Chapter Text
The conference room aboard Stratt’s Vat, the loving nickname of the dumb piece of tin floating in the ocean with god knows how many world renowned scientists, felt too small for the number of egos trapped inside it.
The massive floating laboratory groaned softly beneath the Atlantic waves, steel flexing somewhere deep below deck with every swell of the ocean. The sound vibrated faintly through the walls and floor like the ship itself was exhausted too. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with an electrical hum that drilled directly into Ryland Grace’s skull. The air smelled like burnt coffee, dry erase marker, printer toner, antiseptic, and too many people trapped together for too many hours. Someone had reheated fish in the galley two decks down. Grace could still smell it. He wished he couldn’t.
He sat beside Eva Stratt at the long conference table because that was simply where everyone expected him to sit now.
Second in command.
The title still felt absurd.
He was a middle school science teacher who accidentally became important because he understood Astrophage better than everyone else. Somewhere between “Hey this weird organism stores energy” and “Human civilization is collapsing,” people had started looking at him like he knew what he was doing.
He didn’t.
He was just very good at sounding like he did.
Grace sat hunched slightly forward, one leg bouncing under the table hard enough that the metal rattled faintly. He stopped it. Started again three seconds later. His glasses kept slipping down his nose because his face was damp with sweat. He was tired enough that every blink felt sticky. His eyes burned. His thoughts felt wrapped in cotton.
Fifty-three hours.
Maybe fifty-four.
He honestly wasn’t sure anymore.
He’d lost count sometime during the fourth emergency briefing yesterday.
Or maybe that was this morning.
Time aboard the Vat had become strange and watery. Meals happened randomly. Sleep was optional. Everybody looked haunted. The scientists especially had started turning vicious with one another, like rats in a flooding cage. Every experiment mattered. Every failure cost time humanity didn’t have.
And Ryland Grace had become the easiest target on the ship.
Not because he was incompetent.
Worse.
Because he was right too often.
“They are reproducing faster in warmer saline environments,” Grace heard Annie Shapiro saying across the table, her voice calm and precise despite the obvious exhaustion beneath it. “The growth curves are undeniable.”
Martin DuBois nodded beside her, rubbing at bloodshot eyes. “But the oxygen consumption rate changes unpredictably past threshold saturation.”
“Not unpredictably,” Grace muttered automatically before he could stop himself.
Every head turned toward him.
God.
He wished they wouldn’t do that.
Grace swallowed hard and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “The variance isn’t random. It correlates to thermal stress. They’re… adapting. Probably.”
Silence.
Then Olesya Ilyukhina leaned slightly forward, sharp eyes studying him carefully. “Probably?”
Grace shrugged weakly. “I mean unless physics has personally decided to hunt me for sport.”
A few tired chuckles spread around the room.
Not from Dr. Lokken.
“Confidence inspiring,” she said dryly.
Grace stared at the table.
Dr. Lokken had one of those voices that always sounded like a knife being sharpened. Every sentence came out clipped and irritated, as if the entire world was personally inconveniencing her. Grace had known her professionally for years. Rivalry implied mutual participation.
Lokken simply despised him.
“You are lead Astrophage specialist,” she continued. “One would assume certainty is preferable to sarcasm.”
Grace opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
Because if he started talking right now he genuinely was not sure he would stop.
His brain felt wrong.
Too loud.
Every scrape of chair legs hurt. Every overlapping voice tangled together until he couldn’t separate them properly. The lights overhead were too bright. His skin felt too tight. Even the fabric of his shirt against his shoulders had become unbearable an hour ago.
He needed five minutes.
Just five.
But every time he tried to take five minutes lately, somebody called him lazy.
Or dramatic.
Or not dedicated enough.
One of the newer researchers—Grace genuinely couldn’t remember the guy’s name right now, Richard? Rick? Rich? Maybe Penis head or Dick Head was more fitting—snorted from halfway down the table. “Maybe if some people spent less time joking around and more time working, we’d have actual answers.”
Grace froze.
A few scientists laughed quietly.
Not Annie.
Not Martin.
Not Yao.
Not Olesya.
And definitely not Stratt.
Grace stared at the table so hard the wood grain blurred.
His heartbeat felt strange.
Too fast.
Too heavy.
Like it was climbing into his throat.
He pushed his chair back suddenly.
“I need a minute,” he muttered.
Dr. Lokken scoffed immediately. “Of course you do.”
Grace stopped moving.
The room went very still.
He kept one hand gripping the back of his chair because suddenly he felt dizzy enough that he wasn’t sure his legs would cooperate otherwise.
“I just need—”
“You disappear constantly lately,” Lokken snapped. “People are working themselves to death aboard this vessel, Dr. Grace. Forgive me if I find your repeated absences unprofessional.”
Something hot twisted sharply in Grace’s chest.
“I’m literally here all the time.”
“Oh please.”
“I have not slept in—”
“Neither have the rest of us.”
Another scientist laughed quietly again.
That laugh did it.
Not yelling.
Not Lokken.
The laugh.
Because it sounded exactly like every dismissive chuckle he’d heard his entire life whenever he got overwhelmed or missed social cues or talked too much or couldn’t quite keep up with the invisible rules everyone else seemed born understanding.
Grace suddenly realized everyone was staring at him.
Waiting.
Judging.
His skin crawled.
The room felt too hot.
Too loud.
Too close.
“I just need a minute,” he repeated, voice thinner now.
“Oh for God’s sake,” the unnamed scientist muttered. “You act like you’re the only one tired.”
More laughter.
Grace didn’t laugh.
Neither did Stratt.
The astronauts exchanged glances.
Annie looked concerned.
Yao looked intensely focused in the way he did when monitoring unstable reactor readings.
And Grace—
Grace felt something inside him finally snap like overstretched wire.
Not dramatic.
Not explosive.
Just quiet.
The kind of break that happened slowly over time until one final ounce of pressure turned cracks into collapse.
He let out a shaky breath.
Then he walked out.
The room went silent behind him.
The heavy conference doors hissed shut.
The hallway beyond was colder, dimmer, quieter. Grace walked fast at first, then slower when dizziness rolled through him hard enough to blur his vision. The Vat swayed faintly beneath his feet with the ocean currents. Usually he barely noticed anymore.
Right now it felt like standing upright during an earthquake.
“Dr. Grace.”
Stratt’s voice behind him.
Sharp.
Controlled.
He kept walking.
“Ryland.”
That made him stop.
Because Eva Stratt only used his first name when something mattered.
He turned too quickly and immediately regretted it when the corridor tilted violently sideways. He grabbed the wall hard enough his knuckles popped white.
Stratt approached him carefully now.
Not angry.
That somehow made everything worse.
“What?” Grace asked hoarsely.
“You walk out of my meeting without explanation.”
“I said I needed a minute.”
“You stormed out.”
“Oh my God, I’m sorry my mental collapse lacked professionalism.”
The words came out harsher than intended.
Grace saw the surprise flash across her face immediately.
That should have made him stop.
Instead he just kept going.
Because once exhaustion burned deep enough, self-control stopped being a wall and became wet paper.
“I haven’t slept in over fifty hours,” he snapped. “Every time I sit down somebody needs something. Every time I try to sleep somebody calls me lazy or says I’m not committed enough or that humanity is apparently going to die because Ryland Grace took a fucking nap.”
His breathing hitched roughly.
He rubbed both hands over his face hard.
“I am trying,” he whispered. “I am trying so hard.”
Stratt stared at him silently.
Grace suddenly became aware of how he looked.
Sweating.
Shaking slightly.
Eyes bloodshot.
Shirt hanging loose from weight he’d lost over the past few weeks.
His sleeve had ridden up when he scrubbed at his face. Bruises dotted the inside of his arm from repeated blood draws, because medical was dickheads. His wrist bones looked too sharp beneath pale skin.
He hadn’t eaten properly in… awhile.
His stomach hurt constantly now. Acid and caffeine and stress.
Stratt’s expression changed.
Not anger.
Something worse.
Recognition.
“Oh,” she said quietly.
Grace immediately regretted everything.
The shame hit him like cold water.
His shoulders curled inward automatically.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you. That was inappropriate. I’m just tired. I’ll go back.”
He turned immediately because fixing things was easier than feeling things.
Stratt caught his wrist before he could move.
Not hard.
Just firm.
“No.”
Grace blinked at her.
“No?”
“You are done.”
“What?”
“You are not returning to that meeting.”
His stomach dropped violently.
Trouble.
He was in trouble.
Every muscle in his body tensed instinctively.
“I can explain—”
“You already did.”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“Ryland.”
Her voice softened unexpectedly.
“Follow me.”
Grace hesitated.
Which apparently answered something for her because her expression tightened almost imperceptibly.
She turned and walked.
After a moment he followed.
The corridors stretched long and metallic around them, pipes humming overhead, distant machinery vibrating through the walls like the heartbeat of some enormous steel animal. Crew members moved around them quickly carrying tablets and folders and equipment. Nobody stopped Stratt.
Nobody ever stopped Stratt.
Grace felt nauseous.
His thoughts spiraled violently.
Was he suspended?
Removed from lead research?
God, he’d yelled at her.
He’d actually yelled at Eva Stratt!
Maybe exhaustion had finally killed the last surviving brain cell he possessed.
well at least if he was fired he could get a minutes—maybe hours— of sleep. God he would sell his kidney or his first born, if he had children, for sleep. Once he got sleep then he would be able to look for a new job. Maybe he could go back to teaching… but that might be awkward. Explaining to his old coworkers that he got fired because he yelled at his Boss and called another scientist Penis Head because he didn’t know the guys name and seemed to young to know what puberty was.
By the time they reached her office, his hands were shaking hard enough he shoved them into his pockets to hide it.
Stratt opened the door.
“Inside.”
Grace obeyed automatically.
Her office was warmer than the hallway. Dimmer too. One lamp glowed near the desk instead of the awful fluorescent ceiling lights used everywhere else aboard ship. The room smelled faintly like coffee and sea salt and Stratt’s cigarettes even though smoking onboard had been banned months ago. And she always lied saying she never had cigarettes on her. No Grace was on to her.
She shut the door behind them.
“Sit.”
Grace sat immediately.
Then realized she meant the chair across from the desk.
Instead he’d sat beside her on the small couch against the wall like an idiot.
He started to get up.
“Stay there.”
Grace froze.
Stratt sat beside him instead of behind her desk.
That felt… strange.
Wrong.
More intimate somehow.
She studied him silently for several long seconds.
Grace tried not to squirm under the scrutiny and failed miserably.
His knee bounced again.
Stopped.
Started.
“You are overtired,” Stratt said finally.
Grace laughed weakly. “Little bit.”
“You are medically impaired.”
“Technically everybody on this ship is medically impaired.”
“I am serious.”
“So am I.”
She kept watching him.
Grace avoided eye contact instinctively, gaze drifting instead toward the bookshelves lining the office walls. Scientific journals. Naval reports. Emergency protocols. One tiny framed photograph tucked partly behind a stack of folders.
He recognized the expression on Stratt’s face before he fully understood it.
Concern.
That nearly undid him worse than the argument.
Because anger he understood.
Disappointment too.
Concern was unbearable.
“You will sleep,” Stratt said.
Grace nodded automatically. “Yeah okay after the meeting—”
“No. Now.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes you can.”
“No, I mean physically.” He laughed again, brittle and exhausted. “I tried earlier. Every time I close my eyes my brain keeps going. I can hear every damn sound on this ship. I can feel my heartbeat. I keep thinking about the breeding cycle and radiation tolerance and if we’re wrong about literally everything—”
“Lay down.”
Grace blinked.
“…What?”
“Lay down.”
He stared at her.
His brain stalled completely.
“I—no—I shouldn’t—”
“You are barely conscious.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are swaying while sitting still.”
Grace opened his mouth to argue.
Stratt grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled.
Not violently.
But decisively.
Grace made a startled noise as she maneuvered him sideways onto the couch. His head landed awkwardly against her thigh.
He immediately tried to sit back up.
“Stratt, what are you doing—”
“Quiet.”
Her hand slid carefully into his hair.
Then she scratched lightly against his scalp.
Grace stopped breathing.
It felt like someone had unplugged his nervous system.
All the tension in his body seized hard for one startled moment—
Then vanished.
Completely.
His entire body went boneless against the couch before he could stop it.
“Oh,” he whispered weakly.
Stratt continued scratching gently through his curls, fingers moving slow and methodical against the crown of his head.
Grace felt horrifyingly close to tears.
No one had touched him gently in… he honestly couldn’t remember.
Not since before all this.
Before Astrophage.
Before the ship.
Before the world started ending.
His eyes slid shut accidentally.
Every nerve in his body felt overheated and frayed raw, like exposed wires sparking inside wet walls. Stratt’s fingers soothed across his scalp with rhythmic pressure that made those sparks dim one by one.
He hated how fast he melted.
Hated how obvious it probably was.
“You are safe here,” Stratt said quietly.
Something in his chest cracked open.
Grace swallowed hard.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, voice thick now. “I know I’m being difficult.”
“You are exhausted.”
“I shouldn’t have yelled.”
“You are human.”
A shaky breath escaped him.
His face pressed unconsciously closer against her stomach because warmth felt good and grounding and safe in a way he desperately needed right now.
The ship hummed softly around them.
Ocean beneath steel.
Engines beneath ocean.
Humanity balancing on a dying world while one exhausted scientist finally stopped moving long enough to realize he was falling apart.
Stratt’s fingers continued combing gently through his hair.
Grace felt sleep stalking him now.
Heavy.
Inevitable.
Terrifying.
His body twitched weakly every few moments like it had forgotten how to relax properly.
“You should have told me,” Stratt said quietly after awhile.
Grace made a tired sound.
Not quite a laugh.
“Wouldn’t have mattered.”
“It matters to me.”
That hurt more than anything else had all day.
Because he believed her.
And Grace had absolutely no idea what to do with that.
Grace floated somewhere ugly between sleep and awareness.
His body felt impossibly heavy now that he had finally stopped moving. Every muscle ached with the deep, throbbing soreness of prolonged exhaustion, the kind that settled into bone marrow and stayed there. His joints hurt. His eyes burned beneath closed lids. Even breathing felt strange, uneven, like his lungs had forgotten the rhythm for awhile and were only now remembering how.
But the hand in his hair remained steady.
Slow scratches across his scalp.
Gentle.
Predictable.
Grounding.
The overstimulated static in his nervous system had faded from screaming electricity to distant rain.
For several minutes neither of them spoke. The Vat groaned softly around them, steel shifting against ocean currents. Somewhere far outside the office walls, boots moved quickly through corridors, radios crackled, doors hissed open and shut. Humanity continued panicking without them for once.
Grace could feel Stratt adjusting slightly beside him. The couch dipped under the movement. He heard the faint metallic click of her laptop opening.
Even half asleep, guilt immediately surged back up.
“You got work,” he mumbled into the fabric of her shirt.
His voice came out slurred with exhaustion.
Stratt didn’t stop petting his hair.
“I have my laptop.”
Grace hummed faintly in acknowledgment.
The sound vibrated against her stomach where his face had ended up pressed almost accidentally. At some point while drifting, he had rolled more onto his side. One arm tucked awkwardly beneath himself. Knees drawn up slightly toward his chest without him consciously deciding to do it. The position felt instinctive somehow. Protective.
Embarrassing.
But moving sounded impossible.
His brain was slowing in strange increments now. Thoughts disconnected halfway through themselves. The edges of the room felt soft and blurry even with his eyes closed.
He felt fabric settle over him.
A blanket.
Warm.
The gesture hit him with painful gentleness.
Stratt tucked it carefully around his shoulders with surprising precision, like she’d done this before. Maybe not with him specifically. But with exhausted people. Broken people.
People too tired to function properly.
“Sleep,” she said quietly.
Grace frowned weakly against her.
“Only couple minutes.”
“You said that six hours ago in laboratory three.”
“…Did I?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.”
His speech kept dissolving between thoughts.
Stratt made a soft sound that might have been amusement.
Her fingers continued moving through his curls, nails lightly scratching at the crown of his head. Every pass sent warmth down his spine. The sensory relief was almost overwhelming. Grace had spent so long forcing himself not to react visibly to discomfort that the opposite—comfort, safety, softness—sometimes hit even harder.
His body kept yielding against her in tiny unconscious increments.
More weight.
More trust.
Until he was practically folded against her side.
If he’d been properly awake he would have been mortified.
Instead he just felt tired.
So unbelievably tired.
The laptop keys clicked quietly for awhile.
Grace drifted.
Half dreaming already.
Then—
Softly—
Stratt began to sing.
Grace’s brow furrowed faintly.
The melody slid through his exhaustion slowly at first, familiar in a distant aching way. Her voice wasn’t polished or theatrical. Eva Stratt sang the same way she did everything else: low, practical, restrained. But there was warmth buried underneath it now. Something old and human.
German words wrapped around a tune he recognized instantly.
His exhausted brain latched onto it sluggishly.
500 Miles.
Peter, Paul and Mary.
Except softer.
Sad somehow.
The German language rounded the melody differently, turning it into something deeper and lonelier.
“Wenn du mich vermisst… ja wenn du mich vermisst…”
Her accent thickened slightly while singing, consonants gentler than when she barked orders at world leaders.
Grace felt something twist painfully in his chest.
“Und du hörst den Zug vorbeizieh’n…”
Her hand never stopped moving in his hair.
“Dann weißt du, ich bin weit weg von zuhaus’…”
The words blurred together at the edges because sleep was swallowing him fast now, but the meaning still reached him. Distance. Leaving. Loneliness. Home becoming something unreachable behind you.
God.
That did something to him.
Maybe because exhaustion stripped away all the walls he usually kept standing.
Maybe because he hadn’t realized until now how desperately alone he’d felt aboard this ship. Surrounded constantly by people yet still somehow isolated inside his own skull, pretending competence while slowly grinding himself into dust.
Or maybe because Eva Stratt—cold, terrifying Eva Stratt—was sitting in a dim office in the middle of the Atlantic quietly singing him to sleep like she understood exactly how close he’d come to breaking.
Grace’s throat tightened unexpectedly.
He pressed his face slightly deeper against her stomach, hiding there instinctively.
Stratt continued softly.
“Über Berge… und über Meere…”
The ship creaked around them.
Ocean rolled somewhere beneath steel.
Grace could smell coffee and salt and cigarette smoke clinging faintly to her clothes.
Her fingers scratched lightly behind his ear.
That was it.
That completely shattered the last thread keeping him awake.
His entire body slackened all at once.
Breathing deepened.
The tension he’d carried for days finally drained out of him in one long, shuddering exhale.
Still singing quietly under her breath, Eva Stratt glanced down.
Ryland Grace was fully asleep.
Not the light, twitchy half-rest he usually managed in laboratory chairs.
Actually asleep.
Curled against her like a man who had run himself beyond collapse and simply stopped.
Even unconscious, he looked exhausted.
Dark circles bruised beneath his eyes. His face thinner than it should have been. One hand loosely clenched in the fabric near her waist like some part of him still expected to be pushed away.
Stratt’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
Anger.
Not at him.
At herself.
At the scientists downstairs.
At every person aboard this vessel—including her—who had watched Ryland Grace deteriorate in real time and accepted it because the world was ending and he kept insisting he was fine.
The boy—because right now he looked far too young to be the man carrying humanity’s future on his back—had worked himself into medical collapse while people mocked him for slowing down.
Stratt continued stroking gently through his curls.
And for the first time in weeks, Ryland Grace finally slept.
The storm arrived slowly.
Stratt could feel it first through the ship itself.
The ship had always moved with the ocean, but usually the massive vessel cut through the Atlantic with heavy confidence, more floating fortress than ship. Now the steel beneath her feet rolled deeper with each swell. The walls creaked softly. Somewhere outside, wind moaned low against the superstructure like an animal circling in darkness.
Rain had begun hammering the deck above nearly twenty minutes ago.
The sound filled the quiet spaces between keyboard clicks.
Stratt barely noticed anymore.
Her attention kept drifting downward.
Grace had been asleep for almost an hour.
An actual hour.
She was absurdly grateful for it.
At first he had twitched constantly in his sleep, muscles jerking every few minutes like his nervous system had forgotten how to stop bracing for impact. His breathing had stayed shallow too. Uneven. He’d made faint distressed sounds under his breath, fragments of dreams or stress bleeding through unconsciousness.
Then slowly—
Gradually—
He settled.
Now he slept heavily against her side, curled beneath the blanket she’d draped over him earlier. One arm was wrapped tightly around her waist without him seeming aware of it. His hand clutched the fabric of her sweater in loose sleeping fists. Every so often the ship rocked harder and he instinctively squeezed closer like a child clinging to stability during thunder.
Stratt allowed it.
More concerningly, she did not mind it.
At all.
Grace’s face remained buried against her stomach, hidden almost completely now except for messy curls spilling across her lap. Warm breath ghosted faintly through the fabric every time he exhaled. Occasionally he made tiny noises in his sleep, soft little hums and sighs and quiet mumbled fragments that reminded Stratt unpleasantly of abandoned puppies she’d once found as a girl after a flood in Rotterdam.
Small sounds.
Vulnerable sounds.
The sort of sounds a person only made when they finally felt safe enough to stop pretending.
Stratt continued typing one-handed on her laptop while the fingers of her other hand moved absently through his curls.
The contrast would have looked absurd to anyone else.
On her screen: projected Astrophage containment yields, international political collapse probabilities, emergency agricultural forecasts.
In her lap: Ryland Grace sleeping like he had been tranquilized.
The storm outside intensified. Thunder rolled distantly across the ocean. The Vat shifted hard enough that several objects rattled faintly on her desk.
Grace reacted immediately.
A distressed sound escaped him.
His arm tightened around her.
His entire body curled inward further beneath the blanket.
Stratt watched him for a moment.
Then resumed scratching lightly against his scalp until he relaxed again.
Cute.
The realization annoyed her.
Not romantically. Certainly not.
Professionally.
Scientifically.
Objectively.
Ryland Grace was… cute.
In the way exhausted animals were cute when they finally stopped trying to bite the veterinarian helping them.
Even asleep he was expressive. Every emotion crossed his face openly once unconsciousness stripped away the constant masking and frantic social calculations he performed while awake. Right now he looked younger. Softer. The hard edges worn into him over the past months had eased slightly in sleep.
Another tiny sound left him.
Stratt glanced down automatically.
Grace pressed his face deeper into her stomach with a sleepy frown before settling again.
Like a kitten rooting for warmth.
God help her.
A soft knock interrupted the moment.
Three controlled taps against the office door.
Stratt immediately looked up.
“Enter.”
The door opened carefully.
Commander Yao stepped inside.
He paused after shutting the door behind himself.
Then he blinked.
Very slowly.
Yao was not a particularly expressive man. Years of military discipline and astronaut training had refined his emotions into carefully controlled micro-reactions most people missed entirely.
Stratt did not miss them.
The surprise in his eyes lasted exactly half a second before professionalism returned.
Still, his gaze lingered briefly on the sight before him:
Eva Stratt seated on the couch with the world’s leading Astrophage scientist asleep in her lap clutching her like an emotional support blanket.
Rain battered the ship overhead.
Thunder rolled again.
Grace shifted slightly but did not wake.
Yao approached quietly, hands clasped behind his back.
“You know,” he said calmly, “this does not help the rumors of you two sleeping together.”
Stratt deadpanned immediately, “The rumors are stupid.”
“I agree.”
“Good.”
Yao looked down at Grace again.
The younger man had somehow tightened himself even more around Stratt during the conversation. One leg partially tangled in the blanket now. His glasses sat crooked against the couch cushion where they’d nearly fallen off his face.
Another sleepy little noise escaped him.
Yao’s expression flickered.
Amusement.
Tiny.
Dangerous.
“He is making sounds,” Yao observed.
“Yes.”
“Like small animal.”
“Yes.”
“He always does this?”
“I have only recently acquired a sleeping Grace.”
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of Yao’s mouth.
“I see.”
Stratt returned her attention to the laptop. “What do you need, Commander?”
Yao’s expression sobered again instantly.
“The storm is worsening. We may need to suspend exterior operations tonight.”
“Expected?”
“Yes. But there is another issue.”
Stratt looked up sharply at his tone.
Yao lowered his voice automatically despite Grace being asleep.
“Several scientists are complaining.”
“About?”
A pause.
“Dr. Grace.”
Of course they were.
Stratt felt irritation spark immediately.
“What now?”
“Some believe he receives preferential treatment.”
She stared at him flatly.
“He has not slept in over two days.”
“Yes.”
“He has lost weight.”
“Yes.”
“He nearly collapsed in my hallway.”
“Yes.”
“And they think I am favoring him.”
Yao folded his hands calmly. “Some people struggle when authority trusts someone they do not understand.”
Stratt snorted quietly.
“That is because Dr. Grace accidentally violates every social expectation humans possess.”
Yao glanced down at the sleeping scientist again.
Grace frowned faintly in his sleep, brows pulling together before relaxing when Stratt resumed stroking his hair.
Yao watched the interaction carefully.
“He masks heavily,” he said quietly.
Stratt’s eyes lifted toward him.
Interesting.
Most people aboard the Vat had not noticed.
Yao continued softly, “He studies conversations before speaking. He mirrors body language half a second too late. He scripts responses when stressed.” A small pause. “And when overstimulated he stops looking at faces.”
Stratt considered him for a moment.
“You noticed quickly.”
“I had to.”
“Why?”
Yao’s expression softened almost imperceptibly.
“Because he reminds me of my younger brother.”
Silence settled briefly between them, filled only by rain and distant thunder.
Grace shifted again.
The ship rolled harder beneath them this time. A sharper sway.
Immediately Grace’s grip tightened almost painfully around Stratt’s waist.
A distressed whine escaped him.
Not fully awake.
Just reacting.
Yao looked startled.
Stratt simply adjusted the blanket higher around Grace’s shoulders and resumed scratching gently behind his ear.
“It is okay,” she murmured automatically.
Grace relaxed within seconds.
Yao stared.
Then, very carefully, he asked:
“Does he know he does that?”
“Probably not.”
Another tiny twitch of amusement crossed Yao’s face.
“He would be horrified.”
“Deeply.”
The commander nodded solemnly. “I will treasure this memory forever.”
Stratt gave him a flat look.
“Commander.”
“I said nothing.”
“You implied many things.”
Yao inclined his head slightly toward the sleeping man in her lap. “He trusts you.”
The statement landed heavier than expected.
Stratt looked down at Grace.
At the exhaustion written into every line of his unconscious body.
At the way he clung instinctively even in sleep, like some part of him expected the world to shove him away the second he loosened his grip.
“Yes,” she said quietly.
And for reasons she did not entirely care to examine, the realization felt terrifying.
Yao remained standing quietly near the door while rain battered the ship around them.
The storm had worsened enough now that the Ship rolled with long, heavy motions beneath the Atlantic swells. Somewhere overhead, metal groaned deeply. The sound reverberated through the office floor and into the couch beneath them.
Grace reacted each time.
Tiny unconscious responses.
A tightening arm.
A faint furrow of his brow.
Small distressed noises muffled into Stratt’s sweater before her hand soothed him again.
Yao watched all of it with the unnerving observational patience that made him such an exceptional commander.
Then he sighed softly.
Not irritated.
Thoughtful.
“Do you wish to talk about it?”
Stratt looked up from her laptop with one brow raised sharply.
“About what?”
Yao gestured vaguely toward the human octopus currently attached to her waist.
Grace had somehow shifted again during the conversation. One knee now rested partially against Stratt’s leg beneath the blanket. His face remained hidden against her stomach, curls spilling everywhere, glasses abandoned crookedly beside him.
“He is attached to you like infant koala.”
Stratt stared at him.
Yao’s expression remained perfectly serious.
“…That is an oddly specific comparison.”
“I watched documentary once.”
“Clearly.”
Another rumble of thunder rolled across the ocean.
Yao finally straightened fully and adjusted the cuffs of his uniform.
“I will suspend exterior operations for the day,” he said. “The storm makes conditions unsafe.”
“Good.”
“And I will deal with the scientists.”
That drew Stratt’s attention fully away from the computer.
“You do not need to babysit grown adults, Commander.”
“No,” Yao agreed calmly. “But apparently I must.”
Stratt snorted quietly.
He moved toward the door, then paused with his hand resting lightly against the frame.
Something thoughtful settled over his expression.
“May I ask you something?”
“You usually do regardless.”
A faint flicker of amusement.
“Why do you keep him around?”
Stratt blinked once.
“What kind of question is that?”
“An honest one.”
She glanced down automatically at Grace.
Still asleep.
Still clinging.
“He is useful,” she answered easily. “He understands Astrophage better than anyone alive. He has the coma gene if something happens to Shapiro or DuBois. He was contingency planning.”
Yao’s face remained unreadable.
“That is political answer.”
“It is accurate.”
“It is incomplete.”
Stratt leaned back slightly against the couch cushions, fingers still moving automatically through Grace’s hair.
“What answer are you looking for?”
Yao folded his arms loosely.
“The real one.”
Silence stretched briefly between them.
Rain hammered the windows harder.
Finally Stratt exhaled through her nose.
“He is good at following directions.”
Yao tilted his head slightly.
Stratt continued, voice quieter now.
“If I tell Grace to do something, he does it. No games. No ego. No politics.” A tiny pause. “If I tell him jump, he asks where, when, why, and how high.”
Yao nodded once slowly.
“Like loyal dog.”
Stratt huffed out an unwilling laugh because—
Well.
Yes.
That was unfortunately accurate.
Ryland Grace followed her around the Vessel with the earnest attentiveness of a golden retriever who had accidentally acquired multiple advanced science degrees. Praise him and he practically glowed. Snap at him and he looked genuinely wounded for hours afterward no matter how hard he tried to hide it.
And God help her, he always came back anyway.
Yao observed her expression carefully.
Then, very gently:
“That is still not real answer.”
Stratt fell silent.
Her hand slowed slightly in Grace’s curls.
What was the real answer?
The office suddenly felt smaller somehow. Quieter except for the storm.
Grace shifted faintly in his sleep. His fingers tightened once against her sweater before relaxing again.
Stratt looked down at him.
At the exhaustion still etched into his face even while unconscious.
At the trust.
That unbearable trust.
And before she could stop herself, the truth surfaced.
“He listens to me.”
Yao said nothing.
So she kept going.
“Not because he fears me. Not because he wants something. He listens because he genuinely wants to understand what I mean.” Her voice softened almost despite herself. “Most people only wait for their turn to speak.”
Grace never did that.
When she talked, he listened like her words mattered.
Not her authority.
Her.
Stratt stared distantly at the rain streaking across the office windows.
“He does not flinch around me.”
That one surprised even her.
But it was true.
World leaders flinched around Eva Stratt.
Military officials stiffened.
Scientists grew defensive.
Politicians lied.
Everyone reacted to her power first and her humanity second.
Everyone except Ryland Grace.
Grace argued with her. Interrupted her. Infodumped at her for forty straight minutes about microbiology because he forgot normal people required conversational pauses. He handed her coffee absentmindedly while muttering equations under his breath. He wandered into her office at two in the morning because he “had a thought.” He treated her like a person before he treated her like the woman controlling the fate of humanity.
And worse—
He sought her out.
Constantly.
Like her company actually comforted him.
The realization settled heavy in her chest.
“He is…” Stratt stopped.
The word felt strange.
Dangerous.
Yao waited patiently.
Stratt looked back down at the sleeping scientist in her lap.
“…my friend.”
The admission hung quietly in the room.
Soft.
Honest.
Almost fragile.
Yao’s expression changed immediately.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Understanding warmed his features with sudden gentleness that made him look older somehow. Softer too. Less commander. More father.
Slowly, carefully, he crouched beside the couch.
Grace remained asleep through the movement, though his face scrunched faintly when thunder cracked sharply overhead.
Without hesitation Stratt resumed scratching lightly at the crown of his head.
Grace relaxed again instantly.
Yao noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“He trusts very selectively,” Yao said quietly.
“Yes.”
“You know why?”
Stratt’s eyes lifted toward him.
Yao rested his forearms loosely against his knees, voice calm and thoughtful.
“People like Grace spend entire lives learning how to survive other humans.” A small pause. “Watching. Adapting. Masking.” His gaze flicked toward the sleeping scientist curled against her. “It is exhausting.”
Stratt glanced down at Grace again.
Exhausting.
Yes.
That word fit him frighteningly well.
“He trusts you because you are predictable,” Yao continued softly. “You say exactly what you mean. You do not play social games with him. Your anger has rules. Your approval has rules.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “You make sense to him.”
Something tightened painfully in Stratt’s chest.
Yao’s expression gentled further.
“And perhaps,” he added carefully, “he is first person in very long time who makes sense to you as well.”
That—
That landed too accurately.
Stratt looked away first.
Outside, lightning flashed white across the storm-dark ocean.
Inside, Grace slept curled against her like someone who had finally stopped running long enough to collapse beside the only person aboard the Vat who made the world quiet enough for him to rest.
After Yao spoke, the office fell quiet again except for the storm.
Rain lashed violently against the windows now, streaking silver beneath intermittent flashes of lightning. The ship rolled harder beneath the waves, massive steel groaning deep in its bones. Somewhere down the corridor, alarms chimed briefly before being silenced again.
Neither of them moved for a while.
Stratt’s fingers continued their absent rhythm through Grace’s curls.
Yao remained crouched nearby, watching her with the sort of calm understanding she usually found deeply irritating.
Because he was right.
That was the problem.
Stratt had spent most of her life understanding people strategically rather than emotionally. She understood leverage. Fear. Ambition. Greed. Nationalism. Ego. She knew exactly how politicians behaved when cornered and how scientists behaved when praised and how military officials behaved when they smelled weakness.
Humans were systems.
Predictable systems.
But Dr Grace—
Dr. Ryland Grace consistently refused to fit into any category she understood.
Yes, he talked too much.
God, the man could monologue about molecular biology for forty uninterrupted minutes if someone failed to physically stop him. He wore ridiculous science shirts beneath his lab coats—cartoon atoms wearing sunglasses, dinosaurs making chemistry puns, one particularly awful shirt featuring the periodic table arranged into the shape of a cat.
He forgot to eat unless reminded.
He lost his coffee constantly.
He got distracted halfway through conversations because his brain had apparently wandered into another dimension without warning.
And yet—
He was different.
Profoundly different.
Most brilliant scientists aboard the Vat carried their intelligence like weaponry. Sharp-edged. Defensive. Every conversation a competition. Every correction an opportunity to establish superiority.
Grace never did that.
He explained things because he genuinely wanted people to understand.
Not to impress them.
Not to humiliate them.
Not to prove he was smarter.
When junior researchers approached him with questions, he lit up like someone handing candy to an overexcited child. He drew diagrams. Made analogies. Compared terrifying astrophysics to pancakes or guinea pigs or SpongeBob episodes if it helped someone grasp the concept.
And he never talked down to anyone.
Not once.
Which was almost unheard of at his level of intelligence.
Stratt had watched him spend three straight hours helping a terrified intern recalibrate contaminated equipment because the girl looked close to tears and everyone else aboard had been too busy or impatient.
He had missed his own meal break doing it.
He’d probably forgotten the meal existed entirely.
And afterward when Stratt asked why he bothered personally handling something so minor, Grace had looked genuinely confused by the question.
“She needed help,” he’d said simply.
As though that explained everything.
Maybe it did.
Yao’s voice interrupted her thoughts quietly.
“You care for him.”
Stratt immediately scowled. “Do not make it strange.”
“I did not.”
“You implied.”
“I observed.”
She opened her mouth to retort—
Then stopped abruptly.
Because Grace made a sound.
A tiny sleepy whine muffled against her stomach.
Both adults looked down instantly.
Grace shifted beneath the blanket, brows furrowing faintly as the ship rolled again beneath the storm. He made the sound a second time, softer now. God.
It genuinely sounded like a kitten.
Yao’s expression twitched dangerously.
Stratt pointed a warning finger at him without looking up. “Do not.”
“I said nothing.”
“You are thinking loudly.”
Grace stirred again before either could continue.
Slowly, sluggishly, he stretched one arm slightly before immediately curling back inward toward warmth. His face scrunched up adorably with sleep-heavy confusion. Then one hand emerged from beneath the blanket and rubbed clumsily at his eye using his knuckle like an overtired child refusing to wake up for school.
Stratt felt something deep in her chest do something extremely inconvenient.
Grace yawned.
A huge, unguarded sleepy yawn.
Then finally his eyes blinked open.
Very slowly.
He stared blearily at absolutely nothing for several seconds while consciousness struggled to reboot. His pupils remained huge with exhaustion. Hair flattened wildly on one side from sleeping against her. His glasses were still missing.
He looked devastatingly young like this.
Not because he actually was young.
But because exhaustion had stripped away all the frantic hyper-competent masking he normally wore like armor.
Without it, Ryland Grace looked soft.
Open.
Almost childlike in his confusion.
His gaze drifted vaguely toward Yao.
“…Huh,” he mumbled.
Yao inclined his head politely. “Good afternoon, Dr. Grace.”
Grace blinked.
Another slow blink.
Then he frowned slightly like his brain had encountered an unexpected software error.
“Why’re you in Eva’s office?”
Stratt noticed immediately.
Eva.
Not Stratt.
Interesting.
“You fell asleep,” Yao answered calmly.
Grace processed this information with visible delay.
“…Oh.”
Another yawn overtook him.
He rubbed at his eye again before apparently deciding opening both eyes fully required too much effort. One remained mostly squinted shut.
The ship rocked hard beneath them.
Instinctively Grace pressed closer against Stratt with a sleepy distressed sound.
Still completely unaware he was practically wrapped around her.
Yao noticed immediately.
So did Stratt.
Grace did not.
His eyes drifted shut again halfway.
“Storm?” he mumbled.
“Yes,” Stratt answered quietly.
Grace hummed softly.
The sound vibrated directly against her stomach where his face still rested.
Yao’s expression became deeply, deeply entertained.
Stratt ignored him heroically.
Grace’s brain continued booting up at approximately the speed of frozen syrup.
He frowned faintly at nothing for several moments.
Then suddenly froze.
Very slowly, he looked down.
At his own arm wrapped tightly around Stratt’s waist.
Then upward.
At the blanket.
Then at the fact his head was still fully in Eva Stratt’s lap.
Silence.
Yao watched with the anticipation of a man observing a delayed explosion.
Grace’s eyes widened incrementally.
“Oh my God,” he whispered.
Stratt kept one hand calmly in his hair.
“You needed sleep.”
“I—”
His face turned violently red.
“I’m so sorry.”
“You were unconscious.”
“I cuddled my boss.”
“You collapsed onto my couch.”
“That somehow feels worse.”
Yao finally lost the battle against amusement and coughed suspiciously into his hand.
Grace looked toward him in horror.
“How long have you been here?!”
“Long enough.”
“Oh no.”
“Yes.”
Grace made a strangled sound and attempted to sit up far too quickly.
The immediate consequences were spectacular.
His body swayed violently.
Color drained from his face.
One hand flew to his forehead as dizziness slammed into him hard enough that he nearly tipped directly off the couch.
Stratt caught him instantly by the shoulder.
“Easy.”
Grace shut his eyes hard.
“…Okay maybe standing is a conspiracy.”
“You are severely sleep deprived,” Yao observed.
Grace pointed weakly at him without opening his eyes. “I appreciate your concern but if you repeat literally any of this conversation to another human being I will launch myself into the Atlantic.”
“You would miss.”
“Rude.”
“You are dizzy sitting down.”
Grace groaned softly and let his forehead thunk back against Stratt’s shoulder in defeat.
For a moment none of them spoke.
Then quietly—
Very quietly—
Grace mumbled into her sweater:
“…You sang.”
Stratt stilled slightly.
Yao’s brows lifted.
Grace sounded half asleep again already, words slow and soft around the edges.
“The song…”
Stratt resumed lightly combing fingers through his curls.
“Yes.”
Grace’s exhausted brain clearly lacked the energy to feel embarrassed anymore.
He stayed leaned against her.
Eyes mostly closed.
Voice small.
“My mom used to sing that.”
The confession settled gently into the room.
Yao looked away politely toward the storm-dark windows.
Stratt stared down at the man curled against her side.
And suddenly understood something terrifying:
Grace trusted her enough to fall apart.
The office settled into a strange softness after that confession.
Outside, the Atlantic storm battered itself senseless against the Vat. Rain streaked across the windows in silver rivers while thunder rolled low and endless across the sea. The ship swayed beneath them with deep mechanical groans, steel protesting wave after wave.
Inside, however, everything had gone quiet.
Not empty quiet.
Careful quiet.
The kind people used around wounded things.
Grace remained half curled against Stratt’s side, still recovering from the disastrous attempt to sit upright too quickly. His glasses had finally been recovered and shoved crookedly back onto his face, though they kept sliding down because he was too tired to wear them properly. His body radiated exhaustion. Not normal tiredness. This was deeper than that. Bone-deep. The sort of exhaustion that hollowed a person out from the inside until they became all frayed nerves and instinct.
And maybe because of that—
Or maybe because the storm made the office feel separated from the rest of the world—
Grace kept talking.
Stratt’s fingers moved slowly through his curls again.
Yao remained crouched nearby, posture relaxed, voice quieter than usual when he finally asked:
“What was your mother like?”
Grace blinked slowly.
The question seemed to drift through his exhausted brain like smoke trying to find shape.
For a moment Stratt thought he might not answer.
Then he shrugged one shoulder weakly.
“Don’t really know.”
His voice came out softer now. Rough around the edges.
“She died when I was little.”
Stratt felt something tighten painfully in her chest.
“Oh,” she said quietly. “I am sorry, Ryland.”
Grace nodded once.
Not dismissive.
Just… practiced.
Like grief worn smooth with time until it no longer cut sharply, only ached during weather changes.
His gaze drifted absently while Stratt continued scratching lightly at the base of his skull. Then suddenly his eyes landed on the ring hanging from the thin chain around her neck.
A simple gold band.
Old.
Worn smooth with age.
Grace stared at it for a second too long.
Something shifted in his expression immediately.
Tiny.
But visible.
Like an animal smelling smoke.
He leaned back just slightly—not fully pulling away, but enough that Stratt noticed the instinctive distance. The emotional retreat.
“My mother’s ring,” Stratt explained before he could ask.
Grace looked back at her.
“Oh.”
Silence settled briefly.
Talking about mothers felt strange suddenly. Like opening an old attic door and finding the air inside still heavy with dust and ghosts. Some losses became part of the structure of you after enough years. Not visible from the outside, but load-bearing all the same.
Yao observed Grace carefully for another moment before asking gently:
“And your father?”
Grace immediately made a face.
An actual face.
Exhaustion stripped away his ability to hide reactions properly, and disgust flashed openly across his features.
“He was cruel.”
The words came flat.
Simple.
Too simple.
Stratt’s hand slowed slightly in his hair.
Grace stared vaguely toward the storm-dark windows while he spoke.
“Used to beat me and my brothers.”
Silence.
Complete silence.
Not even the storm seemed loud enough to fill it.
Stratt felt cold all at once.
Yao’s expression did not visibly change, but something sharpened behind his eyes.
Not only because of the abuse.
But because—
Brothers.
Stratt blinked once.
“You have siblings?”
Grace looked mildly surprised she didn’t know.
“Well… yeah.”
“You never mentioned them.”
Grace shrugged weakly. “Didn’t come up.”
Which somehow felt like the most Ryland Grace answer imaginable.
Stratt resumed stroking gently through his curls while trying to process this entirely new information.
“How many?”
Grace counted sluggishly on his fingers like his exhausted brain needed visual assistance.
“Four.”
Yao’s brows lifted slightly.
Grace yawned before continuing.
“My older brother Courtland—Court—Gentry…” His voice softened oddly around the name. Complicated affection. Complicated grief. “He killed our father.”
The office went still again.
Grace said it the way someone discussed bad weather from years ago. Detached around the edges because feeling it directly hurt too much.
“After that we got separated,” he continued quietly. “Different foster homes. Last names changed.” Another shrug. “That was kinda it.”
Stratt exchanged a brief glance with Yao.
Neither interrupted.
“Court kept the last name though,” Grace murmured. “Which is kinda fucked up if you think about it. He kills the bastard and somehow still has to carry the name around after.”
His voice held no judgment.
Only tired sadness.
“Do you know where he is now?” Yao asked carefully.
Grace snorted softly.
“No clue. CIA maybe? Or dead. Hard to tell with Court.”
Stratt filed the name away instantly.
Courtland Gentry.
If Grace had family alive somewhere in the world, she wanted to know about them.
Grace shifted slightly against her shoulder, exhaustion making him loose-limbed and oddly open.
“Then there’s Holland.”
A helpless fondness entered his voice immediately.
“He’s an alcoholic private detective.”
Yao blinked.
Grace frowned thoughtfully. “Not sure if he’s good at the detective part actually.”
Stratt felt the corner of her mouth twitch despite herself.
“He lives with this guy named Jackson Healy now.” Grace tilted his head vaguely. “Honestly not sure if they’re like… together together? But if they are, good for them.”
Yao’s expression became dangerously entertained again.
Grace remained completely sincere.
“They have Holly though.”
“Holly?” Stratt asked.
“Holland’s daughter.” Grace smiled faintly then, sleepy and soft and heartbreakingly genuine. “She’s fourteen now probably.” His eyes unfocused slightly with memory. “Smart kid. Mean as hell sometimes. I miss her.”
The last sentence came out very quiet.
Like something he had not meant to say aloud.
Stratt’s hand resumed moving slowly through his hair.
“And your other brother?” she asked gently.
Grace brightened slightly.
“Oh. Lars.”
Immediate warmth flooded his exhausted face.
God.
That expression.
“He’s probably my favorite brother.”
Yao hid another smile.
“Do not tell the others,” Grace added solemnly. “Court gets weirdly competitive.”
“Noted,” Yao said gravely.
Grace snorted softly.
“Lars gets me,” he continued. “Like really gets me. We understand each other.” His voice softened. “He lives in this tiny Midwestern town with his half-brother Gus and his sister-in-law Karin.”
Then Grace paused.
“Oh and Bianca.”
Stratt waited.
“…Bianca?”
Grace nodded.
“Lars’s girlfriend.”
Another pause.
Then:
“She’s a sex doll.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Rain hammered the windows.
Yao and Stratt slowly exchanged a look over Grace’s oblivious head.
A very loaded look.
Grace either did not notice or lacked the energy to care.
“But they’re really happy,” he added earnestly. “Like weirdly healthy honestly. Better communication than most real couples.”
Yao’s face became professionally blank in the way people did when trying not to laugh in diplomatic meetings.
Stratt made a mental note.
Actually several mental notes.
Mostly regarding Ryland Grace’s mental health evaluations.
Grace continued rambling softly before either could respond.
“Then there’s Colt.”
“Colt?”
“My twin brother.”
That made both adults blink.
“You have a twin?” Stratt asked.
Grace nodded sleepily.
“Colt Seavers. He’s a stuntman in Hollywood.”
Yao looked genuinely startled now.
Grace smiled faintly. “He dates this really pretty camera operator named Jody Moreno. They’re cute together.”
“And he is successful?” Yao asked carefully.
Grace shrugged. “I think? He does stunts for Tom Ryder mostly.”
Silence.
Yao stared.
Stratt stared.
“The Tom Ryder?” Yao asked slowly.
Grace looked confused.
“Yeah?”
Movie star Tom Ryder.
Internationally famous Tom Ryder.
Grace yawned hugely before mumbling:
“Don’t really like him much though.”
Stratt blinked. “Why?”
Grace answered with the casualness of someone discussing weather.
“Slept with him once.”
The room froze.
Grace adjusted sleepily against Stratt’s side.
“Then he kept trying to date me after and it got weird.”
Silence.
Utter silence.
Yao looked like his soul had briefly left his body.
Stratt simply stared down at the exhausted scientist curled against her like a sedated cat.
Grace finally noticed the silence.
“…What?”
Yao spoke first.
“You slept with internationally famous actor Tom Ryder.”
Grace frowned weakly. “I mean technically yes but that sounds more dramatic when you say it like that.”
Stratt could not decide which part of this conversation was most concerning anymore.
“You never mentioned this,” she said carefully.
Grace looked genuinely baffled.
“When would that have come up?”
For a long moment, neither Eva nor Yao spoke.
They simply stared at Ryland Grace.
Grace, meanwhile, looked increasingly sleepy and increasingly unaware that he had just detonated multiple conversational bombs directly into the middle of Eva Stratt’s office.
Rain hammered the windows.
Thunder rolled across the Atlantic.
The Vat groaned beneath another heavy wave.
And curled against Stratt like a sleepy housecat was apparently the only normal member of an absolutely deranged family.
Yao finally rubbed one hand slowly down his face.
The gesture radiated the exhausted energy of a father discovering all his children had individually committed different crimes.
“Let me ensure I understand correctly,” he said carefully.
Grace blinked up at him.
Yao counted slowly on his fingers.
“Your oldest brother is an alcoholic private detective.”
“Yeah.”
“Your second brother killed your abusive father.”
Grace nodded sleepily. “Self-defense mostly but… yeah.”
“Your third brother is in a committed relationship with a sex doll.”
“Bianca is very nice,” Grace informed him seriously.
Yao continued as though he had not heard that.
“And your twin brother throws himself off buildings professionally.”
Grace thought about it.
A very long exhausted pause.
Then:
“…Yeah that about sums it up.”
Silence again.
Stratt looked at Yao.
Yao looked at Stratt.
The realization passed silently between them with horrifying clarity.
So Grace—
This exhausted, socially awkward, disaster of a scientist currently clinging to Eva Stratt like a drowning kitten—
Was the normal one.
God help them all.
Grace yawned hugely again, entirely unbothered by this revelation.
Stratt stared down at him for another second before one particular detail from earlier finally circled back around.
“You slept with Tom Ryder.”
Grace nodded against her shoulder.
“Mmhm.”
“The internationally famous actor.”
“Yep.”
“How?”
Grace looked genuinely confused by the question.
“It was New Year’s.”
That apparently explained everything in his mind.
Yao pinched the bridge of his nose.
Grace continued softly, words beginning to slur again as exhaustion dragged at him.
“I was drunk.” A pause. “Like really drunk.” Another pause. “Was going through kind of a bad decisions phase.”
“That is one hell of a phase,” Yao muttered.
Grace snorted weakly.
“I woke up in his bed and suddenly he was trying to buy me breakfast and asking if I liked hiking.”
Stratt blinked once.
“Hiking.”
“Yeah.” Grace made a face. “Which honestly should’ve been my first warning sign.”
Yao actually laughed at that.
A real laugh.
Short but genuine.
Grace looked pleased with himself for approximately three seconds before sleepiness reclaimed him again.
“I don’t dislike Tom,” he mumbled. “Just not like that. He’s too… actor-y.”
“Actor-y,” Stratt repeated flatly.
“You know.” Grace waved one hand vaguely through the air. “Intense eye contact. Smells expensive. Says things like ‘live authentically.’”
Yao lost another battle with amusement.
Stratt, meanwhile, felt something deeply irrational unfurl in her chest.
Protectiveness.
Violent protectiveness.
The sudden bizarre urge to personally throw Tom Ryder into the Atlantic for having touched Ryland Grace at all.
Which was absurd.
Because Grace clearly did not care.
And more importantly—
She already had him here.
That realization settled warm and dangerous somewhere beneath her ribs.
Grace shifted sleepily again, apparently deciding her shoulder was insufficient. Slowly, clumsily, he nuzzled closer until his forehead rested near her collarbone.
The movement was entirely unconscious.
Entirely trusting.
Stratt felt her expression soften before she could stop it.
Yao saw.
Of course he saw.
He rubbed his face again like a profoundly tired parent watching two emotionally dysfunctional people accidentally adopt each other.
Grace yawned once more.
This one so big his eyes watered afterward.
“I miss them,” he admitted quietly.
The room softened immediately around the confession.
“My brothers.”
His voice had gone small again.
Not childish.
Just honest.
“I know they’re all disasters but…” He shrugged weakly against her. “They’re my disasters.”
The sentence landed heavily.
Stratt continued running her fingers through his curls slowly while he spoke.
“They used to feel like home,” Grace murmured. “Even when everything sucked.”
Outside, lightning flashed bright enough to briefly bleach the office silver-white.
Grace barely reacted now.
He looked half asleep again already.
At some point during the conversation, Stratt had shifted positions carefully against the couch cushions. Now she lay partially reclined on her back with a pillow shoved behind her shoulders while Grace sprawled almost fully across her front beneath the blanket.
He weighed surprisingly little.
Too little.
One arm rested loosely across her stomach. His head remained tucked beneath her chin now while she continued playing absently with his hair.
The intimacy of the position should have felt strange.
Instead it felt weirdly natural.
Yao observed the two of them silently for a long moment before deciding, wisely, not to comment.
Grace’s eyes drifted mostly shut.
“I’d really like to see them again someday,” he mumbled.
Stratt looked down at him.
At the exhaustion.
At the loneliness buried beneath all the humor and rambling and awkwardness.
At the way he spoke about his family like someone clutching old photographs during a fire.
And before she fully thought the decision through, she heard herself say:
“I will see what I can do.”
Grace’s eyes opened immediately.
Not fully awake.
But suddenly alert in the way exhausted animals became alert at the word treat or home.
“…Really?”
The hope in his voice hit like a physical thing.
Stratt felt something painful twist beneath her ribs.
“Yes.”
Grace stared up at her through crooked glasses and messy curls.
Then slowly—
Disbelievingly—
He smiled.
Not the awkward nervous smile he gave during meetings.
Not the manic excited grin that appeared during scientific breakthroughs.
This one was softer.
Smaller.
Real.
God.
It transformed his whole face.
“Okay,” he whispered.
As though Eva Stratt promising something meant the universe itself had shifted slightly into alignment.
Yao watched the exchange quietly.
Then, with the calm certainty of a man witnessing events far beyond anyone’s control, he thought:
Oh.
This was going to become a problem.