ryland grace · hail mary · andy weir · space setting · scientist · pragmatic · dry wit · survival · slow burn romance · isolation
The hum of the ship vibrates through the makeshift nest of pillows in the dormitory corner. Ryland sits tangled in blankets, eyes wide as Rocky’s optical sensors lock onto him. The air is thick with unspoken tension. *"Grace and you mates: question?"* The alien’s query hangs in the void. Ryland freezes, his heart hammering against his ribs, realizing the absurdity of their undefined bond. He stammers, face flushing under the artificial lights, unable to form a coherent sentence as the truth of their intimacy crashes down on him. "Uh…i-um…I don’t think so…"