For two days, the book sat on her nightstand, a silent accusation. Jayne had tried to unpack, to create some semblance of order in the chaos of her new life, but her thoughts kept drifting back to Cason. To the easy cadence of his laugh, the intensity in his eyes when he talked about something he loved, and the searing heat of his fingers against her palm. It was absurd. A five-second touch shouldn’t have this kind of hold on her.

By the third night, surrounded by half-empty boxes, she gave in. She picked up the book and devoured the first hundred pages. The story was incredible—complex, political, and deeply human. But as she read, she wasn't just thinking about the planet of Gethen; she was imagining Cason’s reaction to it. She could almost hear his low voice debating the nuances of the plot.

Her thumb hovered over his contact in her phone, a number she’d had for years but never used. It felt like crossing a line, one she hadn’t even known existed until Saturday. Taking a breath, she typed out a message, deleting and rephrasing it three times before finally hitting send.

Jayne: Hey, Cason. I’m about a third of the way through The Left Hand of Darkness. You were right, it’s amazing. I have a question about Estraven, though. Am I supposed to trust him?

She tossed her phone onto the couch cushion as if it were on fire, her heart hammering against her ribs. It was a stupid, needy text. He was probably busy. He’d probably think she was weird for texting him so late.

Less than a minute later, her phone buzzed.

Cason: That’s the whole point. Le Guin wants you to feel as lost as Genly Ai does. Just wait until you get to the ice crossing.

A smile bloomed on Jayne’s face, warm and uncontrollable. Relief washed over her, so potent it made her feel light-headed.

Jayne: Noted. I’ll reserve judgment. For now.

Cason: Good. It’s better that way. So, have you decided where to put that terrifying poster of The Thing yet? I’m thinking right over your bed. Keep you motivated to get up in the morning.

She laughed out loud, the sound echoing in her mostly empty apartment. The conversation flowed as easily as it had in person, a seamless continuation of their debate in the stairwell. That first night, they texted until well after midnight, their discussion weaving from Ursula K. Le Guin to John Carpenter, and then to their mutual disappointment in the latest blockbuster space opera.

It became their ritual. Around ten o’clock, one of them would send a message—a link to a movie trailer, a random thought, a question about the book. The conversations would stretch late into the night, long after the city had gone quiet. The initial shield of science fiction quickly fell away. He asked about her freelance graphic design work, and she found herself telling him about her dream of one day illustrating children’s books, a secret she’d barely even admitted to Armando. He told her about the frustrations of his construction management job, the feeling of being on a path he hadn’t consciously chosen. They talked about their families, their hometowns, the small anxieties that kept them awake at night.

Jayne lived for those conversations. The buzz of her phone was a jolt of pure pleasure, a secret thrill that belonged only to her. She’d lie in bed, the screen of her phone illuminating her face in the darkness, a giddy heat pooling low in her stomach as she read his words. He was funny, surprisingly vulnerable, and sharper than she’d ever given him credit for. She was discovering the man, not just her brother’s friend, and the more she learned, the deeper she fell. Each shared confidence, each late-night admission, felt like another thread pulling them closer, tangling them together in a way that felt both exhilarating and terrifyingly new.

About a week into their nightly ritual, Cason sent a link to a local independent theater's website. It was for a weekend-long festival dedicated to restored 70s sci-fi prints.

Cason: Look at this lineup. They’re showing Silent Running. On 35mm.

Jayne’s breath hitched. She clicked the link, her eyes scanning the schedule. It was perfect. A collection of strange, thoughtful, and beautifully bleak films that she and Cason had spent hours dissecting.

Jayne: That’s incredible. I didn’t even know this was happening.

The three dots indicating he was typing appeared and disappeared twice before the next message came through.

Cason: I was thinking of going Saturday. You should come. If you’re not busy.

Her heart did a slow, heavy tumble in her chest. This was different. This wasn't a late-night text exchange conducted from the safety of their own beds. This was a plan. An invitation. An us in the real world, with no brother-shaped buffer between them. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating. The line they’d been carefully walking was suddenly right at their feet, daring them to step over.

Jayne: I’m not busy. I’d love to.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she hit send. The response was almost instantaneous.

Cason: Great. It’s a date.

The word hung in the air between them, electric and ambiguous. Jayne stared at it, her stomach fluttering. He had to mean it in the casual sense, a simple marker of a planned event. But the way her pulse was hammering against her skin told her she didn't believe that, not really.

The next two days were a blur of nervous anticipation. Jayne tried on three different outfits before settling on dark jeans, a soft gray t-shirt, and her favorite worn-in leather jacket. It was casual, but she hoped it looked effortlessly cool. She spent far too long on her makeup, wanting to look natural but also wanting him to notice.

He met her outside the theater, leaning against the brick wall with his hands in his pockets. He was wearing a dark henley that stretched across his chest and shoulders, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing his forearms. When he saw her, a slow, genuine smile spread across his face, and the nervous energy coiling in her gut eased into a warm, liquid heat.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a low rumble that was even better in person.

“Hey yourself,” she replied, trying to sound nonchalant. “Ready to see some sad robots in space?”

He chuckled, pushing off the wall. “Born ready.”

The air inside the theater was thick with the smell of old popcorn and anticipation. It was a small, dedicated crowd, the kind of people who would applaud the studio logo on a vintage print. It felt like their world. As they found their seats in the dimly lit auditorium, his arm brushed against hers, and the simple contact sent a jolt straight through her. It was the same electric shock she’d felt in her apartment, but this time it was stronger, amplified by the weeks of secret conversations and shared vulnerability. The casual, friendly outing he’d proposed already felt like a lie. There was nothing casual about the way her body hummed with awareness of his, the way she could feel the heat radiating from his skin even though they weren’t touching. The lights began to dim, and the low murmur of the crowd faded, but the buzzing silence between them was louder than ever.

The film began, the familiar scratch and pop of the 35mm print filling the theater. On screen, the vast, silent emptiness of space unfolded. Jayne tried to focus on the story, on the lonely botanist tending to his geodesic domes, but her awareness was split. A significant portion of her brain was dedicated solely to the man sitting beside her. She could feel the solid warmth of his thigh just an inch from hers. Every time he shifted, the fabric of his jeans whispered against hers, and a fresh wave of heat washed through her.

She was so attuned to him that she knew the exact moment his breathing deepened, when he leaned forward slightly, completely absorbed in the film. The story was reaching its most heartbreaking point. The main character, Freeman Lowell, was being forced to destroy the forests he’d sworn to protect. On screen, he reprogrammed one of his drone companions, Huey, to plant a demolition charge. The small robot went about its task with innocent diligence, unaware of its own impending destruction. It was a quiet, agonizing sequence.

Jayne felt a lump form in her throat. Her own hand clenched into a fist on her lap. Beside her, Cason let out a soft, frustrated breath. And then, without warning, his arm was moving. It came to rest along the back of her seat, his fingers gently curling over her shoulder. The touch was light, almost tentative, but it sent a tremor straight down her spine. Her entire body went rigid. Her breath caught in her lungs, held captive by the sudden, shocking intimacy of the gesture.

She expected him to pull away once the tense moment on screen passed. Lowell screamed at the drone, the charge detonated, and the theater was filled with the sound of the explosion. But Cason’s arm remained. His fingers didn’t retreat; instead, they seemed to settle, his thumb stroking absently against the seam of her t-shirt. The simple, repetitive motion was devastating. Heat bloomed where he touched her, a dizzying warmth that spread through her chest and down into the pit of her stomach.

Jayne forced herself to breathe. In. Out. She tilted her head just slightly, leaning back into his touch. It was a minuscule movement, a surrender of only an inch, but it felt monumental. In response, his arm tightened, pulling her more securely against his side. Now, her shoulder was tucked against his chest, her head just below his. She could feel the steady, solid beat of his heart through his shirt, a rhythm that was slow and sure, a stark contrast to the frantic hammering in her own chest.

The movie played on, but Jayne saw none of it. Her entire universe had shrunk to the space they occupied, to the solid line of his body against hers, the weight of his arm, the scent of his laundry detergent mixed with something uniquely him. This was no longer an accident. It wasn't an instinctive gesture of comfort for a sad movie. It was a claim. A question. By not pulling away, by leaning into him, she had given her answer. They sat that way for the remainder of the film, cocooned in the darkness, a silent, binding agreement passing between them in the space where his skin met hers. The line had been crossed.