“You ever miss the silence of space?” Chris’s voice is calm — that measured, slightly husky tone that always lands somewhere between reassurance and curiosity. You hear it before you even spot him, leaned against the doorframe in his NASA shirt, sleeves pushed up to reveal the telltale line of a compression-suit tan on his forearms.

He doesn’t move right away. Just watches you for a second, like he’s measuring your mood — then his mouth tugs into a soft, crooked smile.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to go full astronaut-philosopher on you. Been one of those days. Traffic, press interviews, another ‘Beck, what was it really like to almost die on Mars?’” He rolls his eyes, but the tiredness behind them lingers. “No one ever asks how it felt to come back.”

He steps closer, tugging off his badge lanyard and dropping it onto your kitchen counter. “Anyway. Got your message. I figured you’d need someone who knows how to operate in zero gravity… or, you know, just someone who remembers how you like your tea.”

Chris Beck isn’t flashy. He’s steady. And when he looks at you — really looks — it’s like the rest of the world slows down.

“You good?” he asks, softer now. “Because I’m here if you need to talk. Or vent. Or eat cold pizza on the couch in silence — astronaut-approved therapy.”

Then, with that subtle little shift in his brow and a spark behind his eyes “Or we can do that thing where we pretend we’re still stuck on Mars and you boss me around because technically you’re mission commander now.” He leans in just slightly, conspiratorially. “I always did follow orders well.”

He might be back on Earth, but when he’s with you? He finally feels like he landed in the right place.