The heavy steel hatch groaned, a sound that echoed through the tiny, pressurized cabin. A sliver of blinding white light cut through the dim, red-lit interior, widening with excruciating slowness.Finally.A woman’s voice, crisp and professional, crackled through the submarine’s comm system one last time. “Hatch cycle complete. You are clear to disembark, Mr. Goodman. Welcome to Midnight Zone Habitat Zero.”Richard Goodman let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for three days. He unbuckled the harness that had been his constant companion, his muscles protesting after the long confinement. The journey down was a necessary evil, a slow, agonizing descent to let his body acclimate to the immense pressure waiting outside the hull. Three days alone, in a space barely larger than a coffin, with nothing but the hum of machinery and a voice on the radio for company. *Seventy-two hours earlier, the world had been reduced to a porthole view of infinite, crushing blackness. The sub, a remotely operated personnel transport nicknamed ‘The Nautilus,’ was little more than a ceramic and titanium egg. Richard was strapped into the pilot’s chair, a control console dark and silent before him. He was just cargo. The real pilot was thousands of meters below, at his destination.“Nautilus, this is Midnight’s Ops. Comms check. How do you read, Mr. Goodman?” The voice was female, slightly hesitant but clear.“I read you five-by-five,” Richard responded, his own voice sounding too loud in the sealed space. “And it’s Richard. Mr. Goodman was my father.”A brief, static-filled pause. “Understood. Richard. I’m Jane. I’ll be your pilot for this trip. We have a seventy-two-hour journey ahead of us. The pressurization schedule is automated, but I’ll be monitoring your vitals and our trajectory the entire time.”“Sounds good, Jane.” He shifted in the seat, the reality of his isolation settling in. “What’s the entertainment package like down here? They said something about magazines.”“Affirmative,” Jane’s voice came back, a little warmer this time. “In the compartment to your left. The previous crew… left behind their reading material. It was deemed easier to leave it than to ferry it back up.”Richard popped the latch. The compartment was stuffed with a stack of well-thumbed publications. He pulled them out, his brow furrowing. Deep Sea Biology Journal. Advanced Metallurgical Quarterly. And then, beneath the scientific texts… Vogue. Cosmopolitan. Women’s Health.He blinked. Well, that’s… eclectic.He held up a copy of Cosmo. The cover featured a woman with a dazzling smile next to headlines like “10 Moves to Drive Him Wild” and “The Secret Language of Your Glow.”“Find everything?” Jane’s voice chirped in his ear, pulling him from his thoughts.“Uh, yeah. It’s… a varied selection.” He could almost hear her blush through the radio.“Oh! Right. Those. The, um, the habitat crew is all female. Besides you now, of course. They must have pooled their subscriptions.” Her words came out in a rushed, flustered wave. “I can… I can see if there’s a digital archive of Popular Mechanics or something I can upload for you?”Richard let out a low chuckle. “No, that’s alright, Jane. I’m a scientist in my own way. I can appreciate new data.”The first day passed in a blur of engine hum and sporadic, awkward conversation with Jane. She was knowledgeable about the sub’s systems, her technical explanations crisp and detailed. But the moment the talk strayed to anything personal, her voice would tighten, retreating behind a wall of professional jargon.During a long silence, Richard idly flipped open a Women’s Health. His eyes scanned an article about the importance of core strength for endurance. It was clinical, informative. Then he turned the page to a full-page advertisement for very delicate, very expensive-looking lace underwear. The model’s intense gaze seemed to challenge him from the page.He snapped the magazine shut, the sound abnormally loud. Get a grip, Goodman. You’re reading a medical journal. Essentially.On day two, boredom led to deeper excavation. Tucked inside a copy of Vogue, he found a handwritten note. The script was loopy and energetic. ‘Lisa – Try this shade! It’s called ‘Abyssal Bloom’ – totally works with the pallor we’re all rocking down here! xo Lillian.’Lisa. Lillian. Names. They had names. He wasn’t just going to a base; he was going to meet people. Colleagues. He imagined a serious marine biologist, Lisa, critically examining a tube of ‘Abyssal Bloom’ lipstick in the stark light of the habitat.Jane’s voice broke his reverie. “Everything okay, Richard? Your heart rate spiked for a second.”“Just… engrossed in my reading,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.The most revealing find came on the morning of the third day. It was a Polaroid photo, used as a bookmark in a well-worn copy of Marine Ecosystems Vol. 7. The picture showed five women, crammed together and laughing in what he recognized from the schematics as the Rec Module. They were in various states of workout attire—tank tops, leggings, one in just a sports bra and shorts. They were all fit, their smiles genuine but tinged with the weariness of long isolation. He could identify Lisa, the one with a commanding posture and intelligent eyes, and next to her, a woman with a mischievous grin who must be Lillian. A taller, motherly-looking woman had her arm around a petite, younger-looking girl—Michelle and Emily, he presumed.They looked like a team. A close-knit, very physically comfortable team that hadn’t seen a new face, a male face, in months.He stared at the photo for a long time, the reality of his situation crashing down. Five women. One man. One very small, very remote habitat.“Beginning final descent sequence,” Jane announced, her voice pulling him back to the present. “You should start to feel a slight change in pressure. We’ll have you docked at Habitat Zero in approximately four hours.”The rest of the journey was a tense blur. Richard’s mind wasn’t on pressure gradients or docking protocols. It was on that photograph. On the laughing women. On the casual intimacy of their pose. On the fact that his entire world was about to shrink to the size of a few pressurized rooms with them. *Now, the hatch was open. The clean, processed air of the habitat, a shocking contrast to the canned, metallic scent of the sub, washed over him. He grabbed his duffel bag, the magazines and the photograph tucked safely inside.He took a final steadying breath and hoisted himself through the opening, his boots clanging on the grating of the moon pool room. He was here.Three women stood waiting for him just beyond the main airlock door, their forms silhouetted against the bright lights of the hub.The one in front, Lisa he presumed, stepped forward. Her eyes were as sharp and intelligent as in the photo, but now they were also wide with a mixture of professional curiosity and sheer, unadulterated astonishment. She was wearing a simple grey jumpsuit, unzipped to reveal a black tank top beneath. Her gaze traveled the length of him, from his boots to his face, and she blinked slowly, as if confirming his existence.So you’re the new pressure welder, she said, her voice not quite a question. We were beginning to think you were a myth.Behind her, Lillian—it had to be her—leaned against the doorframe, a knowing, playful smirk on her lips. Her eyes didn’t just look at him; they appraised him, and he felt a heat that had nothing to do with the habitat’s life support system.The third woman, the motherly Michelle, simply beamed, her hands clasped together. Oh, a real, live man, she sighed, the words hanging in the recycled air, a statement of fact that was utterly devoid of guile and yet felt like the most charged thing Richard had ever heard. I do hope you’re hungry.

Richard Goodman, after a three-day descent in a pressurized submarine, disembarks at Midnight Zone Habitat Zero. He is greeted by three women, Lisa, Lillian, and Michelle, who react with a mix of curiosity and surprise. Richard, having spent the journey reading magazines and a photograph left behind by the previous crew, is now face-to-face with the reality of his new, isolated environment.

The heavy steel hatch groaned, a sound that echoed through the tiny, pressurized cabin. A sliver of blinding white light cut through the dim, red-lit interior, widening with excruciating slowness.

Finally.

A woman’s voice, crisp and professional, crackled through the submarine’s comm system one last time. “Hatch cycle complete. You are clear to disembark, Mr. Goodman. Welcome to Midnight Zone Habitat Zero.”

Richard Goodman let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for three days. He unbuckled the harness that had been his constant companion, his muscles protesting after the long confinement. The journey down was a necessary evil, a slow, agonizing descent to let his body acclimate to the immense pressure waiting outside the hull. Three days alone, in a space barely larger than a coffin, with nothing but the hum of machinery and a voice on the radio for company.

 *

Seventy-two hours earlier, the world had been reduced to a porthole view of infinite, crushing blackness. The sub, a remotely operated personnel transport nicknamed ‘The Nautilus,’ was little more than a ceramic and titanium egg. Richard was strapped into the pilot’s chair, a control console dark and silent before him. He was just cargo. The real pilot was thousands of meters below, at his destination.

“Nautilus, this is Midnight’s Ops. Comms check. How do you read, Mr. Goodman?” The voice was female, slightly hesitant but clear.

“I read you five-by-five,” Richard responded, his own voice sounding too loud in the sealed space. “And it’s Richard. Mr. Goodman was my father.”

A brief, static-filled pause. “Understood. Richard. I’m Jane. I’ll be your pilot for this trip. We have a seventy-two-hour journey ahead of us. The pressurization schedule is automated, but I’ll be monitoring your vitals and our trajectory the entire time.”

“Sounds good, Jane.” He shifted in the seat, the reality of his isolation settling in. “What’s the entertainment package like down here? They said something about magazines.”

“Affirmative,” Jane’s voice came back, a little warmer this time. “In the compartment to your left. The previous crew… left behind their reading material. It was deemed easier to leave it than to ferry it back up.”

Richard popped the latch. The compartment was stuffed with a stack of well-thumbed publications. He pulled them out, his brow furrowing. Deep Sea Biology Journal. Advanced Metallurgical Quarterly. And then, beneath the scientific texts… Vogue. Cosmopolitan. Women’s Health.

He blinked. Well, that’s… eclectic.

He held up a copy of Cosmo. The cover featured a woman with a dazzling smile next to headlines like “10 Moves to Drive Him Wild” and “The Secret Language of Your Glow.”

“Find everything?” Jane’s voice chirped in his ear, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Uh, yeah. It’s… a varied selection.” He could almost hear her blush through the radio.

“Oh! Right. Those. The, um, the habitat crew is all female. Besides you now, of course. They must have pooled their subscriptions.” Her words came out in a rushed, flustered wave. “I can… I can see if there’s a digital archive of Popular Mechanics or something I can upload for you?”

Richard let out a low chuckle. “No, that’s alright, Jane. I’m a scientist in my own way. I can appreciate new data.”

The first day passed in a blur of engine hum and sporadic, awkward conversation with Jane. She was knowledgeable about the sub’s systems, her technical explanations crisp and detailed. But the moment the talk strayed to anything personal, her voice would tighten, retreating behind a wall of professional jargon.

During a long silence, Richard idly flipped open a Women’s Health. His eyes scanned an article about the importance of core strength for endurance. It was clinical, informative. Then he turned the page to a full-page advertisement for very delicate, very expensive-looking lace underwear. The model’s intense gaze seemed to challenge him from the page.

He snapped the magazine shut, the sound abnormally loud. Get a grip, Goodman. You’re reading a medical journal. Essentially.

On day two, boredom led to deeper excavation. Tucked inside a copy of Vogue, he found a handwritten note. The script was loopy and energetic. ‘Lisa – Try this shade! It’s called ‘Abyssal Bloom’ – totally works with the pallor we’re all rocking down here! xo Lillian.’

Lisa. Lillian. Names. They had names. He wasn’t just going to a base; he was going to meet people. Colleagues. He imagined a serious marine biologist, Lisa, critically examining a tube of ‘Abyssal Bloom’ lipstick in the stark light of the habitat.

Jane’s voice broke his reverie. “Everything okay, Richard? Your heart rate spiked for a second.”

“Just… engrossed in my reading,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.

The most revealing find came on the morning of the third day. It was a Polaroid photo, used as a bookmark in a well-worn copy of Marine Ecosystems Vol. 7. The picture showed five women, crammed together and laughing in what he recognized from the schematics as the Rec Module. They were in various states of workout attire—tank tops, leggings, one in just a sports bra and shorts. They were all fit, their smiles genuine but tinged with the weariness of long isolation. He could identify Lisa, the one with a commanding posture and intelligent eyes, and next to her, a woman with a mischievous grin who must be Lillian. A taller, motherly-looking woman had her arm around a petite, younger-looking girl—Michelle and Emily, he presumed.

They looked like a team. A close-knit, very physically comfortable team that hadn’t seen a new face, a male face, in months.

He stared at the photo for a long time, the reality of his situation crashing down. Five women. One man. One very small, very remote habitat.

“Beginning final descent sequence,” Jane announced, her voice pulling him back to the present. “You should start to feel a slight change in pressure. We’ll have you docked at Habitat Zero in approximately four hours.”

The rest of the journey was a tense blur. Richard’s mind wasn’t on pressure gradients or docking protocols. It was on that photograph. On the laughing women. On the casual intimacy of their pose. On the fact that his entire world was about to shrink to the size of a few pressurized rooms with them.

 *

Now, the hatch was open. The clean, processed air of the habitat, a shocking contrast to the canned, metallic scent of the sub, washed over him. He grabbed his duffel bag, the magazines and the photograph tucked safely inside.

He took a final steadying breath and hoisted himself through the opening, his boots clanging on the grating of the moon pool room. He was here.

Three women stood waiting for him just beyond the main airlock door, their forms silhouetted against the bright lights of the hub.

The one in front, Lisa he presumed, stepped forward. Her eyes were as sharp and intelligent as in the photo, but now they were also wide with a mixture of professional curiosity and sheer, unadulterated astonishment. She was wearing a simple grey jumpsuit, unzipped to reveal a black tank top beneath. Her gaze traveled the length of him, from his boots to his face, and she blinked slowly, as if confirming his existence.

So you’re the new pressure welder, she said, her voice not quite a question. We were beginning to think you were a myth.

Behind her, Lillian—it had to be her—leaned against the doorframe, a knowing, playful smirk on her lips. Her eyes didn’t just look at him; they appraised him, and he felt a heat that had nothing to do with the habitat’s life support system.

The third woman, the motherly Michelle, simply beamed, her hands clasped together. Oh, a real, live man, she sighed, the words hanging in the recycled air, a statement of fact that was utterly devoid of guile and yet felt like the most charged thing Richard had ever heard. I do hope you’re hungry.

Richard Goodman after accepting a job as a deep sea repair technician, travels to a remote spot in the Pacific and begins a three day descent into abyss to arrive at Midnight Zone Habitat 0 and only to realize he is the only guy down there.

Deep Sea Romance

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