The Gutter and the Stars

The next day, it was full of lukewarm Earl Grey.

They saw each other in passing—brief, tense encounters as one crew left and the other arrived. Alex always looked impeccable, their sweater unwrinkled, their boots suspiciously clean. Riley was invariably covered in grime, sweat, and gutter sealant.

“Your crew left sawdust near the dome’s ventilation intake,” Alex said one afternoon, their voice clipped.

Riley shrugged, hefting a downspout onto their shoulder. “Your crew left a stack of boxes in my lift path. Nearly took out Mario’s knee.”

Alex’s eyes flickered to Mario, who was limping slightly as he coiled extension cords. “We’ll move the boxes.”

“Damn right you will,” Riley muttered. They brushed past Alex, close enough to smell the sharp, clean scent of their soap. It was unnervingly pleasant.

Tension simmered like a pot about to boil. The crews kept their distance, eyeing each other with wary curiosity. The astronomers seemed impossibly clean, always hunched over glowing screens. The gutter installers were loud, boisterous, their laughter ringing across the parking lot.

Riley felt like they were walking a tightrope. Every interaction with Alex left them bristling, their shoulders rigid with irritation. But beneath the anger was something else—a grudging awareness of Alex’s sharp, precise movements, the way their pale eyes lingered a fraction too long on Riley’s face during their terse exchanges.

“You’re staring,” Lena said one morning, nudging Riley with her elbow.

Riley blinked, realizing they’d been watching Alex across the parking lot. The astronomer was examining some piece of equipment, their expression intent. “I’m not staring. I’m… monitoring the enemy.”

“Sure,” Lena snorted. “Just don’t monitor them so hard you fall off the scaffolding.”

Riley flushed, turning away. “Shut up and hand me that bracket.”

But they couldn’t shake the strange pull of Alex’s presence. The other astronomer was arrogant, dismissive, completely absorbed in their own work. They were everything Riley normally despised. So why did Riley’s gaze keep drifting toward them during shift changes? Why did their pulse pick up speed every time Alex opened their mouth to argue?

It didn’t help that Alex seemed to be studying Riley with the same conflicted intensity. More than once, Riley caught the other person watching them from the observatory steps, their expression unreadable behind the glow of their tablet screen.

The thermos sat between them, a silent testament to their cold war. Coffee, tea, coffee, tea—back and forth it went, a cycle of petty retaliation. Until one rainy Tuesday morning, when Riley found it full of something new.

The rain started just after dawn, a steady drizzle that soaked through Riley’s work jacket and turned the parking lot into a slick mess. They sipped coffee from their own thermos, watching as their crew struggled to keep the gutter installation on schedule. The wet conditions made everything harder, the aluminum slippery in their gloved hands, the ladders treacherous on the muddy ground.

“Watch that step,” Riley called to Javier, who was wrestling a downspout into place. “It’s like ice over there.”

Javier nodded, his breath misting in the cold air. “Gonna be a long day, boss.”

Riley grunted in agreement, their eyes drifting to the observatory. The astronomers had arrived early, taking advantage of the overcast sky. The dome was open, the telescope just visible inside. Alex stood beside it, pointing at something on a technician’s laptop screen.

As if sensing Riley’s gaze, Alex looked up. Their eyes met across the rain-slicked distance, and for a moment, the world narrowed to that pale blue stare. Then Alex turned back to the technician, and the connection snapped like a cut wire.

Riley shook their head, annoyed at themselves. They needed to focus on the job, not on the infuriating astronomer and their pretty telescope.

The conflict that day was inevitable. With both crews working in the cramped space, tempers frayed like old rope. The first argument erupted over extension cords.

“You can’t run that across the walkway,” Alex said, appearing beside Riley’s ladder just as they were reaching for a gutter hook. “It’s a tripping hazard.”

Riley gritted their teeth, lowering their arm. “It’s raining. We need power for the saw.”

“Find another route.” Alex’s voice was clipped, their eyes hidden behind rain-spattered glasses. “My team can’t work around this obstruction.”

“Obstruction?” Riley climbed down the ladder, ignoring the twinge in their knee. “Your van’s been blocking half the parking lot for weeks.”

Alex took off their glasses, wiping them meticulously on the hem of their sweater. “The van is parked in our designated area. Your extension cord is not.”

Riley stepped closer, invading Alex’s space. They could smell the rain on their skin, the faint, clean scent of their soap. “You want to measure it? See whose designated area is whose?”

For a moment, they stood nose to nose, breathing the same damp air. Then Alex looked away, their jaw tight. “Just move the cord, Riley. Before someone gets hurt.”

The use of their name surprised Riley. They couldn’t remember Alex ever using it before. It sounded strange on the astronomer’s tongue—too familiar, somehow. Riley swallowed, taking a step back. “Fine. But you owe me ten minutes of saw time.”

Alex didn’t respond, already turning toward the observatory. Riley watched them go, frustration simmering beneath their skin. They yanked the extension cord, rerouting it along the edge of the parking lot. It was less convenient, but it would have to do.

The next argument came just after lunch. The astronomers were testing some new piece of equipment, a low, intermittent hum that set Riley’s teeth on edge. It wasn’t loud, but it was constant, a background irritation that made it hard to concentrate.

Riley found Alex inside the observatory, hunched over a monitor with one of the technicians. “You need to turn that off,” Riley said, not bothering with pleasantries.

Alex glanced up, their expression distracted. “It’s part of our calibration. It can’t be turned off.”

“It’s giving me a headache,” Riley said. “And it’s distracting my crew. We’re working with power tools, Alex. We need to be able to hear each other.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed. “Your power tools are far louder than our equipment. If anything is causing a distraction, it’s your saws and hammers.”

“You agreed to midday hours,” Riley shot back. “We’re supposed to be off-site during your work time.”

“Exactly.” Alex’s voice was icy. “You’re not supposed to be here at all. If our equipment is bothering you, perhaps you should stick to your scheduled hours.”

Riley’s fists clenched. They wanted to grab Alex’s fancy sweater and shake them until their teeth rattled. Instead, they took a deep breath, forcing their voice to stay level. “We’re behind schedule because of the rain. We’re just trying to finish this section before it gets dark.”

Alex held their gaze for a long moment. Then they sighed, turning to the technician. “See if you can adjust the frequency. Lower it by a few decibels.”

The technician looked surprised but nodded, bending over the equipment. Alex turned back to Riley. “Satisfied?”

“Thrilled,” Riley said flatly. They turned to leave, but Alex’s voice stopped them.

“Riley.”

They looked back, eyebrows raised.

“Your crew left muddy boot prints all over the observatory floor this morning.” Alex’s voice was mild, but there was an edge beneath it. “Please remind them to remove their boots before entering.”

Riley stared at them. “You want my crew to take off their boots every time they need to use the bathroom?”

“The observatory is a delicate environment. We can’t have dirt and debris tracked inside.” Alex met their gaze steadily. “I’ve left a memo on the bulletin board with our cleanliness expectations.”

A memo. Riley fought the urge to laugh. “I’ll be sure to pass it along,” they said, their voice dripping with sarcasm.

They turned again to leave, but not before they saw the flash of irritation in Alex’s eyes. Good. Let the astronomer be annoyed. Riley was sick of their nitpicking and condescension.

The memo was waiting on the bulletin board beside the observatory door, neatly typed and laminated. “Cleanliness Standards,” it read, followed by a bullet-pointed list of requirements. No boots inside. No food or drink near the equipment. No personal items left unattended.

Riley crumpled the memo in their fist, tossing it into the nearest trash can. They weren’t Alex’s employee. They didn’t have to follow their stupid rules.

But the next morning, they found a new memo waiting. This one was taped to their work van, the paper dark with moisture from the morning fog. “Noise Violation,” the subject line read. “Excessive noise levels during designated quiet hours. Please restrict power tool use between 12:00 and 1:00 p.m.”

Riley ripped the memo off their van, tearing it in half. They found Alex inside the observatory, sipping tea from a porcelain mug. “What the hell is this?” Riley demanded, waving the torn halves of the memo.

Alex looked up calmly. “It’s a reminder of our agreed-upon schedule. You were using the saw during our observation period yesterday.”