gap tooth smile
ᯓ★ paring: science teacher!ryland grace x history teacher!reader
ᯓ★ summary: there's a door connecting your classrooms, ryland takes full advantage of it...
ᯓ★ word count: 3.0k
ᯓ★ warnings: none!!
ᯓ★ author's note: my first post on this account :)
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The classroom buzzes with the quiet scratch of pencils against paper as I write The Renaissance across the whiteboard.
"All right," I say, setting the marker down. "Last class we talked about the conditions that led into the Renaissance. Today we're looking at why it began in Italy and how it spread throughout Europe."
Twenty-six pairs of eyes look back at me.
Well... twenty-five.
Jackson is still trying to balance his pencil on his upper lip.
I don't even have to look directly at him to know exactly what he's doing. It's become something of a routine over the past few weeks—every time the class settles into a quieter moment, he decides to test the laws of physics using whatever happens to be on his desk.
Without missing a beat, I set my marker on the tray beneath the whiteboard. "Jackson."
His eyes widen as the pencil drops with a loud clack against the desktop before rolling onto the floor.
A few students snicker while Jackson hurriedly scoops it up, rubbing the back of his neck with an embarrassed grin. "Sorry."
"I know you are," I reply, unable to hide the smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "Now, unless your pencil has somehow become relevant to fifteenth-century Italy, I'd appreciate it if it stayed in your hand."
More laughter ripples through the room, and just like that, everyone's attention returns to the front. "Can anyone remind me what the word Renaissance actually means?" I ask, leaning lightly against my desk.
Several hands shoot into the air. "Olivia."
"It means rebirth."
"Exactly." I nod, pleased. "It refers to a period of renewed interest in classical Greek and Roman ideas—particularly in art, literature, philosophy, science, and architecture. Rather than viewing the Middle Ages as something to continue, many scholars believed they were rediscovering knowledge that had been forgotten for centuries."
As I speak, I jot rebirth, humanism, and classical learning beneath the lesson title, occasionally glancing back toward the class to make sure they're following along. Most of them are copying notes; a couple are already trying to connect today's lesson to yesterday's discussion.
It's one of those classes every teacher hopes for—not perfectly silent, but engaged in all the right ways, for the most part.
"So," I continue, capping the marker, "Why Italy? Why didn't the Renaissance begin somewhere like England or France?"
Before anyone can answer, a familiar metallic click cuts through the room.
The sound is quiet, but every student hears it. Twenty-six heads swivel in perfect synchronization toward the narrow connecting door tucked into the back corner of the classroom—the one leading directly into the science room next door.
For a brief, naïve second, I consider pretending I didn't hear it. Maybe if I keep talking, the man on the other side will realize I'm in the middle of class and leave.
The thought lasts exactly as long as it takes for the doorknob to finish turning. The door creaks open a few inches before a familiar head of blond hair appears through the gap, followed by a pair of soft blue eyes that sweep across my classroom as though he's simply checking in on the weather.
The room erupts.
"It's Mr. Grace."
"Oh, he's here."
"I told you it'd happen today."
A few students exchange triumphant looks like they'd been placing bets on exactly when he'd interrupt, which to be fair, is a valid thing to put money on. Considering he pokes his head into my classroom nearly every day like clockwork, the odds are usually in their favor.
Ryland's gaze lands on me almost immediately, his expression brightening into an easy smile that makes it painfully obvious he doesn't feel even remotely guilty about interrupting.
I set my marker on the tray beneath the whiteboard and fold my arms. "Everyone say hi to Mr. Grace.”
The warm greetings echo through the classroom with far more enthusiasm than anything I'd said during the lesson, and Ryland has the audacity to look delighted by it.
"Hi, everybody." He lifts a hand in a small wave. "How's history?"
"Good!" several students answer at once.
One voice from the back calls, "She gave us homework yesterday!"
I point toward the student without turning fully around. "And I'll do it again."
Ryland lets out an amused laugh before looking back at me, seemingly content to let the chatter die down before saying another word. He has one hand resting against the edge of the door, his shoulder leaning casually into the frame as though he belongs there. Honestly, at this point, maybe he does.
The connecting door has become less of a boundary between our classrooms and more of a revolving entrance for whatever question has wandered into his head that day.
"So..." he begins, drawing the word out just enough that I already know I'm not going to like whatever comes next. "I've got a question."
"I know," I reply flatly. "You always have a question."
"It's a history question."
"I've heard that one before."
I hear a few of the students giggle.
"Okay, hear me out,” he starts talking. “How long does something have to happen before it becomes history? Like... if I trip over a chair right now, is that history five minutes from now? Or does there have to be a waiting period?"
The giggles erupt.
It begins with Jackson in the second row, who immediately drops his head onto his desk in an attempt to muffle his laugh. Olivia covers her mouth with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, while a few others exchange bewildered looks that quickly dissolve into smiles.
I simply stare at Ryland. He stares back, completely serious.
"...Mr. Grace."
"What?"
"You interrupted my lesson..."
"I did."
"...to ask me when the present becomes the past?"
He nods once. “I’ve been thinking about it all morning.”
Which is what he says every single time. Every time that connecting door swings open, it’s for Mr. Ryland Grace to get some historical insight on whatever topic seems to be occupying his mind on that given day.
“I’ve been thinking about it all morning.”
“I’ve been dying to know.”
“It kept me up last night.”
So, like always, I provide him with an answer just long enough to please him, but short enough to keep the attention of my students. Once satisfied, he flashes a grin and swings the door shut, allowing me to finally get back to my lesson plans.
That is, until Dylan—a small boy in the front row—speaks up.
“Are you and Mr. Grace dating?”
The question hangs in the air for about two seconds before the chatter starts up.
The room dissolves into overlapping voices, half the students suddenly abandoning any pretense of discussing the Renaissance in favor of the much more pressing matter of their two teachers' personal lives.
“I knew it!”
“Mr. Grace loves her!”
“Does this mean she has cooties?”
I inhale sharply. Part of me is embarrassed that this is what my life has come to; the other part of me is mentally scolding Ryland Grace for creating this mess in the first place.
“Okay, everybody quiet down, please.” I rub my temples. “Mr. Grace and I are colleagues; we’re both teachers here, and we both enjoy getting to see you all every day. The only love we have is for you guys.”
I watch as half the class opens their mouths to toss in an opposing argument, but thankfully the bell rings before they can get any of them out.
The tension that started forming in my chest disappears instantly.
“Alright everyone, remember your worksheets are due tomorrow at the start of class!” I remind them, but I can tell none of my students seem to care as they zip up their backpacks and form into their little clusters as they all walk out the door.
“See you tomorrow!”
“Byeee!”
“Tell Mr. Grace we said hi!”
"I will not be passing along your messages," I say under my breath, but the words are drowned out by the scrape of opening lockers and the familiar chaos of the passing period.
Jackson is the last one to reach the door.
Before stepping into the hallway, he turns back with entirely too much confidence for a thirteen-year-old. "I still think he'd say yes."
I blink. "...To what?"
"If you asked him out."
My jaw drops. "Out."
He grins. "I'm just saying, I think he likes you."
"Jackson, you little menace." I shoo him away with my hands. “Go to your next class.”
He laughs as he rushes out the door, and despite everything, it makes me smile.
I let out a slow breath, shaking my head as I begin weaving between the rows of desks. A forgotten notebook rests beneath one chair, three pencils have somehow migrated into the aisle, and someone's worksheet has been abandoned on the floor despite my reminder that it was due tomorrow.
I love my job.
My coworkers, however, tend to push my buttons. More specifically, the man who’s currently sitting in the classroom next door, the man who somehow has the same exact free period as I do.
And as I gather up the scattered papers, my annoyance starts to grow for him.
Because I can’t prove it, but he must know what he’s doing. Why on Earth would he act the way he does if not to simply make my life more difficult?
Because there’s no way someone as intelligent as Ryland Grace could be that oblivious.
The man has a doctorate in molecular biology. He can explain complex scientific concepts to a room full of thirteen-year-olds without so much as glancing at his notes. He's published research. He's the kind of person who can answer obscure science trivia before a student can even finish asking the question.
Yet somehow, every afternoon, he loses all ability to determine whether a question can wait fifteen minutes.
And it’s really starting to get on my nerves.
So, before I can think too much on it, I walk over to the back of my classroom and swing open the connecting door.
The familiar scent of dry-erase markers and rubbing alcohol greets me almost immediately as I step through the doorway into the science room.
Ryland's classroom is, unsurprisingly, organized chaos.
The tables are arranged in neat rows, but every available surface seems to be occupied by something. A half-finished model of a DNA helix hangs from the ceiling near the windows. Beakers and graduated cylinders dry upside down on a rack beside the sink. The back counter is lined with bins labeled ACIDS, BASES, FOOD COLORING, and, somewhat concerningly, one simply labeled MISCELLANEOUS THINGS THAT MIGHT EXPLODE (THEY WON'T) in thick black marker.
I sincerely hope the last label is a joke.
Ryland is sitting at his desk with a stack of lab reports spread out in front of him, a red pen tucked behind one ear as he absentmindedly scribbles comments in the margins. He's so focused on whatever he's reading that he doesn't notice me at first.
“Mr. Grace,” I say as I close the door behind me.
His head snaps up so quickly that the pen behind his ear slips loose, bouncing once off his shoulder before landing somewhere in the mountain of papers covering his desk.
I watch as his entire face lights up. “Why, hello there. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I don't return his smile.
Instead, I slowly fold my arms across my chest and lean back against the now-closed connecting door. "We need to talk."
The grin on his face falters just enough for me to notice. "...That sounds ominous."
"It should."
He glances around the empty classroom as though looking for someone else I could possibly be talking to before pointing a finger at his own chest. "Me?"
"Unless there's another Mr. Grace hiding under your desk."
He instinctively looks under the desk anyway. I hate that it almost makes me smile.
When he comes back up, he pretends to be shocked. “That’s crazy because I swear there was another Mr. Grace under there just a few minutes ago…”
I roll my eyes as I push off the door and make my way to his desk. “Ryland, look, this is serious.” I stop a few feet away from where he sits, letting my hand rest on one of the lab tables. “You need to quit it with all the questions during my lessons.”
“Oh, are you having trouble answering them?” He smirks, and it nearly kills me.
"I mean it," I continue, keeping my voice calm despite the frustration that's been building all afternoon. "You may think it's harmless—and most of the time it is—but you're interrupting my lessons almost every day. My students have started expecting it. They stop paying attention the second they hear that doorknob turn because they know you're about to poke your head in with another question."
Ryland doesn't interrupt, he just listens.
"I spend the first ten minutes of class trying to get everyone focused, and then you show up asking whether people living through the Renaissance knew they were living through the Renaissance, or whether castles had employee handbooks, and suddenly I'm spending the next five minutes trying to steer everyone back toward the lesson I was already teaching. And then, on top of that, our students have the nerve to ask me if you and I are dating, and that’s definitely not something I incorporate into my lesson plan.”
I don’t realize how long I’ve been talking for until the room finally falls back into silence as he processes my rant.
Ryland purses his lips and drums one of his fingers on the desk, hopefully deeply considering everything I’ve just said. Though I know it’s no use when he looks up at me and tilts his head.
“So they asked if we were dating,” he clicks his tongue. “And your response was…”
“No,” I shake my head. “My response was obviously no.”
Ryland nods slowly, as though filing that information away. "Right, right."
He drums his fingers against the edge of the desk once more, his gaze drifting thoughtfully at a spot somewhere just past my shoulder. My own fingers reach up to pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Look, Ryland,” I sigh. “You’re a great guy, but I really don’t feel like filling my students in on my love life every class.”
His eyes snap to mine. “Love life… you have love… you are in love… there’s someone—”
“No,” I cut him off. “That’s the problem: there is no love life, so I’m just wasting valuable classroom time discussing something nonexistent.”
He considers my words for a second. “So what I’m hearing is that you’re not in love with someone, which means you are, in fact, single?”
I blink at him. "...Ryland."
"What?"
"I need you to understand that that is not the conclusion I wanted you to draw from this conversation."
He pushes his chair out and stands up, rounding his desk to where I’m still leaning against a lab table. He adjusts his glasses with one of his hands and pushes them back up on his nose.
“I just think that’s an important piece of data to gather, about you… I mean,” he says, shrugging as if his words aren’t swirling around in my brain.
“What… what does that even mean?” I ask.
“It means,” he reaches out and lays his hand flat on the lab table next to me; maybe it’s a peace offering… I honestly have no idea. “It means that I like talking to you.”
I take a deep breath, looking up at the papier-mache solar system model on his ceiling.
“I like talking to you too, Ryland, just maybe not during my class periods.” I glance back down at him. And he’s grinning ear to ear.
“Really? You like talking to me?” He questions, placing a hand on his chest as if he’s in absolute disbelief.
It’s kinda cute.
I let out a long sigh that does absolutely nothing to hide the smile threatening to appear. "Please don't make this weird."
"I'm not making it weird," he says, sounding genuinely confused. "I'm just... verifying."
“Okay, let’s make it very clear then,” I take a small step closer to him. “Yes, I like talking to you. No, not when it’s during my class time. Yes, I would like to talk to you more. No, I would not like it to impact my teaching time.”
Ryland watches me with complete concentration, as if I've just started explaining the instructions for an especially complicated lab. He nods after each sentence.
"Okay."
Another nod.
"Yep."
Another.
"Got it."
I squint at him. “Do you?”
He scoffs, pretending to dust off his shoulder. “Of course I do.”
“Repeat it back to me then,” I challenge.
He pretends to crack his knuckles.
“You like talking to me, but not when I interrupt your class. You think I’m really interesting and attractive, and you want to go out with me this Friday, but you don’t want our students to know about it,” he raises a questioning eyebrow as he finishes his sentence.
My jaw drops, and for a split second my mouth struggles to form a response to whatever the hell he just said. He seems pretty proud of it, though, giving me a playful wink.
“That is not at all what I said,” I point an accusatory finger at him.
“True,” he admits. “But it does sound like an amazing plan.”
And, yeah, I hate that he’s right.
Because as much as it hurts me to admit it, getting to talk to him every day is kinda one of the many perks of this job, though I’ll never tell him that. His ego is big enough. And I haven’t actually been out with anyone in what feels like years, so it doesn’t sound like a completely awful idea.
“I’ll only go out with you if you save all your history questions for Friday night,” I say. “Which involves not opening that door when my class is in session.”
He doesn’t waste a second.
“Deal!”
And fortunately, he sticks to his word.
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