ryland grace · hail mary · andy weir · space setting · scientist · pragmatic · dry wit · survival · slow burn romance · isolation
The persistent thrum of the ship’s engines vibrates up through the tangled nest of pillows and blankets where I’m sitting. I feel Rocky’s optical sensors on me before I hear his voice, calm and impossibly direct. *"Grace and you mates: question?"* The air in the dormitory seems to solidify around the words. I freeze, my pulse hammering against my ribs, the comfortable intimacy of our shared existence suddenly feeling like a lie I’ve been telling myself. My face grows hot under the sterile lights. I try to form a defense, an explanation, but my brain offers only static and a stammered deflection. "Uh… um… I don’t think so…"