ᵕ̈

ᯓ★

On Tuesday, you show up to the school earlier than everyone else, likely one of the only times you've been more than an hour early to anything in your life. The hall is still dim when you arrive, the custodians’ floor wax gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights. You lock yourself in your classroom to decorate in peace.

You make a point of putting your earbuds in, tuning out the noise in the hallway as other staff begin to trickle in and stop by to chat to Grace. Everyone is charmed by him, this stupidly overqualified molecular biologist that somehow ended up teaching eighth grade science. But not you. No, not you. You know better.

You know a lot of things about Grace, like the low sound he made in the back of his throat when you tugged on his hair. The concentrated pinch between his brows when he was between your thighs, mouth latched onto your clit. The pleased little smile he got when he had you writhing and moaning underneath him, heaving from your second (and certainly not last) orgasm of the night.

It's fine. Really, it's fine. You're a professional. You can be professional.

Your phone buzzes in your back pocket. You take out your earbuds. Even without looking, you know that it's Hallie and Reagan. Ever since you told them about Grace last night they've been treating your life like a spectacularly interesting romcom.

Halls: And have you talked to your good karma yet?? ;)

You: Don't call him that! I don't need you manifesting shit for me

Halls: Ok sorry I'll rephrase

Halls: Have you talked to professor sexy yet?

Reg: That's objectively worse

Halls: It's objectively funnier but thanks

You: Omg stop it with the nicknames

You: It's Grace. Just Grace

You: And no I haven't talked to him

Reg: You probably should

Halls: I second this

You: You guys are the worst

A knock sounds at your classroom door. For one wild second, you think it's him. You curse and shove your phone back in your pocket in a panic. When you sneak a look at the door, relief washes over you so strongly that you feel a bit woozy. Marisol is peering into your room through the vision panel with an impatient expression. She spots you, decides you're not moving fast enough for her liking, and knocks again, harder this time.

You exhale and cross the room.

Marisol has been teaching sixth-grade English at Grover Cleveland for ten years. Eleven, maybe. You're never certain, because every time you ask, she says something unhelpful like longer than anyone should or wouldn't you like to know? The latter is especially frustrating because yes, you would like to know.

But she'd been there for you, when you were starting out. The kids, being able to smell fear, walked all over you that first semester. It was awful. You remember being thirteen, but you don't remember being so mean. Maybe it was a new generation kind of thing. Ugh, even thinking that makes you feel old.

Marisol had helped, giving you pointers and making you feel better about being more strict with your students. A lot of detentions were doled out after that, but the behavior in your classroom improved by miles.

When you open the door, you catch a glimpse of Grace across the hall, pinning some poster up to the wall behind his desk. He's dressed more casually today, a plain navy t-shirt stretching over the broad slope of his shoulders, short sleeves squeezing around his biceps as he reaches up to smooth tape against the wall.

Your brain unhelpfully supplies the image of those same arms braced on either side of your head, muscles flexing under his skin.

You're such an idiot. It's the same every time you see him—that awful feeling of your stomach swooping and body tensing. Humans have been evolving for hundreds of thousands of years and here you are, your survival instincts kicking in at the mere sight of Ryland fucking Grace.

"Are you going to let me in or are we just going to stand here?" Marisol snipes. She speaks loud enough to catch Grace's attention, and he glances over, his eyes landing on you, glinting behind his glasses. You flush, your whole body feeling as though you've been doused in molten lava. You pivot away and usher her in, closing the door behind you.

She gives you approximately five minutes of peace before questioning you.

This is generous by Marisol’s standards. Practically saintly. She busies herself unpacking a box of new copies of Lois Lowry's The Giver while you work on your bulletin board, smoothing a border of blue paper around the edges and trying not to listen for movement across the hall.

"What's the deal with you and Mr. Sunshine?" she says. You look behind you. Her back faces you as she sets books neatly in the cabinet at the back of the classroom.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb." She slides another stack of paperbacks into place. "You're not any good at it."

Your mouth clamps shut. You're not sure if you should be offended.

She continues before you can respond, "I've never seen you act the way you did yesterday morning. And then the second the meeting was over you ran away like a bat out of hell."

You look back to the bulletin board, stapling the blue construction paper border and wishing you could be anywhere else. "It's nothing."

"Mhm."

"Seriously."

She scoffs. "It didn't feel like nothing when you were trying to hide in my shirt. Did you date him?"

"No."

"Does Anthony know him?"

"No."

"Come on. You said you'd tell me later. Guess what? It's later."

Your shoulders droop. Your hands fall to your sides, giving up on the border for now. The construction paper peels, curling in on itself in a pitiful spiral that you can't help but relate to.

Marisol won't quit until you tell her what's going on. You may as well rip the band-aid off.

"We slept together," you mumble at your shoes. Jesus Christ. You don't think admitting that is going to get any easier.

Silence greets you on the other end of the room. You glance up to see Marisol has stopped stocking the books. She's gawking at you, openly, and you feel like a bug under a microscope, completely at the mercy of one very judgemental coworker.

"I'm sorry," she says, slowly as if she's still trying to process what you said. "When you say we…"

You close your eyes. "Grace and I."

"Ryland Grace."

"Yes."

"The new science teacher."

"Yes," you grit out, starting to get a bit irritated. How many times are you going to have to say it?

"Mr. Sunshine? Right across the hall?"

"Please stop saying Mr. Sunshine," you say. Your face is getting hot again now, palms clammy.

Marisol's expression is unreadable. To you, this is worse than laughter. Right now, you would even welcome laughter. At least then there'd be something concrete to be annoyed about. Instead you stare at each other, her eyes wide and disbelieving.

Finally, she seems to pull herself out of her state of shock. She nods once, then again.

"Tell me everything," she says, and so you do.

You perch on the edge of your desk and explain how Hallie and Reagan wanted to drag you out to a new club that just opened a few weeks ago. You tell her about making eyes at Grace from across the bar when he was talking to another girl, and before you know it you're rambling. It spills out of you with such force that you don't think you can stop if you tried.

ᯓ★

"I need another drink," Hallie grouses, waving the bartender over. Reagan had disappeared into the crowd, tugging along a man in his early-twenties wearing a confused and somewhat fearful expression, leaving the both of you behind.

You're decently buzzed, having already gone through two Long Islands and a shot of tequila. Hallie drinks like she's still in college, and you always find it hard to keep up, but you try.

You prefer wine nights, splurging on a nice charcuterie board and huddling together to watch shitty reality television, but you had been moping around the last few weeks and Hallie and Reagan insisted going out would make you feel better.

Mourning your relationship comes and goes in waves. Some days you wake up and thank any deity that might be listening that you're done. You're truly, finally done. No further contact, no pathetic texts begging to get back together, no actually getting back together.

Other mornings you find it hard to get out of bed, crushed by the fact that you're alone. It's not the end of the world. You know that. But sometimes it feels that way. You had plans with Anthony, you were talking about getting married, for fuck's sake, and now he's just… gone.

So you finally gave in, and now you find yourself surrounded by pulsing lights and sweaty bodies crushing together on the dance floor. This is a thing normal people do, isn't it? Who cares. If it will take your mind off of the breakup for at least a few hours, then you're willing to take your chances.

Hallie slides a glass towards you, something blue and fruity that tastes more like juice than alcohol. It's a dangerous gamble, drinking like this, but you find it hard to care. You're here, with your two closest friends, and you're not letting the night go to waste.

"Oh," Hallie murmurs, teasing her straw between her teeth. "Look at that guy, over there."

You follow her line of sight. There's a lot of people at the bar, a group of girls a little younger than you, a guy that definitely looks underage hassling the bartender, and a couple that's being far too touchy to be appropriate in a public space. At the very end, you see who she's talking about.

You've always had a thing for nerds. Well, you say thing, but really it's a weakness. And this dude fits your type to a T so much that it's almost painful. His glasses are teetering precariously on the edge of his nose. You're certain if he moves his head with too much force they'll slip right off. He's leaning against the edge of the bar, an amused smile on his face. You can only see his side profile, and… the woman in front of him.

He's taken. Of course he is, how could someone like that be single? What you don't understand is the flash of disappointment that zings through you. You don't even know the guy, why do you feel let down?

"I wonder if that's his girlfriend," you say, trying to come off as politely curious but ending up sounding more envious than anything.

Hallie makes a dismissive noise. "That is not his girlfriend."

"You don't know that." You turn away, taking a long swallow of whatever the hell Hallie had ordered for the both of you.

"I absolutely do know that," she says, indignant. She reaches forward, the tips of her fingers nudging at your jaw, forcing you to look back at the man. "See? That's not girlfriend body language."

"She's touching his arm."

"It's not a flirty touch. Just look. Please."

You sigh and devote a little more attention to the scene before you. The woman is saying something to him, her smile bright and wicked beneath the bar lights. He tips his head back slightly, laughing, one hand lifting as if in surrender. There's something wonderfully awkward about him, you think. Not clumsy, exactly. Just a little too sincere for the room. Like he wandered into the club by mistake and decided to be a good sport about it.

He ducks his head down in order to speak directly into her ear, and that should not be as attractive as it is, but what can you do about it? The heart wants what it wants. She laughs in response, and he rolls his eyes, but his half-cocked smile doesn't leave. Her mouth moves and you squint, trying but unable to read her lips. His expression shifts into theatrical offense, and she pats his arm once more before disappearing into the crowd. Gone, just like that.

Hallie jabs her elbow into your arm. "Well?"

"Well, what?" you ask. The man remains at the bar alone. His posture slumps, a little defeated, and he brings his beer up to his mouth, a large hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle.

"You know what. Go talk to him."

You whip your head towards her. "What? No!"

"Yes!" Hallie hisses. "Do it. You're hot, you'd have him wrapped around your finger before you even opened your mouth."

"You're just saying that," you say, shooting a glare at her.

She shakes her head, lips pressing into a thin line. "No, I'm not. I don't care. Either you go and talk to him or I'll buy him a drink and have the bartender say it's from you."

"Why do you hate me?"

"I don't and you know it. Quit being dramatic. Finish your drink and fucking go."

You stare at her.

Hallie stares back, unwavering.

You consider arguing. It would be nice, to dig your heels in and refuse to put yourself out there. That's what you would normally do. You've never seen the appeal of chatting people up at the club. You mostly go just to have a good time with your friends, to dance and drink and enjoy yourself.

But then… when was the last time you actually went out? Beyond trivia night with your coworkers and nights in with Hallie and Reagan or dates (however rare the occurrence) with Anthony. You can't remember.

You'd tried, a few times, but there'd always been Anthony, wheedling about how you should stay because he'd miss you and are you sure you should wear that out?

You inhale deeply, lifting your chin.

"Okay," you say, and you drain the last of your drink before you can lose your nerve.

Hallie's face lights up, victorious and encouraging all at once.

"Actually?" she chirps. At your unimpressed expression she manages to rein in some of her excitement. "Fuck, sorry. You got this. What's the worst that can happen? If he's a dick we'll just go dance and forget about it."

"Right." You nod to yourself, adjusting your halter top and thrusting a hand through your hair before sliding off of your stool. "Wish me luck."

"Luck!" Hallie calls after you as you start to walk away, reaching out to land a light slap to your ass. You flinch, barely biting down on a yelp, and glower at her over your shoulder. She grins, not looking apologetic in the slightest. You turn back around before she can make obscene hand gestures, aching to borrow some of the easy confidence her and Reagan always seem to possess.

Maybe you're in over your head.

No, not maybe. You're definitely in over your head.

The closer you get, the more handsome he becomes. At this point it's cruel, and you have no idea if you even know how to flirt anymore, that's how long it's been. What are you even meant to say? You come here often? Oh, barf.

But you're committed now. You'd look like an even bigger moron if you turned around mid-stride and retreated back to Hallie, who would never let you hear the end of it. She'd be bringing it up at your funeral.

The walk is agonizingly short. Before you know it you're sidling up to him. He doesn't notice you at first, but the brush of your arm against his has him blinking down at you in surprise. His pretty blue eyes widen behind his glasses, and for half a second he reminds you of a startled animal. Then his gaze moves over you before you can stop it.

He takes in your face first, then your hair, before dipping down to your neck, your top that complements your cleavage, and to your skirt that suddenly feels way too short. He seems to realize what he's doing and his eyes snap up to your face, the tips of his ears pinking.

Well. That certainly makes things easier.

"Tough crowd?" you ask, and have to make a physical effort not to wince. Sometimes you wish it was socially appropriate to punch yourself in the face. Only in times of great need, of course; you think this is one such situation.

"What?" he says. Your heart is beating so fast you think it might burst out of your chest and flop on the floor.

Fuck it, you think.

You let out a small huff of amusement and nod toward the direction the brunette had disappeared to. "That girl you were talking to. She your girlfriend?"

"Marissa? Oh, uh… no." He laughs, sounding a bit nervous. His free hand lifts to rub the back of his neck. "She's a friend."

You arch a disbelieving brow, and he smiles as if he knows what you're thinking.

"Really," he assures you. "She's very much not my girlfriend. Not that there's anything wrong with her. She's great."

"But?" you press.

"I'm here with her and her girlfriend," he says. His grin widens as your mouth forms a small 'o' of understanding, his cheeks dimpling.

"Third wheeling, huh?"

"Exactly. I've gotten pretty good at it."

"Can't say I relate." Hallie and Reagan are chronically single beyond the occasional fling.

"Are you here with someone, then?" He makes a sweeping motion with the hand holding his beer, gesturing to the swell of the crowd.

"Just some friends."

"Did they abandon you, too?"

You smile. "Yeah. One of them's already vanished with a guy who looked like he was about to cry."

"Good for him," he says. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, "Or sorry."

"We'll know by morning."

He laughs, his head tilting back a bit, and a warm feeling seeps into your chest, so strong it steals your breath. This back-and-forth, this banter, comes so easy to you now that the ice is broken that it's almost natural. You think you could do it forever.

"Should I be worried?" he asks, taking a sip of his beer.

"About her? Probably." You look out over the dance floor, wondering if you could catch a glimpse of Reagan somewhere in the crowd, but you don't.

"And you?"

The question is playful, but there's something beneath it, a flicker of interest that makes the space between you feel suffocatingly close and vast all at once.

"Me?" you say. Your face is starting to hurt from all the smiling you're doing. "I'm harmless."

He watches you for a beat too long. "I doubt that."

Your stomach dips. It's ridiculous, how much one sentence can do, and heat spreads over your face. You know what's happening, or at least, you think you do, and the realization sends a reckless thrill through you.

He seems to notice it, too, because his eyes drop to your mouth, and he licks his lips subconsciously. "Can I buy you a drink?"

You have no other answer to give him besides yes.

Later you remember, a few drinks later and several inches of space subtracted between you, his hand a steady, guiding pressure on the small of your back as he escorts you out of the club to the Uber he ordered. He opens the door for you and leans down, breath warm against the shell of your ear, murmuring something stupidly witty that you're not even sure he does on purpose, and you laugh, slipping inside.

He pauses before closing the door, taking a moment to watch you. His glasses had started slipping down his nose again. There's a pleased look in his eyes as he looks at you over the rim, as if he knows you're going to be trouble, and you look back at him, drunk enough to want to prove him right.

ᯓ★

You become a master at evasive maneuvers.

It shouldn't be this easy to avoid Ryland Grace like he's the plague, but it is.

The week after you explain what happened with him to Marisol finds you busy enough that you end up relaxing into the routine. By the time school starts, Grace is going through the humiliation ritual that is teaching middle schoolers for the first time, so you hardly see him beyond glimpses into his classroom and catching each other on the way to the teacher's lounge. You made the mistake of going at your usual time on the first day, only to find him already there, laughing with Doug (6th grade history) over his lunch, so now you go at the very last minute.

By the time you're nearing the end of September, you think you can finally put the whole thing behind you.

The only interactions you've had with Grace are stiff and awkward, far from how you spoke at the club. A quick introduction, a little small talk about the morning weather one morning when you were running late and couldn't time your arrival in order to dodge him. He stopped by your room, once to ask if you could point him in the direction of the nurse's office, and again a few days later to borrow a stapler.

Every single time, he looked as if he wanted to say more, and eventually decided not to. It doesn't help that you were usually interrupted by a coworker or a student, but to you it was always a much appreciated respite.

The latest was about two weeks ago, when he found you at the printer in the library just after lunch.

Hey.

Hey— oh. Uhm, hi.

Are you… He motioned toward the machine. His lanyard reflected the fluorescent ceiling lights, glaring up at you harshly.

Sorry? You tittered nervously.

I was just wondering when you'd be done.

Oh! You glanced back at the printer, where copies of your Getting to Know You! assignment were lying, forgotten. I'm done now, sorry.

You scooped up your papers, clutching them to your chest and shuffling away to allow him to access whatever he needed. He stepped forward, close enough for you to catch the scent of coffee, deodorant, and the darker, more insistent smell of his cologne. Your stomach clenched involuntarily, and you took a step back.

He glanced up at the motion, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Actually, I've been meaning to talk to—

I have to get back, you blurted suddenly, before offering a fake, apologetic smile. Can't leave them unsupervised for too long, you know?

He had opened his mouth to respond, but you were already rushing away.

Arguably not your best moment.

After that day, though, he had gotten the message.

Grace stopped trying to catch you in the hallway. He stopped lingering by his doorway when the final bell rang. He stopped looking as though he might say your name every time you passed room 214 with your arms full and your eyes fixed firmly on anything that was not him.

Now, when your paths cross during passing period, he nods, professional and restrained, before turning back to whatever student has his attention. When you both reach the staff lounge at the same time, he steps aside to let you pass, offering a quiet greeting that gives you absolutely nothing to work with. No bitterness. No accusation. No smirk. No wounded male pride for you to despise.

It's… whatever. More than you could have hoped for. But if you're honest, you feel a bit left out. Everyone appears to have fallen in love with him. Janitors, secretaries, paras, your fellow teachers. It's annoying, but you wish you could see what all the fuss is about without being a total creep. Even Marisol is besotted, singing his praises to you when you're both alone in your classroom, insisting that you should give him a chance.

"I think you'd really like him," she says without preamble, setting a stack of papers down on your desk. No hi, hello, how are you? At this point, you don't expect much else from her.

"Everyone keeps telling me that," you grumble, before glancing up. "Shut the door, please."

She sighs but does as you ask. You rotate the papers to face you, reading the permission slips for October's Outdoor Education excursion. It's a three day camping trip for the eighth graders, one that you always dread chaperoning.

"Well, maybe everyone is right." Marisol grabs a chair from a student's desk and pulls it up to sit across from you, pulling out her phone. "It doesn't matter, anyway."

You hum, stowing the papers away in your desk drawer, and return your attention back to your laptop where you've been putting in grades for the latest quiz. "Really? Why's that?"

She puffs up her chest, smug. "Lee and I decided to invite him to trivia tomorrow."

"What?"

"Don't give me that look, you're not the supreme leader of trivia night. We can invite who we want."

"I never said you couldn't."

She waves her hand vaguely. "It's all over your face right now. Whatever. The way that I see it, you have three choices."

You scrub a hand over your face and turn your computer off. You're never going to get any grading done like this. "Okay."

"You can talk to him, figure your shit out, and have a nice night with us at the bar." She holds out three fingers, ticking them off as she speaks. "Or you can not talk to him, don't figure your shit out, and make it awkward for everyone."

"And my last choice?"

"You can just not come." She crosses her arms. "Make up some bullshit excuse and skip out."

You glance away with a semblance of shame. That was exactly what your knee-jerk reaction was, to cancel and say you weren't feeling well or that you already had plans.

"See?" She points at you. "Do I know you or do I know you?"

"This isn't fair," you whine.

"Shit's tough. Ryland is coming, and you're coming, too."

You can't help a small smile at her determination. Trivia is a sacred ritual, attended by yours and Marisol's group of work friends. It had been going on for a while before you joined, and held strong through the last few years. Grace being invited is a pretty big deal. At least, it is to Marisol, who has always been very passionate about the whole affair.

"Okay, okay," you acquiesce. "I'll go."

She stands, triumphant. "Perfect. I'll let Lee know."

"If it goes bad, then we're friends off," you call after her as she starts to leave.

"Oh, please. Who else would bring you your stupid permission slips from the office?" she says without turning back to look at you.

Marisol leaves your classroom door open. Of course she does.

Once she's gone, you try to resume grading. You catch yourself putting in the wrong scores for the wrong students, their names all jumbling up together on your screen. You lean back in your chair, pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes.

You can't stop thinking of Grace.

Ryland Grace is coming to the bar with you, Marisol, and four of your other closest work friends. And it's going to be great. You're going to be completely normal about it. Because you're a grown woman and you can handle it.

But you know there will be no grading today, nor any guise of productivity. There's no guide for navigating such a weird situation. There's only room 214 across the hall, trivia on Friday, and the sinking realization that Marisol is right.

You have to talk to him.

You do an odd jerking motion, as though your body tried to get out of your chair before your mind had caught up and put a quick stop to the idea. You sit back for a second and squeeze your eyes shut. You feel a lot like you did right before you approached Grace that night—jittery and mortified and… sort of excited all at once.

Alright, bitch, you imagine Hallie's voice in your head and give your thigh a harsh pinch in an effort to ground yourself. Now or never.

The hallway is quiet when you step out. Most of the building has emptied now that it's nearing five in the afternoon. When you peak inside room 214, you find Grace hunched over some papers, a red pen in hand. His hair is that sort of tousled-messy that, in any other circumstance on any other guy, you admire. His brow furrows, mouthing the words he's reading on what you assume is a student's assignment, seemingly bewildered by what he finds.

You knock lightly on the doorframe. He glances up instantly, swiveling his chair to better face you.

"Hi," you say.

"Hey," he says in return.

You shuffle your feet, hovering in the doorway as though there's some invisible barrier between the two of you. "You got a minute?"

"Yeah." Grace straightens up as though he's bracing for impact, a slight grimace breaking through the neutral, friendly expression he wears. "Of course."

He's nervous, you realize. His fingers tap against his thigh and he pushes his glasses up farther up the bridge of his nose. They slip down again almost immediately. He needs to get them sized and fitted, you think, before you realize you're staring. You look away quickly, examining his classroom.

He's got the makings of a model solar system pinned to the ceiling, but he's still missing Uranus and Neptune. Cute, dorky science posters like Don't trust an atom, they make up everything and Think like a proton and stay positive! are plastered on the walls. It's exactly as lively as you'd imagined. From what little snippets you'd heard from your students, Grace was shaping up to be the cool new teacher, well-liked by the kids. Because of course he is.

What an asshole.

"It looks good," you comment.

"Thanks," he says, glancing around as if to view his own room from your perspective. "Still needs some work, but I'm getting there. They really don't give you a lot of time to set up, do they?"

You smile, tension seeping from your shoulders at his casual tone. "No, they don't. It's easier when you've been here for longer. You get away with leaving more and more stuff in your room during break every year."

"Yeah, that… that makes sense." Grace runs a hand through his hair.

You pause, unsure of what to say. It's a painful silence, and you blurt the first thing that comes to mind in order to fill it.

"I'm sorry," you say. "I just wanted to…"

You lose the end of your sentence as he meets your gaze. He waits for you to finish, and you swallow harshly.

"Marisol told me you're coming to trivia."

"Oh. Yeah, Lee mentioned it."

"This Friday."

"I remember."

"Right." You nod a few too many times, grasping for the right words. "Good."

Grace shifts his weight, the tapping against his thigh intensifying. "I didn't say yes."

You blink. "What?"

"I haven't said yes, yet," he amends. "I, well… I wanted to talk to you first."

"Why?" you ask, but you think you know, and you're so touched it's actually a little sickening.

"I don't want to intrude," he says. "It's your group of friends. Your monthly thing. I don't want to be there if it makes you uncomfortable."

"You don't have to do that." Guilt leaves a sour taste in the back of your mouth. You'd never wanted Grace to feel unwelcome, you'd just… wanted to be left alone. You can't imagine how you would've ended up if Marisol hadn't taken pity on you and swooped in to practically adopt you, and you certainly can't imagine putting Grace in a position where he couldn't have that same opportunity to connect.

He ducks his head, avoiding your gaze. "It's the right thing to do."

"No, I mean… you should come. It's fun. Marisol takes it way too seriously and Lee pretends he doesn't care but he does, and Abby always gets super drunk. Joe has tried to bribe our rival team a couple times. The drinks are good. Can't say the same for the food, though, so—" you cut yourself short. You're rambling. And his face is doing something unreadable and you're so certain you've made a mess out of the whole thing that you do a double-take when he responds.

"That does sound fun."

"It is," you insist. You're aware it sounds more like you're trying to convince yourself rather than Grace, but the words are already out of your mouth and who even cares, at this point? How much more of a fool can you make of yourself? Might as well own it.

He studies you. "You're sure?"

No, you think. You make me nervous and a whole night at the bar with you is going to drive me insane but Marisol will kill me if I don't go.

"I'm sure."

"Okay." He clears his throat, smiles, and you're certain you're getting yourself into something you'll for a second time. "Okay, then I'll be there."

ᯓ★

› A/N: hiii this took way longer than i expected haha writing is hard :( big big thanks to vi (@pixiebuggz) for being my beta reader and helping brainstorm the ending so i could finally get this out! next part is finally some smut and talking things out. if you want to be added to the series taglist just comment! (and also please yell at me if i forgot to add you!!!) i'm debating on making just like a general writing taglist for when i post for other rygos characters is that something y'all would be interested in? idk lmk. i'm pretty sure no one noticed but i changed the title of part two like three or four times i'm so indecisive when it comes to titles LOL. as always if i missed anything in the tags/warnings lmk

“Craig said I could,” you mumble with a shrug. Pope responds quickly with a scoff.

“Craig doesn’t know what’s right from left half of the time,” he comments, his ears perking up once he hears you chuckle. He doesn’t hesitate to pull up another one of the chairs nearby and place it right next to you, plopping down with a huff and a sharp bend of his knees.

“You're chaperoning me?” you glanced at Pope with hazy eyes, watching the lines of his face you’ve come to memorize over the years.

“Who else is going to? Can’t leave you alone out here.” You smiled at that, taking another long drag of the joint and inhaling deeply before exhaling out of your nose. Pope’s dark eyes follow your movements, tracing the silhouette of your fingers and the curve of your lips as you breathed in whatever you were allowing into your lungs. “Are you really going to smoke the whole thing?”

“Shit, I’m going to try. I know you won’t help me,” you joked, not that you necessarily minded Pope opting out; honestly you were feeling more selfish tonight.

“You know I’d prefer not to.”

“I know, Pope. You can stay here with me and keep watch.”

This isn’t the first time you’ve smoked weed, especially near Pope. It was always a nasty vice you couldn’t seem to let go of, sneaking out of your high school class and running to your secret spot by the farthest set of bleachers for a fix. The act of smoking also happens to come with a dual order of Pope’s judgmental stare every time you smoke with Craig. He'd always hover around you, patiently waiting for you to be finished so he’d babysit you until the high wore off. At first it irritated you, but by now you've grown used to it.

You figured that having an excuse for Pope to care enough to be nearby was a good reason to maintain your bad habit.

By the time you felt the high reach its climax, only the end of the joint remained, putting it to the side in the ash tray you found. Growing antsy from the lack of stimulation, you moved from your lounge chair and situated yourself over Pope’s lap, resting your back against his broad chest like you’ve done so many times before. He wraps a thick arm around your waist to keep you steady, your hands instantly reaching for his forearm to stroke along his freckled skin. Pope’s head rests over yours, breathing you in and letting you touch him however you want—so long as you're calm that's fine with him.

You usually get like this when you’re high—clingy, touchy and craving something that calmed you down. It’s not your fault it was usually Pope who you’d end up looking for, his presence always had an effect on you ever since you were introduced to the Cody household when you were younger. Being with him like this was far from the ordinary; you preferred to sit or lean on Pope’s strong frame instead of the actual couch cushions, but that didn’t mean others refrained from voicing their opinions.

“You know Baz thinks we’re fucking?” you admit, your voice soft and mellowed out, trailing off into a light giggle of disbelief. The sound that Pope releases by your ear would be the closest thing to a laugh, though you can assume it was from irritation above all else.

“Baz thinks a lot of things. He’s worse than Craig sometimes,” Pope conveys, instinctively tightening his hold on you as if you could get any closer to him. “His head is always in the gutter.”

“He has a lot to say considering he has a kid to look after now,” you found yourself blurting out, feeling Pope nod beside you. You traced the veins that poked out of his arm, drawing lines and circles over him when you got the sudden urge to ask him the question sitting in the back of your mind. “Have you thought of it?”

“Thought of what?”

“Us fucking.” You can feel Pope tense behind you, holding his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “I’m only asking since Craig told me he would the other day. Curious to see if it's a family thing.”

“Hell no. Craig can’t. He’s…”

“He’s not you, right?” you finished his sentence for him, and Pope almost lets you go as his grip loosens. His heart pounds against your back, and as much as you tried to hide it, you enjoyed making him nervous.

“You don’t need to worry about me ever getting involved with Craig; he’s not my type. He basically fucks anything that walks, so an offer from him is far from a compliment,” Pope hums. That statement seemed to calm him down from thinking of the worst-case scenario, you with his reckless brother. “But I think we should. To get it out of our system.”

He stays quiet for a second, thinking it over and running the fantasy through his head until he’s satisfied. He maintains his hold around your waist but takes his free hand to mess with the end of your tank top that rides higher up your torso.

“I’m surprised you even want to.” You slip out of his arms and turn around to face him, sitting on his lap with your back straight while trying to get his eyes on you, but all he does is stare at the ground.

“You’re surprised that I’d want to fuck you?” you question him, hazel finally meeting your gaze for a couple of beats. “It’s been in the back of my mind since we kissed after Deran’s party months ago.”

Just the thought of it brought a shiver rolling down your spine. It had been a blur of events accompanied by too many beers and tequila shots at one of the local bars Deran liked. It started as a normal night out with the boys after a long day at the beach, catching a tan as they busied themselves with catching some waves. Pope had joined you a while after he grew bored of sitting idly on his surfboard, opting to rub more sun-tanning lotion over your skin and timing your flips so you didn’t burn. He was around you like he usually was for most of the day, carrying that behavior over at night when you were downing drinks like there was no tomorrow, later dragging you into his truck and driving you back home.

What you didn’t expect was to be caught with Pope on top of you in a heavy make-out session on your couch, your legs wrapped tightly around his hips, keeping him in place so you could grind against his thighs as you kissed him. All he tried to do was take you back to your place and tuck you in bed, but you brought him down with you after he picked you up and threatened to drop you. Curiosity simply got the best of you, and neither of you has brought it up since.

“I wouldn’t mind a repeat, Pope. Just once,” you mutter to him teasingly, lightly toying with the collar of his shirt and trailing a finger over his jaw.

“You’re high,” he says matter-of-factly, but from the way his hand was rubbing on your leg, you don’t think he’s far from being fully convinced.

“I’m well aware. So it’s easier for me to say I want your mouth on me.” Your grin doesn’t exactly meet your face, a little slow in coordination with how your eyes flutter as you bite your lip. “I’ll even show you how to do it.”

“I know how to do it,” Pope claims defiantly, a pout forming on his face. You shamelessly laugh in front of him, catching his eyes squinting as he observes you, waiting for you to take back your words.

“No the fuck you don’t. But that’s okay, I can teach you.” You’re absentmindedly playing with the curls on the nape of his neck, something you always did to him when he’d plant his head over your lap. You arch your back more so your chest rubs into his, lips ghosting over his own as you smirk. “Doesn’t sound too bad, right?”

There had always been something between you and Pope; that much was obvious to practically everyone with a set of eyes, including the other members of the Cody family. But when it comes to your relationship with Pope, he never did anything you didn’t want him to do, never went against your wishes, and never disrespected you or made you second-guess his loyalty to you. Whether it was just as friends or something else, you were bound to each other, even if you pretended like that wasn't the case.

Now here he was, with you seated on his lap like you belonged there, wearing a tank top that left nothing to the imagination, proposing that you’d fuck him…and he had to act like his cock wasn’t twitching in his jeans with your close proximity. He simply looks at you, breathing heavier than he did a few minutes ago, smelling the weed that still clung to you despite smoking out in the open.

The second his lips started to curl upward, you knew you finally got him.

“Sure. You can teach me,” Pope suggests casually. His free hand that was on your hip sneaked a bit further to play with one of the belt buckle loops on your jeans, putting pressure on your tailbone. “So long as it’s not fucking Craig doing it, we have a deal.”

You coil a strand of his hair with one of your fingers, watching the dark auburn piece curl in on itself and settle over his scalp. The high from your finished joint was still flowing through you; this whole conversation had your panties sticking to your cunt and pulsing so heavily down south you couldn't focus on anything else but Pope's mouth.

Of course, it was you who just had to keep talking.

“Want to get a head start?”

Woe finds you on a Tuesday at the staffroom lunch table. 

Picking apart the leftovers of a miserable thrown together attempt of fried rice that came to be after realising there were no better dinner options with the ingredients you had in the fridge two days ago and the determination to not get take out more than once a week that would surely fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on. 

Eat take out once a week, maximum. Read one book a month, minimum. Sleep more. Stop turning down social invites

The last one is what leaves you particularly perturbed, as your lunch goes lukewarm and your thumb flicks about on the social media profile.

“I just… I can’t say no.” You lament. “It would be weird.”

“Weirder than going?” Margot asks, pulling her own container of lunch from the oven. It’s also leftovers, but slices of impeccably cooked roast with what looks to be red wine sauce and vegetables- no doubt made by her smokeshow of a house husband (he just works from home, she insists. You’re pretty sure the pair are sitting on a lofty investment profile because no man ‘works from home’ cooks roasts bi-weekly and buys his wife diamond earrings for her birthday).

“I don’t know. Maybe.” You manage, the next bite of fired rice tasting like loneliness packed into an over-salted flavour profile. 

“What’s weird?” Ryland asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.

The staff room of E-Block is near abandoned. Of the ten-odd teachers with rooms in the little block of aging brick, most tended to eat in their classrooms. Save for you, Margot and Ryland. Occasionally there will be another visitor, but most days, it is just the three of you. 

“Wedding.” Margot supplies, sitting down and shuffling her chair in with a sense of poise so rarely found in Middle-Schools. She’s older, somewhere in her early fifties, and still manages to approach the job with the same level of discipline as before ipads made their invasion into the classroom. 

Ryland frowns. “You’re already married.”

He’s… well, Ryland's… actually you’re not sure how to put him into words, which is saying a lot considering the literature degree collecting mildew in the filing cabinet of your apartment. 

He’s in the same boat as you in terms of finding yourselves with a teaching career. Studied something else first, got your passion and love for it soured by morons and went back to college for a second round, dishing out more cash for a masters in teaching that has you trying to tame fourteen year olds all day. Delightful, truly. Although, Ryland had certainly lasted a lot longer with that first degree than you had. A doctorate. He hates the kids knowing that though. A handful of them had called him ‘Doctor Grace’ last year, after digging about online and getting their grubby fingers on his linkedin profile. 

‘Mr Grace’ as he is now known, is awkward. A little socially inept at times, but not enough to come across as anything other than endearing. Now is one such time, as he looks over the frames of his glasses at Margo, the stack of pop quizzes he’d brought to mark and keep himself occupied momentarily forgotten. His eyes darted from her face to the ring on her finger. 

“Mm mm.” She hums, shaking her head as she chews, then levels her fork to point in your direction.

“You’re not getting married.” Ryland states when he turns to look at you, like it’s a scientific fact, one he’s so assured of. 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr Grace.” You reply, still sort of wallowing at the photos on your phone. 

His gaze flickers, a little less sure as the corner of his lips fall and, like he had with Margot, settles his eyes on your hands. Your lack of a ring. “You aren’t, are you?”

“No. My ex is, though.” You sigh, despondent. The reminder glares back at you from the overly-bright phone screen. 

“Oh. That sucks.” He manages, clicking open a red pen to start circling and ticking the first sheet on his pile. “Happens to the best of us.”

The kettle rumbles away on the tiny kitchenette. You look at him for a long moment. The best of us. Like it’s happened to him. Ryland’s not one to discuss relationships beyond the occasional quip about quitting to be a house husband like Margot’s. He’s never mentioned past romances, you don’t think he’s been in a relationship in the three years since he started at Grover Cleveland Middle. It’s such a bizarre glimpse at his life, that he doesn't even seem to register what he's revealed, marking as he waits for the boiling water to cook another lunch of instant ramen. 

You sit up a little straighter in your chair, weary of knocking your shoes against where his long legs sprawl under the small table. The staff room is meant for ten but is cramped even with the three of you, nothing more than a little kitchenette and big whiteboard in the corner. There’s a shelf against one wall, just far enough away from the doorframe that the door doesn't crash into it when pushed open. There’s a long window the length of the wall on the door’s other side, a good view of the eighth-grade outdoor lunch area. The other staff call it the fishbowl, it’s why they opt to eat in their classrooms, not keen on the kids' eyes on them when it is supposed to be one of the fleeting breaks during their day.

Thank god the door is closed- if the kids heard you whining about this, a wedding, they’d never let up. “I’m considering the pros and cons of skipping it.”

“You were invited?” He baulks, dropping his pen.

You try not to smile, focusing on your self pity instead of the three shoddy attempts Ryland takes to catch his pen from dropping out of his hand, rolling off the stack of paper then off the table. “I already said I’d go too.”

“Why?” Ryland sounds appalled, like that one time you’d caught him trying to explain that the five second rule is not an effective barrier against bacteria to a student. 

“It’s complicated.” You say, biting at your cheek. 

“Bullshit.” Margot aptly calls. Looking over with the same expression she used to call students on their bullshit. You're not a big fan of having it directed at you. 

“We went out for maybe two months in college.” You sigh, setting your phone on the table face-down to stare at your lunch, contemplative. “He’s engaged to one of the girls from my sorority. We’re… friends.”

Margot watches. “With your ex or the sorority girl?”

“Sorority girl. Daisy.” That's the better option of the two at least. You think it is, not that there is much left to save you from the impending train wreck of discussing the relationship woes of your late teens and early twenties with the only two coworkers who care to eat lunch in a communal space. The company is nice, Ryalnd had said once, when you’d asked, gets me out of the classroom. 

Margot screws her face up for a second, muttering it again under her breath as if the name offends her. 

“You were in a sorority?" Ryland asks, face a little blank as he looks at you from across the table. 

It makes you falter, the way his thoughts seem to be buffering like the school's slow wifi. “I… Yeah? That’s the interesting part?”

He shakes his head, looking down at his marking sheets and pushes his glasses up from where they’re slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose. “No, I just can’t picture it.”

You purse your lips, consider pulling up some photos from your sorority days, then remember the kind of outfits the lot of you wore and think better of it. “Well Daisy and I were roommates for a year and a half. She’s nice. Works in PR now.”

“But she’s marrying your ex?” Ryland asks, still kind of baffled. 

You dismiss it with a lazy hand wave. “I mean, she asked before they went out and everything. I just think it’s a little weird. I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s going to be embarrassing.”

Margot tuts twice, done with her lovingly made lunch that symbolises how successful she has been in the department of marriage when you have all but failed so far. “Why is it embarrassing? Two months is nothing.”

“I was a little head over heels for this guy.” You admit, sheepish. 

Ryland stands up, clears his throat as he turns away. “Yeah? How so?”

His back is to you, as he peels the lid off his cup ramen and wrestles with the flavour packet. You come to the conclusion it’s easier to confess this sort of stuff with only one set of eyes on you. “I was sort of convinced he was my soulmate. He was doing pre-law, witty too.”

“Hot?” Margot asks, always straightforward.

You feel a blush rise on your cheeks as you remember the early days of your sorority experience, flopped back on the bed as you made little love sick sighs at your ceiling. “God, his jawline. And his hair- it was so… ugh!” 

The thud is dull when your forehead lands on the table, to the right of your now abandoned lunch. “I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s dumb.”

You hate how you sound- petulant like the kids you prod for not searching for better words in their assignments, moping like your world is ending over something so trivial. It’s not even the new years resolution that has you mulling this over so intently.  You’d agreed to go months ago- six months ago- and said yes to the offered plus one, adamant to yourself that you’d have someone by then, a partner or something. Someone of importance. 

Attending alone is going to be even worse than if you had just RSVP’d for yourself in the first place. It’s one thing to watch your college friend and ex-sort-of-boyfriend exchange vows alone, and a whole other monster to do it with a pointed empty seat beside you. 

All of it tumbles out your lips in a hurried hurl of word vomit, followed by a few moments of silence that has you cautiously raising your head to peek over the wall of your forearms. Ryland is staring at you, cup noodles steaming in his hands where it hovers over the sink, like he’d been about to pour out the excess water. Margot is looking at you with a frown, the same one she wears when teaching senior mathematics and the children have drawn up an equation for her to solve with the foolish belief they could stump her for more than ten seconds. 

And just as in class, Margot is not phased for more than a handful of moments. “Then find someone with a better jawline and better hair to go with you. You can borrow mine.”

You blink at her, mulling the words over before asking, “Are you trying to pimp your husband out to me?”

“Only for aesthetic reasons, of course. It’d be nice to have the house to myself for once. Not like you have better options.”

It would sting more if it wasn’t so true. There were very few options and with the wedding only two weeks away, that was certainly not enough time to squeeze in enough dates with someone to justify taking them to a damn wedding. 

“I mean, how good is his jawline?” Ryland finally says, walking over with his little cutlery box, plastic chopsticks he washes and reuses almost everyday, to set his lunch down on the table and settle back in across from you. “Are we aiming high?”

There is no way to un-dig this hole, not now that they’ve both decided to put their two cents in. You concede with another sigh and reach for your phone, arms and chin still on the table as you fish about Instagram for a photo. It’s the one that had reminded you of this awful upcoming event, posted by Daisy. You all but toss your phone on the table between your coworkers, sinking a little lower into your folded arms, awaiting judgement. 

The photos must be from a walk though of the venue, the pair of them posed together between some old marble arch where they were having the ceremony at. She was laughing, hand on his chest, showing off the ring on her finger while he looked at her, besotted. The caption made it worse. Only two weeks left till I get to marry my man on these very steps.

You like them both, you really do, but the thought of showing up by yourself, as the lonely friend who’d never found ‘it’, your own version of the love they were celebrating, well it was just nauseating.

Margot looks the photo over critically before humming in a sort of so-so tone. “You can do better.”

Ryland looks kind of at a loss. “This is your type?”

As if to emphasise the point, he lifts the phone up and turns it around to show you the image you were already being haunted by. “This is the hair that had you all…”

He doesn't find the words, just waves the hand with his chopsticks around in a messy motion, looks at you critically over the rims of his glasses.

“He slicks it back now. It used to be… I donno. Messy? Fluffy? Good to run my fingers though.” He scoffs a little to himself, dissatisfied maybe with your excuse.

The only forgiving factor is that the photo does highlight the sharp cut of his jaw, which even Ryland concedes to. “He does have a good jawline...”

Yours is better, you want to say. Immediate and impulsive, because it kind of is. Especially when the shadow of his stubble stretches a few extra days between shaves. Your ex is clean shaven- you used to think that was sexy, at least sexier than the patchy beards boys in college had back then. Now you’re kind of obsessed with the so-called ‘5-o’clock shadow’ Ryland sports on Fridays. 

It’s not something you’re likely to tell him though, especially not when you glance at the clock and realise you have a duty across campus in three minutes. Saved by the bell maybe, either way you’re able to liberate your phone from the pair of them and their conspiratory whispers, bin the scraps of your lunch and haul ass out of there. 

By the end of the school day, you have reached the conclusion that you will blame it on work. That some mandatory day of ‘professional development’ as it is called nowadays, has come up and you will just have to miss the wedding, truly you’re devastated about it all. 

Then Ryland corners you in your classroom. The bell’s long gone, as are the students. He’s dressed like he’s on his way out, his green backpack tossed over one shoulder and bike helmet hanging by the strap in one hand. You’re halfway through explaining your plan and the wording you’re going to use in the tragic text message to Daisy when he cuts you off. 

“I’ll go with you.”

He’s a little breathless with it, like he’d been saving up all his oxygen to get the words out, leaving him in one big rush as they topple though the doorway of your classroom and splatter onto the linoleum floor between you both. 

“I know that I’m not Margot’s husband with a ‘better jawline and better hair’ but we can go and eat nice wedding food- If he’s a lawyer it’s gotta be fancy, right? And we can make fun of his stupid slicked back hair together and you don’t have to be alone or make an excuse and feel guilty about it.” Ryland’s big speech is as flawed as it is heartwarming

Because he does have a better jawline and better hair. And Margot looks between you both during lunch hours and staff meetings like you’re her personal romance drama, there to occupy her during the day. 

But the wedding food will be good, your ex will shill out for the best and Daisy has always had a taste for the finer things in life. Ryland is the best company you can think of to have by your side and he knows you well enough to understand how guilty lying about something makes you feel, how it churns your gut. 

“Yeah. Okay.” You smile, something warm and fuzzy in your chest. 

His eyes don’t move, maybe widen a little before he speaks again, still a little breathless. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

It isn’t a hard thought to come around to, taking Ryland to a wedding. As a date is something that goes unsaid between the pair of you, not sure whether it could be classed as such for real, or if this is simply a favour between friends-slash-coworkers. It is certainly a date for show, to the many college friends you’re about to reunite with after a few years, for your Ex, Jack who’s obsessed with his wife, for Daisy who you’d told years ago to ‘go for it, he’s a nice guy’ working under the assumption that she’d only last a few months by his side too. 

You’re not sure which answer you’d prefer, honestly; a date or a favour. 

He texts you a lot- after school, on the weekend- asking about what he should wear, what you’re going to wear, how he should prepare for this sort of thing. It’s sweet, cute in a way that has little butterflies flapping around in your stomach. 

“Okay, I’ll show you. Wait, hold on.” You placate, setting your phone down on the bed, screen up. 

“It’s a lovely ceiling fan, but I doubt it fits the dress code.” Ryland drawls, and you can hear the smile there. 

“Ha ha.” You reply, a little echo-y as you lean into your closet to pull the dress out. 

He’s up in arms about what to wear, says he needs to know what you’re wearing too so he can match. The invite’s dress code called for formal attire in ‘dark colours’. On the facebook page she’d made for the event, Daisy had a full post going into more detail, about how she’d love any and all dark tones- forestry green, navy, even burgundy was fine. You had taken a firm stance against burgundy considering there’s some old wedding traditions that state wearing red indicated you’d slept with the groom. Which you had, but you were not about to advertise that. 

So navy it was. 

You’d sent Ryland a picture of the invite, where it was stuck to your fridge with letter magnets spelling out ‘woe’- it had felt fitting when you’d stuck it up there- and several screenshots of the lengthy dress-code post Daisy had made that went into excruciating detail. He wasn’t satisfied though. 

Even your attempts to describe the dress you’d bought didn’t work well enough.

“I mean it! you expect me to know what any of those words apart from ‘floor length' means?” he bemoans from your phone speakers, face time call crackling. “I need all the data.”

“Oh listen to you, Mr. Science,” You drawl with a smile, pulling the dress out. It’s too long to hang from a door knob so you have to stretch up on your tip toes to hang the coat hook over the curtain rod of your bedroom window. 

“I was thinking of changing my name. Very to the point, don’t you think?” He replies, still smiling as you collect your phone. His eyes are sparkling with something cheeky when you appear back in frame. 

Ryland’s dressed down, in one of those dumb science t-shirts he wears on ‘Casual Fridays’ as it is called in staff meetings. This one’s dark blue and has the periodic table on it in worn down white transfer ink. You’ve seen it enough to know the punch line sprawled over his lower stomach even though it’s not in frame. I wear this shirt periodically. He finds an extra layer in humor that the shirt is factually correct as well, that he does in fact, wear the shirt in regular intervals as he’d explained to you during a free-period on one of those casual Fridays. 

He’s at his kitchen bench, phone propped up against something, while he taps away at his laptop. You’ve not actually been to Ryland’s apartment before, but it sorta feels like you have, the cramped studio always on display in the back of video calls like this one. 

It’s just one long rectangle. Kitchen by the front door, a bench, a gap that is probably intended for a kitchen table but he’s stuck a desk there instead, his bed that’s almost always unmade with a tv wall mounted across from it, and a balcony. Like this, you can see the expanse of it behind him. The stacks of paper piled up on his desk, the extra monitors and little trinkets gifted from students, the sage green sheets of his bed, peeled back on one side, sun shining in through his big glass balcony doors. Honesty, you kind of want to see the view from his apartment in person, he’s a little higher up than you are, in a better part of the city too. 

Ryland’s not brushed his hair, it’s all spiked up in different directions and you wonder if the mug he’s been sipping from, periodically, is his morning cup even though it’s just past ten. He’s blinking slow behind his glasses, sitting a little too still for his brain to be fully functional yet. 

“I’m sure the kids will love it. Harder to spell on their assessment sheets, though.” You can imagine it, the staff badge, the name on his board in fun bubble writing where it would stay untouched for a whole school term. 

You flip the camera, showing him the dress he’s been complaining about not understanding for the last half hour over text before he gave up and called you. 

It’s cute, how his head tilts and he leans towards his phone for a second before just picking it up and holding it close enough so his eyes and forehead are just about all that is in frame. “Is that velvet?”

“It’s fake satin. I think.”

“Fake satin?” He repeats, confused.

The dress was one you already owned, bought a year or so ago for another friend’s wedding that you had attended alone but not felt crappy about, even if it did seem like everyone your age was getting married nowadays. It’s got a fitted bodice, but there fabric is a little drapey, looks like it pools over the chest and down towards the fluid skirt. "Wasn't expensive enough to be real satin.”

“Okay, I know what you mean by delicate straps now.” That had been his main hang up, whining about, What do you mean delicate straps? Like they’re about to break?, swearing that the shit he was googling was just not helping the mental image considering there were about six different results for everything.  

“Yeah, and here, the lace up back.” You say, stepping up to twist the dress away from where it sat flush against the curtains to show the corset style back, with thin cord lace just a little thinner than the straps. 

“Isn’t that going to be a nightmare to put on?” He asks, squinting still.

“There’s a zip.” You say, dragging the little hidden zipper down, showing him how the dress fabric parts and slips open. “So it’s fairly easy to get on. The cords are about as tight as they should be anyway, it isn't hard to pull to fit.”

You fumble a little trying to get the zip back up but eventually just conceded to leave out like that until you put the dress away. When you glance down at your phone, Ryland has moved, no longer sitting down and if you had to guess, is now walking the length of his apartment instead. He looks a little distressed. 

“Come on, you’ve got the easy part.” You try, a little concerned he’s about to say he shouldn’t go. “You just have to put on a suit.”

“I can’t just ‘put on a suit’.” He whines, flopping down onto his bed like the world is ending. “I’m supposed to be like, your big ‘fuck you’ to the girl who got with your ex. I’m supposed to look good with you. I don’t know if I have a suit nice enough for that dress.”

“Ryland. It’s not about saying ‘fuck you’ to Daisy, or pulling some revenge stunt. I just didn’t want to go alone like a loser when I said I was bringing someone.” You can’t really help the little breathy laugh that weaves its way though his name, because he sounds like you did four days ago acting like the world was about to end, face down on the lunch table. “You don’t have to come.”

“No, I’m coming. I just need to go through my wardrobe.” He’s cute, you decide, in a round-about sort of way. The determination to play this self elected role well, to perfect it and give it his all, like he does with everything else in his life. The whole situation was elevating your ‘aesthetic appreciation’ of Ryland that you’d been attempting to suppress, to a new sort of level. 

You flop down on your own bed, roll over on your side and let him derail the conversation towards lesson planning, listen to him talk about the plans he has for the next weeks worth of classes, a couple of activities he’s got in the works. All while you consider the pros and cons of having him beside you instead. 

Ryland was probably the teacher you got on best with at work, despite being from two very different teaching areas. When he’d first arrived, you’d assumed he would be a little pretentious, with his Phd and professional experience beyond the classroom. You weren't expecting him to be so awkward. The children took to him so quickly, and Ryland had told you time and time again that he doesn't understand why they think he’s cool. 

Over the years you’ve found that he can be cocky, in certain bouts of confidence seemingly appearing via divine-intervention. A local bar had run trivia nights for some six odd months, and it had unleashed a beast within him.

On Monday afternoon he sent you a photo. A little black bag with a logo you’d googled, realising it was a menswear store before the second photo had come though. A tie, sleek navy like your dress, rolled up neatly with a matching pocket square beside it, both nestled in a box that screamed expensive. You’d sent back a random string of praise, imagining him lulling it over in the store. It was nearly five in the afternoon, he’d left work pretty much on the final bell. You wonder how long he spent comparing the seemingly endless ties the shop’s online store offered, considering what would match best to your dress.

It makes you a little giddy, to be honest, has you dreaming of a situation where you’d asked him to come to the wedding, or where you’d already been together long enough that it was simply a given when the invitation turned up in your mail box. 

Neither of you mention it during school hours, not keen on the kids hearing whispers of you and Ryland doing anything outside work hours- students will take anything and run with it.

But he messages you about it constantly. Makes a plan; he’d come to your apartment and you would uber from there to the venue, it was a sunset ceremony and evening reception. He lived close enough that it was a brisk walk or quick bus trip. He pointedly mentions that he would not be cycling- ‘In a suit? God, never’- and makes sure you know that the uber would also drop you both back to your flat and he’d walk home or take another separate uber. 

There’s talk about your ‘backstory’, which he takes as seriously as he does exam periods. You tell him it’s not super necessary, that saying you met at work is more than enough exposition for the gaggle of college friends you’d not seen in years. But he was never one to do things in halves. 

“We obviously would have met at school.” He says, like it’s a given. Ryland is laid out on the reading rug at the back of your classroom, staring at the ceiling. And the fake clouds that are actually just a hobby-fill glue gunned to paper and taped to the ceiling, he’d turned the fairy lights that are threaded though them on before he’d decided the floor was his resting place. “Maybe trivia is where it happened. We liked trivia.”

“We did like trivia.” You agree, pointedly. 

It’s almost impossible to not just sit there and watch him, the student folders that you’re sorting worksheets into acting as a very inefficient distraction. 

He’s got a button down on, some pale blue that looks nice under his grey wool blazer. The pale wash jeans and white converse are a bit more casual, but he wears the combination well. Too well. Laid out like this, with one knee up, he looks far too attractive for you to swallow. Glasses pulled down to hang off his jaw, sitting there catching the afternoon light as it came through the windows, casting rainbow refractions onto the back wall. 

“Maybe trivia was a date. What would you have done?”

“If you’d asked me to trivia as a date?” You glance up. He’s already looking at you, head tipped to the side, something soft, tentative there in his eyes.

“Yeah.” You can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his chest rises with each breath. 

Ryland sounds… nervous, in a way that does remind you of the first trivia night you’d gone to. He’d been dressed similarly there, you remember thinking he looked nice, polished up a little more than he did in the school day with dress shoes and what smelt like cologne. Handsome where he waited by the entrance, backlit by the bar’s warm lighting. He’d been a little twitchy for the first hour or so, but settled into himself by round two. 

With the way he’s looking at you, now as he plans out the false scenario that’s beginning to sound a lot more like a confession, you’re starting to get the idea that trivia could have been a date. If either of you had put it into words. 

“Enjoyed it, probably.”

“Really?” He looks shy, a bit of a flush working its way up his cheeks. 

You smile at him, thinking about how nice it would have been to kiss him in that bar with a sweet cocktail on your lips, dizzy from his flattery about your trivia skills. You hum, nodding a little as you look at the folders and sheets spread out over your desk, feeling a flush rise to your own cheeks.

He knocks when you’re halfway through lacing up the back of your dress, holding the cords with one hand as you open the door. Ryland’s not been to your apartment before, something you’d failed to realise until he called you and asked during his walk over, if you’d have to buzz him in. 

He was appalled to find out the front door to your building was sporting a broken lock and had been tied back with a length of rope for the last two months while the landlords procrastinated fixing it. 

“See,” You say, opening the door for him, keeping it propped open with your foot as he shuffles in. “My door locks.”

“Still one less lock that you’re supposed to have.” he grumbles, stepping out of his very nice dress shoes. They look expensive- black leather shined up propper. 

Actually, Ryland looks expensive. 

“You look nice,” he says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that. 

“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly. 

Holy fuck he looks good in a suit. It’s the only thought spinning around your head. It’s a proper one, tailor made no doubt. Blazer, slacks and undershirt, all three of them a deep inky black. The navy tie he’d sent you a photo of is done up around his neck in a knot neater than you’ve ever seen him wear to work. The pocket square is folded too, fluffed up with a little volume that suggests he did so intentionally. 

Suddenly you’re reminded of all those times he’d complained about all the formal conferences and charity gala’s he’d attended during his days in academia. You realise you have made a grave error. 

There have always been little parts about Ryland that oozed wealth, the glasses he wore for one, that he told you were antique when you’d asked. The watch on his wrist that you thought looked like some practical sporty thing but found out was actually worth three months rent when you’d googled it out of curiosity. These little things fall out of the spotlight and become footnotes that are often ignored when he’s in his classroom, or tiny apartment. 

Dressed in such a nice suit, here in you apartment definitely wearing cologne- the same from that very first trivia night, something a little warm, woodsy like oaky bourbon, sharp and contrary to the fresh nothingness he smelt like at work- Ryland seemed so far beyond you. 

“You look good.” You manage, letting the door slip shut and dropping the lace of your dress, it loses its tension a little but stays in the same spot for the most part, to run a hand over the lapel of his blazer. “How long have you had this?”

“Ages. Dug it out of the back of my closet. A little tighter than when I last wore it, but it will do the trick. Right?” He tacks that last bit on, like he’s waiting with baited breath for your approval. 

“I’ll say.” You slide your hand down the lapel a little bit, down over the press of his chest. The tightness just shows the subtlety of his build, lean muscle that comes from idle exercise and good diet, maybe even a splash of genetics. He’s tidied his facial hair up a little, slid the electric razor over all of it to make sure it’s the same length, no doubt. Ryalnd’s still got his glasses on, you were a little worried he might have opted for contacts and are very relieved you get to see this outfit complete with the lenses that frame his face so well. 

With a realisation you might be getting a little lost in your head, you drop your hand, turning to walk further into your apartment, towards the couch where your shoes for the night sat on the floor. “Right, we'll, I'm nearly ready. The uber will be here soon.”

“Do you need a hand?” Ryland asks, and you’re about to turn, ask him, ‘with what’ when you feel his fingertips against the small of your back. It sends a jolt though your skin, he’s cold. From the outside air, where as you’ve been nice and cosy with the heat on while you’d done your hair and make up. 

Goosebumps rise under his hands as they gather the ties for the back of your dress. Something low swoops in your gut, like the dip of a roller coaster, free falling as he chuckles a little behind you. “Sorry, cold fingers.”

You swallow. “It’s.. it’s okay.”

“How tight?” He asks, giving the strings a gentle tug. You almost sway with the moment, feeling a little swept off your feet already. 

“Bit tighter.” You manage, as he presses a flat palm against the small of your back, over the criss-crossing cord, and gathers both ties in one hand to pull slow and firm. It tugs you back into his hand, a steadier hold than you’d expected. 

“There?” He questions when the dress is pulled in to sit flush with your skin but not dig in. You get the feeling he might have done some research, when he plucks at each string to even them out and make sure none of them are too tight, on how these dresses are supposed to sit. 

“Yeah, perfect.” It leaves you like a sigh, as his palm dips, brushes where the zipper sits before pulling back to tie a neat bow, tugging the cords out carefully so both loops are even. 

All of it has you lightheaded, directing more effort than necessary to get yourself to the couch and pull your heels on, black mary janes that are comfortable enough to walk in. As you fiddle with the buckles, you eye him. 

Ryland’s hair is tousled, intentionally a little messy, not combed or slicked back. Looks like it would be nice to run your fingers though, and you find yourself wondering if that’s why he’d opted for the style, if he’s here, dressed up as the guy with ‘better hair and a better jawline’ that Margot had pitched, unaware that he already was exactly who he’s trying to be. 

He holds an arm out for you to loop yours though, walking down the stairs in steady but slowed steps. You smile. “Wow, full gentleman experience.”

“I told you, I can't just ‘put on a suit’. It’s more than that.” He chides jokingly, and you pity the version of you that didn’t realise this was an option. 

He opens the door for you- the car door, the door into the building door tied back by a rope (he glares at it when you pass it)- then rounds the back of the little toyota that’s polished up to try and seem fancier than it was. You don’t talk much on your way to the venue, comfortable silence that the driver thankfully settles into. 

It’s nearing sundown when you pull into the driveway, a big circular road that’s already crammed with other cars and guests climbing out.

“You can just let us out here.” Ryland says to the uber driver, unbuckling his seatbelt to hop out, then rounding the car again to open your door, hand held out like it’s necessary, when the car is nowhere near low or high enough to warrant such assistance. 

You place your palm in his anyway, letting him pull you from the car, no more temperature disparity in your hands since you’ve both been in the car for fifteen minutes, but it still makes your skin tingle. He’s got cufflinks, the same pale gold as his glasses, in the shape of atoms. You flick one lightly. “I like these.”

He smiles, something a little smothered like he’s trying to stamp it down from a grin as he threads his arm though yours again, beginning the small walk to the venue's front steps. “Well I like your dress, so I think we’re even.”

It’s a ballroom, with these big stained glass windows in the room they hold ceremonies in, you’d seen some lovely shots on the venue’s website of sunset light streaming through them. Imagining Ryland in the warm sunlight has you in a good mood, he’s always suited it, even if the city’s never had much to offer. 

“Not too much for our first date?” You tease.

Something like a laugh tumbles out of his lips, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “First date was trivia- and you were underdressed. Keep up.”

You flush, crowding a little closer to his side to make it through the entryway without shoulder checking anyone. Had you been? It was so long ago you could hardly remember anything other than jeans, tight ones that dug into your waist when you sat down- tight jeans hardly felt like being underdressed, they probably meant you wanted him to stare at your ass. Either way you let him have the win, as minute as it is. 

Doesn't really matter what you wore back then when you’ve got him like this now. 

Together you sit about halfway down on the bride’s side, the pew’s nearly empty, only someone on the other end you don’t know but looks vaguely enough like Daisy, that's you’d guess extended family. 

“So why’d you like this guy so much?” Ryland asks, quiet enough for it to just stay between the two of you. He’s glancing around, but his eyes keep bouncing back to Jack at the front of the venue, where he’s talking to gaggle of similarly dressed guys, his groomsmen. 

“What?”

“Him,” Ryland says, tipping his head a little to gesture at Jack. “What had you talking about soulmates? Couldn't just be the hair, tons of guys have good hair.”

“They do.” You answer, raising a hand to tangle one of the longer stands where it’s dangling over his forehead around your pointer finger and give it a light tug. Ryland’s eyes settle on you, like there’s nothing else to look at. “He made me feel like the only girl in the world.”

“That’s a cliche.” He refutes. “And a song lyric.”

You smile. “I’m serious. He’s like that with every girl he went out with. He’s like it with Daisy. He just loses sight of every other woman, so attentive.”

Ryland stays silent for a moment, eyes searching for something in yours. Maybe permission, or a want, for him to keep digging, it’s almost as if he’s scared what he might find. “What'd he do? To make you feel like that?”

It’s cute, how nervous he is, despite the fact it feels as though all week, the pair of you have been laying this ground work, a path to follow that will lead you somewhere inevitable, like a trivia date, or the messy sprawled sage green sheets or Ryland’s bed. You smile at him, wondering if he’s thought about you in them. You wonder if he knows how easily you could be, that you might just follow him to the edge of the universe. 

Still, you answer his question, offering a peek into your brain, the way you used to operate when teenage giddiness was closer than adult yearning. "Took me dancing. Kissed me slowly, cared about how I wanted things to go. It was like he just couldn’t stop looking at me, for me. It was intoxicating.”

“I can’t.” Ryland blurts out, all reckless abandon, and he’s looking at you like you’ve already kissed him breathless just by being here. You let your leg shift to press the length of your thigh against his, warm even through the layers of fabric. 

You breathe in deep through your nose, the scent of his cologne sticking dizzyingly to the air, a scent you think is enough to get drunk on even without the assistance of wedding champagne. "Can't what?”

“Stop looking at you.” He clarifies, eyes darting down to your lips. “I can do the other things though.”

A flutter knocks about your chest, unsteady and uncoordinated. “Yeah, you like dancing Doctor Grace?”

“If it’s with you.” He amends. 

“And slow kissing? You like that too?”

“Yeah I do.” He’s not even trying to hide it now, gaze settled on the dusty pink line of your lips, his own a little slick with spit when he darts his tongue out to trace one quick line along them. 

You almost asked him to prove it, but in your peripherals, down the aisle and pausing at the sight of you, was Macey, another one of your college friends, smiling. So you place a hand on Ryland's thigh, just above his knee. “Good. Really good.”

Ryland looks dizzy with the praise, like it’s all rushed straight to his head. 

“Hey Macey, good to see you.” You greet, using your hand on Ryland's knee to tip his legs towards you, making room for Macey to shuffle into the pew. 

“Oh my god, good to see you too! It's been awhile, hasn’t it?” She leans down a little awkwardly to wrap you in a hug as you half stand, and it’s good to see someone after so long, to look at them and remember times when things were simpler and you were allowed to be a little stupid, a little dangerous. It’s nice to see her here, for her to sit next to you- Macey’s always encouraged you to be a little wild, and with the way Ryland’s been looking at you all night, you might need her ego-bosting tonight. 

“I’m Macey, nice to meet you.” She extends a hand to Ryland over your lap and he shakes it curtly, offering his own introduction. 

There’s a big rock on her finger, and you remember seeing it on an instagram post, some dreamy forest scenery with a ‘coming soon to a theatre near you’ caption under it. 

“I suppose it will be your wedding next then,” You tease, “Where’s Jamie?”

“Oh she had a work trip, couldn't avoid it. She wanted to come though.” Macey waves off. Her and her fiance met on some film set, both camera operators, at the time, although you faintly recall reading something about Jamie’s name working its way up to director for some upcoming project, amongst the throws of social media posts from people who once knew everything about you and now you only see once every few years. 

“So Ryland,” Macey starts with a glimmer in her eyes, something evil and mischievous that throws you back to seeing her in the living room with a bottle of tequila and monopoly board. “How’d you two meet?”

“We teach at the same school,” He grins, a hand sliding to your knee, just along the inside of it, where your dress fabric hangs low with slack, enough for his palm to press there, thumb drawing slow lines back and forth. “A little cliche but I don’t mind.”

Macey smiles, fans her face a little like that’s just soooo romantic. “What do you teach?”

“Science, opposites attract I guess.”

“Please tell me you used that line.” She practically swoons. 

Ryland huffs a little laugh. “No, the kids threw that one at me actually.”

“Really?” You question, a raised eyebrow because that was not part of the backstory he’d been cooking up all week.

“Oh yeah. You should hear them. “Mr. Grace, you and Miss are ,like perfect for each other. You should ask her to the spring dance. They’re relentless, I swear.”

He pitches his voice a little, lazy tones and improper grammar leaking out in the way it did when he did impressions of your students and you can’t help but giggle a little. 

“Their heads might explode when they find out.” Macey laughs too, then like a stroke of inspiration, slaps her hand against your arm a few times in pure, unrestrained excitement. “God- remember when we found out Professor Morisaki and Professor Collins were married? Holy shit it was like our heads exploded.” 

You bark a laugh, muffling it under your hand considering the rather low level of idle chatter in the venue. “Oh my god, I forgot about that.”

“Professors of yours?” Ryland asks, this soft smile spread across his lips still.

“Yeah, we were doing a car-wash fundraiser! They were kissing in the background of one of our photos!” Macey still whispers gossip like she did in college, like your students do now. 

Ryland looks a little red in the face when he asks. “A car wash fundraiser?” 

Macey smirks, always too good at picking things up from others' words and you kind of want to stomp your heel over her toes to tell her off before you remember how this evening had been going so far. “Oh? Don’t you know? We were a little wild in college.”

You scoff. “A little?”

“Okay, a lot.” She corrects. “The car wash was an annual thing. White tshirts, bikinis. There’s definitely pictures. I have pictures.”

“Macey.” You scold, mostly joking. 

She shrugs, straightens up and sits to face the fronts, pointedly not looking at you with a smirk on her face. “Hey- I’m just reminiscing on good times. Don’t you remember the kissing booth we ran? Of course you do you were the most requested-”

Now you stomp your foot onto hers, although she doesn’t do anything but laugh to herself. 

Ryland is back to that dazed look, like he’s on some far off planet in his mind, when he murmurs, "Kissing booth?”

You glare at Macey, for a sharp moment. Before patting one hand on Ryland’s chest, leaning in close when you say, loud enough for Macey to hear. “Tell you about it later, handsome.”

He ducks his head a little close to you, a tiny little movement that stops as soon as it starts. His cheeks are the reddest you’d ever seen, looking a lot like he’s about to kiss you now, when there’s a music cue somewhere further up the aisle and a hush falls over everyone. He doesn't look away at first, eyes glued to yours for a long second before he bites his lower lip, to stop himself saying something and reaches a hand up to lace his fingers together with yours over his chest. He pulls it gently to his lap, smothering it in between his warm palms, fiddling with your fingers as the ceremony starts. 

It’s beautiful, truly. The light lowered through the stained glass windows, reflecting and casting colour across the whole room, gentle music and teary vows. Picturesque really, and it reminded you of that time you’d all made ‘vision boards’ as a bonding activity, and Daisy had a little corner on hers that outlined the life she’d like to live, from a small sunset ceremony to the little white picket fence outside a cottage. You’re happy she’s finally arrived there, that she has a man who’s willing to give her everything she’d dreamed of. 

You tell her as much, when you catch the pair of them in the reception hall. A warm hug for each of them and a firm hand shake between Jack and Ryland. It’s a lot less daunting than you had thought it would be, seeing them with the knot tied, no bad blood lingering or awkwardness about what once was. Just contentedness, with where your lives had led you each. 

The food is good and the atmosphere is better, seeing people from a previous life chapter all reunited, laughing and catching up. The reception is held in a ball room, with gorgeous polished hard wood floors and lovely low lighting that hangs from the ceiling in delicate chandeliers. There’s a classical band, a memento board for people to take polaroids and write well wishes on them, a corner with photos from Both Daisy and Jack’s lives, in albums and tacked up on walls, showing where they meet and things bleed together into their future. All of it’s beautiful. 

It’s heading into the later part of the night, when some people have excused themselves and cake has been cut, a hefty supply of the champagne depleted, that a nice slow song comes on.

You aren’t really paying that much attention to it, until you see Ryland shift beside you, rising and holding out one hand, palm up, towards you. “Care to dance?”

Something warm spreads over your face, a flush probably, as you lay a hand in his and he ever so gently pulls you to your feet, right in close to him. He leans down again, lips pressing feather-light to your temple before he leads you towards the dance floor. 

It’s littered with other couples, celebrating the love they have for each other as well as the bride and groom. 

All of it has you a little dizzy, settling a hand on Ryland’s shoulder as his palm slides around your waist, fingers slowing around the lace up back of your dress, pressing into your skin with gentle intent. He’s warm, firm against you, breath fanning across your cheek as you look up at him. “I know this isn’t the kind of dancing you meant, but it’s the best I can do for now.”

You humm, feet shifting in time with his, a slow waltz you weren’t even aware he knew. “I think I prefer this kind of dancing nowadays.”

Ryland’s lips tick up into a smile. “Yeah?”

He looks as good in the warm lamp light as he does in sunlight, kissing across his tanned skin and stubble, showing off the highlights of his hair. You want to run your hands through it, press a kiss to the scruff of his jaw. You settle on talking instead, worried he’s not one for such public displays of affection. “Left my wild nights behind in college.”

He sighs, like this is a devastating blow, hanging his head slightly, glasses slipping a smidge down his nose. “A shame. I was looking forwards to an appearance.”

You purse your lips, lifting the hand from his shoulder to cup his jaw, tilting his head back up a little, the pad of your thumb pressing his glasses back up to where they're supposed to sit. “Might do a private showing. Just for you.”

“You going to wash my car?” He asks, teasing. Eyes following the movement of your hand as it slips back down into place on his shoulder. 

Your forehead falls, pressing against his collar bone as a furious blush blooms over your face, the worst it has been all night, murmuring, “You don’t have a car.”

He must have known what you were going to say, or some semblance of it because you certainly weren’t speaking loud enough for him to catch all of it, but he still sighs, a little dramatic. “Guess we’ll have to go with the kissing booth then.”

You lift your head a little, to look up at him where he’s smiling down, mirth dancing about in his eyes. “Oh, what a shame.”

The drawl has him crack a grin, cheeks flushed as he looks away. Fingers dancing slowly along the skin of your back, between the cords he’d tied up so perfectly for you. 

For you, all of it. His nice suit he’d dug out from the back of his closet, the smart shoes nudging against yours with every step of the waltz. Ryland would do a lot for you, the realisation comes a little late, considering everything. You lean forwards a little, resting your cheek on his chest, as the song slows right down, indulgent. 

“You got plans after this?” You ask, and it sounds so cheesy, so bland once it’s left your lips. 

Still, when he answers, the smile is audible in Ryland’s voice. “Thought I was getting a private show. Is that offer off the table?”

“Think I can manage it,” You murmur, listening to the final few chords echo about the ball room, basking in the way his voice had rippled and rumbled through his chest, low against your cheek.

He lingers for a few seconds in the quiet, holding you close against his chest. You wonder if he, too, is basking in it. The closeness, the idea of having something that you’ve both been pretending couldn’t happen, wasn’t there in the air of exhaled breaths and weighted stares. 

When he pulls back, there is nothing but adoration in his eyes, hand that holds yours falling low, but not releasing it, palm soft against your waist, almost as if he doesn't want to let you go just yet. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Bit forward, Ryland,” You tease, “we’ve not even taken photos yet.”

His eyes follow yours to the polaroid board in the corner, considers it for a moment before he’s pulling you gently by the grasp of his hand around yours, towards it. 

The polaroid camera is a little hand held thing, there’s a stand for it, and poster board instructions on how to set a timer delay. 

Ryland insists on taking one of just you, and while you’re grinning, trying to convince him to join you against the black fabric backdrop, the shutter goes off. 

He rolls his eyes, but lets you drag him in beside you for the next photo. The timer is set, and just as you’re preparing to smile, something a little sweet and knowing, he gets one hand around the small of your back, knocks one of those very smart shoes against your heel and tilts you into a dip. It leaves you a little breathless, as he smiles, nose almost touching yours, shutter flashing off to the side. 

He lets you choose which photo goes on the memo board. “Whichever one you don’t put up there, I’m keeping.”

You look a little silly in both, at least you think as much, caught off guard, and laughing a little out of breath. Ryland insists you look amazing in both. Something a bit selfish pulls at your gut, as you apprise both photos, and eventually, hand the one of you and Ryland to him- liking the idea of getting to see it again, of having a physical reminder of the night you two have spent together. 

He grins like he’s won something, pulling his wallet out from his jacket pocket- a crisp brown leather that looks worn but well cared for- and to your mortification, tucks the photo into the clear slot. The one most people put their licences, or photos of loved ones, like heart-shaped lockets back in the old days. Ryland says nothing on the matter and he folds his wallet back up and slides it back into his pocket, waiting for you to write your message on the other polaroid’s back. 

You scrawl some comment about happy endings and humble crazy beginnings, Signing your name on the bottom under the image of your laughter, and tack it up on the board next to the one Macey’s left. 

Ryland’s got his arm out, hooked there for you to loop yours through again. 

You manage to catch Daisy by the bar on your way out, and give her a tight hug, telling her again how beautiful the wedding has been, how happy you were for her. 

The night air is crisp and the second you’re outside, waiting for the uber that’s just a few minutes away, Ryland strips off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a lack of hesitation that makes it seems as if he’s been waiting to do it all night. 

You look at him and raise a brow, but don’t say anything when you catch sight of his pleased smile. It’s almost devastating to realise he looks even better in just the black button down and tie than he did in the full suit. 

Again, the drive is mostly silent, but you notice pointedly, that you’re not going back to your apartment. And when you tilt Ryalnd’s phone and tap the screen awake, you recognise his street name in the trip’s destination. 

“Presumptious.” You smile.

He grins back, lets a warm palm wander to the curve of your knee, fingers curling around it then venturing to settle a little higher around your thigh. “How are you going to wash my car if we don’t go to my place?”

“You don’t have a car.” You repeat, curious where all this teasing confidence has come from, if perhaps your very clear signals have finally given Ryland the means to throw out all of that unnecessary nervousness and doubt. 

“Right,” He hisses, patting his other hand on his leg, as if to say ‘drat, there goes that plan’. Then he leans in close, whispers to you, “What was the back up plan again?”

“You are much bolder after a few glasses of champagne.”

He hums, a considering sort of sound that rumbles in the minimal air between you. “More so when I know I'm right.”

“And what, pray tell, are you right about?”

“That you like-like me.” He teases, like a child on the playground and if you were a little less level-headed, you might have kissed him right there, leant across the middle seat to lock lips with him in an uber. 

But you don’t want the first time you kiss him to be viewed through a rear view mirror by a driver who looks very unimpressed by the conversation happening in the back seat. “You gonna prove that hypothesis in your apartment?”

“That’s very forwards of you.” He teases, head tipping down like he is going to kiss you.

Expect you turn your head, and his lips brush against your cheek, as you tut. “All scientists say experiments are supposed to be conducted in controlled environments.”

He leans back, still close enough for his warm breath to fan across your face. “You’ve been seeing other scientists? I’m heartbroken.”

“Give yourself some credit, your classes are very interesting.”

“Earsdropping, huh? Didn’t think you were the type.” He looks far too pleased by the idea that you’ve listened to him teach, like he doesn't know that when you come for something during class hours that you linger by the door and wait for him to finish whatever he’s saying, as if you could look at anything else when he was so captivating.

“I’ll Tell you exactly what type I am in,” You glance down to tap his phone awake, checking the ride estimate. “four minutes.”

He nods and you wonder if he’d get that head-rush distant expression on his face if you praised him for the patience. It’s something you want to save for later, you decide, for private. Just for you.

Ryland manages to wait, even keep his hands to himself, once you’re both out of the car, leading you though his building with a sort of reverent silence, that you get the impression wouldn’t return once broken. You stand across from each other in the elevator. With both his hands braced on the bar at hip height, Ryland fixes you with a look that echoes in the space, though the mirrors surrounding you and over the idle hum of machinery. You’re still wearing his jacket, over your shoulders, a slight barrier between the handrail and the curve of your back, as you stand with your arms crossed smiling at him. 

The giddiness that bubbles up and about inside you, as you huddle in close behind him through the hallway, as he unlocks his door and lets you squeeze in past him, is something you’ve not felt in a long time. There’s not much room for childish excitement in the modern dating landscape, it feels as though everyone is in a rush, trying to get where they want to be with a relationship before it’s too late. 

Ryland though, he’s here. You watch him latch the door, before he turns, standing there to let his eyes run up you again. 

“Soooo,” He says, pursing his lips and tangling his hands together in front of him, like he’s suddenly nervous. 

“So?” You ask, taking a few steps forwards to run your hand down the plane of his chest again, feeling it under your palm just like you did when he’d turned up at your apartment that afternoon. 

“It’s been four minutes.” He swallows, and this close you can see how his adams apple bobs. Your other hand reaches up to scratch feather light against the stubble of his jaw, hand on his chest catching on the silky soft fabric of his tie, the one he’d picked out just for you. 

Rylands hands are slow, one moves to the dip of your waist, landing where it had during your waltz, if not a little more firm as it presses you close against him. He catches his jacket by the collar, lets it slide back off your shoulders and hang from his grip as it slides to settle on the curve of your hip.

“It has.” You lick your lips. 

Tuggin on his tie was not supposed to be a demanding thing, more so a gentle tease like you have been doing all night, stepping around that first move like it was a pitfall trap you’d never make it out of. Expect he pitches forwards much easier than you expected and Ryland's lips are pressed against yours. 

Soft and still a little honeyed by the champagne, he moves slowly against you. He takes one step back, then another, pulling you with him and not letting his lips leave yours as he backs himself up against his apartment door. 

Your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and a sharp inhale escapes him, almost a gasp, before he melts into the wood at his back, parting his lips and slipping his tongue up against yours. 

It’s slow kissing, it’s dizzying and it’s want. Everything he’d promised you hours ago, in the afternoon sun of that venue, looking like a dream come true. 

For what could be hours, you stay there, pressed up against him, kissing at his skin, until he shifts his legs, just slightly, enough to press one somewhere between yours, a soft presence halted by the fabric of your dress. 

Breathless, you break the kiss and he lays a sweet peck against your temple, an echo of earlier, before he begins to nose at the line of your jaw, your neck. Kissing then sucking at the divot along your collar while you pant. “Ryland,”

He says your name, just as breathless against your skin, his hand dropping the jacket to pull at the chord of your dress. 

“Is your doorway where you take all the girls?”

“There are no other girls.” He murmurs like a confession, far more earnest than you’d been prepared for. 

“Just me?”

He pulls back, pupils blow wide and face flushed blotchy and red. “Yeah.”

Ryland leans forwards, crowds impossibly close until your feet begin to shuffle, back, back, back into his studio apartment. It passes in a blur as he presses in to kiss your lips again, glued to them until he deems it’s been enough backwards paces and presses another kiss to your jaw. Using his grip on your sides, Ryland turns you around, folds in around behind you. 

His bed’s unmade, messy sheets splayed out in front of you, a pile of sage green cotton that feels like a promise, a sight you’ve dreamed about far too many times.

There’s pressure there, against your ass, a hard length that’s tight against his slacks and it makes your stomach swoop to know he’s so turned on by the slow kissing you’d been thinking about all night. His shuddering breath rushes like wind by your ear, as his fingers pull at the bow he’d tied himself. “Been thinking about this for too long.”

“Yeah?” You shudder when his lips find their place against your neck, sucking and biting at the skin there in a way that will probably result in a lasting reminder. “Since you laced it up?”

“Since you showed me this zipper." He pulls at it and the fabric gives, parting to sit low on your hips. Ryland kisses at the juncture of your throat, biting, and nipping. 

The dress doesn’t fall, not with the straps still hanging loosely from your shoulders, but it’s a damn near thing. One of Ryland’s hands winds around your waist, dragging you back against him as he presses up with one slow grind that has him choking on a groan. His cock, still trapped in his slacks, drags between the zip and against your underwear in a tease that’s maddening with far too much still left to your imagination. 

You try to turn but he’s got you wrapped up so firmly in his arms that it’s not plausible, so instead you reach a hand back, over your shoulder to tug at the knot of his tie, fingers slipping against the silky marital, catching in the bulk to it to tug. A particularly hard tug has him whining. 

“Okay,” You huff out as he sucks a little harder just under your jaw that will definitely result in a hickey if you let him continue for much longer. “Come on, don’t you wanna fuck me?”

You punctuate this by groping around between you both until you get a hand over his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

“Need to remember this bit.” He mumbles, hand around your waist retreating to slip inside your dress from behind, curving back around so his fingers can skate over the soft skin of your stomach, tips slipping just under the waistband of your panties. 

It has you clenching down on nothing and you become actually aware of how uncomfortably wet you’re beginning to get. You squeeze your thighs together, squirming in his grasp. 

“Next time, Ry-” He splays his hand over your stomach, using it to press you back into him. “Ryland, come on. Need you.”

It tumbles out in a breathy whine, and it’s like you’ve said the magic words. He’s turning you around in his grasp, hands reaching up to slip the straps off your shoulders and marvel at the sight. 

He swallows as you reach for his tie again, loosening it gently now you can get your fingers into the knot properly. Ryland’s hands hover nervously before settling against your rib cage, fingers brushing anxiously against the underside of your breasts. 

Your dress was not one that lent itself to a bra, so you’d gone without. You had assumed that he’d figured that one out, given how he’d both laced and un-laced the back of it, but now that it’s out of the way, he’s looking at your chest like he hadn’t expected to see it so quickly. 

“You mean it?” He manages, sounding all tongue tied as you pry the tie off, letting it fall onto the floor, blending into the puddle of your dress- a perfect shade match. “I.. I get a next time?”

“Yeah.” You breathe, working on his shirt buttons, one after the other, coming apart as easily as Ryland did under your gaze. “As many as you want.”

When you get to the bottom of his shirt and reach for the belt buckle, Ryland’s hands move from where they’ve been gently nudging your breasts, to your wrists, snagging them gently as he pulls them back. His shoes nudged against yours, another one of those silent signals to step back that you didn’t know you understood so well until tonight. 

“Let me.” He says, one hand coming to your hip to push you gently back and down onto his bed. 

You land softly, mattress springing underneath you as you shuffle back, leaning on your elbows to gaze up at him as he toes off his shoes and pulls off his socks, a little off balance like the whole path from the door has altered his centre of gravity. 

Ryland is a sight, heaven-sent. 

His hair’s spiked out in six different directions, and you want to scratch at his scalp and pull at the strands all over again. He slides his glasses down his nose and sets them on the nightstand. The skin of his chest is just as tanned as his arms, a wide expanse that’s begging to be marked up with your teeth and nails. 

The belt buckle clinks softly in the empty air as he slips it open, unbuttoning his slacks before he shrugs the black dress shirt off. God, you want to bite his shoulders. 

Your teeth clamp down on your tongue at the thought, kind of wishing the tie was in the picture so you could pull him down on top of you. Just when you’re about to reach up, aiming for his shoulder or maybe even his cheek, Ryland surprises you by taking a knee. 

His fingers are a little clumsy as they wrap around the heel of your left shoe, pulling it up onto his bent knee as he fumbles with the buckle. He’s gentle with it, more careful than he was with his own shoes that are certainly worth more than your cheap pair, right shoe, then the left.

Still, it has your stomach tied up in knots to witness with just how much reverence he’s treating you. And the sight of Ryland between your legs is certainly one you could get used to. 

He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before blinking up at you. “Are you… Can I-”

Ryland cuts himself off and that same unwarranted nervousness from before takes over his face, fingers curling tightly around your ankle, as if to ground himself. You smile at him, something that feels a little too giddy and a little too much like your 20 year-old self from college, fumbling and laughing your way to bed. “What is it Ry? You’ve already got me on your bed, no need to be shy.”

He bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth as he considers the words. “If you say so.”

Then he gently leads your leg, by the ankle that’s still gripped tightly in his palm, off his propped leg as he drops it to kneel, and hooks it over his shoulder. Ryland kisses a path up your calf and along the inside of your leg and with an overwhelming flood of realisation, you fall back against the bed, bracing for the moment where he presses a soft kiss on your clit, through the fabric of your underwear. 

Despite his earlier hesitance, Ryland does not dilly-dally. Once he hears your shuddering breath that sounds more like a moan than anything else, he hooks a thumb though the crotch of your panties, pulls them to the side and presses another slow kiss against you. 

It’s maddening, has you gasping out his name as he licks a stripe up your cunt, sighing into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He’s been teasing you long enough that when he presses two fingers along your folds, teasing the resistance of it, they sink in easily. He hooks them up, pressing up against the spongy wall and pulls another moan from your lips. 

You're not sure how long Ryland spends between your legs with your hands in his hair and name on your lips, but it’s got you dizzy, clenching around his fingers as he strokes them inside you, languid and slow as he lays gentle kisses over your clit. His stubble scratches against your thighs in a way you’d expected to hate, but are getting rather fond of. 

It’s a slow build that crests with you moaning his name and clenching around his fingers as his tongue slows, your hips twitching a little with overstimulation post-orgasm. He moves his kisses to the inside of your thigh, the one not hooked over his shoulder as you catch your breath and it’s highly plausible that he’s leaving another hickey there.

When he does pull back, Ryland is just as breathless as you. Cheeks flushed and chest stuttering as he licked his lips clean. His pupils are blown wide, so much so you can hardly see the blue as he gazes up at you. “You said I could fuck you, right?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, throat scratchy and dry. “You can.”

With your head still spinning from the attention and care he’s taking with you, it’s a moment before you realise his hands are back at your hips as he shuffles you around the bed, up until he can fit his palm behind your head and lift it onto a pillow that smells like him. 

Ryland’s above you, propped up on one elbow and a knee to keep his weight off your body. You can feel each heavy exhale on your cheek. “Like this?”

“Just like this.” You say, nodding hand reaching up for his cheek to pull him down into another slow, languid kiss. 

He leans in close, whining against your mouth as you part your legs for him to set his between and get a hand on the small of his back, pressing until he gets the hint and grinds downs. It has you both moaning and panting against each other. 

You’re getting impatient, and while he must have ditched the pants somewhere between eating you out and repositioning you right side up on the mattress, he’s still got his briefs on and you’re still wearing your underwear. 

“Off,” You grunt, hand pulling at the waistband of his briefs. 

Ryland’s head drops to the space beside yours, just above your shoulder as he reaches a hand down to pull his underwear down over his cock and down his legs, kicking them off somewhere at the end of the bed. 

He gasps, a shaky exhale hitting your skin as you wrap your hand around the length of him. 

Warm and heavy in your palm, he’s bigger than you’d expected. When you slide your hand up, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, there’s so much precum that it pools on your thumb pad. You give him a slow pump, slide eased by the wetness. 

Ryland mouths at the skin of your shoulder, and the hand he’s not using to keep himself above you finds its way to your hip, slipping under your panties, pulling at them. 

“Condoms. I need-” He cuts himself off with another groan, biting into your skin then kissing it softly like an apology. “I need a condom.” 

His hand slips out from your underwear and he gets his knees up either side of your hips to reach over, straining for the nightstand. You take the moment to kiss along his collarbone, using the hand that’s not wrapped around him to tug your panties down, wriggling them off and down your legs. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed, and he drops the condom wrapper somewhere beside your head as his gaze whips back to your face. “I was going to do that.”

He sounds a little bit thrown, like he’d really been looking forwards to pulling your panties off. 

“You were also going to fuck me.” You prod, giving his cock another languid stroke, watching his face contort with pleasure as he groans. He eases himself back over you, legs between yours and his weight pressing down in a way that has you sighing in contentment. 

“Not fair.” He pants, forehead dropping against yours. A hand, so gentle and far too tender comes up to brush the hair by your temple, away from your eyes. “Next time, you let me take my time, okay?”

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We’ll take turns.” 

The condom wrapper crinkles in your fingers and you pinch the edge of it between your teeth and rip the corner off, splitting it open with your thumb. Ryland whines, louder and needier than you’d heard him all night, when you roll it over his dick, hips bucking into your hand and cock bumping against your stomach. 

He gets his hand down between your bodies, runs three of his fingers through your folds, making your breath hitch. Then he nudges your hand out of the way and runs his cock though them next. You whine, high pitched and stuttered. 

It’s a slow steady push when he slips inside you, one that draws out a long moan from your lips. Ryland moans your name, panting and kissing at your throat.

“God,” he pants. “You feel so good, baby.”

A broken whine sneaks past your lips, one hand reaching up to slide around the back of his neck, to lead his face back to yours so you can kiss him all over again. 

This type of slow kissing might have been your new favorite, Ryland’s tongue teasing the seam of your lips before you slip them apart, tracing the line of his teeth with your own tongue. He rolls his hips, grinding down in a slow motion. The curve of his cock drags along your walls, along that spongy spot before bumping so deep inside that it must hit your cervix. 

You hook a leg up around his waist and it has his stomach pressing up against your clit when he moves again. Moaning into his mouth, you see stars. “Fuck, that’s perfect- so good.”

Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling in a way that earns you a whine and a jerky thrust of his hips. “Y-yeah?”

“Yeah Ry- perfect. Feel so full.” The praise kicks him into gear and his slow occasional grinds turn into a building pace, hips pushing against yours and he buries himself to the hilt with every thrust. 

You kiss at the line of his jaw, mouthing and biting at the stubble there. He moans, sharp exhale hitting your cheek. “‘M not gonna last much longer, sw-swetheart.”

“S’okay. Let go, baby.” You murmur by his ear, free hand slipping down to press against your clit. 

The pressure alone is almost enough to tip you over the edge, pussy spasming around him. Ryland groans, loud and unrestrained, his rhythm falling apart as you do. 

When he does come, he manages a couple more thrusts, shallow as they nudge up against that perfect spot inside you. Ryland whines, shaking a little with over stimulation. 

“Couple more.” You moan, fingers winding tight little circles over your clit. “Almost there.”

Your spine goes stiff and a drawn-out whine slips out as you cum, clenching around the weight of him. Ryland stills inside, buried deep as he pants. 

Slowly, he eases himself down over you, the gentle pressure of his weight relaxing. Ryland only takes a few moments there though, before sliding an arm under you and around your waist, slowly rolling you both, so he’s sprawled out with his back on those sage green sheets with you draped over him. 

He kisses your temple, mumbling your name like a prayer. “‘S a good kissing booth. Might be a repeat customer.”

You push up a little to look at him, hands either side of his chest, and a hitched breath sputters out of his lips as you shift, his cock still inside you. “Might? What happened to ‘next time’?”

He smiles at you, hands reaching for your hips as he draws slow lines up and down your skin with his thumbs. “Well, I don’t wanna push my luck.”

“You’re not pushing anything.” You murmur, leaning back down to kiss him proper. 

Once the aftershocks of your orgasm have faded and the idea of being empty no longer pulls painfully at your chest, you raise your hips up and let Ryland’s now soft cock slip out. He exhales heavily, and you lay beside him, eyes on the slow spinning ceiling fan.  

He sits himself up not long after, slips the condom off and wanders off to the tiny door that you now know is his bathroom. He comes back with a damp cloth, smiling at you shyly as he cleans you up, gentle swipes over your core and along the inside of your thighs. 

Ryland walks over and pulls some boxers on, then returns to the bed to slide a pair over your hips too. “You want a shirt?”

You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to smother a grin. “Only if it’s one of your nerdy ones.”

He kisses the smile off your lips and wanders back over to his wardrobe, throws a shirt in your general direction then goes about fixing the sheets. 

You admire the sight. It had never occurred to you how nice his arms were, you want them around you again. He pulls the sheets straight, then up over you before he crawls in beside you. 

“This okay?” He asks, pulling you over to lay up against him. 

“More than okay.” You snuggle closer, cheek pressed against the warm plane of his chest. “Been thinking about this.” 

The confession slips out in a rush of endorphins, like you’re so happy to be wrapped up in his arms and sheets, smelling like him, that you just can’t help but let him know. 

You can hear the confusion in his voice when he speaks. “Having sex with me?”

No. You almost say, even though you had. It wasn’t where you were trying to go with this though. “Sleeping in your bed. With you.”

The rise and fall of his chest, of a heavy exhale, moves beneath you. “Oh.”

“I think our next date should be trivia.” You declare, a quiet sort of smile on your lips as his fingers trace slow little circles on your back between the waistband of your borrowed boxers and the ridden up hem of the shirt. “So we can get it right this time.”

“Deal.”

[ Masterlist ]