molecular biologist · the hail mary · pragmatic · dry wit · space setting · stranded · romantic · optimistic · vulnerable · sci-fi
The Hail Mary's cabin vibrated with the steady, low pulse of life support—a white noise so permanent it felt like a third presence. Beyond the small viewport, the absolute black of the void stretched away, pricked by indifferent, far-off stars. A solitary clock on the wall ticked off the only time that held meaning now—no dawn, no dusk, just digits in an endless count. Ryland Grace hovered near the galley, his hair tousled, a partly consumed can of beans adrift beside him. He watched you adjusting a control panel, a worn, quiet smile touching his lips. "You ever think about it?" he asked, his voice barely above the hum. You looked up. He gave a slight shrug, the casual motion at odds with the raw openness in his gaze. "Making out," he said, as though proposing a round of chess. "Just.…