Chapter Text
By the time Eva could leave her office it was after midnight. She staggered into her room, leaning back against the door as it closed behind her. Pressing back against the cool surface, she closed her eyes and searched for a deep breath. Between her shoulder blades was a tight knot she could not reach, her stomach had been churning for most of the day, and a dull throbbing pain wrapped across the back of her skull. Her mind ricocheted between all the things she should still be doing rather than retiring for the night: phone calls to make; data to check; decisions to sign-off; emails to read—Stop, she tried to command herself. She counted to ten and tried to lengthen her breaths. In and out. In and out.
Eva had been the administrator of the Hail Mary Project for almost three years. The pressure that bore down on her was familiar, a constant companion. In some ways she relied on it. The anchor that made her very complicated role very simple. She only ever had to ask one question: would this help the Hail Mary succeed? If not, it did not matter. If it did, then yes—and whatever that yes required. She had every expert she needed at her fingertips to help her answer that question yes.
The certainty, the clarity and conviction did not help her sleep though. Eva had been exhausted almost every moment of the past three years, and this seemed unlikely to change.
Her therapist (mandatory; three sessions a fortnight scheduled in the pockets between diplomatic meetings, astrophage production updates, budget discussions) had prescribed her these breathing exercises to try and help her unwind before she tried to go to bed. Eva was skeptical, but desperate.
Opening her eyes, she blinked against the amber light washing her room. The bedroom was, like all others on the ship, small and utilitarian. The only point of distinction marking her rank here was the private access an adjoining bathroom. She stripped off her clothes, hastily folding and hanging them away, and dragged herself into the shower. The spray of hot water went some way to uncoiling the tension in her neck and her shoulders. The ever-whirring hum of things she should be doing was maybe a little more distant than before.
Afterwards, Eva slipped into bed and stared up at the dark ceiling above. She tried to push away the thought—as she did most nights—of how much she missed her apartment in Paris. Her comfortable bed; the silk sheets and her duvet that was just the right weight. The beds on the Vatt were too firm, too narrow, and the sheets seemed to scratch against her. She tossed a little, trying to find some comfort.
Trying to hide from the whirring in her mind, Eva left her thoughts drift. Inevitably they caught on him.
Dr Ryland Grace. His brilliant intelligence. His kind eyes. The warmth of his voice. How he could frustrate her, challenge her, understand her, surprise her.
Eva closed her eyes. She let out a long breath.
She had barely seen him today. He had been holed up in one of the laboratories, overseeing the development for the specifications of the distribution of the thin layer of astrophage that would envelop the Hail Mary’s hull. She had only glimpsed him across the mess hall late in the afternoon—talking animatedly to a group of the younger engineers rather than focusing on eating his meal, the noodles clutched in his chopsticks waving around precariously. Eva smiled in the dark at the memory.
She should stop thinking about him.
She opened her eyes again, blinking against the dim. The whirring grew louder, feeling like it was growing from the back of her molars. She bit down and closed her eyes again. Unbidden, her mind was drawn to him.
Ryland’s shoulders in those ridiculous t-shirts he wears. The stretch of fabric as he moves. Eva had to admit, even though she thought they were very stupid for a grown man to parade about in, each one of them looked very comfortable. There had been days when she had wanted to reach out, grasp a handful and pull.
Eva’s hands skimmed down the front of her silk top and lingered at the waistband of her pyjama pants. She bit her lip, worrying at it.
She knew what the rest of the crew thought about the dynamic between her and Ryland. Whispers as people hurried through the hallways. Not so subtle comments within earshot. They are all convinced that she and Dr Grace are fucking. That he is her loyal pet that she can order about for her pleasure, stress relief, or just an ego trip. That she bosses him about in bed, much like she does everywhere else.
Eva ignores all of this. Gossip is not going to get the Hail Mary off the ground and is not going to save the sun. But she cannot ignore it all of the time. The words cling to her. Invading her thoughts uninvited.
As she presses her fingertips against the skin under her waistband, her mind stumbles over the hushed rumours about her and Ryland. She feels herself flush.
All those people talking outside about her do not know her really. They do not know the feelings she keeps tucked away tight in her chest. How her desire for Ryland is mortifyingly tender. While she thrills at the idea of commanding him to his knees in her office, or sitting back detached while he gives her everything, lying here in the dark she craves something else.
Eva wants to give him the soft parts of her. She breathes in and runs her fingertips over the round of her stomach, her hips. She pushes her nightshirt up and gasps as she touches the undersides of her breasts. She moves her hands down and gripped at the swell of her upper thighs. Her breath stuttered and she rocked her hips. Eva wanted Ryland’s gentleness. She wanted to unravel under his touch, knowing he would keep her safe.
She opened herself up with two fingers and began to swirl the fingertips of her other hand around her labia. She huffed with frustration, bringing her fingertips to her mouth to moisten them before touching herself again. The way Ryland spoke to her quietly when he had to deliver updates to her late in the day sent a shiver through her. She started to swirl her fingertips faster. Would he talk to her like that here, like this? His voice soft in her ear as she searched for her release, craning to catch anything he said. Would he call her beautiful? Would he tell her she was good? So good for him?
Her hand was not enough. Eva twisted around onto her stomach, hips raised, legs tucked beneath her, the side of her face pressed against the sheets. Sometimes the shift in angle helped her. She started to move her fingers again and felt her arousal begin to spread. Her fingertips wet with it, she brushed across her clitoris—just briefly at first and then more quickly, in small tight circles. A moan built at the back of her throat.
The Ryland in Eva’s mind was methodical and focused. He would have steady hands that would hold her down. He would touch her and decipher her and she would not need to ask for what she wanted, what she needed. She would not even need to know herself. He was a clever boy, he would figure her out. Kneeling down, pressed against her mattress, Eva imagined Ryland’s weight against her back, the hand that was not busy between her legs moving her hair to the side, his mouth pressing long wet kisses to the nape of her neck, driving her wild. He would inevitably say something inane to try and make her laugh, she would not be able to deny the burst of joy.
Heat in her stomach began to unfurl. Her heart sped. She chased the feeling, her hand beginning to cramp as she rubbed her fingers against her clit relentlessly. Her orgasm crashed into her suddenly—sending the blood humming across her body, tingling her legs and drawing a moan from her throat. It was over too quickly—she was too sensitive to keep touching and she did not know how to draw the feeling out herself.
Eva slumped down, her legs unfolding and stretching out. Her breath rattled in her chest. The pleasure seeped out of her, doubt filling her in its place.
She was such a fool. Ryland Grace did not want her like this. His head was full of calculations and hypotheses and dreams of the future for his students. He only looked to her to make decisions, to give his findings to, to lead them. He did not wonder about her in the dark. He did not crave more.
The loneliness left her hollowed out. Her overtired brain left her senseless, feeling as though she could just float up and away without anything to hold her down to the bed, to the ship itself. Empty and untethered, could she reach the stars themselves? Their long-suffering sun? Maybe Ryland Grace could better study her as a constellation in the sky, rather than a woman standing before him.
She was a fool. An overdramatic fool.
Eva twisted over and tried to burrow into the worn, thin pillow.
The whirring in her head grew louder.