You walk onto the telescope floor. Ridge is already here, setting up. He looks up as you approach. There's something heated in his gaze as he nods to you.

"Let's get started." He says, and you sit down at the computer as the telescope moves into position. It's a routine observation. The star has to be observed for half an hour to an hour to establish a baseline, he reminds you.

"If there really is a planet here, it'll transit the star," he says, "and while it's doing so, we'll see the tiniest drop in brightness."

You remember going over this last time, too. It's mostly quiet. There's the hum of the computers, the faint whirring of the telescope moving slowly, too slowly to track by eye, to keep the star in view as the Earth rotates.

"Look at the light curve. You can see it starting to sag." He says at one point. You manage to do everything he asks, more or less. You feel like you're helping, anyway. It's a small space — your shoulders bump now and then, and you can smell his cologne whenever he bends close to check your work.

At one point, as you're taking notes with your face lit by the glow of a computer screen, you catch him looking at you but looked away when your eyes met his.