"Look At Me"

By Jamie F. Bell

Under the violet haze of a terraformed sunset, Sam and Jory spend their final hour on the coast before sector reassignment tears them apart. In the silence between the waves, they find a way to make the temporary permanent.

> "Sam was the gravity well, and Jory was the debris caught in the orbit, spiraling in, burning up on entry."

Introduction

The narrative presented in "Look At Me" operates as a sophisticated study of pre-grief, situated within the high-contrast setting of a technological dystopia. The central conflict is not merely the physical separation of two lovers, but the existential struggle between the organic chaos of human emotion and the sterile, rhythmic inevitability of a bureaucratic military complex. The chapter captures a specific, suffocating flavor of tension: the "anticipatory void," where the dread of a future event bleeds backward to poison the remaining present moments. Jory and Sam are not fighting a villain; they are fighting the relentless, ticking clock of a shuttle schedule, a conflict that transforms their interaction into a desperate bid to assert agency over time itself.

The emotional landscape is dominated by the friction between Jory’s kinetic anxiety and Sam’s potential energy. This is not a simple romantic interlude; it is a psychological siege. The setting—a beach where the heat is "unnatural" and the sky is a "projection"—serves as a crucial metaphors for the characters' internal states. The artificiality of the environment highlights the raw, terrifying authenticity of their connection. In a world where the horizon is a simulation and stars are glitches, the biological reality of their bodies pressing together becomes the only verifiable truth. The story posits that in a dehumanized future, intimacy is an act of rebellion, a way to reclaim "data points" back into human beings.

Furthermore, the text establishes a profound exploration of the "tether." While the plot dictates separation, the psychological architecture of the scene is entirely focused on connection. The narrative question is not "Will they stay together?"—the logistics of the world forbid it—but rather "Can their bond survive the vacuum?" The chapter functions as a crucible, stripping away the casual layers of their six-month cohabitation to reveal the desperate, foundational need beneath. It is a moment of crystallization, where the ambiguous drifts of friendship harden into the diamond-sharp certainty of love under the immense pressure of impending loss.

Thematic, Genre & Narrative Analysis

The narrative voice is anchored firmly in Jory’s consciousness, utilizing a third-person limited perspective that is deeply somatic and anxiety-ridden. This perspective is crucial because it colors the world with the hues of Jory's internal panic; the heat presses like a "physical hand," and the silence feels like a "canyon." Jory is an unreliable narrator regarding the durability of affection; his perception is distorted by a profound insecurity that interprets Sam’s stoicism as detachment. The act of telling the story through Jory’s eyes reveals his "blind spot": he is so consumed by the statistical probability of "drifting" that he fails to see the monumental evidence of Sam’s devotion standing three feet away. The narrative forces the reader to inhabit Jory’s hyper-vigilance, making Sam’s eventual emotional breakthrough feel as relieving to the reader as it is to the protagonist.

Ethically and philosophically, the story engages with the concept of "The Human Error" within a regimented system. The military academy setting reduces individuals to "cadets," "batches," and "serial numbers," suggesting a worldview where utility is paramount and emotional attachments are inefficiencies. The text challenges this by presenting love not as a distraction, but as the primary source of resilience. The "moral" victory in this chapter is not achieved by adhering to the shuttle schedule or the curfew, but by rejecting the logic of the institution. When Sam declares, "I don't care about the stars," he is making a radical existential choice, prioritizing the messy, subjective experience of intimacy over the objective, prestigious achievement of spaceflight.

Genre-wise, this piece sits at the intersection of Soft Sci-Fi and Character-Driven BL Drama. The science fiction elements are not the focus but rather the "pressure cooker" designed to accelerate emotional intimacy. The "containment field" and "vacuum seal" are literal barriers that mirror the psychological barriers Jory has erected. The story utilizes the "countdown" trope effectively, a staple of dramatic romance, to strip away pretense. By placing the characters in a liminal space—a beach that is neither fully land nor sea, under a sky that is neither night nor day—the narrative emphasizes that they are in a transitionary phase, a threshold moment where the rules of their previous dynamic no longer apply, and a new, more profound contract must be written.

The Grounded Partner (The Seme Archetype)

Sam represents the quintessential "Grounded" archetype, yet a psychological profile reveals a complexity that transcends the standard trope of the stoic protector. His mental health appears robust on the surface—he is "solid," "immovable," "anchored"—but this composure is a meticulously maintained defense mechanism. His "Ghost," or the trauma haunting him, appears to be the fear of powerlessness. In a world of overarching systems and mandatory deployments, Sam exerts control where he can: over his physical movements, his tone of voice, and the emotional temperature of the interaction. His silence is not an absence of feeling but a containment strategy; he is a vessel holding back a flood, aware that if he breaks, Jory will have nothing to hold onto.

The "Lie" Sam tells himself is that he can protect Jory through sheer force of will and logistical maneuvering. He believes that by being the "gravity well," he can prevent Jory from spinning out into the void. This manifests in his physical behavior; he moves with deliberate slowness, countering Jory’s frantic energy. However, beneath this stoicism lies a desperate, almost feral need for Jory’s chaotic spark. Sam’s attraction to Jory is rooted in the fact that Jory *feels* the things Sam suppresses. Jory’s "vibrating" anxiety is the externalization of Sam’s own internal tension. Sam needs Jory to be the emotional barometer, the one who screams so Sam doesn't have to.

The "Gap Moe" in Sam’s character—the jarring, endearing contradiction—is revealed in the specificity of his observations. For a man who presents as a military-grade instrument of stoicism, his admission that he cares about "the way you talk in your sleep" or "memorize serial numbers" reveals a heart that is deeply sentimental and obsessively attentive. His walls do not crumble from force; they slide open only for Jory. The tenderness he displays, described as "terrifying, restrained," indicates that his capacity for violence or command is fully repurposed into the act of cherishing. He is not gentle because he is soft; he is gentle because he knows exactly how much power he holds, and he is terrified of bruising the only thing that makes him feel real.

The Reactive Partner (The Uke Archetype)

Jory’s internal landscape is a study in high-functioning neuroticism and attachment trauma. As the Reactive Partner, his interiority is defined by a "catastrophizing" cognitive distortion. He anticipates loss before it occurs, effectively pre-mourning the relationship to soften the eventual blow. His specific insecurity is a deep-seated belief in his own insignificance; he views himself as "debris," a "data point," replaceable and forgettable. This insecurity drives his lashing out; he tries to push Sam away ("Why are we dragging this out?") not because he wants Sam to leave, but because he wants to control the timing of the rejection. It is a classic defense mechanism: reject before being rejected.

However, Jory’s vulnerability acts as a paradoxical gift to the dynamic. His inability to hide his fear—his "glass and panic" nature—forces the emotional truth to the surface. He functions as the relationship's truth-teller. While Sam is content to silently exist in the moment, Jory’s verbalization of the "drift" and the "lag" compels Sam to articulate his commitment. Jory’s fragility is weaponized to shatter Sam’s composure. He needs the stability Sam provides not just for comfort, but for definition; without Sam’s "gravity," Jory feels he has no orbit, no place in the universe. He seeks engulfment ("pinned by Sam's gaze") as a remedy for his existential drift.

Jory’s intellectual passion—memorizing serial numbers, analyzing the atmospheric shield—suggests a mind that seeks patterns to manage chaos. His breakdown on the beach occurs because emotions are the one variable he cannot calculate or predict. The tragedy of his character is that he believes he is the "movable object" destined to be left behind, failing to realize that to Sam, Jory is the center of the solar system. His eventual surrender to the kiss is not a submission to Sam, but a submission to hope, which for a character like Jory, is the most terrifying risk of all.

Archetypal Deconstruction & World-Building

The dynamic between Jory and Sam offers a masterclass in the **Inversion of Power**. Traditionally, the Seme is viewed as the driver of action, but in this narrative, Jory’s emotional state dictates every beat of the scene. Jory’s panic is the catalyst; his stumbling stops the walk; his accusation of "drifting" forces Sam’s declaration; his challenge of the curfew provokes the kiss. The "Reactive" partner is, in fact, the active agent of narrative progression. Sam is reactive to Jory’s emotional frequency. Jory’s intense vulnerability creates a vacuum that pulls Sam in. The climax of the scene—the kiss—is initiated by Jory crashing forward on his tiptoes, subverting the expectation of the passive recipient. His desperation overrides the hierarchy, proving that emotional urgency holds more power than physical stoicism.

Regarding the **'Why' of the Seme's Attraction**, Sam is drawn to Jory’s *unfiltered humanity*. In a sterile, regulated world of "vacuum seals" and "curfews," Jory is messy, vibrant, and painfully alive. Sam valorizes Jory’s "mess"—his panic, his boredom-induced quirks—because it represents a rejection of the robotic perfection demanded by their society. Sam seeks to anchor Jory not to stifle him, but to preserve him. Sam’s psychological need is to be the guardian of this fragility. Without Jory, Sam is just a pilot; with Jory, he is a protector. Jory’s capacity for expressive pain gives Sam a purpose beyond the mission, allowing him to feel necessary in a way the military hierarchy cannot provide.

The **Queer World-Building** here functions as a distinct **"BL Bubble"** within a hostile environment. Interestingly, the hostility is not homophobia—there is no indication that their romance is forbidden on gendered grounds—but rather the hostility of *bureaucracy*. The "System" (the curfew, the shuttle, the rank) takes the place of the "Female Counterpart" or societal prejudice as the antagonistic force. This allows the narrative to focus entirely on the universal agony of separation without the distraction of identity politics. The external environment—the toxic heat, the red eye of the tower—dictates their need for a private world. They create a microcosm of intimacy on the drift log, a "pocket reality" where the only laws that matter are the laws of their own physics.

The Dynamic: Inevitability & Friction

The architecture of Jory and Sam’s relationship is built on the physics of compensation. They are a closed circuit where energy is exchanged but never lost. Jory provides the kinetic energy—the movement, the noise, the spark—while Sam provides the potential energy—the mass, the gravity, the stillness. Their neuroses fit together like a lock and key: Jory’s fear of floating away is met perfectly by Sam’s need to hold on. This creates a friction that is both erotic and existential. The "power exchange" is fluid; Sam holds the physical power (the "claim" on the shoulder), but Jory holds the emotional leverage (the ability to break Sam's heart with a single sentence about drifting).

Their union feels fated rather than convenient because they are presented as anomalies in their setting. In a batch of five thousand "data points," they are the only two who seem to be experiencing a subjective reality. The narrative framing suggests that they are the only "real" things in a simulation. Sam is the Emotional Anchor, providing the heavy, static reassurance Jory craves, while Jory is the Emotional Catalyst, forcing the relationship to evolve through his refusal to be complacent. They collide not just because they are roommates, but because they are the only intelligible language the other speaks in a world of static.

The friction in their dynamic arises from their differing temporal orientations. Jory is obsessed with the *future* (the shuttle, the drift, the grief to come), while Sam is ruthlessly committed to the *present* ("We have tonight"). The conflict of the chapter is the struggle to align these timelines. The resolution comes not when the problem is solved, but when they agree to inhabit the same temporal space—the "now"—even if just for a few hours. This alignment of timeframes creates the "circuit closing" moment, allowing the intimacy to finally flow without resistance.

The Intimacy Index

The "Skinship" in this chapter is deployed with surgical precision, moving from absence to overwhelming presence. Initially, the "three feet" between them is a canyon, emphasizing the tactile starvation Jory feels. When touch finally occurs—Sam’s hand on the shoulder—it is described in violent, thermal terms: "shockwave," "burn," "physical blow." This sensory language conveys desperation; touch is not just comfort, it is a confirmation of existence. The progression from the "burning" touch to the "safe" envelopment at the end mirrors the de-escalation of Jory’s panic. The "BL Gaze" is explicitly weaponized with the command "Look at me." This gaze serves as a conduit for the subconscious; when Jory looks at Sam, he sees "raw, terrifying focus." It is a gaze that strips away the environment, rendering the sci-fi setting irrelevant.

The kiss is analyzed not as a romantic gesture, but as a physiological necessity. It is "messy," "desperate," and tastes of "salt and desperation." This lack of polish signals authenticity. The text emphasizes the collision of hard surfaces—teeth, nose, the drift log—to ground the intimacy in the physical realm. The "clashing" suggests a battle for connection, a violent merging of atoms. The sensory details—the smell of detergent and "warm skin and biology"—highlight the contrast between the synthetic world and the organic body.

Furthermore, the "claim" is a central motif of their intimacy. Sam’s touch is possessive ("It wasn't a grab. It was a claim"), signaling a deep, primal need to mark Jory as his own territory before the separation. This possession is not toxic but grounding; it provides the boundaries Jory desperately needs. The silence shared on the drift log, with the rhythmic rubbing of Sam’s thumb, represents the highest level of intimacy in the text: the ability to be alone together, the "skinship" replacing the need for words, stabilizing the erratic frequency of Jory’s heart.

Emotional Architecture

The emotional arc of the chapter is constructed like a fever breaking. It begins with high-frequency tension—the "buzzing" heat, Jory’s vibrating legs, the ticking clock. The narrative pacing is frantic and jerky, mirroring Jory’s stumbling steps. The emotional temperature rises steadily, fueled by Jory’s verbal spiraling and the oppressive atmospheric heat. The "climax" of the anxiety occurs when Jory tries to pull away, triggering the counter-force of Sam’s intervention. Here, the narrative slows down. The dialogue becomes sparse and heavy, each word dropped like a stone.

The atmosphere shifts from hostile to intimate through the manipulation of sensory inputs. The "unnatural heat" of the opening gives way to the "cold air" after the kiss, and finally to the "solid warmth" of the drift log. This thermal regulation mirrors the psychological regulation taking place. The narrative invites empathy by focusing on the somatic symptoms of emotion—the sweating palms, the hitching breath—forcing the reader to feel the physical toll of the characters' feelings.

The release comes not with the promise of a happy ending, but with the acceptance of the present moment. The emotional architecture transitions from a structure of *resistance* (fighting the future) to a structure of *endurance* (weathering the storm). The "siren" of the curfew acts as a structural beat, a final test of their resolve, which they pass by choosing each other over the rules. The final image of the "glitching stars" and the "red eye" watching them leaves a lingering sense of unease, ensuring that the emotional tension is resolved but not erased—a bittersweet resonance typical of high-quality angst.

Spatial & Environmental Psychology

The setting of Sector 4’s public beach is a masterstroke of spatial psychology. It is a **liminal space**—a threshold between the solid ground of Earth (safety/past) and the vast void of the ocean/sky (danger/future). The beach is "wet," "clumping," and unstable, reflecting Jory’s lack of footing. The "transport tower" looms as a phallic, oppressive symbol of the separation to come, a constant visual reminder of the "Seme" force of the military industrial complex that threatens to penetrate and disrupt their bond.

The "artificial horizon" and "projected sky" serve as metaphors for the fragility of their reality. The "too blue, too perfect" sky induces a headache, suggesting that the characters are allergic to the fake utopia they inhabit. They only find comfort in the "drift log," a piece of natural debris. By retreating to the log, they physically position themselves as outcasts, aligning themselves with the discarded remnants of the natural world rather than the gleaming perfection of the tower.

The environment also acts as an amplifier. The "static buzz" of the heat mirrors the static in Jory’s head. The "vacuum seal" of the transport creates a thematic link to the suffocation Jory feels. However, the environment changes as their dynamic shifts; as they find their "tether," the bioluminescent algae begin to glow, creating a localized, private beauty amidst the darkness. The space contracts from the vast, scary horizon to the "point of contact between their bodies," effectively shrinking the universe down to a manageable size.

Aesthetic, Stylistic, & Symbolic Mechanics

The prose utilizes a sensory-heavy, visceral diction to ground the sci-fi elements in bodily reality. Words like "bruised," "tacky," "burning," and "circuit" create a texture that is both organic and industrial. The sentence rhythm varies to match the emotional beats: long, run-on sentences with polysyndeton ("...and something underneath that was just warm skin and biology") convey the overwhelming nature of Jory’s sensory input, while Sam’s dialogue is delivered in short, monosyllabic commands ("Look at me." "Make me.") that arrest the flow and demand attention.

Symbolically, the **"Drift"** is the central metaphor. It represents both the physical movement of the sand and ocean, and the psychological terror of emotional estrangement. Sam’s refusal to let Jory "drift" physically on the beach is the symbolic enactment of his promise not to let them drift emotionally. The **"Glitching Stars"** are another potent symbol; they represent a future that is imperfect and perhaps false, yet they are the only stars available. The characters must navigate by these broken lights, suggesting that their love must survive in a broken world.

The contrast between "Gravity" and "Debris" is a recurring motif. Jory identifies as debris—useless, floating, chaotic—while Sam is identified as the gravity well. This cosmological metaphor elevates their relationship from a simple romance to a fundamental law of physics. The narrative suggests that their connection is not a choice but an inevitability of mass and motion. The use of "anchor" and "tether" imagery reinforces the theme of survival against a void.

Cultural & Intertextual Context

This narrative situates itself firmly within the tradition of **Dystopian YA Literature** (reminiscent of *The Giver* or *Ender’s Game*), but subverts the genre by centering the **Queer Romance** as the primary plot rather than a subplot to the revolution. It echoes the **Orphic Myth**—the tragedy of looking back—but inverts it. Here, Sam commands Jory to "Look at me," turning the act of looking from a curse into a salvation. The "don't look back" warning of the myth is replaced by a "don't look forward" (at the tower) imperative.

The story also draws on the **"Wartime Romance"** archetype, where the intensity of love is accelerated by the proximity of death or deployment. The "curfew" and "ration packs" evoke a sense of scarcity that makes the emotional abundance of their connection feel more precious. Culturally, the text engages with the modern anxiety of **Long-Distance Relationships** in a digital age, magnified to an interstellar scale. The fear of "lag" and "drifting" speaks to a contemporary audience familiar with the fragility of maintaining connection through screens.

Furthermore, the "Red Thread of Fate" concept from East Asian mythology is reimagined here as a digital/psychological "tether." The promise to "transfer back" and lose rank echoes the trope of **"Renouncing the Throne for Love,"** a classic romantic ideal where professional or societal power is sacrificed for personal intimacy, reinforcing the BL genre’s prioritization of the dyad over the collective.

Meta-Textual Analysis & The Fannish Gaze

The chapter is constructed as a feast for the **Fannish Gaze**, prioritizing the **Aesthetic of Consumption** known as "Delicious Hurt." The narrative lingers on the minute details of Jory’s suffering—the trembling, the tears, the panic—because this vulnerability is aesthetically pleasing within the genre conventions. It invites the reader to consume the "angst" as a form of emotional luxury. The framing of the kiss—against a drift log, wind-whipped, desperate—is cinematic, designed to be visualized as a high-contrast illustration or a climactic scene in a drama.

The **Power Fantasy** provided here is specific: it is the fantasy of **Unconditional Priority**. In a reality where readers often feel like "data points" in their own lives—subject to capitalism, bureaucracy, and digital alienation—Sam’s declaration that he "doesn't care about the stars" is the ultimate wish fulfillment. It validates the desire to be the single most important thing in someone’s universe, capable of overriding even the most prestigious career trajectory. It is a fantasy of being *seen* ("Look at me") in a world designed to overlook the individual.

The **Narrative Contract** of BL assures the reader that despite the "vast, terrifying void" mentioned in the text, the couple is endgame. This implicit guarantee allows the story to explore the depths of psychological cruelty (the fear of abandonment) without alienating the audience. We can endure Jory’s panic because we trust the genre’s promise that Sam will catch him. The "transfer back" promise is the seal on this contract, assuring the reader that the separation is a plot device for growth, not a permanent tragedy. This safety net allows the emotional stakes to be raised to excruciating levels, maximizing the catharsis of the eventual reunion.

Reader Reflection: What Lingers

What lingers after the text concludes is not the image of the kiss, but the sensation of the **"Heat."** The story leaves a palpable afterimage of the oppressive, humid atmosphere and the contrasting, stabilizing warmth of Sam’s skin. The intellectual residue is the question of **"The Lag"**—the terrifying gap between sending a signal and receiving a response. The story evokes a profound sense of *persistence*. It leaves the reader with the haunting realization that love, in this context, is an act of endurance against a universe designed to separate. The "glitching stars" remain in the mind’s eye—a reminder that even if the sky is fake, the hand holding yours is real.

Conclusion

In the end, "Look At Me" is less about the impending departure than it is about the radical architecture of presence. By deconstructing the archetypes of the stoic soldier and the panicked cadet, the narrative reveals that in a dehumanized future, the only true rebellion is the refusal to let go. The "vacuum seal" may separate their bodies, but the story asserts that the gravity of their bond has already altered their trajectories irrevocably. It is a testament to the idea that while the world may view them as data points, to each other, they are the entire equation.

"Look At Me"

Two young men standing close on a beach at twilight, foreheads touching, with a futuristic skyline in the background. - Sci-Fi Boys Love (BL), boys love romance, futuristic dystopian fiction, friends to lovers, slow burn romance, emotional contemporary fiction, lgbtq young adult, romantic tension, separation anxiety stories, Short Stories, Stories to Read, Boys Love (BL), Boys Love, MM Romance, danmei, yaoi, shounen-ai, K-Boys Love (BL)
On a heavy, humid evening in a coastal reclamation zone, two boys walk the shoreline. The atmosphere is thick with impending rain and the hum of atmospheric scrubbers. They are hours away from a permanent separation. Sci-Fi BL, boys love romance, futuristic dystopian fiction, friends to lovers, slow burn romance, emotional contemporary fiction, lgbtq young adult, romantic tension, separation anxiety stories, Short Stories, Stories to Read, BL, Boys Love, MM Romance, danmei, yaoi, shounen-ai, K-BL
By Jamie F. Bell • Sci-Fi Boys Love (BL)
Under the violet haze of a terraformed sunset, Sam and Jory spend their final hour on the coast before sector reassignment tears them apart. In the silence between the waves, they find a way to make the temporary permanent.

The heat wasn't natural. It pressed down on the back of Jory’s neck like a physical hand, heavy and damp, smelling of burning copper and wet salt. It was the kind of heat that stuck your shirt to your spine and made the air shimmer with a low, static buzz, blurring the line between the ocean and the sky. He kicked at a ridge of dark, wet sand, watching the way the grains clumped over the toe of his boot. He focused on that. Just the sand. Not the shuttle schedule ticking down on his wrist interface. Not the hulking silhouette of the transport tower visible through the haze down the beach. And definitely not Sam, walking three feet to his left.

Three feet. It felt like a canyon. It felt like nothing.

"You’re walking too fast," Sam said. His voice was low, cutting through the rhythmic crash of the waves. It wasn't a complaint. Sam never complained. It was an observation, stated with that maddening, grounded calm that made Jory want to scream and curl into a ball at the same time.

Jory didn't slow down. If he slowed down, he’d have to think about why his legs felt like they were vibrating. "We’re going to be late. The perimeter curfew triggers in twenty."

"We have time," Sam said. He stopped.

The absence of Sam's footsteps was louder than the ocean. Jory took two more jerky steps before his momentum failed him. He spun around, the movement uncoordinated, his heel catching in the loose drift. He stumbled, arms flailing slightly, before he caught his balance.

Sam was just standing there. The late-afternoon light, filtered through the atmospheric shield overhead, turned the world a bruised shade of purple and gold. It caught in Sam’s hair, dark and messy, and highlighted the sharp line of his jaw. He looked solid. Immovable. While Jory felt like he was made of glass and panic, Sam was just… there. Anchored.

"We don't have time," Jory snapped, though the bite in his tone was weak. He wiped his palms on his shorts. They were sweating. Why were they sweating? "The transport creates the vacuum seal at 1800. If we aren't processed, they bump us to the next cycle. And the next cycle is—"

"Jory." Sam didn't raise his voice. He just said the name. He dropped it into the space between them like a weight.

Jory’s mouth snapped shut. He looked at Sam’s boots. Heavy, military-grade, scuffed at the toes. Then his knees. Then the hem of his t-shirt, fluttering in the hot wind. He couldn't look at his eyes. Not yet. If he looked at Sam’s eyes, the carefully constructed dam inside his chest was going to break, and he wasn't ready to drown. Not here. Not in the middle of Sector 4’s public beach.

"Stop looking at the tower," Sam said softly. He took a step forward. Just one.

Jory flinched. It was involuntary—a sharp intake of breath, a twitch of his shoulders. His body knew Sam was getting closer before his brain registered the movement. The heat radiating off Sam was different from the sun; it was sharper, more electric.

"I'm not looking at the tower," Jory lied. He was looking at the horizon, where the water met the containment field. The ocean here was real—mostly—but the sky was a projection of what Earth used to look like. It was too blue, too perfect. It made his head ache.

"You're vibrating," Sam noted. He wasn't mocking him. He sounded… careful. Like he was approaching a frightened animal.

"I'm not." Jory crossed his arms, digging his fingers into his biceps. The skin there was hot, tacky with humidity. "I just… I hate the wait. I want to get it over with. The assignment logs are already up. You’re going to the Orbital Platform. I’m staying ground-side. It’s done. Why are we dragging this out?"

Sam took another step. He was close now. Too close. Jory could smell him—detergent, the sharp tang of the ocean, and something underneath that was just warm skin and biology. It made Jory’s stomach do a slow, sick somersault.

"Is that what we're doing?" Sam asked. "Dragging it out?"

"Yes," Jory breathed. The word was a ghost. "We walked all the way to the North Point. For what? To stare at the water? We could have stayed in the dorms. We could have… I don't know. Packed."

"I didn't want to pack," Sam said. He reached out. His hand hovered for a second, then landed on Jory’s shoulder. It wasn't a grab. It was a claim.

The contact hit Jory like a physical blow. A shockwave went down his spine, hot and fast, ending in his toes. His breath hitched, a humiliating, audible sound that was half-gasp, half-whimper. He froze, terrified that if he moved, the hand would disappear. Terrified that if he didn't move, he would collapse.

Sam’s thumb brushed the curve of Jory’s collarbone, right over the fabric of his shirt. Even through the cotton, it burned. "I wanted to be here. With you."

"We've been roommates for six months," Jory argued weakly. He was staring at Sam’s chest now. At the slow rise and fall of his breathing. "You’ve been 'with me' every day."

"Not like this," Sam said. His voice dropped an octave, rougher now. "Not outside. Not without the cameras. Not without the schedule."

The wind picked up, whipping hair across Jory’s face. He didn't brush it away. He couldn't move his arms. He felt pinned by Sam’s gaze, by the weight of the hand on his shoulder. This was the Western Boys' Love dynamic in its purest physics—the unstoppable force meeting the movable object. Sam was the gravity well, and Jory was the debris caught in the orbit, spiraling in, burning up on entry.

"It doesn't matter," Jory whispered. The despair was rising in his throat, tasting like bile. "Tomorrow, you’re on a shuttle. You’re going up. I’m staying down. The comms lag is forty minutes. We… we drift. That’s what happens. Everyone drifts."

He tried to pull away, a half-hearted twist of his torso. Sam didn't let go. His grip tightened, just a fraction. Not hurting, but holding. Grounding.

"I’m not everyone," Sam said. "And neither are you."

Jory laughed, a brittle, cracking sound. "Statistically, we are. We're just two cadets in a batch of five thousand. We’re data points, Sam. That’s it."

"Look at me," Sam commanded.

Jory shook his head. He squeezed his eyes shut. If he looked, it became real. If he looked, he had to acknowledge that the ache in his chest wasn't heatstroke. It was grief. Premature, suffocating grief.

"Jory," Sam said again. Closer. He was right there. Jory could feel the heat of Sam’s body radiating against his front. "Don't hide."

It was the gentleness that broke him. If Sam had been rough, if he had yelled, Jory could have fought back. He could have been angry. But the softness? The terrifying, restrained tenderness? It dismantled his defenses like they were made of wet paper.

Jory opened his eyes.

Sam was looking at him with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. His eyes were dark, reflecting the violet light of the dying afternoon. There was no hesitation in them. No fear. Just a raw, terrifying focus that made the rest of the world blur into irrelevance.

"You think I’m going to let the lag stop me?" Sam asked quietly. His hand moved up, sliding along the column of Jory’s neck to cup his jaw. His fingers were rough, calloused from the simulation controls, but his touch was agonizingly light. "You think I’m going to forget this?"

"You will," Jory insisted, though his voice was trembling. "You’ll get up there. You’ll see the stars. You’ll meet people who aren't… who aren't a mess. Who don't panic during atmospheric turbulence. You’ll forget."

"I don't care about the stars," Sam said. He leaned in. The space between them vanished. "I care about the way you talk in your sleep. I care about how you memorize the serial numbers on the ration packs because you're bored. I care about this."

His thumb stroked Jory’s cheekbone. Jory leaned into the touch without meaning to, his eyes fluttering shut again. The sensory input was overwhelming—the smell of rain coming, the sound of the ocean, the thudding of his own heart, and Sam, Sam, Sam.

"I don't want you to go," Jory whispered. The truth fell out of him, unpolished and pathetic. "I don't want to be here without you."

"Then don't be," Sam murmured. His forehead rested against Jory’s. The contact was electric, a circuit closing. "We have tonight. We have right now. The shuttle doesn't leave until 0800. That’s twelve hours. Don't waste them being scared of tomorrow."

"I can't help it," Jory said. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, hot and frustrating. "I’m always scared."

"I know," Sam said. He moved his other hand, wrapping it around Jory’s waist, pulling him flush against him. The collision of their bodies knocked the breath out of Jory. He felt small, enveloped, safe. "That’s why I’m here. To catch you."

Jory’s hands found their way to Sam’s shirt, gripping the fabric so hard his knuckles turned white. He buried his face in the crook of Sam’s neck, inhaling the scent of him, trying to brand it into his memory banks. "It’s not enough time," he mumbled into the skin.

"It’s never enough time," Sam agreed into his hair. "But it’s what we have."

They stood there for a long moment, the world narrowing down to the point of contact between their bodies. The wind whipped around them, kicking up sand, but Jory didn't feel it anymore. He only felt the solid warmth of Sam, the steady rhythm of his heart beating against Jory’s chest.

Suddenly, a siren wailed in the distance—the perimeter warning. The sun was dipping below the artificial horizon line, the light shifting from gold to a deep, bruising indigo.

Jory jumped, his nerves fraying instantly. "The curfew—"

"Ignore it," Sam said. He pulled back just enough to look at Jory again. His expression was fierce now, possessive. "Let them write us up. Let them dock our credits. I don't care."

"Sam—"

"Make me care," Sam challenged. His voice was a low growl. "Make me forget about the curfew."

Jory stared at him, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The challenge hung in the air, dangerous and thrilling. Sam was giving him permission. He was giving him an order.

Jory didn't think. He didn't analyze. He just reacted. He surged forward, standing on his tiptoes, and crashed his mouth against Sam’s.

It wasn't a movie kiss. It was messy, desperate, and tasted of salt and desperation. Their teeth clashed. Jory’s nose bumped Sam’s cheek. But then Sam made a noise—a low, guttural sound in his throat—and tilted his head, deepening the angle, taking control.

His mouth was hot, demanding. He kissed Jory like he was trying to breathe for both of them. Jory’s hands slid up to tangle in Sam’s hair, pulling him closer, closer, trying to merge their atoms. The sensation was blinding. It was like standing in the center of a solar flare. Every nerve ending in Jory’s body lit up, screaming, singing.

Sam’s hands were everywhere—on his waist, his back, his neck—mapping him, memorizing him. He backed Jory up, stumbling through the sand, until Jory’s back hit the rough, warm surface of a drift log. Sam pressed him against it, his body a heavy, welcome weight, shielding Jory from the wind, the sky, the future.

When they finally broke apart, gasping, the air felt cold. Jory’s lips were throbbing. He felt dizzy, lightheaded, as if the gravity on the beach had suddenly shifted.

Sam rested his forehead against Jory’s again, his breathing ragged. "There," he whispered. "Now tell me you're thinking about the schedule."

Jory let out a shaky laugh. "Shut up."

"Make me," Sam said, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.

Jory kissed him again, softer this time, but with no less intensity. It was a promise. A plea. A goodbye and a hello all wrapped into one.

They sat on the drift log as the sky turned to black, the artificial stars flickering to life above them. They didn't talk much. They didn't need to. Sam kept his arm around Jory’s shoulders, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles into his arm. Jory leaned against him, watching the bioluminescent algae in the waves start to glow, a neon blue reflection of the fake stars above.

"I’ll write," Jory said into the silence. It sounded small, but firm. "Every day. Even if the lag is bad. Even if you don't answer right away."

"I’ll answer," Sam said. He looked out at the dark water. "And I’ll come back. Once my rotation is done. I’ll request a transfer to ground-side."

Jory looked up at him, eyes wide. "You’d lose your rank. The Orbital track is… it’s prestigious. It’s what you worked for."

Sam looked down, his eyes locking onto Jory’s. The intensity was back, that burning, quiet resolve. "It’s just a job, Jory. It’s not… this."

He squeezed Jory’s shoulder. "I can be a pilot anywhere. But I can't be this anywhere else."

Jory felt a lump form in his throat, but this time, it wasn't fear. It was something else. Something warm and expanding, pushing back the cold dread of the future. He grabbed Sam’s hand, lacing their fingers together, holding on tight.

"Okay," Jory whispered. "Okay."

The wind howled around them, carrying the scent of a storm that was programmed to arrive at 0200. The transport tower blinked in the distance, a red eye watching them. But for now, in the shadow of the drift log, with Sam’s heat seeping into his side, Jory wasn't afraid. He was here. He was real. And he was loved.

The future was a vast, terrifying void. But they had a map now. They had a tether.

Sam turned his hand over, palm to palm, and squeezed. "Ready to walk back?"

Jory looked at the long stretch of dark beach leading back to the compound. Back to reality. Back to the countdown.

"Not yet," Jory said, leaning his head on Sam’s shoulder. "Just… a minute more."

"Take all the time you need," Sam said. And in the dark, under the glitching stars, he sounded like he could stop time itself, just for them.