fast, suddenly too aware of how warm your cheeks were.

He leaned back again, casual as ever. “Besides, if I'm the one you are gonna fly into enemy territory, I’d rather know you’re not gonna scream the whole time.”

You snorted. “I’ll scream quietly. Into my elbow. Like an adult.”

He chuckles and you looked at him. Really looked at him. Still in partial uniform, flight suit unzipped to the waist, sleeves tied and hanging loose around his hips. His shirt clung to his chest, slightly sweat-damp at the collar, and that damn mustache made him look both out-of-place and weirdly grounded at the same time.

He wasn’t just handsome. He was kind of infuriatingly steady.

“Can I—” You paused, surprised by your own voice. “Can I ask your name?”

His brows lifted, just slightly, like the question had caught him off guard. But then he shifted forward and extended a hand—open, easy, completely steady in a way that you most definitely weren’t.

“Bradley Bradshaw,” he said. “But most people around here call me Rooster.”

You blinked. “Rooster?”

A grin tugged at his mouth, soft and lopsided. “My call sign. It’s a long story.”

You hesitated for a beat, then reached out and slid your hand into his.

His palm was warm—really warm—and calloused in a way that made you feel every inch of the difference between your worlds. His grip was firm but not overwhelming, grounding. Like he knew exactly how much pressure to apply without overdoing it. His fingers curled around yours with quiet confidence, like this was nothing, like it didn’t send an unexpected little jolt of awareness all the way up your arm.

Your hand was smaller than his, your skin cooler, trembling just enough that you hoped he didn’t notice—but something in the way his thumb shifted, just the tiniest bit, made you think maybe he did.

You weren’t sure how long you held on. Long enough to register the strength in his hand, the steadiness, the solidness of someone who lived in the sky but was somehow more grounded than anyone you knew.

“Y/N L/N,” you said finally, your voice softer now. "But I guess you already knew that.”

He gave a small nod, his eyes not leaving yours. "You're hard to forget,"

You didn’t let go right away.

Neither did he.

Then, as if realizing the moment was hanging just a second too long, you both released at the same time—too quickly. Like a secret exchanged and immediately tucked away.

You took a half step back, pulse thrumming in your throat, fingers still tingling from the contact.

Bradley, however, didn’t step away immediately instead, he lingered for just a second longer, watching you with a look that wasn’t teasing or cocky or smug. Just something quiet and steady, then he smiled—small, crooked, the kind that didn’t feel all that teasing but still carried that glint of mischief behind it. The kind of smile that said he saw more than he let on.

“You’ll get it,” he said, voice softer now. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow.”

His eyes flicked to yours, and something about the way he looked at you—like he meant it, like he believed it, made your chest tighten.

“But you will.”

You opened your mouth, unsure what you were about to say—maybe thank you, maybe don’t say that unless you mean it—but the words never quite made it past your lips.

Because Bradley gave you one last look, a flick of something unreadable in his eyes, then turned down the corridor, water bottle still swinging lazily from his fingers while you stood there for a moment, then finally exhaled. “Okay,”

Days went faster than you were ready for.

You hadn’t slept much. Not from fear exactly, though there was plenty of that still hanging around like a ghost in your chest—but more from the afterglow of adrenaline. The kind that leaves your body tired but your mind racing.

You’d replayed Bradley's words a dozen times. You’ll get it. You weren’t sure if they’d stuck because you believed them… or because you wanted to.

But when you arrived at the simulator bay, you were expecting to meet with Cyclone, just like every other day, but he wasn't there waiting for you.

It was a new pilot.

She stood near the simulator controls, arms crossed loosely over her chest, already in her flight suit, her expression somewhere between mildly unimpressed and genuinely curious.

“You’re my new project, huh?” she said as you approached.

You blinked. “Um. I—guess so?”

“I’m your point of contact now,” Phoenix said, nodding toward the simulator. “Cyclone thought a different approach might help. And I volunteered.”

You tried not to look too relieved. But you were. God, you were. Cyclone, well, he was rough, for lack of better words, Rooster had been kind, yes, but his presence was a lot. Intense. Distracting.

Phoenix, on the other hand, had that kind of practical, no-nonsense confidence you could actually lean on. She didn’t feel like a storm waiting to happen. She felt like structure.

“I’m Lieutenant Natasha Trace,” she said, extending her hand. “Call sign’s Phoenix.”

You shook her hand, your grip steadier than yesterday—though your palm was still a little clammy, and you were pretty sure she noticed.

“Y/N,” you said, then added with a tired smile, “Doctor. Uh, the nervous one.”

Phoenix huffed out a short laugh, a glint of something sharp but not unkind in her eyes. “I read your file.”

She stepped back, folding her arms as she leaned one hip against the edge of the sim console. Her stance was relaxed, confident, comfortable in her own skin in the way only someone who’d already proven themselves a hundred times could be.

“I also watched your sims,” she added, voice casual.

You winced, your smile turning into a grimace. “Oof. That bad?”

She tilted her head, as if considering how honest she wanted to be. Then gave a light shrug, eyes steady on yours. “I’ve seen worse. A lot worse.”

You let out a low hum, arms crossing loosely over your chest in mock thought. “That’s… reassuring.”

“Isn’t it?” she said, with just enough of a smirk to make you feel like she was on your side. “You hadn't passed out nor puked. You followed instructions until your brain short-circuited. Classic first-timer move.”

You laughed under your breath, surprised at how easily it came.

She finally looked at you then—steady, knowing. “We’re not here to make you into a pilot, Doc. We just need you ready for the mission. The rest? We’ll cover you.”

Something in your chest loosened at that.

Support. No condescension. No sharp edges. Just a quiet kind of strength you could lean against.

“Thanks,” you said. “Really.”

Phoenix nodded once. “Let’s get you in the seat.”

Inside the simulator, everything felt smaller than you remembered.

Not physically—just heavier. Like the air had thickened, like the walls had learned your fears from yesterday and decided to lean in a little closer.

You sat in the back seat again, the tablet already secured to its mount beside your right leg. Your fingers hovered near it, not quite touching, like it might bite. You could already feel your heartbeat in your palms.

“Straps secured?” Phoenix’s voice crackled through the headset. Her tone was crisp, even, the kind that didn’t rise to meet panic—it smothered it before it started.

You exhaled and gave a tight nod, forgetting she couldn’t see it. “Y-Yeah. Good to go.”

“All right,” she said. “We’re starting slow. Just basic turbulence patterns. No evasive maneuvers, no tricks. You’re not here to impress anyone. You’re here to breathe, and press a single button when I tell you.”

You nodded again, this time speaking aloud. “Sure.”

The sim hummed to life around you, and your body tensed automatically—like it remembered what came next, even if you swore it wouldn’t be that bad.

“Relax your shoulders,” Phoenix said, as if she felt the stiffness from her end. “You’re holding tension like you’re about to punch the air.”

The screen in front of you blinked to life. The sim took you airborne, but the motion was slow this time—steady, like a calm climb on a commercial flight.

You forced yourself to breathe out slowly and unclenched your jaw, trying to follow her lead. The shaking wasn’t nearly as bad as the previous day's simulated madness. No rolls. No sharp drops. Just steady pressure. Unnerving, but survivable.

Your eyes flicked to the screen.

The prompt glowed softly. Ethera. Standing by. Timer: 02:00

“This is just a systems check,” Phoenix said. “You don’t have to engage. Just keep your eyes on it. Notice the screen, your pulse, your breath. You’ve got time."

The pod dipped gently into a banking curve. You swayed, stomach flipping. "Keep breathing, Doc."

You gripped the edge of the seat, fingers twitching. “This still counts as breathing, right?”

“As long as you’re not blue in the face, yeah.”

You smiled—barely—but it helped.

The Ethera interface activated on the mounted tablet in front of you. The same prompt, The countdown. You glanced at it and your heart gave one uneasy thud.

“Don’t rush,” Phoenix reminded you, voice even. “One thing at a time. Don’t try to win. Just try to finish.”

You nodded again, reaching out slowly—deliberately—and tapped the screen to begin the simulated deployment sequence. The code began to unfold, and the sim didn’t break into loops or chaos. It kept going. And you were still breathing.

Your hand trembled slightly, but you stayed focused, eyes on the sequence as it loaded in steady green waves. The turbulence passed. The sim steadied.

“Ten seconds,” Phoenix said. “You’ve got it. Keep it locked.”

You kept your hand on the panel. You didn’t blink. The screen counted down.

3… 2… 1…

Deployment successful.

The soft chime of success echoed in your headset.

“Target received,” the system confirmed.

You blinked, then blinked again. “I… I got it?”

“You got it,” Phoenix said, the faintest edge of pride in her voice. “Nice and clean.”

You slumped back in the seat, suddenly aware of just how hard your heart had been working. Your eyes stung—not from panic this time, but from sheer relief.

“Doctor,” Phoenix said after a beat. “That was not bad.”

You couldn’t help the grin that broke across your face, exhausted but real.

And when the pod finally powered down with a gentle thunk, and the hatch hissed open, you realized you’d done the whole thing without white-knuckling the seat.

You’d finally made it through.

Phoenix was waiting for you, arms crossed, leaning one hip against the console like she’d known all along you’d handle it.

You stepped out, legs a still stiff, but your head was clear.

“Not bad,” she said, and this time her smile wasn’t just professional. It was small, but real. “No ejections. No nausea. No hysterics.”

You let out a dry laugh, breath catching on the edge of it. “Just mild existential dread.”

She shrugged, cool as ever. “That’s standard issue.”

Then smiled—really smiled—for the first time since this whole classified, terrifying, completely-out-of-your-depth mission had begun. The kind of smile that pulled dimples you hadn’t felt in days.

“Thanks,” you said again, quieter this time. Not just for the training, but for not making you feel like a burden.

Phoenix nodded once, like she already understood all of that.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she said. “We need to move faster. Real evasive sequences. Simulated pressure. Maybe even some yelling.”

“Yours or mine?”

She smirked. “We’ll see who breaks first.”

You laughed again—easier this time—and for the first time, it didn’t feel like you were pretending.

By the time the week came to an end, you and Phoenix had become friends.

Not in the polite, nod-in-the-hallway kind of way—but the real kind. The kind built through shared silence in the simulator bay, through low chuckles after a successful run, through Phoenix’s calm voice in your headset, cutting through the static and the fear. She never coddled you. Never sugarcoated anything but she never made you feel less, either.

There were moments where fear absolutely took over—where your breath hitched too high in your chest or your fingers trembled too much to find the prompt in time and there were other moments, rarer but growing, where you managed. Where you pressed the button, where you kept your head above water.

Phoenix never made a spectacle of either.

When you panicked, she talked you down, when you succeeded, she just clapped you on the shoulder, tossed you a bottle of water, and said, “Told you. You’re getting it.”

And somehow, that meant more than any standing ovation ever could.

By Friday evening, you had survived four more simulations, logged two successful Ethera deployments, and stopped referring to the ejection lever as “that red death stick.”

Progress.

“You coming to the Hard Deck tonight?” Phoenix said casually, already slinging her duffel over one shoulder as you both headed toward the lockers.

You blinked at her, caught off guard. “What?”

She paused mid-step, turning just enough to glance back at you with that crooked grin she reserved for moments like this—half dare, half invitation.

“The Hard Deck,” she repeated, now walking backward toward the hangar doors. “Bar. Pool tables. Bad decisions. You in?”

You stared for a beat too long, processing.

The Hard Deck.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. You’d heard about the place in passing—mostly through muttered comments and laughing threats. It had sounded like a local haunt. Loud. Messy. Full of people who knew exactly what they were doing and didn’t care that you didn’t.

“Wait, is that—like, is that a thing?” you asked, trailing after her. “Do people… actually go?”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow like she wasn’t sure if you were messing with her. “Only the ones worth talking to.”

You hesitated.

She paused at the doorway and tossed the final hook. “You’ve survived a week of sims, didn’t puke on anyone, and haven’t cried once. That makes you officially less pathetic than half the new guys. You’ve earned a drink... So?

Your brain, naturally, tried to stall. A bar? With actual people? And more pilots? But your mouth moved faster.

“Uh—yeah, sure,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before your usual social panic could hit. “I could go for a drink.”

Phoenix gave a little nod, like she’d already known your answer. Like this was the inevitable next step in whatever strange, reluctant journey you’d found yourself on.

Then she jerked her chin toward the exit, already on the move.

You hesitated. “What now?”

She didn’t stop walking.

“You go back to wherever you’ve been hiding, put on something that doesn’t scream ‘high-stress lab goblin,’ and I’ll swing by in an hour.”

You blinked. “That specific, huh?”

Phoenix half-turned, walking backward again like she had a personal vendetta against stationary conversations. “It’s a bar, not a Senate hearing. No briefing, no simulations, no threat of fiery death. Just drinks. Loud music. Maybe pool. Probably bad flirting.”

And with that, she was gone—leaving you standing in the middle of the hangar, sweaty, slightly stunned, and suddenly very aware that you owned exactly one outfit that wasn’t issued or work-adjacent.

Oh no. Now you actually had to get ready.

A/N:

Heyyyyy, OMG the support for this story is wild, thank you all so so muchhh!! I honestly did not think it would get this much attention, my first draft was actually a Charlie's Angel reader lol, but I'm so happy you all enjoy this version. I did try to make it as realistic as possible, after all reader does not like to fly I can only imagine being put in her position, so she being frozen out of fear and not completing the mission feels real, at least to me.

And my apologies it took me so long to put it out. Part III is already in the works, so I think it will be out soon.

Thank you all so so much for the support and the comments and reblogs, really.

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missadangel · 2 months ago

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MAKE HIM DISLIKE LOVE YOU

Harry Castillo x Reader (The Materialists)

Chapter 7: Apologize

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Chapter Summary: When you call it quits on secrets, it’s funny how more of them spill out. Then Harry comes sprinting after you, begging for forgiveness. I mean, how can you say no to that face? Warnings: 18+ (smut, MDNI) kinda romantic comedy stuff, fluffy, angst, lying, soft and caring Harry Castillo, Lucy as his ex, John as Lucy's ex, wealth, expensive gifts, drinks, money, cars, language, sexual tension, oral sex, p in v sex, kissing, slow burn, power imbalance, I might have missed some warnings; I will update them in due time. Chapter Word Count: 10,5k, ROMANCE, feelings!!! fluffy, rom-com, lust, passion, jealousy, dirty talk, love triangle authors note: Thank you all for your support, asks, comments, reblogs and likes. I appreciate each and every one of you! Love you all!

As the elevator headed up to the penthouse, disbelief hit you hard. How could Harry have lied to you like that? You’d been cleaning his place without even knowing it. It felt like a total betrayal, but honestly, you were more pissed off than anything. Then another thought struck you—those cameras. Had he been watching you this entire time?

“Jerk. Fuckin' asshole.”

“Huh?”

Right, you were in the elevator with Mia, this little girl you just met, both of you heading to the same flat. But it was clear you had a shared goal. The elevator chimed as you reached the penthouse, and Mia stopped you. “I need to do something first.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, confused.

Mia peeked out of the elevator, checking the area. “The cameras,” she said.

You were caught off guard.

“I can’t let my mom find out I’m here, so I need to shut them down before we go in.”

“Your mom is Maria, right?”

“You know her too? Who even are you?”

With a smirk, you said, “Just think of me as your partner in crime.”

Mia raised an eyebrow. “Partner in crime?”

Leaning in a bit, you said, “I want to take down those damn cameras too.”

She thought about it for a second, narrowed her eyes, and then glanced at your uniform. “So that’s you, huh? My mom mentioned you.”

“What did she say?”

She smirked. “You are the girl who made Uncle Harry look like he’d been hit by a truck.”

You giggled. “I really want to hit him with a truck right now. Because you see, I didn't know it was his apartment when I was cleaning here, he played a trick on me. And as if that wasn't enough, he watched me on the cameras. So what do you say, partner? You want to smash those cameras?”

She frowned. “Smash them? What are you, a vandal?” She took his tablet out of her school bag. “Here, I'll activate the app here, but since we're partners, I need you to turn on the signal first, can you do that?”

You felt like an idiot next to this smart 10-year-old girl. “Okay, tell me what to do, partner.”

“Since you're the cleaning lady who always comes here...”

“Maid.”

“Yeah, maid, whatever. I need you to go to the control panel on the wall and choose the option to connect to nearby devices.”

You frowned. “Why can’t I just walk over and hit the button to turn off the camera? There has to be an option for that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Thanks Einstein, if you do that, the camera's feed will be disabled and Uncle Harry will receive a notification, which could make him suspicious. I’ll just link to the camera from the tablet and adjust its angle. Then there won't be anything to worry about. It's not like Uncle Harry is going to be monitoring the camera constantly during his meetings at work.”

Now you felt even more silly; it was a super clever plan. “Wow, you’re really smart,” you said. She styled her hair like her mom. “I know. Just go do what I say.”

You chuckled softly, “Understood, ma’am.”

She flashed a grin.

As you entered the apartment, you acted casually, avoiding the cameras while strolling down the corridor. “It feels like I’m in a movie,” you whispered to yourself. You quickly connected to the cameras through the control panel’s touch screen and hit "add device." Moments later, Mia's tablets name appeared, confirming the connection.

“Connection complete,” Mia announced as she walked in.

“High five, girl!” you said, extending your hand.

She laughed and high-fived you back. “We make an awesome team. I like you.”

“I like you too, Mia,” you replied with a wink.

Looking at the cameras, you realized Mia was indeed controlling them from her tablet. They were all aimed toward the corners, so as long as you didn’t walk by, the cameras wouldn’t catch you. Mia sprawled out on the couch as if it were her own home and started watching a video on her tablet. Glancing at her knee, you noticed it was slightly bleeding.

“Hey, let me take care of that knee,” you said, heading to grab a first aid kit. When you returned, you sat beside her and cleaned her wound with some alcohol. “Is this because you skipped school today? Is it about your mom?”

She sighed. “Yeah, it’s about her and my dad. They keep saying they’ll get divorced, but nothing changes.”

You paused. That must be tough for her. “I didn’t know; that sounds rough. How do you feel about it?”

She shrugged. “I just want them to figure it out already. I’m so tired of their drama and constant arguing.”

“I get it. If it ever gets to be too much, just call me. My place isn’t nearly as big as this one—barely bigger than the living room—but I’ll make room for you. What do you think?”

Mia smiled with a maturity beyond her years. “Thanks, you’re a really good friend.”

You smiled back and wrapped her knee with some bandages. “Alright, don’t take this off until tomorrow, got it?”

“Got it, thanks,” he said as he flopped back onto the couch. “You’re mad at him, huh?”

You nodded. “Yeah, I’m really angry. I just want to break everything in here,” you muttered while glancing around.

“How mature,” he remarked quietly.

Feeling a bit embarrassed, you looked at her. “I mean, of course I won’t actually do that.”

“My mom did,” she replied, surprisingly calm. “She broke everything in Dad’s office. You adults can be super childish sometimes, and then want us to act like we’re grown-ups.”

You let out a nervous laugh. “You’re not wrong; we can be pretty childish about things.”

“Just talk it out and figure it out,” she said.

You grabbed the first aid kit and stood up. “What if I’m so mad at him that I don’t even want to talk?”

She smiled. “I don’t think you are.” You raised an eyebrow. “Well, I hope you are not, because I don’t want him to be upset.” She was messing with something on her tablet.

You loved how she was just like her mom, always keeping an eye on Harry. “I don’t want to upset him, honey, but I have to make him eat a little humble pie, okay?”

“But you’ll forgive him later, right?” she asked with hope in her voice.

“Of course, I love him,” you said softly.

“Awesome,” she said, clearly happy, and went back to playing with the tablet.

“Well, I guess I should get back to my chores,” you said, heading into the kitchen to start cleaning up.

“What's up?”

Oliver stepped into his office to find Harry staring at his tablet with a frown.

“There’s something wrong with the cameras. They won’t rotate and there’s no sound coming through. Do you think there's a bug in the app?”

“Maybe your girlfriend got fed up with the cameras and sabotaged them,” he quipped, taking a closer look. “Let me see.”

“I can't blame her,” Harry replied, guilt creeping in.

Oliver noticed Harry’s troubled look as he fiddled with the app. “Seriously, when are you going to tell her?”

“I’m planning to do it tonight,” Harry said with determination. “I just couldn’t find the right moment this morning.”

At that moment, Maria walked into the office. “Harry, I'm seriously considering taking that tablet away from you. You’ve been messing with it more than Mia. I worked really hard to convince them—it’s not worth ruining the meeting over.”

“He was just worried he couldn’t see his girlfriend on the camera,” Oliver muttered.

Harry shot him a glare.

“Okay, that’s enough. I’m calling her right now and telling her everything,” Maria said, pulling out her phone.

Harry jumped up and grabbed the phone from her hand. “Stay out of it. I’ll handle this.”

Just then, her phone began to ring. “School,” Harry said, handing her phone back to Maria.

Maria picked up immediately. “Hello? Yes, this is her mom.”

Harry glanced at Oliver. “Have you fixed it yet?”

“Nope, it’s weird. It’s like someone else has logged into the cameras on their phone and taken over.”

“What did you just say?”

They both turned to Maria, who looked concerned. “Okay,” she said, hanging up.

Harry frowned. “Is everything okay?”

“Mia,” Maria said as she dialed another number. “Her teacher said she didn’t show up to school today. Come on, pick up the damn phone.” But Maria’s face dropped when Mia's dad said he hadn’t seen her either.

“Or perhaps she went back home,” Oliver added.

“We’ll find out now,” Maria said, pulling up an app on her phone.

Harry moved closer to her. “What are you doing?”

“Tracking Mia with a smartwatch app,” she said, waiting for the app to locate her. “If that doesn’t work, I’ll try the app that tracks her phone.”

“Geez, Maria. Have you planted a bug on her, too?” Oliver said with a smirk.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she did,” Harry scoffed.

“You’ll understand when you become parents,” Maria replied, giving them a pointed look.

“Hopefully not for a long time,” Oliver said.

Harry chuckled at the idea.

“There! I’ve got it,” Maria said, her eyes widening. “Oh no. Harry, you need to see this,” she said, showing him her phone screen.

Harry froze, staring at the location the app found. “No…Fuck...”

Oliver leaned over to take a look. “Damn, this is your apartment.”

Cleaning duty today felt tougher than usual. Ever since you discovered it was Harry’s house, things had started to feel different, especially now that you were technically his girlfriend. It made you feel a bit like a housewife, which was both thrilling and painful at the same time. You still needed answers, as you felt genuinely hurt. But your love for him was so strong—what could you really do? Deep down, you weren’t sure how long you could cling to your anger. With your pride and stubbornness tossed aside, you weren’t thinking straight anymore, so you chose to let it go for now.

As you walked through the hallway with the cleaning bucket, your eyes landed on that door—the locked door.

The secret room.

What was Harry hiding behind it? There were no keys in sight, so how would you ever get it open?

Did Mia know about this room?

When you walked in to check on her, her eyes were closed; was she asleep? Just as you turned to slip out quietly, you caught a hint of a muffled sound—no, she was crying.

“Mia? Are you okay?”

She sniffled and nodded, but kept her eyes shut. You moved to sit beside her on the couch. “Hey, what’s wrong, honey?”

“Nothing... just nothing.”

You gently patted her head. “You sure? You can tell me. I'll keep it between us, I promise.”

“My mom and dad... I hate them, especially my mom. They decided to get divorced without even consulting me. I don’t want them to split up, but they didn’t even ask how I feel. They won’t love me anymore, and they’re going to be busier with their work.”

“Shh, don’t think like that. Of course, they’ll still love you. They’re your parents, and their love for you will never fade, I assure you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because a mother’s love for her child is unconditional; it can’t just vanish. You're not the reason they're breaking up, I swear. Sometimes, even if adults love each other, things get messy, and splitting up is the only way to handle it. It might seem like the end, but it can also lead to something better.”

“Really?” she murmured, her eyelids growing heavy.

“Absolutely, trust me. You’re lucky to have both your mom and dad around; I’m sure they’ll take care of you, even if things change. I kind of envy you because I lost my mom, and I'll never get the chance to tell her how much I miss her. I wish she were still alive. As for my dad... it feels like he doesn’t care about me—he doesn’t even bother to call, you know?” Your voice cracked slightly. “But your mom and dad are with you and must have been searching for you all morning, haven’t they, Mia? I’m sure they are worried—”

Looking down, you saw that she had fallen asleep, holding your hand tightly. A smile crossed your face as you wrapped your other arm around her. Suddenly, you felt tired too, and before you knew it, you drifted off beside her.

“Mia? Sweetie?” Maria called out for her daughter.

You blinked awake, realizing Harry’s face was mere inches from yours, and his hand was gently resting on your cheek. You stared at him for a moment before pushing his hand away and getting off the couch.

How did you even fall asleep?

Mia stirred and rubbed her eyes. “Mom?”

“What happened to your knee?” Maria's voice rang out.

“It’s nothing, just a little scrape. I fell in the street, and she helped me clean and bandage it.” She pointed to you.

All eyes turned to you, but you avoided their gazes. You forced a smile at Mia and quickly looked away. “I think it’s time for me to go. I hope you enjoyed my service, Mr. Castillo,” you said, trying to sound casual as you made your way to the door.

Oliver stood by the entryway, looking guilty.

“Wait,” Harry called after you. Just then, Maria touched your shoulder.

“Thank you. I’m so relieved that Mia has been with you all day,” she said, pulling you into a hug that took you by surprise.

“You’re welcome, she’s a very smart girl,” you replied, feeling a bit evasive.

She beamed at you, and you offered a smile back, though it felt awkward given the situation.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Harry approached you from behind, his voice soft but insistent.

You turned to face him. “With whom? With your girlfriend? Or with your maid-in?”

Harry let out a troubled sigh, his frustration evident as he glared at you. You turned away again. “There’s nothing to talk about,” you said, stepping closer to the door.

Maria nudged Harry from behind, encouraging him to move. He stepped in front of you, causing you to halt abruptly.

“How can you say there’s nothing to talk about? There’s plenty,” he insisted, moving closer and locking eyes with you.

You turned your head away again. “Were you trying to get revenge? If you wanted to talk, you should have spoken up sooner.”

“Revenge?” he replied, confused.

“So because I lied to you from the start and deceived you, this was your way of getting back at me?”

“I would never, never do that,” he shook his head, his expression earnest.

“Is it out of pity then?”

His brown eyes darkened with frustration. “You know it’s not like that.”

“Then why, Harry? Why did you hire me for this job without giving me a heads-up? You totally deceived me. Did you actually enjoy watching me on camera the whole time?”

“I’m sorry. I felt responsible because you were unemployed because of me, and I wanted to help—”

“It wasn’t because of you! Besides, I could have found a job myself. You didn’t need to use your money or power. Did you really think I would feel better about this? Right now, I just feel like a complete idiot. How could you do this to me?”

Maria took Mia’s hand and started to leave. “You two talk it out; we’ll give you some space, come on, Ollie.”

“No, there’s nothing left to say,” you snapped angrily.

"But you'll forgive him later, won't you?"

"Of course, I love him."

Oh no, that sounds just like what you told Mia earlier.

Did she record you?

"Mia!" you complained, glancing at her.

She just shrugged, holding her tablet. "Sorry, my finger slipped."

"That's my girl," Mia said with a giggle, as she high-fived her.

Oliver chuckled, and Harry smiled.

But you narrowed your eyes at them, feeling furious.

"Oops, we should get going," she said to her mother. They quickly headed for the elevator, leaving you alone with Harry.

But before you could go after them, Harry came up behind you, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you off your feet.

“What are you doing? Harry! Put me down!”

“Nope. You're going to listen, sweetheart. No more running away.”

“Let go!” you protested, but he refused to budge.

He carried you to the couch and set you down next to him, holding your hands tightly, but you turned your head away.

“Baby, please forgive me. I tried to explain before, but I just couldn’t find the right words. I thought helping you find a job would make you happy. I never meant to offend or hurt you; please believe that.”

“Did it have to be your house?” you grumbled.

“Isn’t this better than being at someone else's place?”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

His hand trembled as he sighed. “I mean, I hate this too. It hurts to see you so exhausted, to watch you work so hard, and I can’t stand the thought of your beautiful hands being worn down in those cleaning gloves. I want to kiss those lovely fingers, to cherish them.”

As he began to kiss your fingers one by one, your heart raced. You almost let your guard down, almost kissed him.

Almost.

“Harry,” you whispered. “This is my job, and—”

“Don’t,” he interjected, frustration evident in his voice. “Can’t you just skip the cleaning? You can keep working with Chef Bruno, but please, no more cleaning.”

“Is it because you don’t want to introduce your girlfriend in that way?”

“No, what I mean is—”

You stood up, your frustration boiling over. “I’m sorry, but this is my life. I have no problem introducing you to my friends, but it seems you hesitate to do the same. I can’t change who I am.”

He rose to his feet as well. “I don’t know how we ended up here. I never intended for this to happen. Listen-”

“Harry, you listen. I understand your intentions, and I appreciate them, but I wish you had considered how I might feel in all of this. And I can't do this if...”

“Wait a minute, why do I feel like you’re giving a breakup speech?”

“Because I am,” you said, tears brimming in your eyes.

“No, no, no, don’t do that.” He moved closer, but you took a step back and raised your hand.

“We agreed there would be no secrets between us, but we couldn’t even manage that. How can our relationship develop from here?”

“There are no secrets left now that everything is out in the open,” he said, trying to smile. You crossed your arms and bit your lip, acknowledging his point. Then he drew nearer and wrapped his arms around you.

“I promise, baby, there will never be any secrets between us again, I swear,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his breath soft and tender. “Please don’t leave me.” The plea struck deep within you, twisting like a knife. How could you even entertain such a thought? The very idea of parting from him was unbearable, a wound that throbbed in your chest and brought stinging tears to your eyes. It was the last thing you wanted—a painful notion that sent ripples of hurt through your heart.

In that moment, you set aside all other emotions and surrendered to the warmth of his embrace, allowing yourself to rest your head on his chest for a while.

“What about that locked room?” you asked then, glancing toward it, wiping your tears meanwhile. “I wonder what you’re hiding behind that door.”

A sly grin crept across his face. “Do you want to see it? But promise me that once you see what’s inside, you’ll tell me you love me again, and you won’t leave me. Deal?”

“It all depends on what’s in there.”

He chuckled, then walked into the bedroom, still holding your hand. Nervousness washed over you as you tried to pull your hand back.

“Relax, I’m not trying to lure you into bed,” he laughed. “At least, not right now.”

“You wish,” you grunted.

He chuckled as he opened the nightstand drawer. “Funny. You were practically begging me last night. I can still hear you meowing.”

Your cheeks flushed. “I don’t remember any of that,” you lied.

He pulled out a box from the drawer and took out a key. “I have the scars on my back to prove it, kitten,” he teased.

Your face was burning now, as red as a tomato. “Stop it and do what you need to do.”

Chuckling, he held up the key, “Here it is; come on,” taking your hand again.

Together, you stood in front of the locked door. Harry inserted the key into the lock and paused to look at you. “Are you ready, baby? The big secret is about to be revealed.”

You rolled your eyes. “Stop showing off and open the damn door,” you muttered.

Grinning, he unlocked the door and stepped back, inviting you in with his hand.

You hesitated before stepping into the room, shocked at what you saw.

To your left stood a massive floor-to-ceiling wardrobe filled with clothes, and to your right was a complete wardrobe of bags and shoes. In the center was an elegant dressing table. Harry slid open the wardrobe, revealing all the clothes and shoes he had ever bought you, carefully arranged. He embraced you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder and kissing your cheek. “It’s all yours. This room is for you. I was waiting for you to say yes to me before I revealed it to you. I kept it locked and tried to stay away, but I found it hard to resist many times,” he whispered, nuzzling along the curve of your neck.

You were rendered speechless, taken aback. Then you noticed a jewelry box on the dresser. “Isn’t that the earring?” You walked over, picked it up, and examined it closely. “Have you had this all along?”

“Oops, looks like another secret is out,” he said with a chuckle.

You shot him a pointed look. “You really. Why didn’t you say anything when I told you I would pay you back?”

“Because you broke my heart,” he replied softly. “You told me you never wanted to see me again, so I thought the earring would be a good excuse to get you to meet me.”

“You're unbelievable,” you shot back, your irritation surfacing.

“What about you?” he countered, but then his expression softened as he noticed the look on your face. “I love you,” he confessed, his lips forming the word like an apology.

Damn he was so cute.

His adorableness made you giggle despite yourself.

“You didn’t say it again.”

“Say what?”

“Do you want me to make you say it? Just like last night,” he whispered, leaning in close. “You remember how well that turned out.” His lips brushed against your earlobe as his hand slowly slipped down, hovering dangerously close to your thigh. Your reaction was instinctive; you caught his hand. However, his lips found their way to your neck, and you couldn't help but bite your lower lip and roll your eyes. “Harry, stop.”

“I know you want me, baby; don’t try to deny it,” he purred, his voice low and teasing.

“No, you’re wrong,” you replied, almost breathless.

“Then why are you holding my hand so tightly?” he whispered, a smirk playing on his lips.

You withdrew your hand quickly, shocked at your own reaction.

What the fuck?

When did this escalate?

You frowned at his chuckle. “I really hate you,” you whined, though your irritation was half-hearted.

“No, you don't,” he laughed, clearly enjoying the banter.

“Well, I really like this room, but that doesn’t mean I forgive you. And it definitely doesn’t mean I’m ready to jump into bed with you,” you declared stubbornly.

“Then what do I need to do to win your forgiveness? I’ll do anything,” he said, voice dripping with seduction.

The look he gave you was enough to make you avert your gaze.

“I don’t know; I need to think,” you said, fighting back a giggle. “But I have to go now—I told Bruno I would head to the hotel early.” You turned to leave the room.

He followed right behind you. “I’ll give you a ride.”

You responded without looking back. “Well, if you’re that eager.”

With a smile, he followed you behind as you walked toward the elevator.

“Have you forgiven me yet?” Harry asked again as he parked the car in front of the hotel.

“You just asked me that five minutes ago."

“I’ll keep asking until you say you forgive me,” he replied, shutting off the engine.

You opened the door and turned to him. “At least let me think it over.”

He took your hand, pulled you closer, and placed a quick kiss on your cheek. “Whatever you say, kitty. Good luck at work.”

“Thanks for the ride,” you said with a faint smile, stepping out and closing the door behind you.

As you made your way to the hotel entrance, Harry watched you from the driver’s seat. Just then, you spotted Alan getting out of his own car, heading your way.

“Good evening,” he greeted you.

You turned and smiled, “Good evening, Mr. Finnegan.”

“Come on, call me Alan already, will you?”

Harry, watching from a distance, muttered, “Asshole.” Trying to keep his cool, he stepped out of the car and approached you two. “Baby,” he called out, and before you could react, he spun you around and kissed you so passionately that it left you breathless. Pulling back, he glanced at Alan and added, “I almost took off without kissing my girlfriend goodbye.” The way he said “girlfriend” caught his attention and everyone around the street.

Alan’s expression darkened.

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, caught off-guard by how intimate the kiss had been.

“Anyway, I should be on my way,” he said.

"Yeah, you do that," you said, squinting at him and gesturing for him to leave.

“Good night, Finnegan,” Harry said, getting into his car, clearly amused by Alan's reaction.

Shaking your head at Harry, you noticed Alan squinting at him, clearly unamused. “I didn’t realize you were with him,” Alan said as he walked inside.

“Well, things are a bit complicated,” you murmured.

“Not surprising, things always get messy with Castillo,” Alan muttered quietly.

“Excuse me?”

“I just... You really should think twice about being with him,” he warned lightly.

“Alan, it’s—”

“Anyway, I suppose my employees’ personal lives are none of my business,” he said with a smirk, heading toward the elevator.

What just happened?

Why had he said that?

And why was he suddenly in a good mood?

You really should have asked Harry about the weird thing between them, but now you had to focus—you had a kitchen to get to.

Things were really hectic in the kitchen, and as if that weren’t enough, Alan was having a business lunch in the dining room and asked you to make some desserts just for him. As you handed off the treats to the waitstaff, he called you over and praised your work. If he wasn’t your boss, you might have said something about his overwhelming attention, but you figured it was best to keep quiet until your internship was over. Then, just when you thought the day couldn’t get any worse, Melanie called.

“What do you want?” you asked, annoyed.

“What do I want? I need you to talk to my dad, and I want you to do it right now, like you promised!”

“I will, but I've been super busy and haven’t had time yet.”

“Well, it’s on you. If my dad doesn’t let me come back home, I’ll just crash at your place.”

“Wait, what? You called my house a disgusting little flat. Aren’t you with Nate? Can’t he help you out?”

“Don’t even mention that jerk!”

“Did you two break up already? Wow, that was quick, even for you.”

“Just drop it, okay? It’s none of your business. Talk to my dad tomorrow night or I’ll make your life miserable!”

“As if you weren’t already a pain in my ass!” you shot back and hung up in frustration. As you walked toward the exit, muttering under your breath, someone called out from behind.

Ugh, it was Alan again.

“Are you okay? You sounded like you were venting at someone on the phone,” he said, wearing that annoying smile.

“Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

“Well, if you did it, they probably deserved it,” he said, grinning.

Just when you thought it was over, you turned to leave but almost bumped into the revolving door. Alan grabbed your arm, pulling you back.

“Watch out!” he said.

What the hell?

You could’ve easily dodged the door; you weren't that clumsy. His other arm wrapped around you, too.

“Thanks, but I’m fine,” you said, carefully pushing his hand away. “Have a good night.”

“You too,” he replied, watching you walk away as you stormed out. Your phone buzzed again, but you ignored it; you weren’t in the mood for more of Melanie’s drama.

Suddenly, you heard footsteps behind you and turned to see Harry.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone? Are you okay?” he asked, and just seeing him made you feel so much better.

“Yeah, sorry, thought it was Melanie,” you said, spotting the bouquet of pink roses he was holding.

“Is she still being a pain?”

“Forget about her; I’ll handle it. Are those for me?” you asked, trying to hide your smile.

“Of course they are, beautiful,” he said, handing you the flowers.

“Thanks,” you said, taking a whiff of the roses.

“Come on, let’s get to the car.”

As you walked together, he leaned closer. “Am I forgiven?”

You rolled your eyes. “Not in a day, ol'man.”

Harry sighed and opened the back door for you. “So, if I asked you to spend the night at my apartment instead of going home, you wouldn’t consider it?”

Ah, damn...

Those puppy-dog eyes and dangerously tempting lips made it hard to say no, but you somehow managed to act like you weren't interested, thanks to your stubbornness.

And the oscar goes to...

“N-no, sorry, I need to check on Zoe. She’s still home alone,” you stammered.

He sighed again and closed the door after you settled in the car.

“Hey, Ollie,” you said while he was chilling in the driver’s seat.

“Hey, girl! How’s it going? You two good now?”

“We’re good, right, baby?” Harry said, sitting next to you.

“Kind of,” you muttered, still eyeing the roses in your lap.

“Kind of?” Harry raised an eyebrow.

You shrugged, teasing him.

“Come on, really? Okay, I’m taking you on a date tomorrow night, and we’re going to sort everything out,” Harry grumbled.

“Uh-oh,” Oliver chimed in as he drove.

You squinted at Harry. “If you ask me with that tone, you might be going on that date alone.”

“Okay, sorry,” he said with a sigh. "Would you like to accompany me for dinner tomorrow night, lovely lady?"

You giggled but kept your expression cool. “Um, let me check my calendar first.”

Oliver chuckled.

Harry squinted again.

“Alright, fine. But I need to have a quick chat with Jack tomorrow. If he agrees, you can pick me up at the hotel again.”

He smiled widely taking your hand and bringing it to his lips. “As you wish, darling.”

As you stepped into the apartment, the sweet scent of the bouquet Harry had given you lingered in the air, enveloping you until you finally reached your place with the flowers cradled in your arms. When you opened the door and walked inside, you were taken aback by the scene in front of you.

“Oh sweet Jesus!”

John and Zoe were on the couch, wrapped up in a passionate kiss—thankfully, they were fully dressed. The moment they noticed you, they pulled apart, and John shot up from the couch, his face a canvas of embarrassment.

But you felt even more embarrassed. “Oh, I’m sorry, guys, I, uh…”

“No, no, no, I’m so sorry!” John stuttered, quickly averting his gaze, adjusting his hair.

“Awkward,” Zoe murmured, covering her mouth in surprise. “I thought you were with your boyfriend,” she added, glancing at you and the bouquet still in your hands.

“Well, yeah… I mean, no, I wasn’t. It’s a long story.”

“I’d better be going. Bye, girls. Good night,” John said, grabbing his jacket and making a hasty exit.

Once the door closed behind him, you turned back to Zoe. "Jesus, girl, what just happened?"

Zoe huffed in disbelief. "I have no idea! He helped me change my bandage, touched my leg and then… suddenly we kissed. It was so strange, but it felt amazing."

“Strange”? You seemed pretty into it."

“It might have turned into something really hot if you hadn’t barged in,” she replied with a hint of annoyance.

“Sue me,” you muttered, placing the flowers in a vase on the table.

“I didn’t think you’d be back so soon. You were with him last night, right?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, it’s a long story.”

“Still not officially together? Seriously, get your shit together already. What’s going on with you two?”

You let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know. Just when I think things are finally going well, something messes it all up, and I'm left feeling hurt again…”

“Uh-oh, spill everything.”

"Okay, do you want something cold to drink?"

"Yes, please! I’m dying of heat over here."

You giggled as you made your way to the fridge. “So if I had come in five minutes later, would you have been completely undressed? Good thing I didn’t.”

“You're so bad,” she laughed.

You began the day with that text that pinged on your phone the moment you woke up, that familiar message from the person you had been longing to hear from, the one you had been waiting for eagerly.

Morning, kitten. The sun is shining, the birds are singing— Isn't it the perfect day to make you feel like forgiving?

Was he rhyming?

He was really good at it or bad not sure, but he would have to try a little harder.

Hmm. I'm not sure if today is the day. You'll know for sure tonight, doll. I'll make you. Hmm, how ambitious. Always I am.

After you changed, you stepped into the living room and saw Zoe was getting ready.

“Where are you off to?”

“To the hospital to get my ankle checked.”

“Do you want some company?”

“John will,” she replied with a cheeky smile. “Besides, you’ll be off on your date with Harry tonight, right?”

Your cheeks warmed at the thought. “Well, yes, maybe.”

“I’m planning to invite John over for dinner, and he’d better come clean about something tonight.”

“Oh, I see, you’re trying to get rid of me, huh?”

"Come on, he shares an apartment with three guys; it’s more convenient for us to be here."

“Okay, don’t worry, I won’t crash tonight,” you replied with a grin, thoughts drifting to Harry’s bedroom.

“Awesome!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands.

“Wow, you could be a bit less eager about this.”

“Sorry, but I can’t help it, I’m in love,” she said, giggling.

“Apology accepted,” you responded, grabbed your bag, and headed out the door. Just then, you bumped into John in the hallway. “Hey."

“Hey there. How’s work treating you?”

"Good. Listen, John, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, what’s up?"

"Do you have feelings for Zoe?"

"Yes, she’s a wonderful person, and cute too," he said, smiling.

He was definitely into her.

“I mean, I thought there was something going on between you and that woman Lucy at the wedding. I need to know if you really like Zoe.”

"Lucy is just my childhood friend and ex. But, don't you know her already?"

"I only know she's Alan's girlfriend and a matchmaker."

John crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "Surprised that Castillo hasn’t told you about her."

“What’s there to tell?”

John let out a troubled sigh. “You know, I’m not sure if it’s a good time for me to drop this on you, but those two were actually together a few years ago.”

Damn, you were worried about this. "So that’s why," you murmured after a brief pause.

“Listen, he will share the details with you, but Lucy isn't like you or Zoe. She deceived both me and Castillo, leaving us heartbroken in the end. I can't hold a grudge against her because we share this strange bond, but I promise you, I’ll never hurt Zoe because of this."

You nodded. "It better stay that way, John. You should tell her as soon as possible, or I will," you said. After receiving a nod from him, you turned and headed down the stairs to leave the building.

All day long, as you worked, your thoughts kept drifting back to Lucy. You regretted asking John about her. It wasn’t just that Harry hadn’t mentioned her—after all, that was fine considering the incident had happened years ago. What truly unnerved you was the possibility of her showing up at any moment, especially as Alan's girlfriend. It felt like trouble was just around the corner, and you couldn’t shake that feeling. Alan himself was another source of tension; his frequent encounters with you and his growing interest were weighing heavily on your mind. You knew deep down that sooner or later, things were bound to get complicated.

You really hoped this internship would wrap up soon, and that Chef Bruno would write you a glowing letter of recommendation. Yet, with the fair approaching and the day ticking down, you had to press on through the culinary internship.

Earlier, you'd called Jack, and he had already said he wanted to meet. As you waited at the table, you spotted him approaching and stood up to greet him. "Thanks for taking the time to meet me here," you said, shaking Jack's hand as he took a seat across from you.

"Of course, no problem," he replied, settling into his seat.

"Jack, about Melanie—"

"Save your breath, honey. I’m not here for her."

You were taken aback. "What do you mean? I thought that’s why you came—"

He pulled out a bunch of newspapers and magazines from his bag and dropped them on the table with a bang, making the glasses and plates rattle.

Your eyes went wide. “What’s all this?”

“Why don’t you check for yourself?”

Following his lead, you picked up the top magazine, and your heart sank at the sight of your own image on the cover. Someone had captured a photo of you and Harry dancing at the wedding from a distance.

Who is the mystery girl dancing with famous businessman Harry Castillo? the headline read.

You quickly grabbed another magazine, revealing a picture of you and Melanie.

Get ready for a surprising twist! How did the maid in Melanie Johnson's mansion pretend to be her and trap a famous billionaire?

“Ugh, what a bunch of vultures,” you muttered, shaking your head.

As you continued flipping through the articles, the headlines turned more shocking. Words like "gold digger," "sneaky housekeeper," and "fortune hunter" jumped out at you.

"That's what I was warning you about," Jack said. "I don't want you to worry, though—none of these magazines have been printed yet. These are all test editions. We managed to confiscate them before they went into mass production, and Harry’s assistant has ensured the online stories have been taken down."

You looked up at him, relief washing over you. "Thank you, Jack."

"You don’t need to thank me for dealing with the news, which includes Melanie; I did that for my own reasons. But regarding the rest..." He pointed to the magazine cover with your dancing picture. "This is the thing I wanted to discuss. I see you as a daughter, so take this advice from a father to his daughter: end whatever is happening between you and Harry before it spirals out of control. If this keeps up, there’ll be more stories about you, people will dig into your past, and in the end, it’s you who’ll get hurt. Do you understand?"

You sighed. "Jack, I honestly get what you’re saying, and I do appreciate it. But there's nothing in my past or family that I’m worried about. Gossip like this finds someone new to focus on every day; it could just as easily be me one day and someone else the next."

He paused for a moment, then nodded slowly. "So, it appears there's something more between you two than I realized. You've made up your mind. Well, it's your life, after all. I just hope you don’t wind up hurt and come to regret this decision.”

"Jack."

You both turned your heads, and damn it was—Alan. He usually didn’t come to the hotel on Saturday nights, but today was clearly an exception.

Of course.

Jack stood up to shake his hand. "Alan."

"How are you? Didn’t see you at the wedding."

"I was in D.C.," Jack replied. Just then, his phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and answered. Alan looked at you with a smile, and you returned it.

Damn, he might have noticed the magazines on the table, you thought.

"Sorry, I’ve got to leave," Jack said suddenly.

You stood up, worry creeping in. "Is everything okay?"

"Melanie," he hissed, frustration clear in his voice. "She ran away from home."

"What do you mean she ran away? Or have you been keeping her locked up?" Your voice rose higher than you meant it to.

You couldn't shake off the memory of that one time Jack had locked her in her room, and it had ended poorly. A shudder ran through you at the thought.

"I had no choice. I thought she’d see reason and come to her senses, but apparently, I was wrong."

"Jack, are you out of your mind? Do you really not know your daughter? Locking her up isn’t the solution!"

Heads in the dining room turned toward you.

"You’re right. I messed up this time, but I couldn’t let her keep hanging out with that playboy Nate."

"I can’t say I blame you for that," you replied quietly.

"Anyway, I really have to go. Catch you later, Alan."

"See you, Jack."

As Jack strolled away, casting a backward glance, a heavy sadness settled in your chest. Melanie hadn't matured much and was acting like a nightmare. Despite his faults, Jack was a good father—if only he showed a little more genuine care to his daughter more than his work.

"Sounds like Melanie’s giving Jack a rough time," Alan said, still holding onto that smile.

"Yeah, she’s a bit immature," you admitted quietly.

To your surprise, Alan looked around the table and sat down in Jack’s vacated chair.

"Have a seat; your dessert's still waiting."

You did your best to keep it together and not roll your eyes. "Thanks, but I really need to go—"

"Just give me five minutes, alright?" he said, leaning in a bit closer.

You glanced at your watch, thinking about how Harry would be picking you up in about an hour. With a sigh, you plopped back down. "Fine."

"Thanks," he said, adjusting his suit jacket and settling in. "I know what happened here last time." You looked at him in surprise; this wasn't what you expected. "About what Lucy did..." He paused and took a breath. "I want to say sorry on her behalf."

Your eyes widened. “Alan, it’s okay. But if you start treating me differently because of her, it will only make her dislike me more. Plus, this kind of stuff probably isn't over yet."

“It won’t happen again,” he stated firmly. “I won’t allow it in my hotel. I broke up with her, and I doubt she will be coming back here.”

“That can’t be the only reason you decided to break up with her, right?”

He smiled and shook his head. “No, but it played a part. It’s disgraceful to have such disrespect shown here, especially towards our customers. I was wrong about her; she’s not the kind and innocent person I thought she was.”

"I’m sorry," you said, your tone a touch insincere.

"Not me," he replied with a grin. "I’m kind of relieved."

What was that supposed to mean?

A nagging feeling grew as you sensed he was gearing up to say something you wouldn’t like.

"One of the reasons I broke up was because of a question she asked me."

Oh, please, let this be over.

"She wanted to know if I had feelings for you."

You fought to maintain a neutral expression.

Don't say that, please don't.

"I couldn't answer her because, honestly, I actually have feelings for you that I didn't realize until now."

That was more than you could handle.

"Alan, do you even realize what you’re saying?"

"Yes, I’m fully aware."

You sighed deeply. "Maybe you’re mistaken," you suggested, looking away and starting to shake your foot nervously.

"No, I absolutely know how I feel now. I like you." He reached across the table and took your hand, catching you off guard.

You quickly pulled away. "Alan, I’m with Harry."

"You mentioned before that things were complicated between you two," he said, casually picking up one of the magazines.

"That doesn’t mean I don’t love him," you shot back, your voice sharp.

His serious expression told you he wasn’t taking it lightly.

You stood up, feeling a surge of urgency. "Look, Alan, whatever you’re feeling, you need to let it go, or I won’t be able to stay here."

"Are you really going to quit your internship?"

"If I have to, yes," you affirmed.

"Alright, I won’t pressure you unless you come to me yourself."

Surprise and annoyance washed over you. "That’s not going to happen."

He leaned back in his chair, a knowing smile on his face. "Don’t be so sure; life has a funny way of surprising us.”

What the fuck?

Your phone started ringing, and you just held it in your hand without answering as you rushed out of the dining room, still shaken by what had just happened. It was Nate calling, so you definitely weren't picking up; you quickly silenced your phone. Taking a deep breath, you let it all go and shifted your focus to getting ready for your date. Harry had offered to buy you a dress again earlier, but you turned him down. This date was meant to feel like a fresh start, a first date of sorts, and you wanted to treat yourself to the entire process.

During lunch break, you popped into one of those upscale department stores and slipped into the black, shimmering backless dress you had chosen—probably the priciest dress you had ever bought, costing almost four months' salary. You tried to keep a positive mindset; nothing would ruin tonight. The expensive Birman black shoes that Melanie had given you the night before matches perfectly with the dress. Just as you were putting the finishing touches on your makeup, your phone rang again, but your smile quickly faded when you glanced at the screen.

It wasn’t Harry.

Seeing "Trouble" light up the screen only added to your anxiety.

No way were you picking up.

The phone could ring its heart out. When it rang again as you reached for your red lipstick—perfectly matching your nails—you pushed on, determined to finish your look.

However, the incessant ringing soon got on your nerves, and you finally answered, ready to give Melanie a piece of your mind. “Look, I can’t deal with your drama right now—”

“It’s me, Garry.”

You could barely hear him over the loud music in the background. “Garry? What are you doing on Melanie’s phone? And where in the world are you?”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on her for a while; she’s completely wasted, and I don’t know how to handle this. Please, I need your help.”

“Look, I have a very important date tonight—”

“And it seems we have our new volunteer dancer!” a woman’s voice chimed in, followed by masculine cheers and applause.

Oh man.

“Don’t tell me you’re at a strip club!”

“You just heard it. I’ll try to drag her out of here, but you need to hurry. I’ll send you the location.” Garry hung up before you could say anything. “Garry! Hold on—what the hell! What kind of night is this?” you exclaimed, quickly changing up your outfit and bolting out of the room.

When the taxi driver brought you in front of the strip club, you were cursing inside, nervous and angry. It was too much, the strip club was too much, even for her. How could she be so thoughtless and reckless?

At the entrance to the door, unfortunately, everyone was staring at you, including the women.

Oh that's right, you were all dressed up, probably looked breathtaking, but it wasn't to come here, damn it, it was to meet your boyfriend.

Things got even worse when you entered the club. You've never been in a club like this before, it wasn't like other nightclubs.

You're thinking, No shit, I wish it was.

The music was blaring, and two girls were dancing on stage. Some men were cheering and staring at you.

Great.

Ignoring the gazes, you spotted Garry and made your way to him. However, just like the other guys, he seemed fixated on the girls performing. “Hey!” you nudged him.

“Oh you're here? Wow girl, you look great, but I wish you hadn't come here wearing a dress like this.” he said, looking around at the men.

“I couldn't change because you called me while I was getting ready for my date.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, but Melanie's gone crazy.”

“Where is she?”

“She was going on stage and tripped and fell, I was tried to check her but the women wouldn't let me in. That's why I called you.”

“Goddamn it,” you grumbled, shoving your purse at him. “Hold this, I’ll go get her, and then we’ll all head to the car together, okay?”

“Got it. I’ll wait here.”

Just as you left, Garry couldn’t help himself when your phone started ringing non-stop. He didn’t think to check your purse without asking, but when it rang like crazy, he finally picked it up. “Yeah?”

Harry nearly wrecked his car when he heard a guy’s voice on the other end. “Who the hell are you? Why are you answering my girlfriend’s phone?”

“Mr. Castillo, you probably don’t remember me, but I’m Mr. Johnson's driver.”

“Wait, is that club music I hear? Where is she?”

“We're at the strip club. It’s kind of complicated.”

Harry was stunned and slammed on the brakes, making the tires screech on the road. The car behind him honked and yelled, but he didn’t care. “Just tell me where the club is!”

"Melanie, I swear to God, if you don't come with me right now, I'll drag you out of here by yanking your hair if I have to! I'll do it, believe me, I will!"

“Not until Nate gets here!” she snapped.

The girl was not only drunk but also trying to climb onto the stage. You were tugging at her from behind the curtain, hoping Garry could lend a hand, but she was putting up a fight.

“Hey, you two, get lost! Stay clear of the stage!” one of the dancers hissed at you.

“I'm not interested; as you see, I'm trying to get her out of here!” you retorted, still struggling to pull Melanie back.

“No! I’m going up there! I paid for it!” Melanie shouted defiantly.

“What did you just say?” you exclaimed, bewildered. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Leave them alone, girls,” an older woman chimed in, casting a knowing glance at you. “The guys who wanted you on stage shelled out a lot of cash,” she said with a sly smile.

Melanie laughed. “See? They’re dying to see me! Nate needs to get over here right now, call him!”

“It wasn’t for you,” the woman replied, eyes darting between Melanie and you. She surveyed you up and down, a smirk playing on her lips. “They paid for you, sweetheart.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief. “I’m not a dancer or stripper.”

“That doesn’t matter, darling. You look fantastic. I could even give you half the take.”

“What the fuck? You promised me that I’d go on stage! Not her!”

You narrowed your eyes and glared at Melanie. “No one’s going up there!” you shouted firmly.

“Enough with this! Girls,” the woman called out, and the two dancers approached you, trying to take off your jacket.

“Hey! Get your hands off me! What do you think you’re doing?” you exclaimed, wrestling against them.

“Come on, sweetheart, don’t overreact. Just trust yourself,” she replied, grabbing your wrist. But before she could pull you away, someone else seized her arm and pushed it back.

“Leave her alone!”

When you spotted Harry, a mix of surprise and embarrassment washed over you, yet relief followed quickly. He grabbed your arm, pulling you behind him, and draped his jacket around you, wrapping you with it.

“Hey, mister, what do you think you’re doing?” the woman asked, taken aback.

"If you touch my girl again, I'll bring this club down!" Harry growled.

Just then, a man approached you two, dressed in a suit. "Mr. Castillo, there's been a terrible misunderstanding. Please forgive us, sir." He then turned to the girls. "Get back to work and return the money to those customers."

"And give me back my jacket!" you shouted.

Harry reached over, snatched it from one of the girls, and pulled you closer. "Are you okay?"

You nodded. "Yeah, thanks. Melanie! Harry, stop her!" you exclaimed, pointing at her. Harry grasped her arm and pulled her away from the stage.

That's when Nate strolled in, his phone in hand, ready to take pictures. "Oh no, did I miss the show?"

The son of a bitch was grinning.

"It's all your fault!" you shot at him.

Garry came over to Melanie. "Miss Johnson, let’s head to the car, please."

Melanie clung to Harry's arm touching his face. "Hey, old man, want a lap dance?" She was clearly trying to make Nate jealous, but it was Harry she had her hands on.

Your man.

Harry chuckled as he gently pushed her hand away. "Sorry, sweetheart, but I'm not interested."

Wait a minute.

Not only was Melanie, but almost all the women dancers were looking Harry up and down. A wave of jealousy washed over you.

And then you lost it.

You were so angry that you pulled her off of her by the hair. "You little slut, who do you think you're touching?" You pushed her towards Nate. "Take your girlfriend and get the hell out of my life! Garry, you call Jack right now!" you said to him. Grabbing Harry's hand tightly, "Let's get the hell out of here." you urged.

He was still laughing as you pulled him out with you.

“Stop laughing, Harry,” you scolded as you made your way to the car.

“But you were so cute when you protected me from real Melanie back there,” he replied, still chuckling.

You paused and turned to face him. “Are you really enjoying this?”

“Actually I don’t know what to think. Do you know how angry I was when I saw you here with those women? And those men… the way they look at you? I think I hate the real Melanie.”

“Welcome to the club,” you replied sarcastically. “But I’m sorry; you are right. I shouldn't have come here. Tonight was supposed to be special, and now it’s all ruined—just like my hair,” you said, running your fingers through your locks.

Harry glanced at the clock. “Um, the restaurant is about to close.”

“I really messed up,” you said, biting your lip. “I’ve ruined everything.”

He gently took your face in his hands. “Nothing’s ruined, baby. We’re going to plan B.”

“You had a plan B?” you asked, intrigued.

“I just came up with it,” he said with a grin. “Come on, we’re starting over.”

You smiled. “Okay, but where’s your car?”

“There it is,” he said, pointing to a red sport car.

Your eyes widened in surprise. “But it’s a Mustang GT!”

“That’s right. I rented it just for tonight,” he said, pulling the keys from his pocket and handing them to you. “So, am I forgiven now?”

You snatched the keys from his grasp. “Let me take it for a spin, and I’ll think about it.”

He laughed, and as you slid into the driver’s seat, he took the passenger seat beside you. You fastened your seatbelt and started the engine. “Hold on tight, ol'man.”

“Drive carefully, honey. The streets of New York are a whole different beast compared to the traffic you dealt with back in Paris.”

You shot him a playful glance before slamming your foot on the gas. “I accept the challenge.”

“Hey, that wasn’t a challenge,” he retorted, his eyes wide as he clutched the seat.

You laughed, the thrill coursing through you. “Relax! A little excitement never hurt anyone.”

“You excite me enough in that dress, babe,” he grinned, glancing at you with a mix of admiration and mischief.

After a few exhilarating laps, embarrassment washed over you when the flashing lights of a police radar caught you speeding through the night. Still, you found a way to enjoy the moment, laughing together as you swung by a 24-hour diner to grab some late-night munchies before heading toward Harry’s building. “Wow, that was an incredible ride."

“Yeah, it was a blast, even if it’s going to cost me a few hundred bucks in fines,” Harry said, opening the car door.

“Oops, sorry about that,” you said, stepping out of the car.

As he opened the trunk, he pulled out a huge bouquet of roses. “If it hadn’t been for that strip club incident, I would have met you at the hotel with this.”

“Harry,” you murmured, touched.

“Here you go, Cinderella—99 roses.”

You raised an eyebrow as you accepted the bouquet. “Why not a hundred?”

“That’s you,” he said, smiling sweetly. “The hundredth rose is you.”

You felt yourself melting at his words.

“That’s very romantic, ol'man. Thank you,” you said, reaching out to kiss his cheek.

“So, you forgive me now, right?” he asked, extending his arm so you could take it.

“Come here,” you said, encouraging him to lean closer. He complied, and you shared a tender kiss, sweet and gentle. “You’re forgiven, Mr. Castillo.”

He grinned, wrapping his arms around your waist, leaning in to kiss you again, this time with more passion, the world around you fading away. But since you were still out on the street, you gently pushed him back, laughter in your eyes. “Save the rest for later, mister.”

He chuckled, pulling you closer with one arm still wrapped around your waist, and together you strolled toward the entrance.

“Here we have some Bordeaux wine,” he said as you unpacked the food and set the plates on the table.

“Parfait,” you replied with a smile, embracing the French language.

With skilled hands, he uncorked the wine using a polished corkscrew, the soft pop echoing in the cozy room, and poured the ruby liquid into your glasses, its rich color glinting in the soft light.

“Hmm, delicious,” you remarked, savoring the first sip.

As you shared the meal, the conversation flowed effortlessly, weaving in and out of tales about Melanie and the others, laughter bubbling up like the wine in your glasses. “That’s actually much better,” you said softly, feeling the warmth of the evening. “I mean, it’s better that we’re here than in a bustling restaurant.”

“I couldn’t agree more; it’s just the two of us,” he replied, his fingers entwining with yours.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your gaze locking with his, a deep connection simmering in the air between you.

He sighed and stood up, a hint of excitement in his voice. “I have something for you.”

“Another surprise?” you asked, intrigued.

He returned with a small box, sitting back down and handing it to you across the table. Different from any jewelry box you’d seen, it piqued your curiosity.

"I’ve been pondering this all day, and I've come to a realization. I always wanted you to be part of my world, but I was missing something important," he said as you opened the box. Inside, you found a card and a key. nstantly, you recognized them; it was the very card and key you had used countless times for the elevator and the apartment door.

“Harry,” you gasped, taken aback. “You mentioned that you don’t feel like you fit in my world, so how about letting me into yours?”

Your eyes filled with tears as you rose and embraced him tightly. “Thank you. That’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

He pulled you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around you before leaning in for a kiss. Then, he turned on some soft music from the stereo. “Will you dance with me?”

You nodded. “Absolutely.”

You found yourselves swaying together, lost in the slow, sweet melody, savoring the magic of the moment in comfortable silence.

But then the tension between you began to rise. Harry ran his hand through the fabric of your dress. “Great choice of dress by the way.”

“Do you like it?”

“I love it,” he whispered.

“What about my bra?” you said huskily, guiding his hand to the lace strap of it.

“I admire it,” he purred.

You lifted the skirt of the dress, revealing your lace garter stockings. “My stockings?” your eyes twinkling.

He smiled at you and reached out, drawing a circle on your leg with his fingertip. Leaning forward, he placed a kiss on the side of your neck. “I worship it, baby,” he said, his voice breathy and deep.

Your arm found its way around his waist, and your fingertips caressed his back. “Mmm. Keep doing that, please.”

He chuckled and continued, his hands slowly creeping up under your dress. You gave a deep, breathy moan when he latched on to the spot behind your ear, licking, sucking. Getting eager, you found his lips and kissed him, your tongue sweeping into his mouth tentatively. He responded by grabbing your hips and pulling you, lifting you into his lap. Then you broke the kiss to unbutton his shirt.

Taking a brief moment to admire you he let you stripped him out of his shirt before kissing you deeply, exploring your mouth hungrily. Popping the clasp on your bra with ease he let it fell to the floor, whilst he kissed a path between your breasts leaving a trail of goose flesh in his wake. Noticing your nipples were already pert betraying your arousal, taking one between his thumb and forefinger he rolled it making you cried out, lowering his head he circled you other with his tongue before drawing it into his hot mouth and sucking. He could feel his cock straining against the his pants but he ignored it focusing all his attention on you. He repeated the action with your other nipple before moving on, his lips gliding down over your ribs, across your stomach towards the garter belt and waistband of your panties.

Hooking his thumbs into the lace, he pulled the small scrap of material down your shapely legs until you could kick them off, but letting the garter belt still be on you. Kneeling before you he cupped your hips bringing you closer to him inhaling your scent, then he ran his tongue along your wet folds the cry that escaped you when he circled your clit was guttural, he felt his cock throb begging for attention but he ignored it once again. Slowly he worked you over, teasing you with shallow thrusts of his tongue into your velvety softness over and over again until your skin was slick with sweat and your thighs began to tremble.

“Please,” you begged, your fingers tangled in his curls, clinging to him. In answer to your plea, he flicked his tongue over your swollen bundle of nerves until you cried out when your orgasm hit. Keeping a tight grip on your hips, he held you steady, letting you ride it out before kissing his way back up your body, finally claiming your lips once more. You tasted yourself on his tongue, but you didn’t care; you devoured each other desperately.

Once your equilibrium returned, your hands found his belt, quickly you unbuckled it and pulled it from the loops before popping the buttons on his fly and pushing the material down over his hips. He shucked his pants and his boxers off and before he knew it your hand was around the base of his throbbing member and you were pumping him into your fist. He gritted his teeth, "Fuck, baby, you are such a needy kitten aren't you? Good girl. But there’s no way I’ll last if you keep that up."

Taking your hands in his, he threaded your fingers together and crushed his lips to yours once more, pinning you against the wall with your interlocked hands above your head. You gasped in response. His aching cock lied heavily against your core, you shuddered. He realized he couldn’t stand it anymore; he needed to be inside you.

Hoisting you up, he hooked your legs around his waist, pushing into you in one smooth stroke.

"Harry," you moaned, feeling dizzy with incredible consuming lust.

Your hair was plastered to your sweaty face now and in the throes of passion when your pupils dilate, cheeks flushed.

"You're breathtakingly beautiful just like this, darling," he hummed.

You were soft and warm, and your walls gripped him tightly as he thrust into you, making love to you against the wall. God he’s missed you so damn much, burying his head into the crook of your shoulder he picked up his pace, he knew you were close because he can feel your inner walls begin to tremble around him. Your arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, your heels press into his firm ass as he pounds into you deeper and deeper.

As you ran your fingers through his hair down to his neck, spurring him on with sweet cries. "Harder, faster, please."

"Fuck," he growled, pressed his forehead against yours so that he held your gaze as your second orgasm striked. You screamed his name as your body locked up, your sex gripping his cock in an iron grasp.

He made an incoherent sound and cursed as your orgasm triggered his, and he released himself inside of you. You collapsed into each other a hot, sticky, sweaty mess, panting heavily. When finally he caught his breath, he ran his nose along your smiling devilishly down at you.

“So how was it, baby?” he asked waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“Fast, delicious, hair-raisingly good,” you giggled.

"How about a second round? This time in the bedroom?" he panted, still catching his breath.

You tightened your arms around him playfully. “You betcha, mister."

Just as your words finished, he scooped you up and rushed toward the bedroom, causing your laughter to ring out cheekily through the hall.

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#fanfiction #fanfic #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal gifs #ao3 fanfic #harry castillo fanfiction #general marcus acacius #harry castillo #harry castillo x you #harry castillo x reader #the materialists #pedro pascal fic #harry castillo smut #harry castillo materialists

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orellazalonia · 12 days ago

Text

Unexpected Outlook

Summary: The Avengers launch a mission to raid a known base of the organization you now work with and discuss over what they found.

Word Count: 1.7k+

A/N: A little shorter since it’s Father’s Day, but I also wanted to add more weight to the previous chapter and progress the story.

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

Preparations moved fast. Too fast, maybe.

Steve didn’t like that they were running with incomplete information, but the longer they waited, the deeper this organization could dig itself into global systems. And the more time you had to assist them, whether willingly or not.

Still, it didn’t sit right. None of it did.

Bruce pulled the files. Natasha studied known locations. Sam monitored chatter. Bucky cleaned his weapons with a look in his eyes like he wanted answers he didn’t have the right to ask.

Yet no one brought up your name again. At least, not directly. But it hovered beneath everything.

The way Bucky checked each plan twice. The way Natasha’s jaw twitched when she reviewed footage. Even the way Steve hesitated before calling it an official mission.

The woman Bucky liked didn’t voice objections anymore. She simply kept a kind, quiet distance, like someone watching friends argue over a lost cause.

And within a week, the op was set.

Steve gave the greenlight with his jaw tight and eyes harder than usual. The mission was clear: infiltrate a suspected communications hub. A nondescript, rural compound masked as a grain storage facility. Satellite data showed encrypted signals routing through it over the last month, signals that matched ones the Avengers used internally.

Which meant either someone was watching. Or someone had been taught how.

They went in with a small team. Just Steve, Sam, Natasha, and Bucky. No need for Hulk or Thor; this wasn’t a battering ram job. It was a retrieval and disrupt operation. Quiet and clean.

Or so they thought.

The quinjet landed half a mile out, under cover of dense fog rolling over the hills. The forest beyond the compound was eerily still like it had been holding its breath since before dawn.

“They want us to find this,” Natasha muttered, brushing a branch aside as they crept through the trees.

Steve didn’t argue. His shield was strapped to his arm, but he hadn’t raised it once.

They reached the clearing. The compound was just as expected. Gray concrete, flat roof, minimal security fencing, and a gravel path leading to two entrances. No guards. No movement. Even the air felt… hollow.

Sam scanned the building with a handheld sensor. “No heat signatures. Not even a rat.”

“Too clean,” Bucky said, voice low.

They breached the back door.

Inside, it was dark but not ruined. Every surface was wiped. Consoles powered down. Not destroyed, removed. Carefully like a move-out rather than an attack. Upon investigating further, files had been cleared, drawers emptied, and chairs pushed in with bland desks.

Whoever had been here knew exactly when to leave.

Steve turned in a slow circle, taking it in.

“This was active,” He said. “Days ago.”

“Hours, maybe,” Natasha said, crouching beside a desk. She tapped the edge, there was a faint spot where something electronic had been sitting. Someone had worked here… and then vanished.

Sam stepped into the central control room. There was only one thing left behind: a monitor left switched on, flickering a soft blue light in the dimness.

A single message scrolled across the screen.

Too late, Captain.

That was it. There wasn’t any long monologues. No other mocking comments. Not even a signature or sign-off present. Just a cold fact. Steve stared at it like he could will it to change. Bucky stood a step behind him, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“I don’t like this,” Sam muttered.

Natasha approached a wall panel and pried it open effortlessly. Inside, wires had been sliced. Intentionally. However, there were no explosives. No traps could be seen anywhere either. It was all just… closure.

“They stripped this place surgically,” She said. “No fingerprints, no traces. It’s like they wanted us to know they were here… but not who they are.”

Steve closed the monitor with a clenched jaw. “This wasn’t a base. It was a decoy.”

“No,” Bucky said suddenly. His voice was soft but steady. “It was a base. It just outlived its usefulness.”

They all turned toward him. He looked at the empty room, the missing equipment, and the quiet hallways. Then, to the message. And for a moment, something shifted in his eyes. Guilt, maybe or something deeper.

“They planned for this,” He murmured. “Someone told them exactly how we’d come.”

No one responded, but no one needed to. Because they were all thinking it.

The debrief room was thick with a heavy silence, the kind that pressed down harder than shouting. Ghost-blue blueprints and photos of the abandoned compound still flickered on the monitors, reminders of how quickly their plan had unraveled. Notes about the missing equipment and the chilling message on the screen scrolled slowly, marking everything they should have anticipated.

Steve hadn’t sat once since they returned. He stood rigid at the head of the table, hands braced on his hips, and a deep furrow like it was etched there permanently. Sam had stopped pacing but his leg bounced nervously, jaw clenched tight. Natasha’s fingers tapped against her thigh in a rhythm so steady it barely seemed voluntary.

Only Bucky remained perfectly still, arms crossed, and eyes locked on the screen across the room. He said very little since they’d left the empty compound since that message haunted him.

Too late, Captain.

The words weren’t just text; they carried a weight, a deliberate coldness that dug into Bucky’s mind. Whoever had left it knew him. Not just the soldier, but his moves, his instincts. And worse, their enemy had used the knowledge you once held to outmaneuver them.

The memory played on loop in his mind. Not just the words but the feel of them. The calculation in them. Whoever was behind that terminal… knew him. Not just facts. His patterns.

And maybe worse than that, they’d used your knowledge to do it. They probably used you to do it.

The door hissed open.

She stepped in with her usual soft elegance, cradling a fresh cup of tea between her hands like she had no idea anything had gone wrong. Dressed casual, warm, and comfortable. Like she belonged. Like she didn’t feel the same tension that pulled everyone else taut. The one you used to be jealous of had sat out for the mission after all.

“Oh,” She said lightly. “You’re all back already.”

Her tone wasn’t mocking. If anything, it was gently surprised, as if she’d simply walked into a meeting that ended early. Steve didn’t answer right away. Neither did the others.

She blinked, smile sweet and expectant, like someone unaware they were intruding. “Was it a short mission?”

“We were too late,” Steve said flatly, straightening.

Her brows lifted, and she crossed to the table, setting the tea down. “Really? That’s unfortunate. I thought it was just one of those cleanup things. You all make those look so easy.”

Sam looked over, jaw tight. “They cleaned up, alright. Took every last trace of themselves. Left us a polite message, too.”

“They knew how we’d approach,” Natasha added with her arms crossed now. “Like they knew our pattern. Our flow. They stripped the place within hours of our arrival window.”

“Hmm.” She tapped a fingernail against the ceramic. “That’s strange. Maybe they had inside intel?”

“No,” Steve spoke, narrowing his eyes. “Not unless someone studied us long before they left.”

“Oh.” She blinked, tilting her head. “So… do you think your old administrator friend told them?”

Bucky stiffened.

Natasha’s voice was sharper now, eyes narrowing. “She’s not our anything.”

That seemed to amuse her. She let out a light laugh, the kind meant to dissolve tension, not that anyone was asking for it. “Well, you’re not wrong,” She smiled. “ She didn’t really fit in here anyways, did she?”

Bruce, who had been mostly quiet, looked up sharply. “She worked here for over two years.”

She didn’t seem phased. There was no malice on her face actually. Just soft confidence.

“I guess I didn’t think she’d be important,” She sighed simply. “Kind of kept to herself. I always assumed she’d move on.”

Sam stood, voice tight. “She did. Straight into the hands of the people trying to tear us apart.”

Her smile faltered just a touch. “I didn’t mean—look, I’m sure she was… sweet. I just don’t see how it helps to chase after someone who clearly didn’t want to be here. Don’t you think she made her choice?”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t know that yet.”

“I mean, sure,” She said gently, “But if she’s really that dangerous, wouldn’t you have noticed before she left? You didn’t even realize she was gone until weeks later, right?”

Bucky shifted slightly. The burn in his chest deepened. Not from her words exactly, but from how true they rang.

They hadn’t noticed. They hadn’t looked.

The woman moved closer to Bucky, noticing his subtle distress as she rested her hand lightly on Bucky’s shoulder.

“I just worry about you,” She confessed softly, smiling up at him. “You’re all stretched so thin already. I’d hate to see you waste energy chasing ghosts.”

Her hand lingered. But Bucky’s jaw clenched, and for once, he didn’t lean into her touch.

“She’s not a ghost,” He muttered. “She’s a mirror. Of everything we missed.”

Her expression flickered for barely a moment. Then the sweet smile returned.

“Well, if you have to go after her,” She brushed her hand away, her expression turning more solemn. A hint of pity evident, “I hope you’re prepared for what you find. Sometimes people change… and not always in ways you can fix. I don’t want you to be hurt.”

She reached for her tea again, her fingers wrapping around the cup like it was an anchor.

“And if you do decide to keep going after her, well.” She gave a gentle little laugh, looking around with open, innocent eyes. “I hope it goes well. I really mean that. And if you need my help at all… just let me know. I’m always happy to support the team.”

The door hissed softly behind her as she walked out, quiet heels tapping against the floor in steady, graceful rhythm.

The rest of the team stood in silence for a few long seconds, each lost in their own storm of thoughts.

Steve broke it first.

“We move forward. We stop that organization before it spreads deeper.”

“And if she’s helping them willingly?” Sam asked, his voice low.

Steve hesitated.

So, Bucky answered instead.

“Then we stop her, too.”

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi @viktor-enjoyer @vicmc624 @msbyjackal @winchestert101 @greatenthusiasttidalwave

#The One You Don’t See #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #marvel x reader #marvel fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky x you #avengers fic #chapter 5

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revelboo · 5 months ago

Note

He's here! A little shaken but in great condition! Another fun assembly~

I love the tiny mega vehicle...

Another TFO Star! My tracking fell off the face of the earth 4 days ago 🥲 He’s somewhere.

But aaaaaah!

No Strings Pt 2

Rainmakers x Reader

• Sliding you down into the box with the rest of your supplies since he’s almost sure you can’t climb back out, he heads back to his own transport ship. Can hear you chirping at him from inside the box, distressed at not being able to see out? “Sorry, but I’m busy right now,” he murmurs. Because he’s not sure he can pilot, keep a hold of you, and suppress his outlier abilities all at once. Not entirely sure what his toxic nature might do to something as soft as you are, but he can’t imagine it’d be good. Hears you rattling around in the box, chirping insistently and he reaches to tip the box, startling you as you slide, indignant eyes staring up at him when he fishes out Swindle’s little bottle and subspaces it so you don’t get into it by accident.

• Listening to the big monster grumble at you, his voice is low and gruff when he reaches back in and rubs a servo against your jaw. And the urge to swat him is there, but staying on his good side seems like a good idea for your continued survival. Stumbling when he withdraws his hand and the box rocks back down flat, you find and yank a blanket free to wrap around yourself, turning your attention on the rest of the stuff. And holy crap, is that a fun sized bag of Reese’s cups? Your captor had been force feeding you gray, tasteless bars and water. And he’d had candy the whole time? Another reason to hate him. Ripping open the package, you stuff one in your mouth and start digging through the rest of the supplies.

• Setting the ship on auto once he’s free of Swindle’s ship, he looks in on you and stifles a growl. Because he’d left you alone for barely a klik and you’d gotten into your training treats. Big eyes stare innocently up at him as you chirp your sweet nonsense at him and shove another treat in your mouth. So much for not handling you. Scooping you up, he shifts you to a thigh, gently tugging at the blanket you’ve wrapped around yourself and you tug back, giving up when he almost lifts you off your feet trying to get it away from you. Little shoulders hunching when he brushes a servo against soft skin, examining you. “I can’t believe Cybertronians are fragging you guys,” he says, venting softly. “You’re too fragile for that, aren’t you?” Tapping his servo against you to make you chirp and grab him. Of course, you’re just a gift. A little pet to hopefully distract Nova from his new duties. And the restrictions placed on their whole Trine as high-risk former Decepticons. Peace or no peace, outliers are an endangered species now. Monitored and tracked. Controlled. Touching the little leash dangling from your harness, he carefully unhooks it and you look from it to him. “I don’t like being caged or bound, either.”

• Deciding he’s not going to molest you, you turn and crane your neck toward the control panel. Breath catching when you see the window above you and the huge world you’re approaching. That’s not earth. You’d guessed that you’d been beamed up, that they were aliens, but having it confirmed sends tremors through you. How far from home are you? How can you get back when they can’t understand you? He’d taken the harness off, though and you flinch when he drapes your blanket over your head. Aware that those red optics are watching as you wrap it around yourself, because you’re so sick of being cold and naked.

• Head resting in his hand, Nova Storm scrolls through the list of rules and restrictions being levied on his trine. At least they’re not being outright imprisoned, but this isn’t really a lot better. Hearing the door to their shared habsuite opening, he vents. “We’re to report for monitoring implants within the next solar cycle,” he calls out, head lifting to see if it’s Ion Storm or Acid Storm returning. “Where were you?” Because sneaking off now? If it was noticed, their energon allotment will be cut. Again.

• “I thought we needed something to liven up our habsuite,” Acid Storm murmurs, shifting the box with you in it in his hands. He’d been toying with names the trip back, finally settling on Rain Storm since you’re as soft as rain. Hoping the name will help endear you to Nova as part of their trine, because they need something. Their purpose, their hopes and even their freedom slowly being stripped away. Watching Nova’s optics narrow, he reaches in and pulls you out, setting you on your tiny feet on the desk and Nova leans back with a frown. “It’s cute right? I named it Rain Storm.”

• There’s another one, almost identical to the big green one who’d taken you, but almost a burnished golden color. Twins? Can giant, alien robot monsters be twins? Looking from the new one to yours, it’s the frown on Goldie’s face that you fixate on. Because those alien faces are eerily human and you’re almost positive this one isn’t happy with you or Green. What happens to you if he won’t let Green keep you? Do you go back to the cage and the porn vids? Or do you just get turned loose on a strange alien world to fend for yourself. Terrified at that thought, you wonder closer to Goldie. Not knowing what they want from you, what’s expected, you reach and touch the back of his hand. “I really, really don’t want to go back to the cage,” you whisper, smiling weakly. “You’re warm.” Pressing your palms more firmly against him, because he’s a lot hotter to the touch than Green is.

• “Rain Storm,” Nova mutters, staring at those tiny little hands on his. And looking at his brother’s hopeful expression, there’s no denying him. You can’t be that much trouble. Chirping up at him, you bare tiny teeth at him in what almost looks unsettlingly like a smile. “Please tell me this thing isn’t sentient.” Relaxing when Acid shakes his head, because getting caught keeping another sentient as a pet? They’d lose what little freedom they have. “Alright, but you’re cleaning up after it.” Turning when Ion Storm returns, arms loaded with energon cubes and their brother pauses spotting the organic, wings lifting. “Come meet our new pet,” Nova says tiredly.

#transformers x reader #rainmakers x reader #acid storm x reader #nova Storm x reader #Ion Storm x Reader

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sang-i-fetge · 9 months ago

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List of Jason Todd/Red Hood's weapons/gadgets/touys

Note: This is mostly from comics written by Winick, as I refuse to acknowledge most of n52. Feel free to add more, though!

Note2: This post was originally formatted in a different way, as I foolishly forgot about the image limit.

Blades

1— His iconic dagger!

Can cut through stone, and most of Batman's gear. It's been heavily debated what kind of knife it is; wether a kris, a parrying dagger, or a third secret thing.

2— The blades he gives Mia to defend herself!

I'm not sure what kind of blade they are, they vaguely look like wakizashis? Their size varies from panel to panel so idk😔

3— The katana for the 'duel' with Oliver!

4— And to link with the next section, the exploding katana!

Yes, it's a katana that explodes. Jason baits Oliver into holding it.

Explosives

— First of all, he blows up many many things and it's not specified what exactly he uses. So the unspecified explosives that only appear as a cool fireball panel get a bullet point.

5— The jumble of explosives in the Final Confrontation™️, we can see some dynamite, C4...

6— Bomb in a crate

7— Small bomb. Not lethal!

8— Bigger bomb. Yes lethal.

9— Continuing with this absolute icon: the bomb under the Batmobile (should I capitalize that?)

10— Small Rocket, used against Brick

11— Grenade?

12— Small, cylinder-shaped explosives. Detonated upon impact?

13— Small explosive that attaches to flat surfaces, used against Mr Freeze

14— Grenade.

15— Molotov Cocktail

16— Enough C4 to destroy a whole building, modded so it explodes if its temperature reaches one point, countering Batman's method of freezing bombs.

17— My absolute favorite, the exploding helmet!

Even if it's listed under 'explosives', it's also an important piece of technology in the Red Hood's arsenal.

Firearms

18, 19— The guns in the wall from Annual #25, there's surely more.

20— Machine guns hidden in crates!

21— Machine guns hidden in cars!

22— Rocket launcher, used against Black Mask

23— Even more hidden machine guns! This time in an electricity pole.

24— Machine gun (also hidden, but surprisingly not attached to anything)

25— Handgun👍

26— AK-47, you know the panel from where it's from

27— Submachine guns, I think 🙂

28— When out of ammo he uses his guns as blunt weapons, which I wanted to note

Tasers

29— The nazi-killing taser

30— The reason for the creation of this post! The grapple line taser! Attach it to a grapple line and it will shock whoever is connected to it. Noticed it in a reread of utrh and needed people to see it

31— Bonus: the bat-symbol taser. Iconic enough to be here.

Tech & Surveillance

32— Monitor and microphone?

33, 34— cameras :)

35— thing to see the feed of the cameras

36, 37— phones :)

38— his little tech den in #650

39, 40— computers :)

41— whatever this thing is

42— The surveillance device that looks like he taped a canon camera to his face

43— Wiretaps!

44— Bugs!

He also has his evil lair in B&R2009 bugged.

Miscellaneous

45— Does his crowbar count

46— smoke bomb!!

47— Injectable adrenaline. He just has that in his utility belt.

48— His batmobile-evade suit.

49— Is saying his belt buckle mean

50— Unspecified poison! Goodbye Egon

51— This thing that attaches to its target and launches them off

Not pictured:

The fancy wound dressing he gives onyx to patch up the shoulder wound he inflicted (I forgot to screenshot 💔)

Also, he has this whole hq-ish thing in Annual #25

(Edit: That rectangle in the gun wall kinda looks like an anti-drone gun now that I think abt it)

It has a murder board, which I think is cute.

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matcha3mochi · 1 day ago

Text

PROTOCOL | II Pairing: Doctor Zayne x Nurse Reader

author note: here is a continuation to chapter 1 ehhe! it's pretty lengthy bc i wanted it to be a bit slowburn!! pls enjoy reading this!! 🥰🥰

wc: 6,057

chapter 1 | chapter 2

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

The break room is cold in that quiet, clinical way the Institute has perfected — impersonal, sanitized, almost echoless. The overhead lights haven’t fully brightened yet, casting the room in a blue-toned wash, soft and sterile like twilight filtered through glass. The polished black tables reflect that icy glow, while the vending wall on the far side hums softly to itself, a standby menu scrolling across its touch-sensitive display.

You sit tucked in the back corner, alone.

The chair is angular and unforgiving beneath you. One foot rests flat on the ground, the other curls under your thigh, a habit you haven’t shaken since nursing school. A half-full cup of synth-coffee sits to your right. The steam has faded, but the scent—slightly metallic with that faint bitter burn of artificial mocha—lingers like breath on a mirror.

You stare at the glowing screen of your datapad, but the words blur, bleeding into each other as your focus drifts.

You’re thinking about yesterday.

You hadn’t planned to say anything. You were going to let the moment pass, the way you usually do. Swallow it. Move on.

But then your voice left your body in that corridor — a soft, cracked “thank you” that felt like handing him a scalpel with both hands.

And Zayne had taken it.

Without flinching. Without dodging.

“I don’t tolerate incompetence. That includes false accusations.”

The words had echoed through your skull all night, louder than the post-op monitors, louder than the tired thoughts telling you not to think too hard about it.

Because something about it was personal.

And you don't know what to do with that.

The door hisses open.

You don’t look up at first — just sip your coffee out of reflex. Cold now. Awful. Your fingers tighten around the cup.

But then you hear the steps.

Measured. Precise.

Not the soft shuffle of a tired nurse or the clumsy stride of a resident.

Hard soles. Deliberate gait.

Dress shoes.

You glance up.

And your pulse stutters.

Zayne.

Of course.

He walks in like the room was built around him. His coat is immaculate, fastened high against the sharp lines of his navy vest. His dark hair, slicked back, catches the low light in a clean shine. No loose strands. No wrinkles. No rush. His silver-framed glasses rest perfectly across the bridge of his nose, catching a pale glint from the dispenser wall as he approaches it.

He doesn’t glance at you.

Not yet.

His right hand lifts — long, pale fingers tapping the interface with exact precision. The vending screen changes. Options shift. You watch the flick of his eyes as he reads, scrolls, selects.

Then, he pauses.

Just for a second.

His gaze shifts — almost imperceptibly — toward your table.

Toward your cup.

Then back to the panel.

He taps again.

Same coffee.

The same selection you picked.

You freeze, fingers still curled around your own cup.

The machine hums. A faint hiss of steam. The scent sharpens — familiar, acidic, chemical cocoa — and your heart kicks harder for reasons you don’t dare name.

He retrieves the cup, wraps his fingers around it with clinical ease.

Turns.

And walks straight toward you.

Not toward the counter. Not toward the sink or the exit.

You.

Your breath catches. You glance down, adjusting your datapad like that’ll make the moment more casual.

But it doesn’t.

He reaches the table.

Then, without a word, he pulls out the chair across from you and sits.

Effortlessly. Quietly. Like this is normal.

It isn’t.

Zayne doesn’t sit in shared spaces. He doesn’t pause. He doesn’t drink coffee with people like you — like anyone.

But here he is.

The silence is total.

The vending machine slips into standby again. Your datapad dims.

You don’t know where to look.

He rests his coffee on the table. One hand wrapped loosely around the cup, thumb tapping once — slow, absent. His other hand rests on his thigh, fingers lightly curled. He doesn’t cross his legs. Doesn’t lean back. His spine is straight, posture alert even when still.

You watch him from beneath your lashes, suddenly hypersensitive to everything: the low drone of the vent system overhead, the sharp lines of his profile, the way his glasses fog slightly from the cup’s remaining heat.

You’re the first to speak.

You have to.

“Didn’t expect to see you in here this early,” you say softly, voice caught between conversational and cautious.

Zayne doesn’t look at you. He lifts the cup to his lips, sips once, then sets it down again with near-silent precision.

“I’m early every day,” he says.

His voice is smooth. Low. But there’s none of the edge you’re used to. Just… quiet.

You shift slightly in your chair, your foot brushing the floor again.

“You don’t usually sit.”

“There’s no rule against it,” he replies.

You let out a soft huff of breath — not quite a laugh, but close. Typical Zayne.

Then, your eyes fall to the cups. Identical. Still steaming.

And you ask, because you have to:

“Was the coffee a coincidence?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“No.”

He turns his head toward you, and his eyes catch the light — that pale, strange, hazel-green that shifts with every blink. They lock onto yours. Direct. Unwavering.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He isn’t smiling. He never does.

But something in his expression has… loosened.

Not relaxed. Just not braced.

You stare at him for one second too long.

Then you lower your eyes.

You pick up your cup again, take a slow sip — still bitter, still bad — and set it down just to give your hands something to do.

The silence grows again, but this time it doesn’t feel like space between strangers.

It feels like waiting.

It feels like noticing.

You glance at the time.

05:56.

You rise first, datapad tucked under your arm.

He stands too.

No word, no signal. Just synced movement.

You both move toward the hallway — the bright, humming artery that leads to Surgical Wing 3 — and fall into step beside each other.

No touch.

No talk.

But your arms swing close enough to brush. Your footsteps mirror.

And in that moment, as the blue-tinted hall stretches before you, you feel it again.

It’s shifting.

And neither of you is stopping it.

The hallway that leads to Surgical Wing 3 is long and silent, its glass walls streaked with faint reflections from overhead lighting that shifts in a subtle gradient from soft blue to white as the morning cycle begins. The floor panels illuminate faintly with each footstep, lighting up a path that fades behind you as you move, side by side with Zayne, through the sterile stillness of pre-shift hours.

There is no one else in the corridor yet — no distant voices, no patient transport carts squeaking on linoleum, no ambient chatter from medtechs — just the steady rhythm of footsteps, yours and his, falling in perfect unison, echoing softly off metal and glass.

You can hear your own breathing in the hush, feel the quiet hum of recycled airflow through the ceiling vents, and sense the slight change in temperature as you both approach the threshold to OR Prep Bay 3.

When the doors part with a gentle hydraulic sigh, the chill of the prep room brushes against your skin, sharper and more precise than the hallway air, laced with the clean scent of sterilizer, latex, and something faintly chemical — the smell of readiness.

The light inside the prep bay is cooler, harsher — not unkind, but surgical, designed for alertness rather than comfort. Bright white strips embedded in the ceiling cast faint shadows across the sterile metal trays and brushed steel walls, giving everything a slightly clinical glow that feels both otherworldly and exact.

You move toward the sink in silence, your scrubs already folded neatly into the disposal chute, the ID tag at your chest deactivated now that you're entering sterile space. Your hands begin their familiar rhythm under the hot water — fingers interlaced, nails scrubbed, wrists turned beneath the flow — the sound of water hitting steel the only thing filling the air between you and him.

Zayne is just to your right, slightly behind, though you see him in the mirrored reflection ahead of you. His movements are measured and precise, like everything he does, from the way he folds his sleeves to the way he ties the back of his mask. His posture is impossibly straight, but not rigid — more like control honed down to a molecular level.

You don’t speak.

You don’t have to.

The silence is no longer unfamiliar.

You finish scrubbing before he does, and as you turn to the glove tray, you reach instinctively for your own — but pause when he steps forward, his presence suddenly closer, quieter, different.

Zayne holds out his hand toward you, fingers slightly spread, palm up, offering his glove to you — not in command, not out of impatience, but with something that feels almost... deliberate.

You blink, caught off guard.

He wants you to glove him.

That’s new.

You hesitate only a second, then take the glove from the tray and begin sliding it over his hand. Your fingers skim the inside of his wrist, feel the slight warmth of his skin through the barrier, and though he doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch or shift, you feel the subtle stillness in him — not tense, not frozen, just waiting.

You glance up, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, it feels like neither of you are wearing masks at all.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice low and composed, but lacking its usual sharpness, the edge of precision softened into something almost thoughtful.

You nod, unable to stop yourself from holding his gaze a second longer than necessary, then pull away to glove your own hands with slow, focused movements, your breath caught somewhere between control and something far less professional.

The doors to Surgical Theatre 04 open with a gentle hiss, spilling cold, filtered air into the prep bay. You step through first, and he follows without a word.

Inside, the theatre is fully lit, sterile and silent except for the ambient hum of equipment already online. The overhead operating light casts a white halo directly onto the center of the surgical table, where the patient lies under sedation, chest prepped and draped, vitals steady in pulsing green and white on the monitor to the right.

Your boots click softly as you cross to your station, hands poised at the ready, your position closer to him than usual — not by much, but enough for your right shoulder to nearly brush his left whenever either of you leans in.

He doesn’t reposition you.

You take your place and begin the final checks without needing instruction.

The circulating nurse calls status, logs the procedure start time, and begins the countdown. You barely hear her.

Zayne pulls his mask up, adjusts his gloves, and then meets your eyes with a slight tilt of his head.

“You’re assisting directly today,” he says quietly, his voice audible only to you beneath the drone of equipment.

You feel a rush of something low and warm settle in your chest — anticipation, nerves, pride. Maybe all three.

“Yes, Doctor,” you respond, steady.

He turns back toward the table.

You hand him the scalpel.

Your gloved fingers brush his.

He takes it with quiet grace, then leans in.

The first incision is clean, his hand unwavering.

The surgery unfolds in calm precision.

The tension in the room is different than usual — not the tight, brittle focus that often accompanies complex cardiovascular procedures, but something more fluid, more attuned. Every time he requests a tool, your hand is already in motion. Every time the vitals adjust, you’ve already seen it before he does.

And each time your hands pass close or your arms graze lightly, there’s no tension, no recoil.

Only awareness.

At one point, he leans in to examine the bypass entry point more closely, and you adjust your angle to accommodate without thinking. His shoulder touches yours — a light, barely-there pressure — and for the first time, he doesn’t move away.

“Compensated narrowing,” he murmurs, more to you than anyone else. “Do you see it?”

You lean in, eyes scanning the site. “Yes. Stable rhythm holding.”

“Good,” he says, and when he glances sideways, you catch it — the faintest crease at the corner of his eye, visible even above the edge of his mask.

The procedure ends without complication.

The graft is sealed. The incision is closed.

And in that final moment, as the instruments are cleared and the monitors begin their post-op logoff, you both step back, simultaneously, in a perfect mirror of each other’s movement.

You strip off your gloves. He does the same.

You remove your mask, careful and slow.

He turns toward you.

And then, without warning — without force — his hand brushes gently across your upper arm. A passing touch. A small thing.

But it lingers like a fingerprint burned into the air.

“You handled that flawlessly,” he says.

Four words.

Measured. Clear. Soft.

Your throat tightens around the answer you want to give. Your heart is loud in your ears, and your body — trained for stillness — wants to lean closer, just a little.

But he’s already turning.

Already leaving.

His steps retreat into the prep bay, the door closing softly behind him.

And you stay there, in the quiet, bathed in the afterglow of white surgical light, heart pounding in the echo of something you can no longer ignore.

The line between you didn’t blur.

It moved.

And now, you’re standing on the edge of it — and wanting more.

The walk from Surgical Wing 3 to the central cafeteria is longer than it needs to be.

Every footstep feels too loud on the white-polished flooring, each step echoing slightly down the otherwise quiet corridor. The afternoon shift has already begun, which means the halls are sparse — just the occasional nurse passing by with a datapad in hand, or a lab tech deep in a call, none of them paying you any mind.

Which is good.

Because your thoughts are racing.

You’ve stripped out of your surgical scrubs, pulled on your soft-blue undershirt and coat again, but somehow your skin still feels hypersensitive — like it remembers the brush of gloved fingers along your arm more vividly than it should. Like your body hasn’t yet caught up to the fact that the moment has ended. Or maybe it hasn’t.

You handled that flawlessly.

The words had sounded so simple in the OR. Straightforward. Unembellished. But the weight behind them, the way he said it — quietly, deliberately — made it feel less like feedback and more like recognition. The way someone speaks when they’ve been watching you more closely than you realized.

You press your thumb into the corner of your datapad as you walk, using it like a grounding anchor, but it does little to settle the way your stomach keeps knotting and untying itself.

Zayne had touched you.

It was nothing — a simple brush of the arm. Not clinical. Not commanding.

But deliberate.

And that’s what unsettles you most.

Because Zayne doesn’t do anything by accident.

You sit at the corner table by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the quietest part of the cafeteria, away from the soft clatter of trays and the low murmur of conversation that still lingers near the center aisles.

The natural light, filtered through the building’s UV-diffusing glass, casts a cool, sterile wash over the steel-framed furniture and polished concrete floor. Beyond the windows, Akso’s rooftop medical drone pads glint in the gray afternoon haze, veiled behind high-altitude clouds that never quite break.

Your tray sits in front of you with carefully chosen simplicity: one protein-focused meal pack, a ceramic bowl of rehydrated soup—thin and vaguely orange, still steaming slightly—and a hydration vial placed just above the utensils, unopened. The contents of your meal are bland. Standard issue. But your body doesn’t want flavor right now. It wants quiet. It wants something to do with your hands while your mind continues spiraling around everything that happened this morning.

You take a slow spoonful of soup and bring it to your lips, the warmth a temporary distraction. The flavor is muted, barely there, more heat than taste, but you sip it anyway, staring down into the gently swirling broth like it might offer clarity.

It doesn’t.

Your fingers tense slightly around the bowl’s rim. Your shoulders are still drawn tight, your jaw set even though the tension should’ve passed hours ago. But it hasn’t—not since the moment Zayne said “You handled that flawlessly,” and certainly not since the soft, impossible brush of his fingers on your arm as he walked past, unhurried, unaffected, like he hadn’t just upended something inside you with a single, silent gesture.

You hadn't meant to sit alone, but it was the only thing you could think to do—put distance between yourself and the memory of that moment. Breathe. Sort through the rush of emotion threading through your chest like wire: gratitude, confusion, tension, and that quiet pull that had been building between the two of you in ways you’d tried very hard not to name.

You take another bite, slower this time, the spoon pausing halfway to your mouth as your gaze unfocuses. The room hums gently around you—conversations a few tables away, the distant hiss of the food dispenser, the occasional soft squeak of shoes on polished tile—but none of it really reaches you.

You’re somewhere else entirely.

You don’t hear him at first.

Not until the sound of a chair scraping against the floor in front of you breaks through your thoughts—not harshly, not jarring, just enough to pull you back to the present with a low, precise sound that seems impossibly louder than it should be.

You lift your eyes.

And Zayne is standing there.

Tray in hand.

Expression unreadable.

Your body freezes before your mind catches up.

He’s still dressed from earlier—no coat this time, just his crisp, fitted charcoal vest and long-sleeve undershirt, sleeves neatly rolled at the forearms, every line of fabric as pristine as it was this morning. His posture is impeccable, as always, but there’s something in his stillness—some subtle suspension of breath—that tells you he’s waiting.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks.

His voice is lower than usual, quiet in a way that feels intentional—like he’s stepping into your space and trying not to break it.

You stare at him, your heart leaping into your throat. For a moment, you can’t answer.

Then you blink, once, and shake your head slowly. “No. Go ahead.”

Zayne nods, then sets his tray down with measured care—just a hydration vial and a sealed nutrition bar, untouched—and eases himself into the seat across from you. Not stiffly. Not with arrogance. Just... present. Purposeful.

You watch him settle, every movement controlled. He doesn’t immediately unwrap his food. He doesn’t speak again. He simply sits, hands resting lightly on either side of the tray, fingers interlaced, as though content to let the silence speak first.

You glance back down at your soup.

Suddenly, your appetite falters.

You stir the surface of the broth with your spoon, aware of how loud the sound seems now—the faint scrape of metal against ceramic, the slight clink as the edge of your spoon taps the side of the bowl. You bring another mouthful to your lips and sip, slower this time, more conscious of the moment than the food.

Across the table, you can feel him watching you.

Not intrusively.

Not assessing.

Just… watching.

Your hands tremble slightly as you set the spoon down. You fold them together, fingertips pressing lightly against the back of your wrist to steady yourself.

You’re not used to this version of him.

You’re not used to being seen like this by him—unarmored, unguarded, off-shift, soup steaming quietly between you and the man who, until recently, barely acknowledged you unless it was to correct something with clinical detachment.

But now—he’s here.

Just present.

And something inside you stirs with that realization, warm and unsteady.

Zayne shifts slightly in his seat, one elbow resting loosely against the table’s edge as he lifts his hydration vial and unscrews the cap with the same methodical ease he brings to surgery — no wasted movement, no sound beyond the soft click of the seal breaking.

He doesn’t drink from it yet.

Instead, his gaze flicks toward your tray again, eyes narrowing just slightly.

You don’t realize you’ve stopped eating until his voice breaks through the quiet space between you, measured and low, not sharp, but direct.

“You’ve barely touched your food.”

You blink, startled not by the observation itself — he’s always been hyper-aware of his environment — but by the fact that he said it aloud.

You glance down at your tray, then at your hands, one resting on the edge of your bowl, the other idling near your hydration pack, fingers curled against the table. You hadn’t noticed how still you’d gone, how your spoon has been resting in the soup for minutes now, the surface gone still and glossy.

You lift your eyes to meet his.

He isn’t staring.

He’s watching.

There’s a difference.

You shrug once, trying to make the gesture feel casual. “Wasn’t that hungry.”

His brow furrows — just slightly, just enough to crease the skin between his eyebrows — but he doesn’t push.

He’s silent for another breath.

Then, quietly, he sets the hydration vial down again. The soft plastic clinks lightly against the tray.

His hands rest loosely on either side of it, fingers long and still, as though weighing whether to speak again. You expect him to drop the subject — deflect, return to silence, maybe shift back into professional mode and let the moment dissolve between you.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans forward slightly.

Barely a tilt.

But enough.

“You haven’t had a full break since pre-op,” he says. “Not during the procedure. Not after.”

It’s not a reprimand. There’s no judgment in his voice. If anything, it sounds like something closer to concern — but filtered through the only lens Zayne allows himself to speak from: observation, fact, precision.

You lower your gaze to your bowl again, then lift your spoon with a quiet sigh and take another small bite — more for his sake than yours.

The soup is lukewarm now.

Still bland.

Still forgettable.

But you swallow it, and when you glance up, you catch the faintest shift in his expression — something soft at the edges, as if the act of you eating, however reluctantly, has eased a knot in his chest that he hadn’t realized was there.

You tilt your head slightly, watching him with quiet curiosity. “Are you keeping tabs on me now?”

The words aren’t accusatory. There’s no heat in them — just a quiet teasing edge, barely audible beneath your fatigue.

Zayne’s gaze flicks up to meet yours again, and for the first time in this conversation, his eyes don’t feel unreadable. They feel intentional.

“I observe everything in my environment,” he says.

“But not everyone,” you reply.

There’s a pause — full, stretching — and then he does something you’ve never seen him do so openly:

He exhales. Slowly.

Not out of frustration.

Not out of impatience.

But release.

And when he speaks again, his voice is softer still.

“I notice when people push themselves past the point of usefulness,” he says. “When they forget they’re human first.”

You don’t have a response to that.

Not right away.

Because there’s something about the way he says forget they’re human that sticks to your ribs. Something that feels less like a statement and more like a quiet confession — like he’s not just talking about you.

You study him carefully now — the faint shadow beneath his eyes, the way his collar sits perfectly pressed against the curve of his throat, the line of tension that still coils in his shoulders even now, even here, in a moment that’s supposed to be restful.

He never rests.

Neither do you.

And maybe that’s what this is.

Maybe that’s why he’s here.

“I’m eating,” you say at last, voice low, half a breath above a whisper. “See?”

You take another spoonful, slower this time.

He watches you eat it.

Not with skepticism.

Not with scrutiny.

Just... watching.

And when you glance up again, you see something unspoken settle into his expression — not approval.

But ease.

Relief.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t shift his tone.

But something in him relaxes.

And for the next few minutes, neither of you speak.

You eat in quiet intervals.

He drinks his hydration vial.

And the space between you — this fragile, tentative thing — begins to stretch open, just enough to hold something neither of you are ready to name.

The hallway stretches ahead of you in cold symmetry — long, white-paneled walls interrupted by glass doorways and mounted vitals screens, each one flickering with pale green and orange readouts. Nurses cross in measured steps, carts hum as they pass, and the air smells faintly of antiseptic, recycled air, and the trace of fresh gauze.

You move through the space with your arms full — seven patient files in total, three datapads, and two hard-copy charts that required a physical signature, all stacked against your chest with surgical gloves tucked between pages, and a capped marker balanced precariously on your thumb. The edge of one clipboard digs lightly into your forearm. The datapads are beginning to slip. One tilt, one wrong step, and the whole stack is going down.

You should’ve made two trips.

But you didn’t.

And now, as your shoulder bumps lightly into the corner of a console and the top datapad slides half an inch, you bite down a soft curse and try to adjust your grip without losing everything.

Your steps slow as you approach the central junction — a bright, open space between wings where staff tend to cross paths. The lighting overhead shifts here, warmer in tone but harsher in intensity. The ceiling is higher. The footsteps louder.

You round the corner.

And stop.

Because he’s there.

Zayne.

Standing with one hand tucked loosely into the pocket of his white coat, the other wrapped around a closed folder, spine straight, posture as exacting as ever. He’s speaking to another physician — someone you don’t recognize — and his tone is low, focused, his head tilted slightly as he listens.

He hasn’t seen you.

Not yet.

You debate turning back. Just for a moment.

Then the datapad on top slides again, and you snap your arm upward to stop it. Your pen clatters to the floor.

The sound echoes more than you expect.

Zayne’s head turns.

And his eyes land on you.

You freeze, one foot forward, the files braced awkwardly against your ribs.

There’s a pause — not long, just the length of a single breath — and then, without breaking rhythm, he finishes whatever sentence he was in the middle of, closes the file in his hand, and steps away from the conversation.

He walks toward you with that same precise cadence — calm, unhurried, but direct — the way he walks toward an operating table. Like he knows exactly what he’s going to do when he gets there.

You straighten instinctively, arms tightening around the stack, not sure what to expect. You’ve worked with him long enough to know he notices everything, but you’re not prepared for what happens next.

He stops in front of you.

His eyes flick down to the overloaded files.

Then, without a word, he reaches out.

One hand slides under the stack, fingers brushing yours only briefly — a whisper of contact, warm through your glove — as he lifts half the files from your grip and settles them against his own chest, perfectly aligned.

You blink.

Your fingers curl tighter around what’s left, heart skipping a beat not from the weight you’ve lost, but from the weight of the moment.

He doesn’t meet your eyes right away.

Instead, he adjusts the edge of a slipping datapad with his thumb, his face unreadable as always. Then his gaze lifts — sharp, pale, and steady.

“You were going to drop them,” he says, as if this explains everything.

Your mouth opens, then closes again.

You’re aware, suddenly, of the eyes on you — two nurses lingering near the supply cabinet, one technician pretending to review a vitals chart a few feet away, all of them caught in that rare phenomenon:

Zayne Li, helping someone.

Not ordering or correcting. Just helping.

You force yourself to speak, even though your throat is dry.

“I had it,” you say, quieter than you mean to.

He raises one eyebrow, faintly — not in mockery, not even in doubt. Just a flicker of expression. The most subtle I don’t think so you’ve ever seen written across someone’s face.

“You had too much,” he replies simply.

And with that, he turns.

Begins walking toward the central station.

Your feet move to follow before your brain catches up.

You trail beside him, heart pounding, fingers still tingling faintly where they’d brushed his. Your thoughts are racing — trying to make sense of what just happened — while behind you, the whispers begin.

You pretend not to hear.

At the main terminal, he sets the files down gently, aligns them with the edge of the station. He doesn’t linger and doesn’t speak again.

But as he straightens, his hand brushes the edge of the chart — yours — and with a subtle motion, he pushes it slightly closer to you.

Your eyes flick to his.

And he’s already looking at you.

Something that says: I saw you struggling. I stepped in. And I don’t want you to say thank you.

You don’t.

But your chest feels full.

You nod once, silent.

And he turns, disappearing back down the corridor without another word.

But this time, you don’t need one.

Because he spoke clearly enough without saying anything at all.

You’re walking down Corridor 7B in the recovery wing, the overhead lights casting long diagonal shadows across the clean floor tiles — a cool gray intercut by slow-moving vitals monitors rolling past. Outside the sealed patient doors, quiet beeping pulses in steady time, each one another heartbeat of someone just barely held together.

But your mind is somewhere else.

It’s still with him.

Zayne.

Three days have passed since he took the files from your arms without ceremony, walked beside you like it was nothing, and handed off half your load without saying anything more than “You had too much.”

And maybe he meant the charts.

Maybe he didn’t.

You’d thought about it more than you wanted to. You hadn’t mentioned it to anyone — not when a junior nurse asked what he said, not when you caught him glancing at your chart during rounds, and definitely not when you caught yourselfwaiting for it to happen again. For something to break the glass of how things used to be.

But it didn’t.

Not exactly.

Instead, it just kept happening in smaller, quieter ways.

The way his eyes would flick toward you first in the briefing room, even if he was addressing the group. The way his posture relaxed just slightly when you entered the same space. The way he stood a fraction of a step closer than before — not close enough for anyone else to name it. But enough for you to feel it.

It was a shift.

And like all things with Zayne, it was precise, quiet, and intentional.

Now, as you step into the surgical wing, your gloves snap into place with a soft, satisfying stretch. The prep nurse hands you your mask, and you pull it up as you push through the double doors of Surgical Theatre 05, the room already prepped and sterile under the white flood of focused overhead light.

The theatre is cold, as it always is — a sterile kind of cold that sinks into your arms, your collarbone, your breath. The table in the center gleams beneath the surgical lamp, already set for the vascular repair ahead. Vitals monitors to your left scroll patient data across translucent screens, glowing faintly blue and green. The faint scent of antiseptic and powdered latex clings to the air, sharp and familiar.

He’s already there.

Standing at the head of the table, reviewing the patient’s history on a suspended holodisplay, the text casting pale light across the sharp lines of his jaw. His mask is still tucked beneath his chin, gloves already on, eyes scanning the data with the same ruthless focus that’s made him infamous across three wings.

You step up to your station, opposite him.

He doesn’t look at you right away.

But you know he knows you’re there.

You feel it in the subtle pause in his hand.

The quiet shift in his stance.

The change in the air.

You adjust the tray beside you, fingers curling briefly around the surgical scissors, your breath steady, your pulse not.

You’re supposed to focus.

But all you can think about is that moment in the hallway. His hand brushing yours. The silence that followed. The way he didn’t explain it — because he didn’t have to.

And then the door slides shut behind you.

The nurse calls time.

And the procedure begins.

Zayne stood calm and composed as always, his surgical gown crisp, his sleeves rolled to his forearms, his gloves fitted perfectly—but you felt his attention on you, steady and unrelenting, even when he wasn’t looking directly.

The procedure was clean and efficient, every movement practiced, but there were moments—subtle, unmistakable—where his arm brushed yours and didn’t pull away, where your hands passed a tool and lingered a fraction too long, where his voice dropped slightly when he said your name, low and deliberate, like it wasn’t just a cue but a tether.

And when the final suture was placed and he peeled off his gloves with that same fluid control, he looked at you—not a glance, not a scan, but a look that held for half a second longer than it should have, enough to make your heart stutter in your chest and your breath catch behind your mask.

He left the room without another word, and you let yourself exhale only once the door slid shut behind him.

The silence didn’t last.

One of the surgical nurses, leaned in under the hum of the post-op sterilizers, her voice pitched low, but not low enough to feel casual. “Okay, I have to ask,” she said, not looking at you as she wiped down the tray.

You didn’t stop moving, but your pulse ticked upward.

“Ask what?” you said, too flat.

She glanced sideways. “Does Zayne like you or something?”

The words dropped like a scalpel onto your chest—sharp, clean, surgical. Your hands slowed on instinct, your fingers tightening slightly around the metal edge of the tray.

“What? No,” you said, too fast, too soft.

She gave a low laugh, not mocking, just incredulous. “He doesn’t even make eye contact with most people, but with you? He’s practically magnetic.”

You tried to scoff, to redirect your focus, but the heat was already creeping up your neck beneath your collar, because you’d been thinking the same thing every night since that first quiet brush of his hand on yours.

You turned back to the counter, stripping off your gloves and rinsing your hands under cool, sterile water, watching the way your reflection shifted in the steel panel above the sink—how your own eyes betrayed you, wide and uncertain, remembering every look, every almost-touch, every moment he stood beside you without saying anything but somehow saying everything.

Kira joined you, her tone softening. “He looks at you like you’re not just another nurse on rotation. And I’ve worked with him long enough to know that’s not how he treats anyone.”

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Because everything she said echoed what you’d been avoiding, pressed tight against the inside of your chest.

You whispered, “I don’t know what it is,” but the words felt like a lie the second they left your mouth.

Because whatever was happening between you and Zayne—it was quiet, yes, and subtle, always—but it was real, and it was changing everything, whether you were ready to name it or not.

taglist: @destinysrequiem @sylusgirlie7 @lalaluch @januke

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chimcess · 1 month ago

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⮞ Chapter Six: Bureaucratic Felchers Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Other Tags: Convict!Jungkook, Escaped Prisoner!Jungkook, Piolet!Reader, Captain!Reader, Holyman!Namjoon, Boss!Yoongi, Commander!Jimin, Astronaut!Jimin, Doctor!Hoseok, Astronaut!Hoseok Genre: Sci-Fi, Action, Adventure, Thriller, Suspense, Strangers to Enemies to ???, Slow Burn, LOTS of Angst, Light Fluff, Eventual Smut, Third Person POV, 18+ Only Word Count: 19.7k+ Summary: When a deep space transporter crash-lands on a barren planet illuminated by three relentless suns, survival becomes the only priority for the stranded passengers, including resourceful pilot Y/N Y/L/N, mystic Namjoon Kim, lawman Taemin Lee, and enigmatic convict Jungkook Jeon. As they scour the hostile terrain for supplies and a way to escape, Y/N uncovers a terrifying truth: every 22 years, the planet is plunged into total darkness during an eclipse, awakening swarms of ravenous, flesh-eating creatures. Forced into a fragile alliance, the survivors must face not only the deadly predators but also their own mistrust and secrets. For Y/N, the growing tension with Jungkook—both a threat and a reluctant ally—raises the stakes even higher, as the battle to escape becomes one for survival against the darkness both around them and within themselves. Warnings: Strong Language, Blood, Trauma, Smart Character Choices, This is all angst and action and that's pretty much it, Reader is a bad ass, Survivor Woman is back baby, terraforming, some mental health issues, survivor's guilt, lots of talking to herself, and recording it, because she'll lose her mind otherwise, fixing things, intergalatical politics, new characters, body image issues, scars, strong female characters are everywhere, cynical humor, bad science language, honestly all of this has probably had the worst science and basis ever, I researched a lot I promise, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: This is longer than I thought it would be so I again have had to split this up differently than I would have liked.

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The days stopped having names.

There was just light and dark. Heat and cold. Movement and collapse.

She couldn’t say how long she’d been at it anymore. Time had collapsed into a series of repeated motions: unbolt, strip, replace, curse, repeat. Her internal clock was a blur of ration schedules and brief rest cycles that ended the moment she couldn’t pretend she was resting anymore.

The lander sat under the stretched-out canopy of solar blankets just outside the Hab’s eastern workspace, its scarred hull looming like a carcass she refused to bury. She’d stripped most of the exterior shell by now—sections so brittle they crumbled under the pressure of her gloves. Panels that looked intact from a distance splintered at the hinges or peeled away in sheets when she applied force.

Half the external structure was junk.

But the core housing—the pressure-stabilized assembly at the heart of the machine—was still sealed. Scratched. Warped. But sealed. The insulation foam was cooked, the seals half-melted, but the containment structure had held.

The battery, predictably, was dead, but it hadn’t ruptured. That alone felt like a gift from a higher power she didn’t believe in anymore.

She tried to pace herself in the beginning—take breaks, drink, sleep—but it didn’t last. The work demanded more. More time. More energy. More than she had.

Soon, she was working fifteen, sixteen hours at a stretch, broken only by the occasional alarm from her hydration monitor or the sharp stab of a leg cramp that forced her to stretch out flat on the floor, panting, until the pain passed.

Her hands were a mess. Even with gloves, the skin along the inside of her fingers had blistered, popped, and blistered again. She wore gauze wraps now, layered under the gloves, but they slipped, soaked through, left raw pink skin that smarted with every movement. Her forearms screamed at her with every turn of the wrench. Her shoulders throbbed deep into the joints from crouching over a bench not meant for this kind of work.

But she didn’t stop.

The Hab’s main workbench—once a place for routine diagnostics and simple component testing—was now a battlefield of salvaged parts and half-functioning assemblies. Old comms tubing lay in spirals on the floor, cut and re-routed to serve as makeshift wiring conduits. She’d gutted two of the rover’s secondary sensor pods to cannibalize their processors, then re-soldered their cores into the lander’s stripped data line.

One night—she thought it was night, though who could tell anymore—she stood in silence for ten full minutes before connecting a final junction. Not for drama. Just because her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

She was building life from rot. Trying to breathe warmth back into metal that had been dead for longer than some missions lasted.

She rigged an environmental heater into a low-output power conversion unit—something designed to condense drinking water, now barely stable enough to funnel current into the backup loop. It buzzed when she powered it up. Not reassuringly.

But it worked. Sort of.

Everything she touched was either overheating or underperforming. The voltage swings made her flinch every time she touched a wire. The diagnostics gave inconsistent reads—some sensors simply refused to admit the last two decades had happened. One system thought it was still docked in low orbit. Another insisted it was 2089.

One night, while rerouting the primary regulator through a bent coupling she’d hammered back into shape with a rock—because her mallet had cracked two days earlier—she felt her entire upper back seize. Just locked. The kind of pain that makes you stop breathing for a second. She sat on the floor for nearly an hour after that, her head resting against the hull, every part of her damp with sweat. She watched the condensation from her breath disappear into the dust as she muttered curses no one could hear.

But then she got up. Because that was what there was to do.

And finally, one night—if it was night—she reached for the last module. The connector clicked. A sharp, metallic snap. The system locked.

She sat back slowly, the stool wobbling under her weight. Her arms were trembling from the strain. Her fingers refused to uncurl. She looked down at her hands like they belonged to someone else. Her body felt hollowed out—like someone had rung her out and left her in the sun.

Her eyes drifted up to the camera perched near the edge of the bench. A little red light blinked, patient and steady. She’d forgotten it was still on. She hadn’t shut it off in days.

She cleared her throat, the sound raw and dusty.

“Okay,” she said. Her voice barely registered. “Step one’s done.”

She reached forward and wiped the dust off the control panel with the sleeve of her undershirt. The motion left a streak across the display. Her fingers hesitated, hovering over the first set of toggles.

She knew them. She’d studied them before any of this had gone wrong. Before this place had become a graveyard with no headstones. They felt familiar. Like muscle memory.

She sat there for a long time with her fingers hovering over the switch, her hands trembling too much to move.

There were a dozen things that could go wrong. A surge, a short, a silent software fault buried so deep in the system it wouldn’t even show until after she burned the last of her power trying to coax a response. The casing had hairline fractures she’d sealed with melted patch resin. One of the relay boards still gave off a faint electrical smell when it ran for too long. And the capacitor network? Frankenstein’d from three incompatible systems and sheer spite.

But it was the only shot she had.

She wiped a shaking hand across her mouth, glanced at the camera she’d left running in the corner—more habit than hope—and leaned forward. Her breath fogged the scratched polyglass screen as she whispered, almost like she was afraid saying it too loud might scare the whole thing off:

“Let’s see if this thing still remembers how to breathe.”

She flipped the first switch. Nothing. Silence.

It wasn’t just absence—it was active. Thick. Like the air had turned solid and her lungs forgot how to work. A moment passed. Another.

One diode blinked red, then green. Then came the low, uneven hum of power crawling its way through dry circuits. Something deep inside the lander gave a metallic clunk, like a lung trying to remember how to inhale after drowning.

Her eyes snapped to the screen. A strip of green. Then amber. Then more green.

The diagnostic panel lit up, stuttering to life like a drunk trying to stand. The screen flared—too bright, too sudden—then stabilized. Sections of the UI began to populate. Slowly. Glitchy. But real. She watched it happen in stunned silence, afraid to move. Afraid it might blink out and take her with it.

The environmental system chirped once. A faint, bird-like blip. Then it quieted.

The internal clock blinked 12:00:00.00 and began counting.

Wrong, of course. Meaningless. It was counting again. The status light went solid green.

She sat back, just a few inches at first. Her hands still hovered in the air. Like she’d been holding her breath for the entire time she’d been on this godforsaken planet and had only now remembered how to exhale.

A sound escaped her lips—small, unshaped. A hitch. Then another. She covered her mouth, but it didn’t stop.

The sob tore out of her like it had been waiting at the base of her spine for months.

She stumbled back from the bench, tripping over a coil of tubing, and hit the floor hard. The impact knocked the breath out of her, but it didn’t matter. She was laughing now, too, in jagged bursts between sobs. Both sounds came out at once—raw, involuntary, almost animal.

She curled forward, arms around her knees, forehead pressed to the cold floor of the Hab.

It was too much. Too much relief. Too much hope all at once. It hit like a fist to the chest.

For weeks—maybe longer—she’d existed in a kind of suspended animation. Endless work. Endless day. The suns never set here, not really. Time had stopped meaning anything. She slept when her body shut down. Ate when her hands couldn’t hold a tool anymore. The number in the corner of the camera feed was her only guess at how many days had passed, but even that was unreliable. Glitchy. Maybe corrupted.

And through it all, nothing. No voices. No signals. No contact. Until now.

She forced herself to look up. Her vision swam. She blinked fast, dragging herself upright.

On the screen, the lander’s systems were still initializing. The comms package wasn’t fully online, but the routing table was back. She could see the interface. The channel protocols. The handshake logic waiting for input.

If she could get power stabilized and reroute signal through the rover’s external antenna…

She swallowed, chest tight.

She might be able to send a message. A real one. With data. With coordinates. With proof of life.

She stood too fast. Her knees buckled and she caught herself on the workbench. Her head was pounding. She hadn’t had water in too long. Her body was still locked in the ache of survival mode.

But none of it mattered.

She stared at the word PROMETHEUS etched into the side panel, half-obscured by grime, and grinned through a throat gone raw.

“I knew you weren’t done,” she whispered, touching the metal with shaking fingers.

Then, louder—laughing now, breathless and cracked:

“You stubborn son of a bitch.”

She hit the internal comms switch. A familiar interface blinked to life. Crude. Prehistoric by Earth standards. But she could see the relay bounce path. If she timed it right, caught the orbiting NOSA satellite within window…

She could go home.

It would still take time. There were diagnostics to run. System calibrations. She’d need to stabilize the internal temperature and clean out every speck of contamination from the RTG lines.

But for the first time in—God, how long had it been?

She had proof she wasn’t dead. That she wasn’t forgotten. That she could be found.

The Hab was still dim, the world outside still blasted red, and her body still ached in a hundred places.

But now, sitting beside a resurrected lander and a flickering comms panel that was almost awake again, she felt something she hadn’t felt in what might have been months.

Hope didn’t come in a flood. It came like the first breath after almost drowning.

And she was breathing again.

The garage at JPL was quiet in that loaded, unnatural way only rooms full of engineers can be—filled with the subtle clatter of keyboards, the hum of cooling fans, and the sound of too many people trying not to hold their breath too loudly.

It was nearly 3 a.m. in Pasadena, but no one had left. Not really. Some had wandered down the hall for coffee or stared blankly at the vending machine long enough to forget what they were doing, but they always returned. They always found themselves pulled back into this echoing concrete-walled space, drawn to the bank of monitors like moths circling a stubborn lightbulb.

Then the console screen on Station 4 flickered.

A few lines of garbled static, then clarity. Simple, unmistakable.

PROMETHEUS LOG: SOL 0 — BOOT SEQUENCE INITIATED

TIME: 00:00:00

LOADING OS…

PERFORMING HARDWARE CHECK...

No one spoke. Chairs creaked quietly as people leaned forward. Someone dropped a pen, but no one looked.

The glow from the monitor bathed the surrounding metal worktables and diagnostic gear in pale light. The tension in the room thickened with each new line.

INT TEMPERATURE: -34C

EXT TEMPERATURE: NONFUNCTIONAL

BATTERY: FULL

HIGAIN: OKAY

LOGAIN: OKAY

METEOROLOGY: NONFUNCTIONAL

SOLAR A: NONFUNCTIONAL

SOLAR B: NONFUNCTIONAL SOLAR C: NONFUNCTIONAL

HARDWARE CHECK COMPLETE.

A few people exchanged glances. Those weren’t great numbers. But they were numbers.

Then came the line everyone had been waiting for:

BROADCASTING STATUS. LISTENING FOR TELEMETRY SIGNAL...

And then—

LISTENING FOR TELEMETRY SIGNAL…

LISTENING FOR TELEMETRY SIGNAL...

Each repetition landed heavier than the last. The silence that followed was mechanical, deliberate. Just long enough to doubt. Just long enough to feel the air leave the room.

Marco crossed his arms tighter across his chest. He hadn’t blinked since the first line. Next to him, Mateo leaned forward, elbows on the console, lips parted like he might whisper something to the machine, like it would help.

Then the screen updated:

SIGNAL ACQUIRED.

No one moved. It took a second to register. Maybe two. As if their brains had to run a boot sequence of their own to process it.

Then the room erupted.

It wasn’t cinematic. It wasn’t choreographed. It was messy and real and loud. People laughed, clapped, slapped backs, some shouting half-formed thoughts, some just standing there in stunned relief. One of the interns let out a string of expletives so enthusiastic that the older woman next to him laughed until she nearly fell over.

Mateo didn’t cheer.

Not at first.

He stared at the blinking cursor on the screen. The simple phrase just sitting there, plain and quiet in its plain white font: SIGNAL ACQUIRED.

Someone was alive out there.

He ran a hand down his face, the disbelief finally cracking into something softer. He exhaled and turned to Marco, who looked as if he hadn’t breathed at all until that moment.

“She did it,” Mateo said, voice low, dazed.

Marco just nodded, eyes still locked on the screen. His throat worked like he was trying to speak, but nothing came out. He was smiling. Barely. The kind of smile you get when something too impossible to hope for actually happens.

Across the room, the operations lead was already on comms, yelling over the cheers, coordinating signal lock. People were moving now—rushing to bring other systems online, pulling up bandwidth allocations, cross-checking satellite relays. The energy in the room had flipped. The air had a pulse now.

This wasn’t just a blip. This wasn’t telemetry from some dead rover buried in sand. This was a lander that hadn’t spoken in years.

This was Prometheus.

And it was talking.

Mateo sat down slowly, hands resting on the console, staring at the screen like it might vanish if he blinked. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter than before—almost reverent.

“Holy shit.”

The sky above M6-117 never changed much—just an endless dome of pale, bleached orange that never gave way to stars. The suns didn’t set. They just circled and layered over each other, always hanging there, always burning.

Y/N stood outside the Hab, boots planted in powdery, red soil. Her hands were smeared with grease, fingertips raw under torn gloves. She tilted her head back, squinting up at the Prometheus lander, half-buried in its thermal shroud. Its high-gain antenna, silent for years, was moving.

Slowly. Stiffly. But moving.

The dish creaked on its axis as it shifted, metal joints grumbling under the strain of age and heat. The movement was uneven at first—hesitant, mechanical—but it found its target, angling toward the far western edge of the horizon.

Toward Aguerra.

Or a satellite. Or a station. Someone. Something that could answer.

She didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

Then the motor gave a final click, and the dish held steady. Pointed. Alive.

Her heart stuttered once—an involuntary jolt, as if her body had only just gotten the message.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, the words breaking out of her without permission.

She blinked, staggered back a step, her hands hovering in the air like she couldn’t decide whether to cover her mouth or punch the sky.

“Oh my god!” she said again, louder this time, her voice cracking under the strain of adrenaline and disbelief. It came out half a laugh, half a sob.

Then something inside her just—broke loose.

She laughed. Loud and sharp, the sound echoing across the empty flats like it didn’t know how to stop. And before she could think about how absurd it might look, she started to move—spinning in place, arms out wide like a child in a summer storm.

She danced.

Not gracefully. Not even rhythmically. Just a wild, joyful release of motion—half stumbling, half hopping in circles as she kicked up clouds of red dust. Her boots slipped in the soft grit, sending her lurching sideways, but she didn’t care. She threw her arms in the air, let her head fall back, and howled something wordless at the bright sky.

She was grinning so hard it hurt.

The antenna was tracking. The diagnostics were holding steady. The telemetry stack had confirmed the signal pathway was stable. For the first time in—God, weeks, maybe months—she wasn’t guessing.

Someone was listening.

She didn’t know who yet. Didn’t know if it was NOSA, or a deep-space array, or some flyby relay picking up the call. But it didn’t matter.

She wasn’t just broadcasting into silence anymore.

There was a path.

A voice could travel it.

Her voice.

She staggered to a stop, out of breath, chest heaving with the effort of movement and the sheer weight of emotion she hadn’t let herself feel in so long. Her face was damp, though she couldn’t tell if it was sweat or tears. Probably both. Her legs were shaking. She didn’t care.

She wiped her sleeve across her face, dragging grit across her cheekbone, and looked up again.

The dish hadn’t moved.

Back at JPL, the mood in the control room had shifted from stunned disbelief to a kind of focused, collective obsession. Engineers were packed shoulder to shoulder, eyes fixed on the wall of displays like spectators watching a patient’s vitals stabilize for the first time after a coma. The tension wasn’t gone—it had simply refined into something sharp and surgical.

And at the center of it all was Doug Russell’s station.

Monitors cast a sterile glow across his desk and the two chairs flanking it—though no one was sitting. Tim, JPL’s most tenacious and sarcastic comms tech, hunched forward as he typed, the clack of keys rapid and precise. His wiry frame leaned into the console like the machine might move faster if he willed it to. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week and had no intention of fixing that tonight.

Mateo and Marco stood just behind him, hovering like nervous family members outside an operating room—familiar enough with the system to understand what was happening, just far enough removed to feel useless.

“As soon as we got the high-gain response,” Tim said, voice calm despite the low buzz of urgency humming through the room, “I queued Prometheus for a full panoramic sweep.”

“You’ve received it?” Mateo asked, leaning in, voice clipped.

Tim didn’t look up. “Sure,” he said dryly. “But I figured we’d all rather watch a blank screen and slowly lose our minds than see what the first human message from M6-117 in five months might look like.”

Marco shot him a warning glance.

“Tim is,” he said through clenched teeth, “our finest comms technician. And we all deeply, deeply appreciate his wit.”

Tim didn’t miss a beat. “You can’t fire me, I’m already dead inside.”

“Tim,” Marco mouthed. Sharp. But not unkind.

Tim smirked and tapped the return key. “Incoming,” he said, almost offhandedly.

The screen blinked. Then—line by vertical line—a panoramic image began to assemble. Slowly. Agonizingly slowly.

The room fell still.

Engineers leaned in, mouths slightly open, trying not to hope too hard. A few people unconsciously held their breath. Somewhere in the back, someone whispered a countdown with each line of image loaded.

The first few strips were barren. Red dirt. Wind-raked ridges. The soft haze of dust in the triple-sunlight. Then the edge of a familiar structure began to resolve—a weather-scored dome, metal-stiff support ribs, just barely visible above the rise.

“There’s the Hab,” Marco said, his voice soft but rising, pointing to the curved outline.

Mateo was already scanning ahead. “Wait—what’s that?” he said, tapping the screen near a shadow that didn't look like a rock or any kind of equipment.

As the next lines loaded, the answer came into view.

A metal rod had been planted in the soil like a flagpole. Taped to it, fluttering just slightly in the wind, was a piece of plastic—something stiff, maybe from a packing crate or a suit panel—and on it, in unmistakably large handwriting, was a message scrawled in black marker:

I’LL WRITE MESSAGES HERE. ARE YOU RECEIVING?

The room collectively exhaled, a sharp sound like a crowd reacting to a sports goal—but no one cheered. It was quieter than that. More reverent. The kind of stillness that forms when everyone realizes they’re witnessing something that will be replayed for the rest of their lives.

More of the image loaded.

Two more signs had been propped beside the first:

POINT HERE FOR YES. POINT HERE FOR NO.

Mateo blinked hard. “She doesn’t even know if anyone’s actually watching.”

“She’s guessing,” Marco said, swallowing hard.

Tim leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “We’ve got a two-hour round trip on comms. She’s asking yes-or-no questions with nothing but a fixed camera and hope.” He gestured toward the screen with a dry little shrug. “This is going to be the slowest conversation in the history of intelligent life.”

Marco shot him a look, but his expression had softened. He wasn't in the mood to argue. He just said, “Point the damn camera, Tim.”

Tim nodded once, then turned back to the keyboard. “Pointing the damn camera.”

She stood barefoot on the edge of the rover’s entry step, the arch of one foot pressed against sun-warmed metal, the other dug slightly into the soft red grit below. Her boots lay discarded a few meters away, kicked off in a moment of impulsive hope.

Her hands—still stained with marker ink, dirt, and grease—hung loosely at her sides, fingers twitching unconsciously as she stared across the makeshift clearing. Her jaw ached from how tightly she was clenching it. Her whole body was wound up like a spring.

The sun—one of the three—hung high behind her, stretching long triple shadows across the uneven ground. It was always day here. Always bright. She’d long since stopped pretending to track it properly.

But now, standing under that endless orange sky, she needed the seconds to slow. Just long enough for her to believe what she thought she’d just seen.

Because the camera turret on the Prometheus lander—dormant for longer than she’d been alive—had moved.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

It had been still when she finished setting up the message signs—just three stiff cards secured to scavenged rods and spare tie-wire, letters handwritten in black marker until the ink gave out halfway through the second sign. She’d traced the rest using a piece of carbon foil, pressing hard and hoping the message was still legible.

That was all she could do.

No uplink. No antenna feed. No voice. Just cardboard signs and an idea.

The turret shifted again. Slow. Careful. Mechanical.

It wasn’t sweeping the horizon. It wasn’t running a diagnostic pattern. It was deliberate.

Her breath hitched.

She stepped off the rover, boots forgotten, soles pressing into the hot dust. She could feel the sting of grit working into the cracks in her skin, but she barely registered it. Her eyes were fixed on the turret as it paused—held—and then tilted, degrees at a time, until it stopped.

Pointing directly at the “YES” sign.

She gasped—sharp, involuntary, like something had been pulled from her lungs.

Her legs gave out.

She dropped to her knees in the dust, the impact jarring but not painful. Her hands came up to her mouth, clamping down instinctively like they could hold back the emotion breaking loose inside her chest.

Her eyes blurred instantly with tears she hadn’t realized she was still capable of producing.

And then, without meaning to, she laughed.

It wasn’t elegant. It cracked halfway out of her throat and folded over into a broken, sobbing kind of sound—deep, guttural, and helpless. Her shoulders shook. Her body curled forward as the laughter tangled into crying and the crying gave way to silence again.

Not emptiness, though. Not this time.

Relief. Sheer, unimaginable relief. And something else. Something heavier.

Someone was out there. They’d seen her message. They’d understood. She wasn’t just screaming into the void anymore.

“I’m not alone,” she said, barely above a whisper. Her voice cracked, but the words came again. “I’m not alone.”

She stayed on her knees for a while, not moving, afraid that if she stood too soon the spell would break and the turret would turn away. She watched the camera, its stillness now more meaningful than any motion. It was listening. Watching.

The dust settled slowly around her. The heat beat down. The suns moved across the sky, layered and strange.

But nothing else mattered.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she was real to someone again. Not just a blip in a black box. Not just telemetry noise on a server somewhere.

Someone had seen her.

By the time she made it back inside the Hab, her limbs felt like they were filled with sand. Heavy, sluggish, every motion slightly delayed, like her body hadn’t caught up with what her heart already knew.

They saw her.

She hadn’t even realized how much she'd needed that until it happened.

Inside, she peeled off her gloves and wiped the dust from her face with the inside of her elbow. It smeared. Whatever. She’d stopped caring about the state of her face somewhere around sol-whatever-the-hell. She squatted beside the food drawer, muttered a half-hearted apology to the ration packs she’d been ignoring, and pulled out a pouch of rehydrated potato stew.

“Dinner of champions,” she muttered.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall, the still-warm packet in her lap. Steam rose gently from the top as she peeled it open.

She raised it toward the overhead light like a toast. “To Prometheus. To whoever’s out there. And to me. For not dying in a crater.”

She took a bite. It tasted like cardboard and regret, but she smiled through it. She was so hungry, and she hadn’t noticed until now. The emotional crash after the high of connection hit like a body blow. Her hands were shaking from fatigue, from adrenaline, from months of pent-up everything.

As she chewed, her eyes wandered to the far wall, where she’d arranged her makeshift “crew.”

There was Captain Stanley, the helmet from her EVA suit, perched on an upturned crate. The dark visor reflected a ghost of her own face. She lifted her stew pouch.

“To you, Cap. For keeping me grounded.”

Propped beside him was Pam the Vent, the cracked exhaust duct that had been making a haunting whine during night cycles until she taped a fork into it. Now it made a different, more tolerable whine.

“Pam, you were right. I should’ve believed the signal would go through.” She winked at the vent. “You’re always right. Moody, but right.”

A beat.

“You still sound like a dying cat when the fans kick in, though.”

Near the airlock, Susan—her ruined boot from the first week, long since deemed unsalvageable—sat filled with loose bolts. She saluted it solemnly. “Susan, your sacrifice shall not be forgotten.”

She exhaled a laugh, small but real. The sound startled her. She hadn’t heard herself laugh for no reason in a long, long time.

Only the rover, Speculor-2, remained unnamed. She referred to it only by its designation. A sign of respect. Or maybe distance. She wasn’t sure anymore.

“You don’t get a name,” she said aloud between bites. “You’re the only one still doing your damn job.”

The rover sat just outside the Hab, its silhouette barely visible through the dusty porthole—motionless, but unmistakably there. Same position she’d left it in after dragging Prometheus into place. Just behind it, the lander’s antenna still pointed skyward, unmoving now, but resolute. Silent, but not alone.

Y/N leaned her forehead against the window, her breath fogging a patch of glass. The heat from the rehydrated food she’d finally forced herself to eat was slowly working its way back into her core, settling in her chest, behind her ribs.

Her voice, when she spoke, was soft—half to herself, half to the rover outside. “I mean, I could name you,” she murmured. “But let’s be honest, that’s just asking for it. The last three things I named either exploded, got moldy, or betrayed me by freezing solid in the middle of a repair.”

She watched the still form of Speculor-2 through the haze of dust and reflected light. “Besides,” she added, almost apologetically, “you’re the only one that hasn’t let me down. I think that earns you your full title.”

The silence on the other side of the glass didn’t answer. But it didn’t feel empty, either. Not anymore.

She finished the meal in slow, methodical bites—every muscle still recovering from adrenaline. When the pouch was empty, she tossed it toward the waste bin. It hit the rim and bounced onto the floor. She stared at it. Didn’t move. Just let it be.

Instead, she crawled toward the center of the Hab, dragging her tired limbs like dead weight, and pulled a flattened ration box from beneath her bunk. It had been waiting there for days—saved for a moment when she had something worth putting on it.

She grabbed her old utility marker, shaking it a few times until the ink grudgingly agreed to cooperate, and began sketching out a rough circle. Segmented. Crude. But functional.

“Okay,” she muttered, drawing in more detail as she worked. “Here’s the plan. You,” she said, tapping the rough shape of the lander on her makeshift diagram, “are now my communications officer. Congratulations. No training, no pay, but full responsibility for the emotional well-being of a stranded astronaut.”

She paused and looked toward the lander through the port again.

“Don’t screw it up.”

She kept drawing. Lines, angles, numbers. She spoke as she worked, narrating like she was teaching a class no one had signed up for.

“We’ve got a two-hour delay round-trip. So no witty banter, no debates, and definitely no sarcasm unless it’s really, really well-timed.” She sniffed, wiped her nose on her sleeve, and kept going. “The camera can rotate a full 360. I’m dividing it into sixteen equal sectors—hexadecimals. Each one corresponds to a character. You rotate to a segment, that’s your letter. Point, pause, reset. Repeat.”

She sat back, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms. “It’s going to be slow. Like, glacial. But it’s language. It’s mine. It’s… contact.”

Her gaze drifted toward the far corner of the Hab. The broken vent—Valerie—let out its usual high-pitched whine. She smiled.

“You hear that, Val?” she said. “We might actually get a conversation going in here that doesn’t involve me assigning personalities to heating components.”

She looked over to the EVA helmet she’d propped up on a supply crate weeks ago. Its black visor faced her like a mirror.

“Stanley, don’t look at me like that. I know it’s weird. It’s been weird for a while.”

A pause. A breath.

“But it’s working. Something’s working.”

She turned on her personal log, the soft red light blinking awake on the little camera perched above the console. It had been dark for a while. No point in recording when you’re not sure anyone’s out there to listen.

But now?

She leaned in close, brushing dust off her face with the back of her hand. Her hair stuck to her temples, damp with sweat. Her eyes were still rimmed with exhaustion, but they were clear. Focused.

“Day… unknown,” she said, voice hoarse but steady. “The suns never set here, so time’s been more of a suggestion than a measurement. My sleep cycle’s shot, I think I hallucinated a second Valerie the other night, and I’ve been arguing with a space boot I named Susan.”

She smiled—wry, tired, but real.

“But today, the Prometheus camera responded. It moved. It pointed to YES.”

She let the words sit there, hang in the air like they deserved to.

“That means someone saw my signs. It means someone’s listening. I don’t know who it is yet. Could be NOSA. Could be a university relay team. Could be a maintenance AI that accidentally found me while looking for a comet.”

She chuckled quietly, then tapped a finger against her temple.

“Doesn’t matter. Someone’s there. I’m not just shouting into dust anymore.”

She reached over and picked up the sheet of cardboard with her communication circle. The lines were uneven, hand-drawn, but precise enough to work.

“I’m going to teach Prometheus how to talk again. One letter at a time. Using hexadecimals. Because 26 letters don’t fit evenly into 360 degrees, and I’m not about to eyeball that math. Base sixteen is cleaner. And besides…” She shrugged. “Old code habits.”

Her tone softened, eyes trailing back to the camera feed from outside.

“Thank you,” she said, quietly.

She didn’t say more. She didn’t need to.

She turned off the recording and sat there on the floor, cross-legged, arms folded over her chest, head tipped back against the wall.

Outside, through the porthole, the rover stayed still. The lander didn’t move.

The red sands of M6-117 stretched outward in every direction, as if the world had been poured out in one long, unbroken breath and then left to harden under the brutal glare of three unrelenting suns. There was no horizon here—at least not one that felt real. The light smeared everything flat. There were no true shadows, just overlapping ghosts in odd directions, triple-cast silhouettes that shifted slightly as the suns moved in their slow, endless circuits across the sky.

The planet wasn’t quiet, exactly. The wind was a constant whisper—soft, dry, hissing over the sand like it was trying to wear everything down to bone. Even the stillness had teeth.

Out past the main hatch, near the base of the Prometheus lander, Y/N crouched in the dust. Her knees ached in the suit’s rigid frame. Her fingers cramped every time she tried to flex them, the gloves thick and uncooperative. But the cards had to be exact.

Sixteen of them in total, each one an off-white square marked with thick, blocky characters in permanent ink: A through F, 0 through 9. A hexadecimal ring. Not elegant, but math rarely cared about elegance.

She placed the final card—“F”—into position, carefully tucking the corner under a flat, palm-sized rock. Each square had its own weight, each stone tested and re-tested. The Hexundecian wind wasn’t fierce, just persistent and erratic. It could sit calm for hours, then flick sideways out of nowhere and scatter your careful intentions like confetti. Earlier that week, she’d watched the “E” card lift off like a leaf and skip across the plain, fluttering just out of reach as she’d chased it, cursing until she was breathless.

Lesson learned.

She stood slowly, knees groaning with effort, and took a few cautious steps back. The circle wasn’t perfect—she wasn’t a machine—but it was close. From the camera’s perspective, perched atop the Prometheus turret, the spread would be clear, each card aligned just enough to be distinguishable in a 360-degree sweep.

Her gaze drifted up to the turret, still and silent for now.

But it had moved yesterday.

It had seen.

“I figured one of you had an ASCII table lying around,” she said, her voice muffled by the suit but still laced with something dry, almost playful. “Or a sixth-grade understanding of encoding, at least.”

She allowed herself a tired, wry smile. Then turned, giving the cards one last look—checking for shifting rocks, bent corners, anything out of place—before making her way back toward the Hab.

Inside, the suit came off in stages. Exhausted, breathless stages. Every joint creaked. Every zipper fought her. The synthetic inner lining peeled away from her skin like duct tape from fabric. When she finally stepped free, her undershirt clung to her back, damp with sweat, dust pressed into the creases of her elbows and neck.

She didn’t bother with a full decontamination cycle—just a rinse of water over her face and a few swipes with a towel. There wasn’t enough energy left in her limbs for a full scrub. The dust wasn’t the priority tonight.

She dressed slowly, pulling on a clean pair of NOSA-issue pants—gray, thinning at the knees—and a soft, over-washed t-shirt with the faded logo of a launch site she hadn’t seen in years. The neckline had stretched out. One shoulder slipped as she moved. She didn’t fix it.

Then she crawled onto Gregory Shields’s old bunk. It was narrower than hers, tucked beneath a low storage shelf, but it felt safer somehow. Quieter. The kind of place where someone had lived with intention.

It still smelled faintly of antiseptic wipes and the faint tang of synthetic polymer—a smell she’d come to associate with him. She wasn’t sure whether it clung to the bed, or whether the Hab itself had chosen to remember.

The laptop sat just where she’d left it, perched precariously on top of a stack of filtered water cartridges. It flickered to life with the usual delay, the fan sputtering once before giving in to the boot cycle.

She leaned forward and watched the screen resolve, file folders loading one by one.

HabMaint_Logs_2_FINALREAL

Speculor_Backup_NewestActual

DoNotDelete_GS

And then, tucked inside a dusty log archive, buried three directories deep: a folder labeled simply, “Extras.”

Curiosity tugged at her hand.

She opened it.

The contents loaded slowly, line by line: a list of .exe files and text documents. The file names were unmistakable.

Zork II. Leather Goddesses of Phobos. Planetfall. A Mind Forever Voyaging.

She blinked. Then laughed—quiet at first, then fuller, warmer than she’d expected.

She turned her head toward the small camera she’d propped on the crate beside the bunk, just far enough back to catch her expression.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, holding the laptop up slightly like a game show host revealing a prize, “I give you the hidden emotional archive of Commander Gregory Shields.”

She gave the screen a reverent shake of her head. “Turns out our fearless leader was also a closet nerd. This is like the Smithsonian of digital loneliness.”

She let the laptop fall back into her lap and smiled, eyes scanning the list again.

“I mean, I get it,” she said, more quietly now. “You run diagnostics six times a day. Inventory every bolt and meal pouch. But eventually, you just… want a story. Even if it’s one where you’re alone in a white house with a boarded-up door.”

Her hand hovered over the mousepad.

Then she clicked.

The screen blinked and shifted to a black window with stark white text.

You are standing in an open field west of a white house, with a boarded front door.

Y/N stared for a long moment.

The words felt like a heartbeat. Familiar. Steady. Someone had been here before her. Someone had typed into this same blinking cursor and waited for a reply that wasn’t human but was, in its own way, comforting.

She grinned. Not mockingly. Just with recognition.

“Well,” she murmured, “I guess I’m not the only one trying to talk to something that doesn’t talk back.”

She typed:

LOOK AROUND

The response appeared instantly.

You are in an open field...

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, then leaned back against the wall, chin resting in one palm. The faint whine of the broken vent in the corner—Valerie, as she’d named her—filled the silence between lines.

The stack of cardboard hexadecimals sat nearby, their marker ink still drying in spots. Tomorrow, she’d send another message. One letter at a time. One slow, careful spin of a camera. She had a system now.

For now, though, she played. Just for a little while. A game meant for solitary people. Text and choices. Words typed into voids.

She was still alone, but for the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel so endless.

Back at JPL, the room was taut with anticipation. The kind that made people forget to blink, forget to sip the coffee cooling in their hands. Consoles hummed, monitors flickered, and somewhere across the room, someone whispered a half-joke and then immediately regretted it.

At Doug Russell’s station, the tension crystallized. He leaned in close to his screen, an ASCII chart dog-eared beside him, one hand flying across the keyboard, the other adjusting Prometheus’s command queue.

“Incoming,” he muttered, not turning around. His voice was low but firm, the verbal equivalent of threading a needle at 2 a.m. with caffeine instead of sleep.

Behind him, Marco and Mateo stood shoulder to shoulder, silent and tense. Watching. Waiting.

On the main monitor, the live camera feed from Prometheus began to move. Slowly, methodically, the turret scanned across the circle of hand-lettered cards that Y/N had arranged in the dust of M6-117. Each card—labeled with a number or letter from the hex set—was captured in a frame. Pause. Capture. Move. Pause. Capture again.

It was absurd. And beautiful.

Inside the Hab, Y/N crouched at the window, watching the turret turn. The movement was stiff, but deliberate—like an old man raising a hand to wave. It was working.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, dust still clinging to her suit, and smiled.

“Not complaining,” she muttered, watching the turret complete another slow sweep. “I’ll take interpretive dance over silence.”

Later, back inside, she stripped off the outer layer of her suit and settled at her workstation, cross-legged in front of her notepad, the laminated ASCII reference guide spread out beside her like a sacred text. Each number pointed to a character. She traced the values with a fingertip, checking twice before she committed to anything in ink.

The message formed one word at a time.

She paused.

She stared at the page.

Her breath caught, a soft, involuntary sound that surprised even her. “How alive,” she repeated, barely a whisper.

It was such a simple question. But it undid her.

She sat still for a long time, pen hovering just above the paper. Then, slowly, she began to write.

Impaled by big monster bone. Dragged away into dark. Hid in cave. Civilians had reason to think me dead. Not their fault.

She scratched the last word three times before she was satisfied it looked like she meant it.

Later that night, she climbed into the Speculor rover and hooked into the command system. The console flickered to life. Her fingers, still sore, flew over the keys, typing out each carefully chosen instruction.

The screen glowed blue in the dark.

She turned the dashboard camera toward her. It was propped with a zip tie and a strip of old sensor tape. Shaky but serviceable.

“Now that we can have more complicated conversations,” she said, breath fogging the inside of her faceplate just a little, “the smart people at NOSA sent me instructions on how to link the rover with Prometheus’s systems. Just a tiny little tweak—twenty lines of ancient operating system code—and boom.”

She gestured toward the screen. “We’re in business.”

As if on cue, a new message rolled onto her terminal.

Dr.Y/L/N, this is Mateo Gomez.

She froze.

For a moment, it felt like the rover stopped breathing. Like the world went still. Her hands hovered over the keyboard. Her pulse pounded in her neck.

The next line arrived seconds later.

We’ve been watching you since Sol 63. The whole world is rooting for you. Amazing job getting Prometheus. We’re working on rescue plans. Meantime...

She read each line like it might vanish if she blinked. The words were surreal. Gentle. Real.

We’re putting together a supply mission to keep you fed until Helion Nexus arrives.

She let out a ragged breath, something between a laugh and a sigh of disbelief. Then typed back, quickly:

Glad to hear it. Really looking forward to not dying.

Back at JPL, Doug let out a laugh as he read the response aloud, and the garage erupted in scattered chuckles. A few of the techs even clapped, unprompted.

But the moment sobered as a new line appeared on-screen from Y/N:

How’s the survivors? What did they say when they found out I was alive?

Mateo’s smile faded.

He looked at Marco, whose face was unreadable. The older man rubbed his temple with two fingers and exhaled slowly.

“Tell her,” he said. “But carefully.”

Mateo hesitated, then typed.

They are safe on New Mecca. We haven’t told them you’re alive yet. We didn’t think it was their business. Your cousin doesn’t know either. He needs to stay focused on his mission.

Y/N stared at the reply.

The words didn’t register all at once. They landed in pieces.

Her hands trembled. She blinked. Then, without thinking, her fingers slammed the keyboard.

WHAT THE F—

She caught herself. Backspaced. Hard. But the anger wasn’t gone. It sat in her chest like a fist. She leaned forward, jaw clenched, and typed again.

What the fuck is wrong with you fuckers.

Back at JPL, Doug winced as the message came through. Several people turned to look at Mateo, who rubbed his forehead with a groan. He typed, carefully:

Doc, please watch your language. Everything you send is being broadcast live to the public. Global feed.

Y/N narrowed her eyes at the screen. The rage hadn’t gone anywhere, but she forced herself to breathe. Once. Twice. Then she typed:

Tell the world I’m deeply, sincerely sorry for my colorful language. You bureaucratic fletchers. Also, go fuck yourselves. Politely.

She hit send.

And then she leaned back in her seat, hands shaking, chest burning, and laughed. Bitter. Exhausted. Free.

It wasn’t eloquent. It wasn’t composed.

But it was honest.

And for the first time in a long time, somebody heard her.

At NOSA headquarters, the hum of fluorescent lighting pressed down on everything like a second atmosphere. The office felt smaller than usual—walls lined with outdated charts, satellite composite maps curling at the edges, and one stubborn water stain above the far vent that Yoongi had started to take personally.

He rubbed his temples hard with the heels of both hands, then slammed the receiver back into its cradle. The sound cracked through the room, sharp and final.

He leaned back in his chair and exhaled through his nose, long and slow, like he was trying to bleed tension out of his ribs.

The door opened without a knock. Creed stepped inside, a tablet tucked under one arm, brow already furrowed. He paused when he saw the look on Yoongi’s face.

“Bad call?”

Yoongi didn’t answer right away. He turned his head slightly, eyes still on the phone, as if it might ring again just to spite him.

“I just had to explain to the President of the United States what a ‘bureaucratic felcher’ is,” he said flatly.

Creed’s expression flickered—half horror, half sympathy.

“I made the mistake of Googling it,” he admitted after a beat. “Regret was immediate.”

Yoongi didn’t laugh. He just scrubbed a hand over his face and sat forward, elbows on the desk, tension still coiled tight in his neck. His eyes were bloodshot. The long days—and longer nights—of political firefighting were starting to show.

Creed stepped further into the room and shut the door behind him.

“She’s not wrong,” he said, his voice quieter now. “We’ve waited long enough. We need to tell the survivors. And her cousin.”

Yoongi didn’t respond right away. He stared down at the scuffed surface of his desk, where his notepad sat open beside a half-eaten protein bar. The pad was filled with names, coordinates, scribbled notes, and one line circled three times: DON’T TELL YET.

He tapped a pen absently against the corner of the desk.

“She’s stable,” Creed said, pressing. “She’s coherent. More than that, she’s functional. She’s asking hard questions. And if we don’t start giving her straight answers—”

“She’s going to stop trusting us,” Yoongi finished.

Creed nodded.

Yoongi sighed and leaned back again. The chair creaked.

“You’re only pushing this now because Mateo’s in D.C. and can’t push back.”

Creed didn’t flinch. “He’s too close to her. You know that. He’s been since the beginning.”

“He’s also the only one who’s managed to keep her talking without her telling the world to go fuck itself in five languages.”

Creed dropped the tablet onto the desk. “Then let her. If she has to scream at someone, let it be us. What matters is that she knows she’s not being kept in the dark. That she’s not being lied to.”

There was a long silence.

Outside, the hum of activity from the floor buzzed on—keyboard clicks, muffled voices, the occasional printer groaning to life. But in Yoongi’s office, the air had gone still.

He looked up finally, met Creed’s eyes, and gave a small, tired nod.

“Okay,” he said.

Creed’s shoulders relaxed just slightly.

Yoongi pushed the notepad aside and grabbed a clean sheet.

“Draft a statement. We’ll have to vet it through the comms team, but let’s get it moving.”

Creed turned to go, then paused at the door.

“She asked us for the truth,” he said. “Let’s give her at least that much.”

Yoongi didn’t respond, but as the door closed behind Creed, he exhaled again—this time quieter.

The Starfire drifted in perfect silence, its silver hull gliding along a stable arc through the deep, indifferent black of space. Stars burned cold and distant beyond the reinforced windows, too far to feel real. The ship didn’t so much cut through space as inhabit it — a man-made ember, tiny and determined, carrying seventeen people and every hope pinned to them.

Inside, though, serenity was in short supply.

Commander Jimin Park stood near the forward observation deck, one hand braced lightly on the edge of a console, the other curled against his jaw, thumb pressing absently into the line of his cheek. His face was still, unreadable, but the tension in his stance said enough. He wasn’t really looking at the stars. He was staring through them.

The voice crackled in from the comms, tinny and practical.

“Commander Park, come in,” said Valencia Cruz, comms officer, from elsewhere on the ship. Her tone was clipped, businesslike — but even over the static, there was an edge of anticipation.

Jimin blinked, then leaned forward and keyed the panel. “Go ahead.”

“Data dump’s almost finished,” she said. “Personal packets are coming through now.”

“Copy that. On my way.”

He pushed off with a practiced ease, shoulders brushing past the low lighting strips overhead. As he floated toward the Semicone-A ladder, he caught a glimpse of Khoa Nguyen ahead of him, already heading the same direction.

“You’re in a hurry,” Jimin noted as he caught up.

Nguyen glanced over his shoulder and flashed a crooked grin. “My kid turned three yesterday. I’m hoping there’s video. Maybe cake. Hopefully something not entirely destroyed by compression.”

Jimin gave a short nod, then turned his focus to the transition zone. As they reached the midpoint of the ladder, the artificial gravity gently reasserted itself — not full weight, but enough to give everything a sense of down. They moved more cautiously, boots finding purchase, hands steadying themselves on the rails.

The rec room was already filling by the time they arrived — not with noise, exactly, but with a kind of restless energy. Voices were lower than usual, movements quicker. People took their usual seats, leaning in toward their terminals, waiting for whatever fragments of Earth they could still call their own.

Val was already at the main console, typing fast, a mug of tea steaming beside her, mostly forgotten.

“Okay,” she announced, glancing up at the gathered crew. “Personals are in. Dispatching to your inboxes now. If anyone gets a corrupted file, don’t panic. Just flag it and I’ll resend.”

“Make sure to skip Zimmermann’s disturbing German niche fetishes,” someone muttered near the back.

Val didn’t even look up. “They’re telemetry logs, and they’re beautiful,” she said in a flat, mocking monotone.

Armin Zimmermann, who had just opened his tablet, let out a sigh without even raising his head. “They are spacecraft health reports,” he muttered under his breath.

Val shot a quick smirk in his direction, then paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

“Wait,” she said. “This one’s different.”

The room shifted. Small sounds stopped — the clink of a spoon in a mug, the rustle of someone adjusting their shirt.

Val’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a voice memo. Not tagged to anyone individually. Says it’s for the whole crew.”

Jimin stepped closer to the console, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. His fingers rested lightly on the back of Val’s chair, but his eyes were locked on the screen.

“Play it,” he said, low.

Val hesitated—just a second too long—then tapped the key.

The speakers crackled, then cleared.

The voice that filled the room was familiar. Calm, professional. Creed Summers—NOSA’s mission coordinator. A voice they were used to hearing twice a week with updates, mission briefings, and dry observations that occasionally bordered on wry. But this time, it was different. The tone was flatter. Strained. Like someone trying to walk across thin ice without making a sound.

“Starfire,” Creed said, “this is Creed Summers. I’ve got an update. No way to ease into it, so I won’t.”

There was a pause. Just a breath.

“Y/N Y/L/N is alive.”

It didn’t crash over them so much as snap the air taut. Like a fault line giving way.

Khoa Nguyen froze, tablet still in hand, thumb resting against the screen like he’d forgotten what it was for. Across the room, Hoseok Jung slowly sank back into his chair, blinking like he hadn’t heard it right. Val’s hands hovered over the keyboard, suspended in midair.

No one moved. No one spoke.

“She’s alive,” Creed repeated, quieter this time. “Stable. Lucid. Communicating.”

Jimin didn’t flinch, but his grip on the back of the chair tightened. His knuckles paled. His face, usually so composed it bordered on unreadable, had gone still. Hollow.

“We’ve known for just over two months,” Creed continued. “That decision—keeping it quiet—came from the top. I want to be clear: I disagreed then, and I disagree now. I’m telling you because we finally have a stable comm link and a confirmed path for recovery. A rescue is viable. The plan’s already in motion.”

Another pause. Creed’s voice dipped lower.

“You’ll get a full write-up in the morning—timelines, diagnostics, cause analysis. But for now, the important thing is this: she’s okay. She keeps saying none of the survivors are to blame. That it wasn’t anyone’s fault. She was critically injured. She was dragged off the launch path. She doesn’t want guilt. Just wants you to know she made it. Somehow.”

The silence on the ship grew dense, airless.

“You’re cleared of science ops for the next 24 hours,” Creed said. “Use the time. Ask questions if you need to. Summers out.”

The line went dead.

The only sound for a long moment was the low hum of the ship itself—ventilation cycling, a screen blinking somewhere, the dull tap of someone’s fingers nervously shifting on plastic.

Then Khoa spoke. His voice was thin. “She… she’s alive?”

Armin let out a long breath. Not a laugh, not quite. Something quieter. “Frenchie lives,” he murmured.

Across the room, Hoseok let out a sharp, stunned exhale. “Holy shit,” he said, half-laughing as he scrubbed both hands over his face. “Holy shit. Commander. Did you hear—?”

“She’s alive,” Jimin said. But it wasn’t joy in his voice. It was something else. Something low and furious.

He was still staring at the screen.

“They left her behind.”

His voice was barely a whisper.

Val turned toward him slowly. “Commander…”

“They left my sister behind,” he said, louder now, jaw clenched. He wasn’t looking at anyone. “She was injured. Alone. And they wrote her off.”

“Jimin,” Hoseok said gently, “you heard the report. Everyone thought she was dead. No one expected even two of us to make it out of that launch zone alive. You remember what it was like down there.”

“She’s been surviving in that hellhole for months. By herself.” His voice rose again, brittle and sharp. “While we’ve been running scans and juggling experiments and writing status reports. If we had known, we could’ve turned back. We could’ve—”

“No one would have approved a course change,” Hoseok cut in, regret in his voice. “We were already past max drift. And your wife—Jimin, she would’ve never agreed to let you stay out any longer with the baby coming—”

“For French Fry,” Jimin said, cutting him off. “She would’ve understood.”

The words landed like iron. The room went still again.

No one answered. There wasn’t a way to. Because he wasn’t wrong.

Val looked down at her hands, still poised above the console. She dropped them into her lap. Khoa sat quietly, his tablet untouched. Even Armin, ever the rational one, had nothing to say.

Jimin straightened slowly, his shoulders squared like armor tightening. Without another word, he turned and left the room. His footsteps echoed down the hall—deliberate, heavy against the low hum of artificial gravity.

No one followed.

There was nothing to say.

The heat was relentless.

Outside, under the glare of M6-117’s three suns, the red dust shimmered like liquid metal. Inside the Hab, it wasn’t much better. The air recyclers coughed along at half-capacity, the cooling system barely holding a line between unbearable and fatal. Everything smelled faintly of plastic and sweat—human persistence baked into the walls.

Y/N moved carefully, deliberately, her body too tired for wasted motion. A layer of sweat clung to the inside of her collar, sticky and constant. She crouched beside her potato rows, fingers brushing gently across a cluster of dark green leaves. The plants were thriving—miraculously, stubbornly. Small jungle bursts of color and life tucked between racks of salvage gear and oxygen scrubbers.

She lifted a reclaimed plastic jug from under the table, the water inside cool from the overnight cycle. It had been drawn from her own sweat, breath, condensation, and filtered half a dozen times through systems that had no right still working.

She poured it carefully at the base of each plant.

"You have no idea how much you're worth," she muttered to the leaves. “That’s a day of me smelling like gym socks so you can have a drink.”

She looked up toward the mounted camera, wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist, leaving a streak of dust behind. Her tone was light, but fatigue etched her voice like a dull blade.

“Now that NOSA can actually talk to me, they won’t shut up,” she said. “It’s like I won a sweepstakes I didn’t enter. Constant pings, questions, feedback... one guy sent me seventeen different configurations for optimizing light angles in here. I’m sure he means well.”

She adjusted the camera slightly, panning it over the rows of potatoes. They filled almost every horizontal surface now—shelving, crate tops, even a jury-rigged hanging tray suspended from the ceiling with bungee cords.

“I don’t mean to brag,” she said, “but I’m currently the most successful botanist on this planet. Also the only one. But that’s a technicality.”

She gave a small, dry smile and leaned on the edge of the workstation, looking down at her plants like they might talk back.

“They want me to pose for a picture for the next transmission,” she said after a moment. “Apparently, PR back home thinks a visual helps morale. You know—proof of life, survivor smiles, that kind of thing.”

She straightened and lifted an imaginary curtain with one hand. “So, here’s option one: high school senior portrait.” She struck a painfully awkward pose, elbow on the corner of the hydroponic shelf, head tilted at a strange angle. “Or option two: helpless ingénue stuck in a sci-fi melodrama.” She turned away from the camera, glancing over her shoulder with a dramatic pout and raised eyebrows. “Might not land well with a wrinkled jumpsuit and orbital grime under my eyes, but hey—commitment.”

She laughed, a short but real sound, and let the expression fall away.

“Still,” she said, grabbing a nearby notepad and scribbling a few numbers into her log. “This whole ‘talking to Earth again’ thing… it helps. I get regular data dumps now—emails from family, people from Starfire, old professors. Even some from strangers. Rock stars. One message was from the President of Nigeria. She said, ‘If you can grow food in hell, you can write your own flag.’”

She paused and smiled softly. “My favorite’s from Helion Prime Tech. My alma mater. They quoted this old saying: once you grow crops somewhere, you’ve officially colonized it.”

Y/N glanced toward the plants again, then the camera. Her voice took on a sharper edge—still dry, but aimed.

“So technically? This is a colony. My colony. And no offense to the dearly departed of Colony 212, but—” she lifted her chin, lips curled into a smirk—“in your fucking face. This rock is mine.”

It took her longer than she wanted to suit up.

The EVA gear was stiff with heat, the inner lining clammy with the kind of sweat that never really dried. She moved with slow precision, strapping each piece into place, checking seals twice—not out of fear, but out of habit. On M6-117, nothing forgiven mistakes.

The outer airlock hissed open, and the full weight of the suns hit her the moment she stepped outside. No breeze, no break, just three brutal discs crawling across a pale yellow sky, casting triple shadows that splayed outward from her feet like ghostly limbs.

She exhaled, already feeling the sweat bead along her hairline beneath the helmet. The ground crunched under her boots as she walked to the signpost she’d stuck into the soil the night before—a piece of scrap aluminum from a broken equipment crate, bent and planted like a flag.

The helmet cam was already recording, but she reached up with gloved fingers and adjusted its angle anyway, making sure the shot would frame the suns just behind her, the horizon wide and clear. She checked her posture, squared her shoulders.

Then she pulled the card from a side pocket. Standard Hab notepad stock. On it, written in thick, black marker with a slight smudge in the corner, was a single word:

“Ayyyyyyy.”

She held it up next to her helmet with one hand. The other gave a big, exaggerated thumbs-up.

The camera clicked.

That single frame—cropped, corrected for color and saturation, encoded and transmitted through four satellites, then downlinked to NOSA’s secure server on Aguerra Prime—arrived twenty-three minutes later in the middle of a tense meeting.

It projected onto the conference table like a headline. Y/N Y/L/N, alive, dusty, and grinning under her helmet, standing against the scorched landscape of a planet no one thought she’d survived.

Her suit was patched in at least two places—tape visible at the elbow and right knee. The jumpsuit underneath was stained with hydraulic fluid and long weeks of recycled air. But her posture was straight. Her stance confident. Her body language said what no press release could.

She was alive.

She was winning.

Y/N stood in the dust for a moment longer after the picture was taken. She didn’t move. She didn’t lower the card right away. The silence out here was total—no atmosphere to carry sound, no birds or engines or voices. Just the faint static hum inside her helmet and her own breathing.

She stared out at the land beyond the camera’s frame—flat, blistering red-orange, littered with sharp rocks and faint, wind-scarred ridges.

Then she smiled, a little to herself.

She tucked the card back into her suit and turned toward the Hab, footsteps crunching across the cracked surface. Her shadow followed in triplicate.

Around the table at NOSA HQ, no one said anything at first.

Then Alice folded her arms tightly and let out a long breath. “I ask for a hopeful, inspirational survivor photo,” she said, “and I get the goddamn Fonz.”

There were a few muffled laughs, but the mood stayed taut, the kind of tension that never really left these briefings.

Mateo’s voice crackled over the audio line from JPL. “Be grateful she held still long enough to take one. You should’ve seen the first batch—she was trying to photobomb herself.”

Alice shot a glare toward the monitor that could’ve etched cracks in the screen. “I need something with less Happy Days and more… her face. This is going global, not going viral.”

“She’d need to take off her helmet for that,” Mateo said, dry. “Which, you know… would kind of ruin the survivor narrative.”

The room chuckled. Even the interns in the back cracked a smile. The tension thinned for a moment—long enough to feel it.

But Yoongi, seated at the head of the table, didn’t laugh. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on the image.

“We’ll release the photo as part of the official rescue announcement,” he said, voice calm but clipped. “Tie it to the supply mission schedule. I want public rollout before the next Hohmann Transfer window.”

Mateo’s tone shifted instantly. “Understood. I’m flying out this afternoon to confirm timeline and media assets.”

“Good,” Yoongi said. Then, turning slightly, he added without looking up, “Alice will handle all media appearances.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Mateo’s voice again, mock-hurt: “Et tu, Yoongi?”

That earned a few more laughs around the room.

Alice didn’t even blink. “You gave us the Fonz,” she said. “Now smile pretty for the cameras.”

The suit was getting harder to pull on each time—stiff from dust, from wear, from the countless hours it had spent exposed to heat, strain, and her own sweat. Y/N wriggled her arms into the sleeves, then sealed the chest plate with a firm press until the internal display blinked to life.

O₂ levels: nominal

Suit integrity: 97%

Environmental risk: high

She muttered under her breath, “No shit,” and reached for the toolkit. It rattled slightly as she lifted it, the latches barely holding after last week’s impact when she’d dropped it down the south ravine.

She moved to the airlock out of habit more than thought. It was just another check, another routine repair on the never-ending list. Seal realignment. External circuit relay.

Same thing as yesterday. And the day before that.

The door closed behind her with a metallic shunk, the seals engaging one by one with a soft, pressurized click. The hum of depressurization followed—steady, familiar. She braced herself with one hand against the wall, the other gripping the handle of her case.

Then, something shifted.

A sound—not quite right. A low groan. Material under stress. Then another. Louder.

She frowned, turning toward the seam above her.

The canvas lining rippled like something alive.

And then the airlock detonated.

KRAAK-BOOM.

The sound was deafening. She didn’t even register the pain until she was airborne.

The force hit her like a truck. She felt her body lift, weightless for a terrifying second, then plummet. The sky twisted. Dust. Light. The ground.

She hit.

Hard.

Her body slammed into the crusted surface of M6-117, the impact ripping the breath from her lungs. Her limbs flailed uselessly as she skidded, tumbled, rolled. The world spun in a blur of color and dust and noise. Something cracked—her faceplate. She heard it before she saw it.

By the time she stopped moving, she was flat on her back, staring at the burning sky through a spiderweb of shattered glass.

Inside the helmet, the heads-up display flickered, then died.

For a few long seconds, she didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Then she coughed—a wet, shuddering sound. Blood smeared across her visor. Her head pounded with the deep, pulsing throb of a concussion. Her left shoulder felt wrong—off-kilter. Dislocated? Maybe worse.

But she was alive.

She tried to sit. Couldn’t.

Tried again. This time she made it to her elbows.

From where she lay, she could see what was left of the Hab. Or rather, what wasn’t.

The far wall had collapsed. Twisted metal framed the crater where the airlock used to be. Bits of insulation floated in the thin air like confetti. The antenna was gone. Smoke curled from the side panel like steam off a boiling pot.

And then she heard it—sharp, close. The hiss.

A sound every spacer knows in their bones.

A breach.

Her breath hitched. She looked down. The hiss wasn’t coming from the destroyed Hab. It was closer.

Her suit.

No.

Panic hit her like a second explosion. She twisted, dragging her limbs over herself, hands scrabbling at the seams of her arms, her side, her legs. Fingers trembling, blood-slicked. The hiss was steady now, mocking her, just beneath her ear.

Too quiet to locate. Too loud to ignore.

“No. No no no—” she muttered, her voice cracking.

She fumbled with the toolkit, nearly dropped it. Yanked out a thermal knife and held it in shaking fingers. Her breath was coming too fast. Not enough oxygen left to waste.

She paused. Tried to think.

Then it came to her.

Hair.

She pulled off one glove with her teeth, then reached up and yanked a fistful of her hair from the base of her scalp. It came loose in a painful clump.

She struck the knife’s igniter. The tiny blade sparked to life.

She held the hair to the flame.

It caught instantly, curling into gray smoke.

She held her breath and watched.

The smoke drifted sideways. Curled. Then it flowed with purpose—drawn toward a tear no wider than a pencil lead, just under her right arm.

“There you are,” she whispered.

She grabbed a strip of emergency patch tape—bless whoever had packed it—and slapped it across the breach. Pressed hard. Waited.

The hiss stopped.

She sat there for a moment, hands shaking, heart pounding in her ears, her body slumped like a puppet with its strings cut.

But she was still breathing.

She forced herself to sit up straighter. Blood from her nose trickled down the inside of her collar. Her shoulder screamed with every movement, but she ignored it. Pain was good. Pain meant her nerves still worked.

She reached back into the kit. More tape. A patch for the faceplate. It wouldn’t hold under pressure, but it would get her to the rover if she didn’t waste time.

Each move was deliberate. Measured. She didn’t speak. Not now.

She worked on instinct—training, repetition, desperation. By the time she’d stabilized the suit enough to move, her fingers were scraped raw inside the gloves and her muscles ached with the dull tremor of shock.

By the time she reached what was left of the Hab, the sky had already shifted shades—three suns high and pale, casting long, warped shadows behind her. Every step felt like dragging a deadweight behind her. The suit was torn in three places, patched with thermal tape and a prayer, and every motion sent a warning ping through her helmet’s display.

She ignored them.

Her knees buckled when she stepped over the threshold of the airlock—what used to be the airlock. Now it was just jagged framework, wires frayed and sparking faintly in the filtered sunlight, insulation stripped away like peeling skin.

Inside, the smell hit her first.

Scorched plastic. Char. Burned electronics. And under that—soil. Rich, damp earth, once full of life. Now cold and still.

Y/N stopped in the center of the room and stared.

Her greenhouse trays had flipped during the blast. Rows of hand-raised potato plants were overturned, their roots tangled and limp, snapped stems buried under frozen soil. The water lines had ruptured. Moisture beaded on the shattered remnants of the clear ceiling panels, already beginning to frost.

The small oasis she’d fought for—day after day, breath by recycled breath—had been wiped out in an instant.

She stood there, barely swaying, not even bothering to remove her helmet. Her breath fogged the inside of the visor. Her limbs screamed for rest. Her shoulder throbbed. Her lips were cracked, and her face stung from where the suit lining had rubbed raw.

But the worst pain was in her chest.

It didn’t explode. It didn’t scream. It just ached. A deep, hollowed-out ache. A silence where hope had been.

She lowered herself to one knee. Not gracefully—more like her legs gave out. She caught herself with a hand against the floor, grimacing at the sharp jab of pain in her side.

She stared at one of the ruined plants. Half buried in overturned soil, its leaves wilted and torn, roots still clinging to a chunk of earth like it didn’t understand it had already lost.

Her vision swam.

Tears welled up fast—too fast for her to blink them away. They slipped down her face silently, tracking along the curve of her cheeks, catching in the grime at her jawline.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head hard. “No, no, not now.”

She sniffed, wiped at her face clumsily with the back of her glove. Her hands were shaking, but she pressed them into the floor to ground herself. She didn’t have time for this. She couldn’t afford it.

She wouldn’t cry here.

Not in front of the ruins of her work. Not in the place she’d survived. Not after everything.

She took one breath. Then another. Jaw clenched. Shoulders trembling. But still upright.

Then she reached forward.

Her fingers curled gently around the base of a broken stalk, brushing away bits of soil and tangled tubing. The leaves crumbled as she lifted it, the root ball dangling uselessly beneath.

She turned it over once in her hand.

And then, quietly, she began to clean.

No words. No declarations. Just movement. One wrecked plant at a time. Setting aside what could be salvaged, scraping frost from trays, resetting any equipment that still responded to power.

Her hands were red and raw. Her shoulder screamed every time she lifted something more than a kilogram. She worked through it.

Inside the Speculor, the silence felt deeper than usual.

Not the quiet of rest, or even the soft mechanical hum of a well-running system. This was different—hollow, like something had been taken out of the air itself. Like the space around her had grown too big and too small at the same time.

Y/N sat in the pilot’s chair, hands resting on the keypad, the screen in front of her still dark. The comm relay had synced with Earth five minutes ago. The signal was stable. Everything was ready.

But she wasn’t.

Her fingers hovered, curled and motionless, like she’d forgotten how to type. Like the words, all of them, were caught somewhere between her brain and her hands. Her jaw ached from clenching.

How do you even start a message like this?

She’d practiced it in her head a dozen times. Tried to boil it down into numbers, mission code, survivable facts. But none of it fit.

She closed her eyes, just for a second. Then she exhaled slowly, leaned forward, and began to type.

Thousands of kilometers away, on Aguerra Prime, in a windowless NOSA conference room tucked beneath the main operations floor, the mood was brittle.

Papers rustled. Fans turned overhead, moving stale air that no one was breathing deeply.

Mateo stood at the front of the table, the latest transmission report clutched in one hand, his other braced against the polished steel edge. Across from him, Alice Sung sat straight-backed and silent, her arms folded. Yoongi leaned forward with his elbows on the table, staring at the projection with a tightness around his eyes that hadn’t left in weeks.

Mateo cleared his throat, not because he needed to, but because the silence was pressing in. “The crops are gone,” he said.

No inflection. Just the truth.

“A full pressure breach,” he continued, flipping to the next page though he didn’t need to look. “Vaporized most of the water in minutes. The remaining biomass was exposed to sub-zero atmosphere. Temperatures dropped hard. Anything microbial was flash-frozen and denatured.”

Alice didn’t blink. “How much did she lose?”

“All of it,” Mateo said. “Zero viable regrowth. She’s down to stored reserves.”

A beat passed.

Alice’s eyes narrowed slightly. “How long can she stretch that?”

Mateo’s voice softened, but only slightly. “She still has a full reserve of harvested potatoes in cold storage. Rough estimate: 200 sols. If she rations to the edge of starvation, maybe 230.”

Yoongi tapped the pad in front of him, pulling up the raw numbers. “And combined with current rations?”

“Best-case projection gets her to Sol 609,” Mateo said, meeting his eyes. “That’s a hard ceiling. After that… she runs out.”

Alice’s tone didn’t change. “And the current Sol is?”

“135.”

The math wasn’t hard. The implications were.

Yoongi leaned back slightly, rubbing at his temple. “By Sol 868, she’s dead,” he said flatly.

No one answered.

The weight of it wasn’t in the words—it was in everything left unsaid. The understanding that survival had a clock now. That every tick, every delay, had a cost.

Finally, Yoongi spoke again. “That means we move. No more waiting. What happens if we accelerate the launch window?”

Across the room, Creed Summers looked up from his notes. He’d been quiet until now, mostly watching. Listening. He tapped his pen against his notebook—softly, rhythmically, the sound oddly loud in the tension-heavy room.

“If we move the launch up,” Creed said, “we hit a more aggressive arc. Less efficiency. It’ll cost fuel, and we’ll need to retrofit the shell. But it cuts time.” He flipped a page. “Best estimate: 414-day trip. That’s with minimal margin for slingshot.”

Yoongi didn’t look away. “How fast can we mount and inspect the boosters?”

“Thirteen days,” Creed said.

Yoongi nodded slowly, doing the math aloud. “Sol 135. If we launch in thirteen, we’re at Sol 148. That gives…” He glanced at Mateo.

“Forty-seven days,” Mateo confirmed. “That’s all Marco and his team get.”

Alice raised an eyebrow. “How long does a long-range delivery probe usually take to build?”

“Six months,” Mateo said, deadpan.

Yoongi didn’t hesitate. “Then we’re doing it in forty-seven days.”

He pushed his chair back and stood, pressing his palms flat on the table. “I want the schedule on my desk in two hours. Engineering, fabrication, mission redundancy. I want a failure tree mapped before nightfall.”

He turned toward Mateo. “You’re going to call Marco and tell him.”

Mateo didn’t argue. He just gave a tired, resigned nod. “Sure. He loves a challenge.”

Yoongi paused in the doorway. “Tell him if he pulls it off, I’ll name the booster after him.”

Alice’s eyes flicked up. “And if he doesn’t?”

Yoongi didn’t look back. “Then I’ll name the crater after him instead.”

At the Jet Propulsion Laboratory on Aguerra Prime, the mission floor had fallen into a kind of unnatural stillness—the quiet you only get after a seismic shift. Moments earlier, the room had been its usual low-grade storm of movement: soft conversations, data pings, the tapping of keys, the muted buzz of a dozen different systems chattering across their networks.

Now, the air was still.

Screens still glowed. Diagnostics still ran. But no one was reading them. No one was speaking.

The speakerphone in the middle of the room hummed quietly, its last transmission long since finished, as if it hadn’t caught on that the call had ended. Or maybe it had. Maybe it was the only thing in the room that understood what had just landed.

Marco del Castillo sat back slowly in his chair, one hand braced against the edge of the desk. His face was drawn tight, his forehead damp. The sweat wasn't from heat—climate control kept the labs cool. It was the kind that came when the reality of something hit harder than expected. His jaw was clenched, not in anger, but in pressure, as if the weight of what he’d just heard was still settling in.

Across the room, his team watched him. Not waiting for a speech—just waiting for movement.

Marco’s eyes stayed on the speaker for another few seconds, like it might offer him some clarification. A loophole. A way out. But it didn’t. Just that low hum.

He swallowed. “Okay.”

Barely above a whisper.

He blinked. Licked his lips.

“Okay.”

It wasn’t agreement. It wasn’t reassurance. It was just... the first brick laid on a path he didn’t yet know how to walk.

No one else spoke. Even the coffee machine, notorious for burbling at the worst possible times, stayed quiet.

He looked down at his shirt. The collar was damp where it touched his neck. He tugged it loose, tried to swipe the sweat off his palms but only managed to smear it into the fabric of his pants.

“I’m gonna need a change of clothes,” he muttered.

Then, finally, he stood. Slow. Shoulders rolling to life after too long spent frozen. His knees cracked audibly as he straightened. He didn’t bother to hide it.

He looked around—really looked this time. His team wasn’t huge, but it was formidable. Engineers, data analysts, systems designers, materials people. A few interns, all wide-eyed and stock-still. None of them moved. But they were waiting.

He cleared his throat and nodded to himself, as if deciding to take the next step before his body caught up.

“We’re all gonna need a change of clothes,” he said, louder now. “Probably more than one.”

There was no laughter. No eye-rolling or smirks. But the silence changed shape.

Because it wasn’t a joke. It was the truth.

They’d just been handed a forty-seven-day timeline to do what normally took half a year. Design, build, and launch a custom long-range, solar-boosted supply probe—fully loaded, tested, and space-certified. Not for a demonstration. Not for a publication. For a person.

A woman—alone, somewhere on a planet that was trying to kill her by inches.

This was not the job they’d expected when they came in this morning.

It was quiet for a few more seconds.

Then a chair squeaked back. A keyboard tapped once. A screen changed. Someone moved. And then another.

Marco turned to the closest terminal, watching it come alive again. He drew a long breath, the weight in his chest still there, but finally shifting into something useful.

“Okay,” he said, not to himself this time. “We’re splitting into two teams. Twenty-four-hour rotations from here on out. Team One’s on design and integration, Team Two’s on fabrication and logistics. Habitat Systems is priority. I don’t care if it’s ugly—I care if it works. This isn’t about how it looks in a journal.”

He started walking, pointing as he spoke.

“Avionics, you’re with propulsion—make a list of what we’ve already got on-site. If it flies and isn’t nailed down, I want it catalogued. Flight software—start building a stripped-down nav shell. We don’t need elegance. We need function. Communications, link with SatCon and figure out how to thread a signal path between three satellites we don’t even control. Make it work.”

He looked at Materials next.

“If we’re short anything, I want a full manifest on my desk by midnight. Don’t wait for procurement. Raid our backups. Hell, raid the museum if you have to. This thing launches in forty-seven days, or she dies.”

A silence settled again—not the stillness from before, but something more focused. Sharper.

People began to move in earnest. Terminal screens flicked open. Hands reached for headsets. Murmurs returned to the room—not casual, but concentrated. No one needed to be told what this was. They could feel it in their chests.

This wasn’t a project. It was a lifeline.

Marco turned back toward his own workstation, dragging in a shaky breath, already making calculations in his head. Trajectories. Mass ratios. Heat loads. Battery yields under degraded conditions.

He was exhausted. Sweating. His shirt clung to his back. But he didn’t sit down.

There was too much to do.

The Starfire drifted through the velvet dark, a slow glide along its return arc to Augerra Prime. From a distance, it was just a speck—cold metal and old fire reflecting starlight, swallowed by the vast, endless black.

Inside, tucked away from the quiet hum of fusion drives and navigation updates, the rec room felt like another planet entirely. Low lighting, soft music looping somewhere in the background, and a faint hum of life-support systems pulsing through the walls like a heartbeat.

Bách Koah Nguyen slouched at one of the auxiliary terminals in the Starfire’s rec alcove, the ship's artificial night cycle dimming the overhead lights to a sleepy amber. The room was half-empty—just the quiet hum of the ventilation system and the occasional murmur from the corridor beyond.

A glass of electrolyte tea sweated next to his elbow, untouched. His legs were kicked out beneath the desk, one boot tapping softly against the metal base, steady and aimless.

He stared at the blinking cursor in the message field. Just him, a static-filled channel, and a blank screen demanding a letter to a woman stranded on a dead planet.

“Goddammit, Frenchie,” he muttered.

He cracked his knuckles and started typing.

Frenchie,

Apparently, NOSA’s decided we’re allowed to talk to you again. And lucky me—I drew the short straw. So… hi. I guess.

He scowled, reread the line, then deleted the last sentence.

Frenchie,

Apparently, NOSA’s letting us talk to you now. And lucky me—I get the honors. Just me and this stupid interface.

A small grin tugged at his mouth.

He kept going.

Sorry everyone left you behind. I’d say it was personal, but let’s be honest—you’re not that interesting.

He leaned back, reading it out loud under his breath with mock solemnity.

It’s roomier without you here, though. We’ve been splitting your workload—still no replacement. NOSA moves at the speed of moss. But hey, it’s only botany. Not real science, right?

He paused, hesitating for half a breath, then added:

How’s the planet? Healing okay? Quỳnh made me ask. She says hi. Swears she likes you more than me. Unclear if that was a joke.

He smirked, hit send, and spun the chair halfway around to stretch his legs. Quỳnh would kill him if she saw what he’d written. Or at least make a pointed comment over dinner and then beat him at cards in front of their kids.

The inside of Y/N’s speculor was a cramped oven by mid-sol, the temperature gauge flickering just below caution-red. The screen glowed pale blue in the darkened cabin, casting a cool light across her face, which was smudged with dust and exhaustion. Her hair had been cut short weeks ago—poorly, out of necessity—with thick sections buzzed unevenly to keep from snagging in her helmet.

When the ping came through, she sat up straighter, already half-smiling. Her eyes scanned the message. She barked a short laugh. It echoed oddly in the enclosed space.

“He’s such a dickhead,” she said, amused more than annoyed.

She cracked her knuckles and leaned in.

Koah, M6 is lovely this time of year. No bioraptors since sunrise, which is honestly a personal best. The injury healing fine. Sand in everything, winds like a brick wall, zero humidity. You’d hate it.

Her fingers moved faster now.

Tell Quỳnh I love her for checking in and that she’s objectively correct—I am more likable than you. But she loves you the most, don’t be a baby. How are the kids? Tell my Báo Bun I said happy birthday. Please. I think I missed it. Days blur here.

She hesitated, then added quietly:

Time’s getting slippery. I talk to a vent. I named my EVA helmet. I narrate things to a camera like it’s a friend and not just a blinking red dot. It's getting weird. I miss people.

Her jaw tensed. She exhaled and kept going.

Also, I did blow up the Hab. Long story. Mostly oxygen. Partially my fault. On the bright side, all of Captain Marshall’s disco collection survived the fire. Divine punishment, I guess. Tell Zimmermann. He’d appreciate that.

She glanced at the fuel gauge on her aux battery and typed faster.

How’s the Starfire? Still smell like a rusted can and depression? I walked today—just me, long horizons, and high ceilings. You’d hate it. No chairs. No coffee. Tell the crew I said hi. And tell Jung he still owes me fifty credits from poker. I may be marooned, but I’m not letting that go.

She read it over, didn’t bother to edit, and hit send.

Y/N leaned back in the worn pilot’s chair, the padding long since flattened beneath her weight. Her shoulders sank into the frame, her neck rolling slowly against the edge of the headrest with a dull crack. The gesture wasn’t one of comfort—just survival. The closest she could get.

She closed her eyes.

Her whole body ached—not sharp pain, just the kind that lingered, like soreness that had taken up permanent residence in her joints. Her knees were stiff. Her lower back pulled with every breath. The skin on her hands felt raw under the gloves, the kind of tired that wasn’t from one bad night but from all of them.

Still, there was a quiet inside her chest now—a loosening of something she'd been carrying around for weeks without realizing. Just a little slack in the knot. No miracles. Just a few words on a screen from someone who remembered who she was.

Back on the Starfire, Koah barely shifted in his seat when the response pinged in. He opened it and scanned the message in silence, his mouth twitching as he read.

Helmet names. Talking to vents. The fire. The disco.

He let out a sharp breath of laughter when he hit the part about the Hab explosion, loud enough to make Val, seated at the next terminal, lift her head.

“What?”

“Y/N blew something up,” Koah said, grinning.

Val raised an eyebrow. “That is the least surprising thing I’ve heard today.”

He nodded, still smiling as he typed out a reply:

Copy that. Will relay to Jung. Still not paying.

He sent it. Then sat back, drink in hand, and stared at the terminal’s blank screen. He thought about saying something else. Asking something real. But the words didn’t come.

On M6-117, the glow from the message faded from Y/N’s screen as the terminal timed out.

She didn’t linger. There wasn’t time for it, not here.

The lightness that had crept in during the exchange was already being swallowed by the reality around her. The inside of the Hab still smelled faintly like burnt polymer and battery acid—residue from the fire that had nearly taken the whole station out. That smell had a way of clinging to everything. Her suit. Her tools. Her skin.

The inner wall was holding, more or less. The last repair—a patchwork quilt of insulation fabric, scavenged hull plating, and stubborn optimism—still looked solid. But the airlock was a different story. The blast had peeled open the lower quadrant like a can lid. The edges curled inward, jagged and blackened, the whole structure groaning with every change in temperature.

Y/N dragged a roll of synthetic canvas across the floor, one end slung over her shoulder, her feet crunching over scattered debris. She didn’t talk. She didn’t think. She just moved. Her breath was shallow, labored more from rationed air than from exertion. The silence around her felt thicker than usual—too still, too watchful.

She knelt at the base of the breach and began layering the canvas, her hands stiff inside the gloves. She worked fast but methodically, following the emergency repair schematic by memory: cross-seal pattern, spiral tension reinforcement. The duct tape unspooled with a series of harsh, ragged rips that echoed through the Hab like tiny gunshots.

Her hands trembled by the time she pressed the last strip flat.

She stepped back slowly, breath catching in her throat. The patch was ugly. Lopsided. But sealed.

“Not pretty,” she murmured, voice barely audible over her own heartbeat. “But let’s see what you’ve got.”

She crossed the room to the repressurization panel and keyed in the sequence. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the hiss began—low and deliberate as air filtered into the chamber, volume climbing slowly. The canvas at the airlock flexed. Bulged. Tensed.

Y/N didn’t breathe.

The panel beeped.

Pressure: Stable.

She slumped against the nearest wall, her legs folding beneath her as she slid to the floor, forehead pressed to the cool metal. Her heart was thundering in her chest, her lungs trying to decide whether they trusted the air again.

She let herself sit there for a minute. Maybe two.

Then she pushed up. Staggered a little, caught herself, and kept going.

There was always more to do.

Outside, the light had shifted. One sun was sinking low, casting long amber streaks across the sand. Another was just beginning to rise, painting the sky with a sickly kind of lavender haze. The third hung high overhead, thin and distant.

Inside the Hab, Y/N crouched beside one of her supply crates. She opened the lid slowly, as if hoping something new might be inside this time.

There wasn’t.

Potatoes. Shriveling, sprouting, some soft to the touch. She sorted through them one by one, inspecting for mold, for rot, for anything salvageable. She didn’t count them anymore. She knew what she had. Knew how long it would last. But the ritual mattered.

Each one passed through her hands like a silent marker of time.

She wasn’t counting calories. She was counting days.

A gust of wind rattled the outer shell. The canvas seal whispered as it flexed, tugged by the pressure difference.

Y/N’s head snapped up. She stared at the airlock.

Her chest tightened.

The fear was never gone. It just sank down for a while—waited. She clenched her jaw, turned back to the crate. Kept working.

Her fingers landed on the last potato.

She paused, thumb brushing its uneven skin.

Then, very softly, she lowered the lid and leaned forward until her forehead rested against it.

“Keep going,” she whispered to no one. “Just keep working.”

And she did.

Dean Marblemaw was half-hanging off his tiny faux-leather loveseat, one leg dangling off the side, the other curled awkwardly beneath him. His head was tilted at a painful angle that would all but guarantee a neck cramp by morning. He snored softly, the sound rhythmic and oddly reassuring, like an idling machine in sleep mode.

The only light in the room came from his computer monitor, which bathed the walls in a cold, blue glow. Orbital data crawled across the screen in endless loops—trajectory estimates, fuel deltas, burn timings, and window alignments. The cursor blinked patiently in a corner, waiting for someone to care.

A knock broke the stillness.

It was hesitant. Like whoever was on the other side wasn’t entirely sure they wanted to be there.

“Dean?” came a voice, low and tired.

Rory Bozzelli poked his head into the office, his face framed by the soft backlight of the corridor. His tie was loose. His eyes were glassy with the particular kind of fatigue you only got from too many consecutive 2 a.m. meetings and caffeine crashes.

Dean stirred with a grunt, brow furrowing as his eyelids fluttered open. He looked around like he wasn’t entirely sure where he was.

“Dean,” Rory said again, stepping inside. “Wake up. Sorry. They’re asking for the probe courses.”

Dean blinked slowly, then groaned and hauled himself upright with a kind of grim determination. He rubbed at his eyes with both hands, blinking away the fog.

“What time is it?” he rasped, voice thick with sleep.

“Three-forty-two,” Rory said, glancing at his watch like it was mocking him. “A.M., not that it matters anymore.”

Dean reached blindly for the mug on the small table beside the couch—his go-to cup, beige with the faded NOSA logo almost rubbed off. He took a generous swig without thinking.

He didn’t even swallow. The look of betrayal on his face was immediate. He leaned over and spat the cold, curdled sludge directly onto the carpet with no ceremony at all.

Rory grimaced. “Bold move.”

Dean wiped his mouth on his sleeve, waving the offense away like it was a minor inconvenience.

“I keep hoping one of these times it'll have magically turned back into coffee.”

“No such luck. Time travel’s not in the budget,” Rory said, then crossed the room to stand behind the desk. “Anyway, we need something they can lock onto. Doesn’t have to be pretty. Just has to be technically possible.”

Dean nodded, eyes still adjusting to the light, brain lagging a few seconds behind his hands as he fumbled through the disorganized pile of notes spread across his desk like fallen leaves. Pages were covered in sketches, scribbles, and equations scrawled in every direction.

“I know we’re working backwards,” Rory continued, dropping into the chair opposite him. “But no one's going to greenlight a hard launch date with this many unknowns. We need ballpark figures. Even soft projections would help.”

Dean finally found the page he was looking for and tapped it with a pencil, the graphite worn down to a nub.

“All twenty-five models converge at seven hundred thirty days to intercept,” he said, voice still hoarse. “There’s some variation in thrust profiles—different durations, minor fuel deviations—but it all averages out. Worst-case, we're talking maybe three percent delta-v difference. Not enough to change the math.”

Rory leaned over to get a better look at the figures. “Seven thirty’s... not ideal. It’s a long haul.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean muttered. He was already flipping through a second notebook. “Aguerra and M6-117 are completely misaligned this cycle. Honestly, it’s borderline punitive.”

He stared down at the trajectory model on the screen for a long beat, blinking in slow motion as something clicked behind his eyes. His fingers stilled.

“Almost easier to what?” Rory asked.

Dean didn’t answer right away. His gaze had gone distant, eyes unfocused—not distracted, just deep in the zone where his mind did its best work. The gears were turning.

“Dean?” Rory said again.

Dean stood up abruptly, stretching his arms above his head with a groan, then wandered toward the door like he’d forgotten Rory was in the room.

“Coffee,” he muttered.

“Almost easier to what?” Rory pressed, trailing after him now. “You said it’s almost easier—what’s the rest of that thought?”

But Dean was already halfway down the hallway, muttering under his breath about eccentric orbits and slingshot vectors. One hand ran through his hair, the other gesturing vaguely at the air, like he could see the math floating there in front of him.

Rory stopped in the doorway and sighed, watching him go.

“You understand I’m technically your boss, right?” he called after him, no real heat behind it.

Dean didn’t answer. He rarely did when he was thinking like this.

Rory shook his head, lips curving into a tired, reluctant smile. He didn’t know where Dean’s thoughts were heading—but if past experience was anything to go by, it would either be a breakthrough or a fire hazard.

Either way, it was probably worth hearing.

Mateo stood in the center of NOSA’s mission control floor, one hand resting lightly on the edge of April’s console. The room buzzed softly with quiet activity—keyboards clacking, soft beeps from telemetry feeds, the occasional low voice trading numbers—but beneath it all, there was a tension that didn’t show on anyone’s face, but could be felt in the air. The kind that came when the margin for error had evaporated days ago.

He watched the satellite path update on the central display before beginning his dictation. April’s fingers were already poised above the keyboard, her eyes flicking between the screen and Mateo’s face.

“The probe will take four hundred fourteen days to reach you,” Mateo began, voice steady, deliberate. “It’ll carry enough food to get you through to the Helion Nexus rendezvous. We got lucky—one of the colony preloads was already scheduled to pass through that sector.”

April paused just long enough to glance up at him, a small curve forming at the corner of her mouth. “Tell her about the name,” she said quietly.

Mateo’s tone softened, just slightly. “We’re calling the probe Iris,” he said, watching the words appear on the screen as April typed. “After the Greek goddess who moved between worlds at the speed of wind. She’s also the goddess of rainbows. You’d like her.”

Inside the speculor, Y/N sat hunched over the terminal, legs drawn up to her chest. The message blinked onto the screen, and she read it in silence, the corner of her dry, cracked lips twitching into something just shy of a smile.

Mateo’s voice lived in her head now. Not in a dramatic way—just a familiarity, a rhythm. Even reading, she could hear his inflection. She stared at the words for a moment longer before typing back.

Gay probe coming to save me. Got it.

She hit send.

Back at NOSA, the message popped onto April’s screen. She read it, blinked, then laughed—actually laughed—and turned in her chair to read it aloud.

Mateo groaned softly, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus, Y/N.”

A few people nearby cracked up, grateful for the tension break. Someone at the back muttered, “Can we print that on the mission patch?”

April was still smiling as she cleared the message. For a moment, the pressure lifted. Just a moment.

Down the hall from the light of mission control, the NOSA briefing room was silent. No alerts. No monitors blinking with incoming messages. Just a single long table, half-drunk coffee cooling beside notepads, and a whiteboard filled with timelines that had already become obsolete.

This was the part of the building where optimism went to get audited.

Yoongi stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, tie undone, the weight of the moment visible in the way he gripped the back of a chair. His knuckles were pale, the veins on his forearms raised like cables. He didn’t need to raise his voice—he never did—but the silence that surrounded him wasn’t respect so much as inevitability. Everyone here knew what was at stake.

He stared at the latest report in his hands for a long beat, then tilted it toward the overhead light.

“The two hundred million dollar question,” he said dryly.

Then he squinted, leaned closer.

“Correction—five hundred.”

No one laughed.

Yoongi didn’t expect them to. His eyes moved from person to person, reading the faces in the room like mission telemetry. No one looked surprised. Everyone looked exhausted.

He cleared his throat. “So. Let’s get to it. Is this probe going to be ready in time?”

Across the table, Marco Moneaux looked like he was held together by sheer caffeine and irritation. His shirt was rumpled. His glasses were crooked. He hadn’t touched the cup of coffee in front of him. His fingers drummed once on the tabletop, then stopped.

“We’re not there,” Marco said, no sugarcoating. Just fact. “We’re behind.”

“How far behind?” Yoongi asked. No frustration. Just calculation.

Marco leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his face like he was trying to wipe off the last forty-eight hours. “Fifteen days. Minimum. If I had fifteen more, we could finish integration, validate all systems, run two full test loops, and sign off without crossing our fingers.”

Yoongi didn’t flinch. He turned slightly toward Mateo, who stood against the far wall with his arms folded, watching quietly.

“Mounting takes thirteen,” Yoongi said. “Can we buy time there?”

Mateo unfolded his arms. “Technically, the hardware mount takes three. We added ten days for failure scenarios, interlock sequences, and redundancy checks. I could compress that. Maybe down to two.”

“That gives us one day,” Yoongi said. “We still need fourteen more.”

The room quieted again.

Yoongi turned back to the table. “What about testing and inspections?”

No one spoke.

Because they all knew what he was asking.

Creed, seated near the end, finally leaned back in his chair. “You’re not seriously considering skipping the final inspections.”

Yoongi’s voice stayed even. “I’m asking how often they catch something that would actually stop the launch.”

Still, no answer.

Mateo exhaled slowly through his nose, then said, “One in twenty. That’s about the failure flag rate on final inspection. Most are minor. Some aren’t.”

Yoongi locked eyes with him. “So there’s a 95% chance nothing critical shows up.”

Mateo didn’t nod. “There’s a 5% chance we kill her before the probe even reaches orbit.”

The room went still.

Someone shifted in their chair. Paper rustled faintly. The HVAC kicked on overhead with a low, steady hum, like the building itself was holding its breath.

Yoongi didn’t say anything for a moment. He looked down at the report again, not because he needed to, but because it gave him something to do with his hands.

Then he looked over at April, who had been standing quietly near the doorway, her tablet pressed against her chest like a shield.

“Tell Dr. Keller to cut Y/N’s food rations by four more days.”

April frowned. “She’s already running tight.”

“She won’t like it,” Yoongi agreed. “Tell her anyway.”

April hesitated, then nodded and made a note.

Yoongi looked back to Marco. “No final inspection. You’ve got your fifteen days.”

Marco blinked at him, caught between disbelief and relief. “You’re serious?”

Yoongi nodded once. “Dead serious. Get it done.”

There was a pause. A long one.

Then Marco sat forward, a little straighter than before. The fatigue didn’t leave his face, but something steadier moved in behind his eyes.

“We’ll make it happen,” he said.

Mateo shifted, uneasy. His jaw clenched. He wanted to argue. You could see it building in the way his fingers tapped once against the table’s edge.

“Yoongi…” he started.

Yoongi didn’t look at him.

“If this fails, if it doesn’t make orbit—”

“It’s on me,” Yoongi said, quiet but final. “The risk. The consequences. The headlines. All of it. Put my name on it.”

And then he stepped away from the table, his hand brushing the doorframe as he paused to add, “The only number I care about now is launch day. Make it count.”

Then he left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

For a few seconds, no one moved. The weight of the choice he’d just made settled over the room like dust. Unspoken. Heavy. Real.

Then Marco stood.

Mateo followed.

One by one, the room came back to life—not with noise or panic, but with quiet resolve. No more questions. No more hesitation.

They didn’t have time for it.

They had fifteen days.

Y/N sat at the narrow foldout table in the Hab, elbows braced against the edges, hands limp in her lap. Her eyes were fixed on the items in front of her: one vacuum-sealed ration pack, two undersized potatoes, and silence.

The red light on the camera glowed steadily in the corner—unblinking, unjudging, and always watching. It had become a kind of ghost in her periphery. A reminder that someone, somewhere, might eventually see this. Or maybe not. At this point, the possibility barely registered.

She exhaled through her nose. Not quite a sigh. Just the breath left over after a thought you didn’t finish saying out loud.

“So,” she began, not looking at the camera yet. Her voice was low, dry. “Update. I’ve been advised to stretch rations another four days. That’s on top of the cuts I already made.”

She reached for the ration pack and held it up between two fingers like it offended her. The plastic crinkled faintly as she gave it a shake.

“This,” she said, “is what a ‘minimal calorie survival pack’ looks like when central command gets nervous.”

Her thumb slid along the seam and peeled it open with a practiced, joyless motion. A faint whiff of synthetic gravy filled the air.

She stared into the pouch for a second, then snorted.

“Oh good,” she muttered. “Meatloaf.”

She said it like the word had betrayed her.

Using a small, dented spoon, she carefully portioned the contents into thirds. One third onto a stained square of thermal wrap she used as a plate. The rest, she scraped into an airtight container she slid toward the back of the table. Tomorrow. And the day after. If she was lucky.

What was left in front of her was barely enough to coat the center of her palm. She studied it for a long moment, then reached for one of the potatoes.

It was warm from the growing bed, spotted with dirt. She sliced it in half, then quarters, trimming each piece down to something she could pretend was deliberate. Not desperation. Just… meal prep.

“This,” she said, her voice now aimed squarely at the camera, “is today’s menu. Potato number... I don’t know. Two hundred something. Maybe more. I stopped counting.”

She held up the grim little pile of food, eyebrows raised.

“Bon appétit.”

She set the knife down with more force than necessary and leaned back in her chair. It creaked slightly beneath her. Her shoulders rolled forward, heavy with the fatigue that came from more than just hunger.

“I used to like potatoes,” she said after a moment. “Grew up eating them. Roasted. Mashed. Fried. Once had this loaded baked thing at a truck stop in Oregon that could’ve solved world peace. But now?”

She looked down at the slices on the table.

“I hate them. With the fire of a thousand nuclear suns.”

She picked up the knife again, chopped off a section of the meatloaf and an edge of the potato, and pushed them into the reserve pile—her little future. The container already looked too small.

“The point is,” she said, eyes still on the food but no longer seeing it, “stretching rations four extra days is a real dick-punch.”

Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, not with emotion but something worse: hollow laughter that didn’t quite make it out of her chest.

Beside the plate, two pills waited. Pale blue. Pain management, according to the label she no longer bothered reading.

She picked them up, held them for a second between thumb and forefinger, then dropped them onto the table. With practiced efficiency, she flattened them with the blade of her knife, the powder scattering like dust. She used the flat of her palm to sweep it onto a potato slice and tapped the edges down so it wouldn’t fall off.

“I’m dipping my potato in Vicodin,” she said quietly. “And there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

She wasn’t smiling when she said it. There was no triumph in the words. No rebellion. Just fatigue, scraped raw at the edges and smeared with the thinnest veneer of humor.

She popped the medicated piece into her mouth and chewed slowly, eyes fixed on the far wall. The silence returned, stretching between the seconds like taffy.

She didn’t bother saying anything else.

At Cape Canaveral, the Iris probe stood tall against the pale morning sky, its sleek silver frame already glistening with condensation. Vapor hissed and curled around the base of the launchpad, coiling through the support scaffolding like breath in cold air. Engineers moved around it with surgical focus, checking clamps, seals, telemetry channels—everything twice, some things three times.

There was no room for error. Not this time.

Inside NOSA’s mission control, every seat was filled. The room had that charged stillness of a place on the verge of something irreversible. The kind of quiet that wasn’t really quiet—just full of people holding their breath in unison.

Creed stood in the center of it all, headset on, eyes flicking between monitors. His voice was calm but clipped, the way it always got when the adrenaline started to hit.

He glanced toward the back of the room where Mateo leaned against the wall, arms folded. His posture was relaxed, but the tightness around his mouth said otherwise.

“Do you believe in God, Mateo?” Creed asked, adjusting his mic without taking his eyes off the main feed.

Mateo didn’t hesitate. “Several. My mother’s Catholic. My father’s Hindu.”

Creed gave a single nod, as if that somehow covered the bases. “Good. We’ll take all the help we can get.”

He turned back to his console, voice sharpening. “Flight Director to all stations—begin Launch Status Check.”

A quiet chorus of acknowledgments echoed through the room, each one crisp, practiced, stripped of emotion.

“Prop.”

“Go.”

“Avionics.”

“Go.”

“Guidance.”

“Go.”

“Ground.”

“Go flight.”

Outside, Iris waited.

The countdown clock began to tick—T-minus two minutes—and the room settled into a silence so focused it hummed in the air. At JPL, Marco Moneaux stood with his team in a darkened room, eyes locked on their displays. Alice was pacing in her glass-walled office back in Oslo, arms crossed, phone forgotten in one hand.

Mateo stayed by the wall, unmoving, watching the second hand sweep past each hash mark like a blade.

T-minus zero.

The clamps released.

The booster roared to life, a deep, visceral thunder that shook the ground from thousands of miles away. Onscreen, the rocket surged upward in a column of white fire. The room erupted—claps, cheers, people standing out of their seats, a dozen fists in the air. After everything—the engineering, the recalculations, the fifteen borrowed days—it was happening.

A launch. A real one. And it looked good. For a second.

“Getting a little shimmy, Flight,” came a voice over comms. Calm, but edged with concern.

Creed straightened. “Say again.”

“Guidance reports rotational anomaly—long-axis spin. Seventeen degrees and climbing.”

The cheers stopped mid-breath. On the main screen, the probe jerked slightly, then again—too sharply. Too fast. Red warning lights blinked to life across the room.

“Payload rotation increasing,” another voice called. “We’re seeing lateral instability—probable dismount in the housing ring.”

“Shit,” Creed said under his breath.

On the video feed, Iris vibrated hard, the booster shaking beneath it like it was trying to buck the probe free. Telemetry feeds went scrambled. Numbers flickered. Then: static.

And then—nothing.

The main screen blinked. Froze.

Black.

A single word appeared in the corner in block white font:

L.O.S. — Loss of Signal.

No one spoke.

Creed stood completely still, jaw locked, his hand resting lightly on the edge of his console. A vein ticked in his temple. The whole room seemed to hold itself in suspension, waiting for something else. Anything.

But there was no update. No recovery.

The probe was gone.

He reached for the mic. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Controlled.

“GC, Flight. Lock the doors.”

The command was standard. No one left. No one talked to press. No one speculated outside this room until they understood what had happened.

But the weight behind the words was anything but procedural.

Across the room, Mateo had closed his eyes. His fingers dug into his arms where they crossed.

JPL went silent. Alice stared at her screen like she was seeing ghosts.

Mateo sat alone in his office, still in his shirt and tie from earlier, though the knot was loose now and the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. The building was quiet—too quiet. The buzz that usually pulsed through NOSA’s command wing had faded hours ago, leaving behind the hum of distant servers and the occasional click of an HVAC vent adjusting to no one’s preferences.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there. His elbows rested on his thighs, hands hanging loose between his knees, head bowed like he was trying to remember how to breathe through a concrete chest. The overhead lights had timed out a while ago. Motion sensors gave up when you stopped moving.

The darkness didn’t startle him. It didn’t even register at first.

It was the cold that finally reached him—the slight drop in temperature that crept in around the silence, crawling under his collar, along his spine. It made him shift, just slightly. Enough for the system to recognize life again.

The lights snapped back on. Cold, sterile fluorescence bathed the room, harsh against the stale air and the untouched coffee on his desk.

He squinted as his computer chimed.

A soft, familiar notification tone.

He turned his head slowly, expecting a routine update. More debris analysis. Another round of impact telemetry. Instead, he saw the sender field.

Relay Message Received—Prometheus (M6-117)

There was a pause in his brain. A kind of quiet click, like a dropped pin landing on tile. His heart didn’t race. It just… stopped for a beat. Then started again.

He opened the message.

One line.

How’d the launch go?

Mateo stared at the screen.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just sat there, one hand hovering near the keyboard but not touching it. The cursor blinked beneath her words, quiet and steady, as if it wasn’t sitting inside a vacuum of awful truth.

He leaned back slowly in his chair. Closed his eyes for a second.

Then opened them again, because she was waiting. And she didn’t know.

He rubbed his face with both hands, exhaling through his fingers. His eyes burned, not with tears but with exhaustion he didn’t have room for anymore.

He turned back to the keyboard. His hands hovered over the keys.

Then stopped.

Because how the hell do you explain this? How do you tell someone who’s a planet away that the thing meant to save her just fell out of the sky?

He sat there, surrounded by light he didn’t want, silence he couldn’t stand, and a message from someone who still believed there was hope.

And for the first time all day, he didn’t know what to say.

Taglist: @fancypeacepersona @ssbb-22 @mar-lo-pap @sathom013 @kimyishin @ttanniett @sweetvoidstuff @keiarajm @sathom013 @miniesjams32 @haru-jiminn @rg2108 @darklove2020

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pankowcrumbs · 17 days ago

Text

Just friends X Will Poulter

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

It all started with a film. Not a love story, ironically but a sharp, witty drama-comedy called Chalk Lines, about a mismatched group of former sixth form friends reuniting after ten years for the wedding of one of their own. I played Lena, the opinionated, caffeine-addicted teacher with a tendency to monologue. Will Poulter played Jamie, a hopeless romantic with a dry sense of humour and a slight hero complex. Our characters weren’t love interests just longtime mates with an unshakable bond.

Still, from the second week on set, everyone, and I mean everyone, was convinced Will and I were secretly dating.

It started with a photo someone snapped behind the monitors me laughing at something Will had whispered in my ear while we waited for a lighting setup. Then came the fan edits. We were tagged in dozens of them clips of us bantering in rehearsals, walking to set side by side, sharing a snack off camera all cut to soft indie tracks and “Just Friends?” captions in bold.

At first, it was funny. Then... we just stopped fighting it.

Not the relationship because there wasn’t one. But the narrative. We leaned into the chaos, replying to fan comments with a united front of sarcasm and deadpan humour.

So when our press day rolled around cast interviews, panels, red carpet nonsense we knew what was coming. The fans had been relentless for months. Every interviewer seemed contractually obliged to ask about “Jamie and Lena’s chemistry off screen,” followed by a knowing look at us.

On this particular morning, we were on a panel interview for The Film Room, joined by the rest of our Chalk Lines cast Jonathan Bailey, who played the soon-to-be groom, India Amarteifio as the no-nonsense bridesmaid, Thomas Brodie-Sangster as the chaotic ex, and Aimee Lou Wood as the wildcard cousin.

And we all got on like a house on fire. I mean truly group chats, pub nights, silly traditions. The kind of friendships that outlive the shoot.

“Right,” said the interviewer, Sophie, flipping open her notes with a grin. “You lot clearly adore each other. So, before we even talk about Chalk Lines, can we address the elephant in the room?”

Will and I exchanged a glance.

“Which elephant would that be, Sophie?” he asked, smoothing out his shirt collar.

“The one wearing matching Converse trainers and allegedly sharing oat milk lattes every morning?”

I looked down at our feet. “Damn. Busted.”

The cast burst into laughter.

“Come on, we all see it,” Jonathan said, raising an eyebrow. “You two have more chemistry than the whole film industry combined.”

“I mean,” Aimee chimed in, “the way you argue over whose flat has better snacks? If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

Thomas leaned forward dramatically. “I’ve shared scenes with Y/N. I’ve never seen her look at me the way she looks at Will when he steals her crisps.”

India was already scrolling through her phone. “Hang on, let me find this edit I saw the other day had me in tears. Slow-mo footage of you two hugging between takes with Iris playing in the background.”

“I think it’s beautiful,” Will said solemnly. “That someone took the time to edit the moment I choked on a grape into a romantic montage.”

“I wasn’t hugging you,” I pointed out. “I was trying to do the Heimlich.”

“Same energy,” he shrugged.

Sophie laughed. “So just to confirm, nothing’s going on?”

“Nothing but deep-seated emotional dependence,” I said.

“And a mutual Spotify playlist,” Will added.

“God, you’re impossible,” I muttered under my breath, nudging his knee with mine.

He smirked. “Takes one to know one.”

The rest of the interview went about as well as expected. Any time the subject veered toward plot or production, one of the cast would sneak in a joke about our supposed secret love affair. Even the serious questions turned into comedy.

“What was the most challenging scene to film?” Sophie asked.

“The one where Lena had to slap Jamie,” I said. “Because I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“She’s lying,” Will said. “She asked for multiple takes.”

“Only because you kept laughing!”

Jonathan added, “And that wasn’t even a scene. That was just during lunch.”

Eventually, Sophie wrapped it up with a cheeky smile. “Well, thank you all for your time. And thank you, Will and Y/N, for giving fans endless material for their fanfics.”

We stood, the laughter still bubbling. Will offered me his hand and helped me out of my chair like some 1950s gentleman.

“That was chaos,” I said, once we were backstage, away from the lights.

“Lovely chaos, though,” he replied. “They’re not wrong, you know.”

“About us being in love?”

He gave a cheeky smile. “About us being best mates. Can’t imagine having done this film without you.”

I nudged his shoulder. “Same.”

We didn’t need to clear anything up. There were no secret relationships, no drama behind the scenes. Just two people who got incredibly lucky working on a film that brought together six idiots who genuinely cared about one another.

Maybe fans would never stop speculating. Maybe someone was already editing today’s interview into a new TikTok with “Can’t Help Falling in Love” playing underneath.

The plan was simple. A group dinner with the cast nothing out of the ordinary. We’d done it a hundred times since the press tour started. We'd meet at some trendy place in Soho, argue over the menu, and laugh until our cheeks hurt. No alarms went off in my brain when Jonathan texted, “Dinner tonight? Everyone’s in.”

“Looking forward to it,” I replied, shoving my phone in my pocket, completely unaware of the plot about to unfold.

Will and I arrived first. Typical. We were always a bit early me because I hate being late, and Will because he’s secretly the most punctual man alive, even if he pretends to be all cool and casual about it.

"Guess we’re the first ones again," I said, glancing around outside the restaurant.

Will gave me a crooked grin, shrugging. "You'd think these people would know better than to let a Ravenclaw and a Hufflepuff get to dinner before them."

I laughed. "You’re such a nerd. That wasn’t even remotely on theme."

"I can never not do a Harry Potter reference with you."

We stepped into the restaurant, the hostess smiling warmly at us. “Reservation under Bailey?” I asked.

She nodded and gestured for us to follow. “Of course. Right this way.”

She led us through the main dining room and down a narrow corridor to a private room intimate lighting, two chairs, a small round table with a single candle in the centre. I stopped walking.

“Sorry, I think there’s a mistake,” I said. “There should be six of us.”

“This is the correct table,” she replied with a practised smile before slipping away like a character in a murder mystery.

Will turned to me with a raised eyebrow. “Bit fancy for pizza and pints, innit?”

I was already pulling out my phone. “I’ll text the group. Maybe the others are running late.”

No one replied. Typical. I looked at Will and shrugged. “Should we just... sit? Eat? Pretend this isn’t weird?”

He grinned. “Might as well. If this is a setup, they’ve outdone themselves.”

We sat, laughing about the situation, still utterly clueless. Until the waiter came out.

Wearing a crisp shirt, slicked-back hair, and a moustache that looked suspiciously fake... was Jonathan Bailey.

He carried a wine bottle like he’d trained at a Michelin-starred restaurant and greeted us in a terrible French accent. “Bonsoir, monsieur and mademoiselle. Welcome to Chez Chaos.”

I choked on my laughter. Will leaned back in his chair, wide-eyed. “Is that Bailey?”

“Is he doing a bit?” I asked, already cracking up.

Jonathan continued, entirely in character, ignoring our stares. “May I pour you some of our finest red from the vineyards of... Tesco?”

We exchanged looks. “This is a setup,” Will said, smirking.

“No shit Sherlock.”

One by one, our co-stars made their entrances, each playing a different restaurant role. India brought bread in a waistcoat and bowtie, claiming to be the “gluten guardian.” Thomas delivered our starters with an Italian accent that made zero sense. Aimee, acting as the “water sommelier,” dramatically described the tap water’s “earthy undertones.”

None of them broke character. Not once. And when we tried to call them out, they’d say things like, “I’m sorry, I don’t know who this ‘Jonathan’ is,” or “Madam, I work in hospitality, not in film.”

I couldn’t stop laughing. Neither could Will. The absurdity of it all the dedication to the bit made it one of the best nights I’d ever had.

It wasn’t until dessert that the final surprise was revealed.

A camera crew emerged from behind a divider.

I blinked. “Wait. What?”

Out walked a talk show host we both recognised immediately known for viral interview segments and cheeky ambushes.

“Will! Y/N!” he called. “Welcome to ‘The Love Trap’!”

Will groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh no.”

I stared at the camera, mouth slightly open. “This is a setup and a public shaming.”

“Absolutely,” the host beamed. “And look, your entire friend group helped.”

Jonathan threw his hands up from the corner, still in costume. “We did it for the fans!”

“You do realise we’re not dating, right?” I said, chuckling nervously.

The host raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Because Twitter disagrees. There’s a thirty-minute edit of you two looking at each other in slow motion set to a Taylor Swift song.”

Will tried not to laugh, failing miserably. “Let me guess, ‘You Belong With Me’?”

“‘Invisible String,’ actually.”

I turned to Will, grinning. “That’s at least an 8/10 edit.”

“9.5,” he agreed.

The host leaned in. “So. Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you two?”

Will opened his mouth, then paused. “Define ‘sure.’”

Everyone in the room exploded with laughter.

It was like that the entire evening teasing, sarcasm, banter. But what surprised me was how easy it all felt. Being with Will, even in this ridiculous setup, never felt uncomfortable. If anything, it felt... right.

When the cameras were off and we were walking out of the restaurant, I nudged him. “Well. That was eventful.”

Will chuckled. “I’ve never been so aggressively romanced by a film crew.”

“And your best mates.”

The car ride home was quiet but not awkward. Comfortable, even. The soft hum of the engine filled the silence between us as the streets of London slipped past in a blur of lamplight and rain-speckled windows. I fiddled with the bracelet on my wrist, stealing glances at Will’s profile illuminated by the dashboard lights. He looked calm. Focused. His left hand rested lazily at the bottom of the wheel, and every now and then, his thumb tapped to the rhythm of whatever song was playing through the speakers.

Neither of us said much since we left the restaurant.

What could we say, really?

Our friends had pulled off a complete ambush. A whole fake dinner, private room, them dressed as waiters, the lot and all of it filmed for a late-night talk show appearance. It had been a full-on matchmaking scheme wrapped in sarcasm, flirty accusations, and glances that lingered a little too long. For the first time, it felt like they weren’t entirely wrong.

“Thanks for the lift,” I murmured as he pulled up in front of my place.

Will didn’t answer straight away. He turned off the engine, but neither of us moved to open our doors.

“No worries,” he finally replied, voice soft. “Bit mad tonight, wasn’t it?”

“Completely.”

We both chuckled. And then… silence again.

I looked out the windscreen at the quiet street, shadows of tree branches dancing across the pavement in the glow of a streetlamp. My flat was right there ten steps away. But something in the air held me in my seat, like getting out now would ruin something unspoken, something that had shifted in the past few hours.

Will rubbed the back of his neck. “Can I be honest with you?”

I turned toward him. “Always.”

He didn’t look at me right away. He stared at the steering wheel like it held answers.

“I kept telling myself we were just friends. That it was just chemistry for the camera, a bit of banter. But I think tonight made me realise…” He paused, finally meeting my eyes. “I don’t want it to just be that anymore.”

My heart thudded. Loud and certain.

I swallowed hard. “You too, huh?”

He let out a breath that was half laugh, half relief. “So it’s not just me.”

I shook my head slowly, smiling. “Not just you.”

Will’s gaze softened. “Can I ask something a bit mad?”

“Go on.”

He hesitated. “Would it be completely inappropriate if I didn’t go home just yet?”

My breath caught. I knew what he was saying. He wasn’t suggesting anything crude or presumptuous. It was more about not wanting this moment to end. About the magnetic pull between us finally acknowledged and impossible to ignore.

“I was about to ask if you wanted to come in,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled quietly, genuinely. “Then I’d like that.”

We got out of the car, not rushing, walking slowly toward the door. I unlocked it with slightly trembling fingers, not from nerves but something else anticipation. Inside, the hallway was dimly lit by the lamp I always left on, the warm amber glow casting shadows across the walls.

I kicked off my shoes, suddenly hyper-aware of the silence between us again. Will stood near the door, taking in my space like he hadn’t been here before, even though he had. But never like this. Never with the air charged and every glance saying more than words ever could.

“D’you want a drink or...?”

“I’m okay,” he said, cutting me off gently. “Unless you want one.”

“No,” I said, my voice dipping. “I’m good.”

We stood in the hallway for a moment before I nodded toward the living room. “Come on. It’s warmer in here.”

He followed me in, sitting on the sofa while I tucked my legs beneath me in the opposite corner. The television played a muted rerun of something we weren’t watching. All I could hear was the soft tick of the clock and the rustle of Will shifting to face me.

“Bit surreal, isn’t it?” I said, eyes locked on his.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Feels like we’ve been circling this for a while.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “More than a while.”

There was something about his expression that made me feel like I was floating something gentle and open, but laced with the weight of something deeper. That thing you keep locked away until someone makes you feel safe enough to share it.

“I always thought you were a bit out of my league,” he admitted.

I blinked. “What?”

“You just… You light up every room. You’re clever, and funny, and you’ve got this presence. Everyone sees it. I thought I was just the mate making you laugh in between takes.”

My heart twisted. “That’s ridiculous.”

He smiled sadly. “Maybe. But it’s true.”

I reached out without thinking, brushing his hand where it rested on his knee. “I’ve always seen you, Will. Maybe I just didn’t let myself admit how much.”

His fingers turned over and curled into mine, slowly, deliberately.

The silence returned, but this time it was thick with something else hope, fear, desire, everything layered together. The TV flickered softly, colours playing across our faces, and I knew in that moment that nothing would be the same after tonight.

Will’s voice came low and steady. “Can I stay? Just for a bit. We don’t have to do anything or talk about it if you don’t want to. I just…”

I squeezed his hand. “Stay.”

We didn’t end up sleeping in separate rooms. But it wasn’t what people would assume.

We sat up talking for hours on the sofa, then in bed. Under the covers, facing each other like teenagers, our legs tangled and our voices hushed in the dark. We talked about the shoot, the edits, the ridiculous fan compilations we pretended to roll our eyes at. He told me about growing up, the pressure he’d felt to always be the “nice guy” on screen and off. I told him about how I hid behind humour whenever I felt too much.

And we laughed. God, we laughed.

But underneath all of it, there was tension. This low hum in the background, like something unspoken but mutually understood. Our touches lingered a little longer, eyes drifted to lips more than once. When his hand slid along my waist under the duvet, I didn’t move away.

But we didn’t rush it. We stayed there in that liminal space between friendship and something more, letting the quiet speak for us.

At some point, my eyes started to close and I felt his fingers brush my cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Sleep,” he whispered.

“You too,” I murmured back.

Morning came softly.

I woke up to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the sound of the kettle clicking off in the kitchen. Will was making tea.

When I walked in, still wearing the oversized T-shirt I’d thrown on before bed, he turned and grinned like he’d been doing this for years. Like this was normal.

“Morning,” he said, offering me a mug.

“Morning.”

I took it, our fingers brushing, and the butterflies returned instantly.

He looked at me, tilting his head. “You alright?”

I nodded. “Yeah. You?”

He smiled. “More than.”

He passed me the mug, and for a moment, we just stood there in the kitchen. The warm porcelain pressed against my hands, the smell of Earl Grey curling up like a comfort blanket, but all I could feel was the electricity radiating off Will.

The air shifted.

His eyes lingered on me on my lips, on the sleepy way my hair fell around my shoulders, on the oversized shirt of his I’d borrowed and forgotten was his until now.

He cleared his throat softly. “You, uh… you look good in that.”

I looked down at the shirt, cheeks flushing. “It’s yours.”

“Yeah.” He swallowed. “I know.”

It was such a simple sentence. But something about the way he said it, voice low and thick with meaning, made my heart stutter.

He took a step closer. “Can I kiss you?”

It was barely a whisper.

I nodded before I could talk myself out of it.

And then he kissed me.

Slow, unhurried, but certain. Like he’d been thinking about it for far too long and now that it was finally happening, he didn’t want to rush a second of it. His hands came up gently one settling at my waist, the other brushing against my jaw. I leaned into him, the mug forgotten, hands curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.

When he pulled back, we were both breathing a little harder.

“I’ve wanted to do that for ages,” he murmured, foreheads pressed together.

“Me too.”

There was a beat.

Then something shifted like we both felt the final thread pull taut.

He kissed me again, harder this time, more sure. I responded instantly, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer until there was barely space between us. His hands moved skimming under the hem of my shirt, brushing against the skin of my lower back, making me shiver.

“You’re freezing,” he whispered, lips ghosting along my jaw. “C’mere.”

He took my hand and gently led me back to the bedroom, neither of us saying much, because words would’ve only got in the way now.

In the soft light of the morning, he paused and looked at me really looked.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice husky but earnest.

I nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

His smile was quiet, almost reverent, before he reached for me again.

There was nothing rushed. Everything he did was with care and attention his fingers brushing over my arms, my waist, my thighs as if learning them for the first time. Each touch sent sparks skating across my skin. When his lips moved down my neck, it was gentle at first, but soon heat began to replace softness.

He pushed the shirt slowly up my body, fingertips skimming along my ribs, pausing just below the hem like he was asking permission. I raised my arms wordlessly, and he slipped it over my head. His eyes swept over me, his breath catching, and then he kissed me again deeper, hungrier.

I tugged at his T-shirt in return, and he pulled it off, revealing a toned chest I’d seen in photos and on screen, but never like this. Never this close. Never while he was looking at me like I was the only thing that existed.

When I kissed down the side of his throat, I felt him exhale shakily.

We ended up on the bed him over me, then beside me, then under me our movements a blur of whispered words and tangled limbs. There was laughter, too. Soft, surprised giggles between kisses. I think that’s what made it feel so real.

And when he finally settled above me again, our bodies pressed together, his forehead against mine, we just... stopped.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, like it was a fact, not a compliment.

My hand traced the line of his spine. “So are you.”

And then there were no more words.

Just the press of lips, the rustle of sheets, the slow burn of something inevitable.

What happened next was like falling into a dream we’d both had before but only just remembered. Everything was slow and deliberate, his mouth trailing along my collarbone, my nails grazing down his back, the air between us filled with the kind of electricity that makes time feel irrelevant.

And when the final layer between us slipped away, it was like everything we’d been holding back the tension, the friendship, the longing finally found release.

Later, we lay tangled in the aftermath, skin against skin, his arm draped around my waist, my head resting on his chest. The morning light crept across the bed like it was trying to witness what we already knew.

That this wasn’t just chemistry.

This was the start of something real.

And neither of us had to say it out loud to feel it.

#fanfiction #reader #x reader #one shot #requested #will poulter imagine #will poulter one shot #will poulter fanfic #will poulter x reader #will poulter #will #poulter

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kk095 · 2 months ago

Text

The Clinical Trial

The sterile, sleek white walls of the research facility gleam under recessed lighting, giving the space an ultramodern, almost futuristic vibe. Everything is clean, clinical, and controlled. The faint hum of machines and the soft tap of footsteps on polished floors echo in the otherwise hushed corridor.

Dr Lindsay Wilkes steps through the frosted glass entryway doors with a small smile tugging at her lips. Dressed in a fitted gray blazer over a white casual top, dark jeans, and her usual quiet confidence, she looks more like a visiting speaker than a test subject. Her light brown hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail, and a thin silver necklace rests just above her collarbones.

Waiting for her near the intake desk are the trio running the clinical trial.

Dr Anna- early 40s, commanding presence, jet black hair pinned in a French twist, is the first to greet her. “Dr Wilkes” she begins, voice smooth and welcoming. “We’re honored to have you here. Your impressive background makes you a perfect candidate.” Dr Anna compliments.

Next to her is Dr Olivia, younger- in her early 30s, and a touch more energetic, all sharp cheekbones and quick glances, followed by Nurse Ashley – blonde, polished, clipboard in hand, her smile just a little too wide. “We’re big fans of yours. ER doctors make the most interesting subjects.” Ashley adds. Lindsay laughs lightly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, I’m just excited to be a part of this. I’ve been reading up on your work- it’s absolutely fascinating.” Lindsay replies enthusiastically.

“Oh, Cardexor has the potential to change the game.” Dr Anna replies, referencing her experimental medication without hesitation. “Performance enhancement, cardiac precision, stamina… all by gently modulating ion flow. You’re going to be part of history!” Dr Anna boasts.

The trio guides Dr Lindsay down a pristine hallway to a large, open exam room. Inside, the air smells faintly of antiseptic and ozone. A sleek white bed sits beneath a wall mounted monitor.

“Alright, Lindsay.” Nurse Ashley says, setting her clipboard down on a nearby countertop “we’ll have you get out of your clothes now. You can leave your personal items on the tray beside the bed.” The nurse instructs Lindsay.

The ER doc nods and starts to remove her blazer and shoes, then peels off her jeans, folding them neatly. Within moments, she’s barefoot on the cool tile floor, clad only in a gray sports bra and compression shorts. The silver necklace still rests around her neck- a small piece of personal flair amid the clinical setting.

Lindsay hops onto the exam table, sitting upright as sticky ECG leads are applied across her chest and torso. The monitor lights up with a steady rhythm- normal sinus. IV lines are started, her blood pressure is taken. Everything checks out. Everything’s good to go. Dr Olivia studies the monitor. “Vitals are solid. Baseline EKG is clean. You’re textbook, Dr Lindsay.”

Lindsay grins. “Let’s hope I stay that way!”

Dr Anna offers a nod, though her expression doesn’t quite match the enthusiasm. “We’ll begin the first infusion shortly. Just relax. If anything feels off at any point, speak up. This is cutting-edge science, but you’re still in control.” Anna tells Lindsay.

The team exits momentarily to prepare the first dose, leaving Lindsay alone on the table, feet dangling slightly, watching the quiet green blips on the monitor. She seems calm and confident. She has no idea that her name will soon be the third entry in a growing list.

Dr Lindsay reclines slightly on the padded exam table, IV already in place. The ultramodern room remains relatively calm, with faint mechanical beeps from the heart monitor and the subtle hiss of the air conditioning from a vent in the ceiling. A flat-panel screen nearby glows with her live vitals- all still perfectly normal. Her blazer is neatly folded on a nearby chair. Barefoot, dressed down to a charcoal gray sports bra and black compression shorts, she looks more like a training athlete than an ER physician about to become a patient.

Dr Anna re-enters the room and steps up with a small vial of clear liquid, hooking it to the IV line, careful and precise in her movements. “This is it- Cardexor, the newest evolution in cardiac modulation.” she tells Lindsay with an excited smile, though there’s a flicker of something unreadable in her expression. “You’re officially our tenth volunteer in the trial!”

“Great, double digits. Glad I get to be a part of this!” Lindsay says lightly, giving a small smile, eyes flicking toward the monitor, her vitals still normal.

Dr Olivia adjusts the infusion pump. “We’ll be starting with a conservative dose and monitoring for about twenty minutes. Most of the pharmacokinetics are pretty quick. You should start noticing some sensations within a few minutes.” Dr Olivia explains.

“Side effects?” Lindsay asks, watching the clear liquid drip down the line into her vein. “Tingling, maybe some lightheadedness. Nothing to be worried about.” Dr Olivia answers too quickly. Nurse Ashley, standing at the foot of the table, gives a practiced smile but avoids eye contact with Lindsay.

A few minutes pass. The room is quiet except for casual small talk and monitor beeps. Then…

“Hmm… I’m… feeling something…” Lindsay murmurs, brow furrowing slightly. “There’s a little tingling in my chest. Like pins and needles.” Continues Lindsay. Dr Anna nods, jotting something on a digital tablet. “That’s totally expected. That’s just the Cardexor fine-tuning those ion channels, nudging the signal transmission. All part of the process.” Dr Anna dismisses Lindsay’s symptoms. Lindsay shifts a little. “My head’s kind of floaty too, almost like I got up too fast.” Complains Lindsay. “You’re doing great, this is all normal.” Nurse Ashley says with gentle encouragement, though her eyes flick quickly to the monitor. Lindsay’s heart rate has crept up from 100bpm into the low 120s- just high enough to be noticeable, but not necessarily alarming.

Dr Olivia presses the back of her hand to Lindsay’s forehead. “No fever. Any tightness in your chest?” she asks. “No… just… pins and needles.” Lindsay breathes in slowly, and though she’s still calm, there’s a subtle tension in her voice now. “We’re right on track.” Dr Anna smiles, a little too tightly.

Lindsay closes her eyes for a moment, her brows raising ever so slightly as she took a slow, steadying breath. She was still trying to convince herself it was nothing- just her body adjusting, just nerves, perhaps. The fluttering in her chest lingered like an aftershock, faint but persistent.

A soft beep drew Ashley’s eyes to the monitor. Lindsay’s heart rate had climbed again- nothing dramatic, just a little higher than before. But it stayed there, holding steady at the new pace like it had found a rhythm it wasn’t supposed to. None of the women said anything. For a moment, the room was filled with an unnatural stillness, like the quiet just before a storm.

An hour or so passes since the infusion started. Lindsay sits upright on the exam table, legs extended and crossed at the ankles, her bare heel resting on the padded surface. She rubs her sternum with the heel of her hand, the gesture casual at first, then more deliberate. “There’s this weird tightness now…” she tells the team, her tone light, but her eyes searching. “I also feel a pinch. Right in the center.” Continues Lindsay, gesturing to the location on her chest. Dr Olivia steps in with her usual serene smile. “That’s not uncommon. Some participants report transient chest sensations while the ion modulation stabilizes.” Olivia explains. “Transient?” Lindsay replies. Nurse Ashley adjusts the IV line, her movements smooth and practiced. The telemetry monitor gives a soft beep, a little quicker than it was earlier. Lindsay glances at the screen, noting the climb: heart rate hovering in the low 130s now. “Still sinus.” Anna informs, peering at the readout and tapping a few notes into the tablet. “We’ll push a little metoprolol just to keep things where we want them.” Instructs Dr Anna. Lindsay nods, overhearing them, breathing through another round of pins and needles. She shifts her shoulders and tries to relax, but the rhythm feels off inside her chest- like something ticking out of sync.

Then, just for a second, Lindsay catches a look. Olivia’s eyes flick to Anna, subtle, concerned, but enough to tighten something low in Lindsay’s gut. She offers a half-smile to cut the tension. “Okay… what was that look all about? I’m not gonna be toes up in the morgue anytime soon, am I?” Lindsay half-jokes. Anna chuckles. “God, no! You’re doing great. These are just fine-tuning effects. Your body’s just adapting. It means the compound is working.” Anna explains away.

Lindsay leans back a little, not totally convinced, but willing to believe it for now. “Alright. Just don’t let me die half naked in my compression shorts.” Quips Lindsay. They all laugh, perhaps a little too quickly.

Ashley hangs another saline flush, and the monitor continues its steady beep… beep… beep, like a ticking clock. Lindsay closes her eyes briefly, exhales, and rests her hand against her chest again. Something’s not right. But she doesn’t know just how wrong it’s about to get.

The clinical room, once sterile and composed, now buzzes with a subtle but unmistakable undercurrent of tension. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor had sped up, edging into a range that triggered the machine’s soft warning tones. Lindsay sat upright on the exam table, eyeing the monitors. A sheen of sweat began to form across her collarbones, and her breathing, while controlled, speeds up.

She presses the palm of her hand against her chest, fingertips trembling slightly. “I’m still feeling it…it’s worse…” she utters quietly. “It’s much sharper now- like a pinch just behind my sternum.” Adds Dr Lindsay, concern in her voice. Anna glances up from the monitor with a tight smile. “That’s probably the beta stimulation- it can happen at this stage.” Anna downplays Lindsay’s symptoms. Olivia stands beside her, cross-checking a second monitor. “Heart rate’s up, but still within protocol range.” She informs. “Still in protocol? That’s good.” Lindsay repeats, her voice flat, lips twitching into a weak half-smile.

She exhales and glances around the room. “Have you guys ever tested this on ER docs before? Or am I your guinea pig with a stethoscope?” jokes Dr Lindsay. Ashley chuckles softly from the IV station. “Nah, you’re our star subject! Clean vitals, athletic background- you’re ideal.” Ashley responds. But Lindsay wasn’t buying the reassurance this time. Her eyes flick over to the monitor again. The QRS complexes had widened. Her trained gaze pick up on it, even before the machine sounded another beep, this one more insistent.

She narrows her eyes. “Wait, that’s… V-tach.” Lindsay looks to Anna. “You’re seeing it too, right?” asks Lindsay. Anna hesitates for half a second- just long enough for Lindsay to catch it. “It’s a nonsustained run. We’re monitoring. You’re still stable.” Anna brushes it off. “Stable? That’s a curious word choice for this rhythm.” Lindsay firmly replies, her voice tighter now. Olivia busied herself at the bedside, adjusting the telemetry leads. “You’re still perfusing well. BP’s solid. Let’s get some fluids in, maybe push a touch of lidocaine.” Olivia chimes in.

Ashley moves efficiently, drawing up meds. The quiet hiss of saline through the IV port was almost drowned out by the monitor’s quickening beeps. Lindsay’s heart rate hovers just over 160- still with a pulse, still conscious, but each beat seemed more jagged than the last. “I’m not trying to be dramatic, but if this keeps up much longer, someone’s going to need the crash cart.” Lindsay murmurs to the team. Anna’s voice was gentle. “It’s ok. We have a protocol for situations like this.” Anna was clearly running out of things to say to dismiss Lindsay. Dr Lindsay turns her head slightly toward her. “You answered that a little too fast, Anna. What’s really going on here?!” Lindsay knows something’s off.

Another glance passes between Anna and Olivia- brief but tight.

“What was that look?! You did it again!” Lindsay shouts, more nervous this time. Olivia leaned closer, offering a steadying hand on Lindsay’s shoulder. “You’re fine. This is what the close monitoring is for. You’re in good hands.” Olivia tries to reassure. Lindsay gave a single nod, but her gaze drifted back to the monitor. The screen now showed a classic wide-complex tachycardia, consistent with sustained V-tach. Her expression remained composed, but her breathing had deepened, a thin tremor in her arms now visible. “Okay… stay strong, Linds…” she whispers, mostly to herself.

Several minutes pass, and the EKG monitor let out a steady whine as her heart continued to race inside her chest. Her breathing came in shallow, focused puffs. “I’m still with you…” she murmurs, glancing from one face to the next. “This is still manageable… right?” asks Lindsay, growing increasingly uneasy. Dr Anna didn’t answer immediately. She was at the head of the bed, eyes locked on the monitor. “V-tach, still with a pulse.” Anna confirms, more to Olivia and Ashley than to Lindsay. Dr Olivia steps to Lindsay’s side, readying the crash cart. “We need to cardiovert you. Now.” States Olivia. Lindsay’s eyes shift to the defibrillators, then back to Olivia. “Oh…” Lindsay utters. “Yep. We’re going to get this handled for you.” Ashley said, voice quick and clipped as she peels open a fresh pack of defib pads. “Synchronized. It won’t be fun.” Ashley adds.

“Are you sedating me?” Lindsay asks. A beat of silence passes. Dr Anna shook her head. “We can’t in your case. And you’re still responsive. It’ll hurt- but it’s absolutely necessary.” Anna explains, her tone more stern. Lindsay swallows hard, a flicker of fear behind her eyes, but she nods. “Do it.”

Ashley places the pads quickly- sternum and apex, while Olivia set the charge. Dr Anna presses gently but firmly on Lindsay’s shoulder to keep her still. “Lindsay, we’re going to shock you now, ok?” Informs Dr Anna. Lindsay just nods in response, her stare blank.

“Defibrillator is charged to 150 joules. Everyone stand clear for me.” Olivia calls out.

The first shock is delivered, and hits her like a freight train.

Lindsay’s chest shoots forward, her back bending a bit. A strangled cry exits from her throat- pure reflex. Her heel scraped along the thin mattress, toes curling hard, showing off the fresh white nail polish on her toes along with the thin, wavy wrinkles throughout the soles of her size 12 feet. The monitor responds with a blink… but the rhythm held steady in V-tach.

“Still in VT.” Ashley mouths, frowning at the screen. “Olivia, charge again to 150.” Anna instructs, already reaching to steady Lindsay again. Lindsay’s breath caught. She didn’t say a word, but her eyes- glassy now, fixed on the ceiling like she was bracing herself for a wave.

“Defibrillator is charged to 150 joules. Everyone stand clear for me.” Olivia calls out.

The second shock came, feeling harder than the first. This time, Lindsay screamed. It wasn’t theatrical- just a raw, involuntary sound that erupted from somewhere deep in her chest as the electricity races through her. Lindsay’s necklace swung against her collarbone with the motion. Her face contorted in pain, eyebrows raised, forehead crinkling, and for a moment, she didn’t seem to breathe at all. “Still no change, everyone.” Ashley informs.

Olivia’s hands were already moving. “Charging defibrillator to 200 joules.” She calls out. Lindsay blinked slowly, chest rising in shaky bursts. “Do it…” Lindsay rasped, through gritted teeth. The third shock landed like thunder.

Her entire body tenses up hard, shoulders shrugging forwards, both her hands making loose fists. Lindsay let out a pained moan, feeling the quick jolt of electricity work its way through every square inch of her 6’1 body.

Then, there was quiet. The monitor let out a softer tone. It was still fast, but regular. “Sinus tach.” Ashley confirms. A small breath of relief escaped her lips. “She’s back.” Anna smiles, feeling relieved. Lindsay let her head fall to the side, breathing fast and shallow, face pale, lashes wet. “Jesus. Never again!” she blurts out . Anna gives her a tight nod. “You’re stable for now. That’s what matters. We’ll let you rest for a bit.”

Over the coming little while, Lindsay remains in sinus tachycardia. Lindsay lay back against the inclined bed, a sheen of sweat still clinging to her collarbones. Her chest rose and fell with steady rhythm now, the erratic pounding finally tamed into something bearable. Electrodes remain stuck to her skin, telemetry still beeping softly nearby, but the atmosphere in the room had shifted.

Dr Anna stood at the foot of the bed with her arms crossed, watching the monitor with clinical focus but no urgency. Olivia leans on the nearby counter, half-sipping from a water bottle, while Nurse Ashley updates a chart on the tablet in her hand.

“You’re doing great, vitals improving.” Anna told Dr Lindsay with a smile that, for the first time, didn’t feel rehearsed. “HR’s holding steady in the 120s- definitely an improvement from earlier.” Adds Anna. Lindsay let out a breath through her nose, almost a laugh. “As an ER doctor, I’ve shocked plenty of people in my day. I never thought I’d be on the receiving end.” she jokes, reaching up to rub where the defib pad still sits.

“You took it like a champ.” Olivia chuckles. “Didn’t have much of a choice, did I?” Lindsay replies, managing a grin. “You all decided I was the world’s best science experiment.” Lindsay quips. Ashley offers her a bottle of water and a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Hang in there, Doctor. You’re helping us learn something important.” Encourages Nurse Ashley.

Lindsay takes the water and sips, but her fingers tremble faintly around the plastic bottle. It was subtle. Easily missed. And maybe she was just a little out of it, considering she was just shocked three times.

The heart monitor beeped at a calm, consistent pace.

Still, she noticed the way Dr Olivia’s eyes flicked to the screen just a second too long. How Anna’s posture stiffened just slightly when Lindsay shifted in the bed. How Ashley’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Lindsay caught it just barely. “You all okay?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. Anna laughs nervously. “The worst part is over. You’re doing just fine.”

Olivia added, “We’ve got eyes on everything. You’re in good hands.”

Lindsay leans back, letting the water bottle rest on her lap. She wasn’t sure if the creeping unease was just her imagination or the return of something real. But for now, she chose to believe them. The lights dimmed slightly as the sun began to set outside the high windows. Machines hummed softly. Monitors blinked. Everything was fine.

Another twenty minutes had passed. The room had grown still again, except for the soft beeps of the heart monitor. Lindsay sat upright, her color a touch better, a thin blanket drawn across her lap. Her breathing had evened out. Olivia had just made a quiet note in the chart, and Ashley was adjusting an IV pump when it hit.

Lindsay flinched. It was sudden and sharp. Her hand shot to her chest, pressing just beneath her left collarbone. Her brow creased, forehead crinkled, as she leaned forward, lips parting in a shallow gasp. “Oh god… something’s wrong.” Lindsay murmured. The heart monitor confirmed it a second or so later, the steady rhythm giving way to a rapid, fluttering series of beeps.

Ashley’s head snapped toward the screen. “Telemetry just jumped, she’s spiking again.” Informs Ashley. Anna crossed the room in three strides. “Lindsay, talk to me. What are you feeling?” Dr Anna asks, her tone clipped and stern. “chest pain… palpitations… Something’s really really wrong…” answers Lindsay. She sucked in a breath. Her eyes darted to the monitor and back to Anna. Her composure was crumbling now- still holding, but fraying at the edges. “Rate’s climbing. 160 and rising.” Olivia informs. Anna’s voice stayed even. “We’ve got it. You’re still in a rhythm we can manage.” Anna reassures. But even as she said it, she was pulling on a pair of gloves, and Ashley was already prepping another IV med. The room had taken on a charge- quiet, but tense.

Lindsay’s grip tightened on the edge of the bed. Her breaths came faster and more shallow. “I thought we fixed this! Why is it happening?!” Lindsay shouts. Ashley and Olivia exchanged a quick glance. Nothing overt, just enough to register. Lindsay caught it. “Okay. That look? I know that look.” Lindsay shook her head. “You’re okay, Lindsay.” Anna said, but it was too quick. Lindsay looked up at her, face pale, lips slightly parted. “Don’t lie to me!” Lindsay snapped. “We’re not. We’re on top of this.” Anna replied softly. The monitor beeped louder, faster. A warning tone now. 165. 170.

Lindsay slumped back slightly, wincing, her voice more fragile this time. “I feel like my heart’s trying to leap out of my chest…” Lindsay groans. Olivia moves closer to the crash cart- still calm, but with new urgency in her step. Ashley hovered by the meds, ready. “We’re staying ahead of it. Just hang with us.” Anna places a hand gently on Lindsay’s shoulder. Dr Lindsay nodded, but her eyes didn’t leave the monitor.

The sharp, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was suddenly replaced by a blaring, erratic wail. Lindsay’s body shifted uncomfortably for a split second, her hand clutched tightly to her chest. “OH GOD…” she winced, her voice tight, barely audible. Her eyes went WIDE, pupils dilating as her body slumped.

“Lindsay?!” Dr Anna was already moving with a pep in her step. The monitor blared. Pulseless ventricular tachycardia. “Code blue!” Olivia shouted, her hand slamming the red button on the wall. Ashley lunged for the crash cart, tearing open drawers with trembling precision. Anna took lead, her voice cutting clean through the chaos. “Get the pads ready. Ashley- bag her. We need to intubate.” Anna commanded.

The air in the room thickened. Olivia snipped off Lindsay’s sports bra and began deep, strong chest compressions. Lindsay’s chest rocked beneath each forceful push. Her face, once full of quiet strength, now lay pale and motionless. “Pads ready. Charging to 200,” Ashley called out. “Hold on! Hold on! I’m intubating!” Anna pressed the laryngoscope into Lindsay’s mouth, hands steady as she passed the 8.0 ET tube down her trachea. “Tube’s in. Confirm with bag.” Anna barked. “Good rise. Tube’s good.” Ashley confirms, already squeezing the ambu bag rhythmically. “Alright, I’m going to go ahead and shock her now. Everyone stand clear!” Olivia announced. Everyone backed away.

The shock hit Lindsay. Her back arched violently, chest shot up, her hands making weak fists, plopping back down a second or two later.

“No change, resume compressions.” Anna ordered, jaw tight. “Ashley, push epi, one milligram IV.” Olivia called out, hands back on Lindsay’s chest, pushing hard and fast. Ashley administered the meds without a word.

The seconds bled together. Another round of compressions, and the meds were pushed. “Charging again- 300 this time.” Ashley took over the defibs. “Clear!!!”

Lindsay’s body twitched sharply in response. Another rush of electrical current through her tall, athletic body, but she devolved into v-fib.

“Still no pulse, looks like maybe v-fib on the monitors” Olivia observed softly, her voice starting to fray. Anna’s expression didn’t shift. “Another amp of epi. Get ready for amiodarone- 300 milligrams, push.” Commanded Anna.

The meds were pushed. CPR continued. The monitor continued to shriek.

“Charging to 360. Stand clear, everyone!” Ashley called out.

The third shock caused Lindsay’s feet to kick up an inch or so above the table, slamming back down with an ungracious THUD, showing off the thin, prominent, wavy wrinkles throughout the soles of her size 12 feet.

Anna’s gloved hands reached towards Lindsay’s neck, feeling for a carotid. “still no pulse, v-fib on the monitors.” Dr Anna shook her head.

The code continued. And Lindsay? She lay still, on the receiving end of deep, violent chest compressions. Her chest caving in, recoiling rhythmically, her toned belly with abs rippling out. The room, once full of optimism, was now silent except for the rhythmic thud of chest compressions and the hiss of forced ventilation.

The room was still bathed in harsh fluorescent light, sterile and too bright for what was unfolding. Alarms blared in their usual chaotic rhythm, but everyone had long since stopped reacting to them. On the monitor, the jagged, erratic waves of ventricular fibrillation darted across the screen. Lindsay’s body lay still on the table, her chest rising and falling only with the force of chest compressions.

“Charging again to 200. Everyone stand back for me.” Olivia announced, her voice flat from repetition. The shock hit Lindsay’s body with a jolt. Her 6’1 frame was tossed around effortlessly, arms slightly flinching outward, as the energy surged through her lifeless heart. The monitor stuttered. For a half-second, something vaguely organized sparked across the screen, then back to v-fib.

Ashley didn’t stop compressions. Her brow was damp with sweat, jaw clenched tightly as she counted under her breath. “Twenty-one… twenty-two…”

“Charging again. 250 this time.” Olivia called out. Anna just nodded, her eyes locked on the monitor, watching with clinical intensity. There was a subtle weight behind her expression now- grim acceptance beginning to settle in her bones.

The next shock was delivered. Lindsay’s body jerked once more. Another violent convulsion that looked nothing like life. Still v-fib.

“Still no pulse.” Ashley informed, pausing just briefly before going back in with compressions, her palms hitting harder than before. “We can keep going” Ashley suggests, almost pleading, her voice cracking.

Anna shook her head. “Nope. We lost her.” she said firmly, stepping back from the foot of the bed. Her voice was calm, almost too calm. “The trial drug caused mass dysfunction of the cardiac conduction system. Her heart’s no longer conductive, so we’re going to have to stop here and call time of death.” Anna explained, cold and matter of fact.

Ashley froze mid-compression. Her hands hovered above Lindsay’s chest for a second or so before she finally withdrew them. Dr Olivia didn’t say anything. She just reached over and pressed the power button for the heart monitor, which still displayed refractory v-fib. “Alright, everyone. Time of death, 18:45.” Anna broke the silence.

The room was eerily quiet now. No more beeping monitors. No more shouted commands. Just the stillness that followed the end of a code.

Lindsay’s body lay motionless on the table, chest rising no more, her head slightly turned to one side, eyes wide open, staring somewhere no one else could follow.

Nobody moved at first. Anna, Olivia, and Ashley just stood there, still in their gloves, gowns, and masks. A heaviness pressed down on the room, like it was holding its breath with them. Finally, Ashley stepped forward, reaching for the ambu bag still attached to the endotracheal tube. She unhooked it slowly, the rubber disconnect giving a soft click that echoed far louder than it should have. Olivia followed, gently peeling the defib pads from Lindsay’s chest. Anna moved in closer, hands steady as she carefully removed the EKG wires from Lindsay’s torso, one by one. No one spoke, but everyone did their part.

Ashley unwound the IV tubing from Lindsay’s arm, slipping the catheter free with an almost reverent gentleness. A soft trickle of blood followed, quickly wiped with gauze. Then, with quiet care, Olivia reached up and used her fingertips to gently close Lindsay’s wide open eyes. That blank, unblinking stare was gone.

Anna reached down, pulled a toe tag from the drawer, and began to fill it out. Her handwriting was neat and quick: “Lindsay Wilkes, MD. Time of death: 18:45.” She slipped the tag over Lindsay’s left big toe and fastened it in place, letting it dangle against the wrinkled soles of her feet.

“She’s the third one this week.” Anna spoke finally, her voice low and flat, shaking her head. “Yeah, back to the drawing board, I guess.” Olivia murmured, folding her arms across her chest. No one added anything. There was nothing left to say at that point.

Ashley stepped forward again and drew the white sheet up, first over Lindsay’s torso, then her face, tucking it in gently like she was putting someone to bed. For a long moment, the three of them stood in silence. At the end of the table, the toe tag swayed slightly, brushing softly against the soles of Lindsay’s feet, forever symbolizing Lindsay’s tragic end in what was originally supposed to be a positive experience.

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