Below Zero (The STEMinist Novellas, #3)

by Ali Hazelwood

Ian looks at me, and I don’t even try to hide my face. I’m well past that. When he comes closer, a dark frown on his face, I let him hold my eyes, lift my chin with his fingers, inspect my cheeks. His expression shifts from urgent, to worried, to understanding. I draw in a breath that turns into a gulp. The gulp, to my horror, morphs into a sob. Two. Three. Five. And then…

“Shh.” Ian’s hands feel impossibly large as they move up and down my back, cupping my head, stroking my snow-damp hair where it spills from under the hat. We are in the icy middle of a storm, but this close to him, I feel almost peaceful. “Shh. It’s okay.”

He smiles, and the thought that I could have died—I could have died—without being smiled at like this, by this man, has my lips trembling. “I don’t mind carrying you.” A dimple appears. “Do try to contain your love for crevasses, please.” I glare at him through the tears. As it turns out, it’s exactly what he wants from me.

pathway, because without really knowing why, I get out of my bunk, wrap the blanket around myself, and limp across the rolling floor in Ian’s direction. When I lie down next to him, he blinks, groggy and mildly startled. And yet his first reaction is not to throw me in the sea but to push toward the bulkhead to make room for me. He’s a way better person than I’ll ever be. “Hannah?” “I just…” My teeth are chattering. Again. “I can’t get warm.” He doesn’t hesitate. Or maybe he does, but just a fraction of a second. He opens his arms and pulls me to his chest, and…I fit inside them so perfectly, it’s as though there was a spot ready for me all along. A five-year-old spot, familiar and cozy. A delicious, warm nook that smells of soap and sleep, freckles and pale, sweaty skin. It makes me want to cry again. Or laugh. I cannot remember the last time I felt this fragile and confused.

“That my project was going to be such a shitshow. That I…That I wasn’t going to be able to finish my project.” I am going to start crying again. Possibly. Likely. “Was it—was it that obvious? Am I just this total, giant, incompetent asshole who decided to do whatever the fuck she wanted despite everyone else telling her that she was going to—” “No, no, shh.” His arms tighten around me, and I realize that I am, in fact, crying. “You are not an asshole, Hannah. And you are the opposite of incompetent.” “But you vetoed me because I—” “Because of the intrinsic danger of a project like yours. For the past few months, I tried to get this project stopped in about ten different ways. Personal meetings, emails, appeals—I tried it all. And even the people who agreed with me that it was too dangerous would not step in to prevent it. So no, you’re not the asshole, Hannah. They are.”

“Shh.” “And that I’ve put you in danger—” “Shh, it’s okay.” He kisses my temple. It’s wet from the slide of my tears. “It’s okay.” “It’s not. You could be working with your team, or asleep in your own bed, but you’re here because of me, and—” “Hannah, there is nowhere else I’d rather be.” I laugh, watery. “Not even—not even literally anywhere else?” I hear him chuckle just before I fall asleep.

“But things have changed, right?” Sadie asks. “I mean…last night he carried you upstairs for seven floors because the elevator was broken. It’s obvious that he has a thing for you.”

“Yes, I do. For instance, in ten minutes I’m going to take you to the NASA doctor Ian wrote down the address for, and we’re going to get your foot checked out.” I scowl. “No way.”

With Ian, I always decide to stay. “Touchdown confirmed! Serendipity has safely landed on the surface of Mars!” The room erupts into cheers. Everyone explodes out of their seats, cheering, clapping, laughing, jumping, hugging. And within the delightful, triumphant, radiant chaos of mission control, I turn to Ian, and he turns to me with the widest, most brilliant of smiles. The following day, our kiss is on the front page of the New York Times.