tired

You were getting ready, now, for your first dinner out as a ‘couple’. Ryland swore you needed to do this in order to really sell it, even if it was just to sell it to yourselves, so he’d elbowed his way into a reservation at a nice restaurant in the city and told you to get dressed up. It felt stupid how excited you were, hands nearly shaking with excitement at knowing you were being perceived as a couple. You’d noticed, in the last two days, that that feeling — the longing — had made itself a home in your chest. It had placed itself close to your heart, warming your body with every pump of blood that spread outwards. It had intertwined itself with the way you felt about Ryland, safety and comfort evolving into something more.

You knew, somewhere in your mind, what it really was. It just didn’t feel right to say it yet, even if not out loud. Even if you said it only to yourself.

The word ‘love’ had always been something you had associated with Ryland. Outside of your family, Ryland had been the first person you had ever loved. There had never been a time in your life where wouldn’t tell anyone who would listen how much you loved your best friend. You’d tell them about how smart he was, about how he managed to make every upsetting situation into a stupid joke. You’d tell them about how good of a teacher he was, how he treated every child that entered his classroom as his own. You’d tell them that you respected his work, even when nobody else did, and that you had always considered him a highly valuable scientist.

You would tell them that you loved him, and that he was your best friend.

And now, as you stood in your bedroom of your somewhat shitty apartment in a city you never thought you’d stay in with a career you never thought you’d have and a fiancé you never could’ve predicted, you realized, then, that the ‘love’ had never been about just him.

It had been about you. Both of you.

You had found it easy to fall in love with Ryland. From the very beginning, he had hooked you with his shy grins and messy hair. You’d been charmed by his jokes and his intelligence, lured into a quiet, comfortable trap that you’d never even realized you’d fallen into. You were pretty sure even Ryland didn’t know he’d set the trap, but he had, and you found yourself tangled in him.

You had to physically shake your head to get out of your thoughts, an action that made felt stupid to watch yourself do in the mirror. With a soft huff, you finished getting ready, speeding through the last of your routine.

You stepped out of your bedroom, head turning to look for your… fiancé. Fiancé.

He was wearing a suit, a sight that made you suddenly regret not asking for a real wedding. It was clearly an older suit, the fabric stretched around his shoulders and arms. His button up underneath was crisp, white contrasting the blue of his suit. He was wearing the watch that you’d bought him when the two of you had gotten your masters, a watch he’d wanted for years but could never justify buying. His hair was still a bit of a mess, but it was clear he’d put a lot of effort into his appearance for tonight.

Your hands smoothed down your outfit as you walked closer. “Do you have the rings?”

He held up the boxes, one in each hand.

“Right here, sweetheart.”

He popped them open as you approached, the light glinting off of them. He pulled yours from the box first, holding it up to you. You reached for it, but he pulled his hand back.

“No. I’m putting it on.”

“Oh,” you said. “Okay.”

His eyes met yours, free hand coming to stabilize your left one. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, pressing against your skin with a gentleness you had only ever felt from him. The ring was cool on your finger, a weight settling over you that felt far heavier than just the metal wrapped around your skin.

“There we go,” he murmured. He twisted it until it laid perfectly centered on your finger before pulling back.

You did his next, placing the band on his finger with such care that Ryland had to stop himself from tearing up. The rings fit you both perfectly, similarly to the way you fit each other. They were just loose enough that they weren’t too restricting — giving room to grow, you could say — while still clinging tightly to your skin.

That was a good metaphor for you and Ryland.

He cleared his throat, letting his hand fall back to his side. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m ready.”

Jazz music played softly through the speakers in the Italian restaurant, your meal and wine both half gone. Having dinner with Ryland had been a part of your daily life for more than a decade. Having dinner with your fiancé was a new thing that started tonight.

“You know, I was thinking about it,” Ryland said, “and I think we need to do this full time. Not just at work. What if we run into Peggy? She’d freak out if she saw one of us without our rings on.”

You looked at Ryland over your glasses, eyebrows raising just enough for him to start backtracking.

“I mean, only if you want to. Obviously. We don’t have to —”

“Okay.”

Ryland blinked. “Okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Okay. I kind of figured that was the plan, to be honest. I figured we were going to tell our family while we were in Florida.”

“Oh,” he said. “I mean, yeah. We can do that. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”

You smiled. “You were too excited at the idea of marrying me for your brain to work properly.”

“Right. That was definitely it.” Ryland twirled his pasta around his fork, watching it wrap around itself. “Speaking of Florida, I, uh, I got an invite to go to an astrobiology conference in Los Angeles next week.”

Your head shot up at his words, eyes widening. “Are you serious? Ryland! That’s incredible!” He nodded, not saying anything else. “What does that have to do with Florida?”

“Yeah. I mean, yeah, it’s a good thing. It’s just… it’s also scheduled for the weekend we were supposed to go home.”

He was asking you a question without explicitly asking it. You both knew that he was desperate to get back into academia, even if it was only in the smallest of ways. Even if it was just attending one more conference, he would take anything he could get. But… you guys had a tradition. Every summer since moving across the country for graduate school and work, you would travel back home to see your families. Colt traveled in, too, and you’d all reunite for a weekend before going your separate ways again.

Nobody had ever missed a year.

“Oh,” you said. “I mean, you could probably skip. It’s probably fine.”

“I’m not skipping,” he said. “I just might have to miss most of Saturday. I can fly in from LA after the conference is over.”

“We fly back Tuesday morning. That’s barely two days.”

“Fifty seven hours,” he corrected gently. “But I’m not skipping the whole weekend. It’s fine, really. It gives you the majority of the day to relax before we do everything, anyway.”

“Okay, well, how are we going to tell everyone about the engagement? If I just show up alone wearing a ring, they’re going to have questions. I don’t want to leave you out of it.”

Ryland’s fingers tapped against the tablecloth, his eyes flickering across your face. “We could just call my mom when we get home, I think. And we can text Colt, since he’s not going to answer.”

You nodded.

The phone call went about as well as you’d expect. It was a clear surprise — how could she have expected this? — but, overwhelmingly, there was joy. She was happy that you two were marrying each other, that you were going to be her in-law, that you were officially going to be a member of the family that had already been yours for your entire life. When your parents died, your grandparents had stepped in to help take care of you. They’d learned, quickly, that they weren’t fit for the role. Not as much as Ryland’s mom, anyway. She’d acted as a stand-in mother for you, keeping you over for dinner multiple nights a week and giving you a getaway from your own home.

Ryland’s family had always been your family. This would just make it a bit more official.

“Hello, future in-law.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the sound of Ryland’s mom’s voice. She was picking you up at the airport like usual, except this time, there was no Ryland with you. The flight had felt empty without Ryland beside you, the six hours dragging until it felt like sixty. It didn’t help that the stiff plane seats had your back aching, making it nearly impossible to move without a burst of pain.

“Hi, mom,” you said. You got your suitcase into the back of the car before getting into the front, eagerly accepting the hug that was waiting for you.

“Let me see it,” she said when you parted. Her hand lifted yours, eyes inspecting the ring on your finger. “Oh, it’s gorgeous, honey. It suits you so well.”

You caught up on the last year of your lives as she drove you back towards the neighborhood you’d spent half of your childhood in.

“You know, Colt and I were talking earlier, and we didn’t even know you and Ryland were dating,” she said.

Fuck. You hadn’t really thought through a plan on what you’d say if this question came up. You certainly should have, but it was too late now.

“Oh, yeah. We weren’t.” Ryland’s mom gave you a look, confusion written all over her face.

“Pardon?”

“I mean… we weren’t explicitly dating, but we kind of talked about it and it just felt right to get married, you know? Like, I can’t imagine marrying anyone else. I can’t see a world where I don’t live out my life with Ryland, I guess. It just took a while to realize that.”

“Well, it’s nice to know that he finally came to his senses,” she said. You waited for her to elaborate — God, please elaborate — but she didn’t say anything else.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “It is.”

You made it about three steps into the house before Colt was swarming you.

“You are such an asshole. How dare you not tell me — me, your best friend — that you were getting engaged to my brother,” he said. His hands were already taking your bags out of yours, giving you a ‘stink eye’ look as he did so. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me beforehand.”

“We told you the night it happened,” you said with a laugh.

“Okay, and you helped plan my proposal. What does that say about you versus me?”

“That you need more help than Ryland and I do?”

“You know what, I’m going to —” His mom cleared her throat, giving him a pointed look. He took a breath in, still glaring at you. “I’m going to go put your bags in your room for you.”

You smiled, patting his shoulder with fake appreciation. “Thank you!”

“You’re going to kill me.”

Those were the first words you heard from your fiancé when he stepped into the house. You’d spent the day with his family, showing off your ring like it was real, and now, as everyone else was getting dinner ready, you were welcoming Ryland into the house. You didn’t even have a chance to open your mouth before he was speaking again.

“I forgot my ring at home.”

You see, Ryland Grace was a man of routine. Ever since attending his first scientific conference back in graduate school, he’d had the same routine. He wore the same outfit every time, even now, years later. He had the same step-by-step process every morning.

He was also a bit of a forgetful man.

It wasn’t on purpose that he’d left his ring on his bedside table. He’d taken it off last night after cleaning it and had set it next to his phone with the explicit reasoning of not forgetting it. He didn’t notice it wasn’t there until after the conference was over, when he was already 30,000 feet in the air. He had started thinking of excuses, but nothing came to mind. Apology, he decided, would be a far better route to take. At least then he could make it up to you.

“Oh,” you said. You shoved aside the feeling in your chest. It wasn’t longing, this time, instead something heavier. Something akin to disappointment.

You’d never been good at hiding your emotions from Ryland. Sure, others wouldn’t catch the downward twitch in your lip or the way your eyes dimmed just a fraction, but Ryland would.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, words tumbling out so fast you could barely understand him. “I took it off to clean it, and I put it by my phone so I’d remember it, but I was rushing so much that I just… I forgot it. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay,” you said. It wasn’t. “It’s only two days. You can put it back on when we get home.”

Ryland’s eyes met yours, that stupid trademark look in them. He looked devastated at his own mistake, and, to make things worse, he didn’t know what to say. He knew an apology wouldn’t make up for it, but… surely it hadn’t affected you that badly, right? The engagement was only for looks, but when he’d told you, he could’ve sworn that your face dropped.

“How was the conference?” you asked.

Thank God, he thought. You saved him before he could start begging for forgiveness.

“It was good,” he said. “I got to see a couple of the guys we worked with. Did you know Dalton’s a dad now?”

You let out a short laugh. “I can’t imagine that. He didn’t really seem like the dad type.”

Ryland hummed, a soft sound of agreement. “Yeah. He’s married to an influencer or something. They named the kid Lodge Roan.”

“They… named their kid Lodge?”

“That’s what I said.”

You laughed, a real laugh this time. The sound made a smile form on Ryland’s face, as if he could forgive himself of his ring-forgetting crimes if he could still make you smile.

A thought entered your head, and, unfortunately, came right out of your mouth, too. “Hey, that reminds me actually. Do you… like… want kids? I’m kind of your only option now.”

Ryland felt like he got knocked off balance at the question. He hadn’t been expecting that, surely. Hell, when you guys had agreed to turn this into a real thing, he hadn’t even considered kids. In truth, he’d always wanted to be a dad. Working with his classes had only reinforced that idea, and he knew it had done the same for you, too.

“I mean… yeah. I think it’d be nice.”

You nodded, lips parting to speak again.

“Guys! Dinner!” You turned towards the sound of Colt’s voice, finding him leaning out of the kitchen doorway. He gestured at the two of you. “Seriously, hurry up. Mom won’t let me eat until you guys are in here, and I’m starving.”

You both laughed softly, nodding. Your eyes met Ryland’s again.

“We’ll talk later,” you said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Later.”

oh my god if the pilots are fucking... who's flying mary 😧

Closer by NIN was a big inspo for this one and was on repeat a majority of the time wheheheohohoh🫪🫪🫪

No close ups since it'll get flagged hhehehehe you'll have to click on it to see it better

ᯓ★

The first thing you're aware of when you wake up is the headache.

It sits right behind your eyes, a dull pang that seems to heighten with every passing second. For several long, deep breaths, you keep them closed. It's easier this way, you think, as you're unwilling to confront anything more complicated than the dry scrape of your tongue at the roof of your mouth and the pleasant soreness in your legs. There's a faint, mechanical whir of an air conditioning unit nearby that's fighting a losing battle against the late August heat, the sounds of San Francisco coming to life outside of what must be an open window.

This is why you don't normally drink.

In your early twenties, you'd thought yourself impervious to hangovers. This was disproved shortly after your twenty-third birthday. The morning after a particularly vicious night out had been spent puking your guts up while Hallie stood behind you, pulling your hair away from your face and cooing comforting words that irritated you more than anything else.

Fuck.

Hallie. And Reagan.

You open your eyes. The room around you is both unfamiliar and startlingly intimate.

The ceiling above you is painted a nondescript white, fan rattling with every few turns. A thin blade of sunlight spills through the gap between a pair of cheap blue curtains, spreading over the rumpled sheets near your waist. There's a dresser against the opposite wall, its surface covered in trinkets, a half-empty glass of water, and a collection of books stacked horizontally. A framed print from a movie you've never seen before hangs above it.

You stare up at the ceiling for a few moments longer, trying to recollect the events from last night, but your mind is painfully blurry.

There are fragments. Lights flashing across a crowded dance floor. Reagan pressing a drink into your hand and insisting that you let loose. The sticky hardwood beneath your heels. A brunette sliding her hand down a man's arm with a grin before disappearing into the crowd. Blond hair. A crooked smile. Your own voice asking, with a confidence you certainly do not possess while sober, Tough crowd?

The mattress shifts beside you, and your whole body tenses. You wince. Slowly, carefully, you turn your head.

The man from the club is asleep on his stomach beside you, his face turned towards the window. He has one arm tucked beneath his pillow, the other sprawled out, close enough that the backs of his fingers almost brush against the bare skin of your hip. His hair is rumpled from sleep, the strands near his temple lit gold by the sun. His glasses are discarded on his nightstand, next to a few Advil laid out.

You don't remember his name.

You're not sure if this is your error or his, though. Did he ever give you his name? Had you given him yours? You can't recall.

What you do remember is giggling breathlessly into his mouth when he kissed you in the backseat of the rideshare, and laughing loudly when he dropped his keys outside the building. Heat licks up your neck, embarrassment and exhilaration replacing your stomach with butterflies.

What have you gotten yourself into? It was so irresponsible of you, going home with a stranger. What if he had kidnapped you? Or murdered you? This is exactly the kind of thing that ends with girls your age on the news.

You close your eyes again. Okay. Panicking is not helping. You're alive, you're well, not missing any vital organs or anything—at least, that you know of.

You inhale deeply. This is not a catastrophe. You are an adult (pushing thirty, to put it bluntly). A single adult, as Hallie had repeatedly emphasized on your way to the club. You're allowed to go home with an attractive stranger. You're allowed to do whatever you please, even if Anthony would have hated it.

Thinking of Anthony is the least helpful thing you can do right now, so you decide to finally get up. You peel the comforter off your body, unsurprised to find yourself naked. You'd be a little disappointed if the night had ended on the more PG-13 side of things, all things considered.

Your clothes are scattered across the room. You sit up, cringing at the wave of nausea that threatens to have you kneeled over a toilet for the next twenty minutes. Your headache blooms with fresh enthusiasm, throbbing slightly.

Your denim miniskirt and panties are discarded on your side of the bed. Slowly, you swing your legs over, wiggling back into your bottoms. You locate your black halter top on the other side of the room. You're thankful you had forgone a bra last night, as it's one less article of clothing you need to worry about. You tiptoe with such care that it's almost comical. The last thing you want is to wake this guy up and endure an embarrassing exchange that you'd really rather avoid.

A floorboard creaks under your foot, and the man behind you sighs and shifts in his sleep. You freeze, glancing over your shoulder at him. He makes a low, unintelligible sound, his hand moving across the mattress as if searching for something. As if searching for you, you realize with a sinking feeling. You don't dare exhale until his own breathing settles into an even rhythm again.

Then you tug your top on.

You find your purse on the floor by the door with a quiet sigh of relief. Your phone is inside, with less than ten percent battery left. The screen lights up when you pull it out. You have nine missed texts and three missed calls. You open the groupchat first.

Reg: Pls tell me ur alive

Halls: Tbh I wouldn't mind getting murdered by that guy

Reg: Not helping

Halls: Ur no fun

Reg: I rlly don't want to have to file a missing persons report

Halls: I think you need a break from true crime

Reg: It's called TRUE crime for a reason!!

Reg: How bad would her luck be if her first rebound after literal Satan is a psychopath murderer

Halls: Have you ever tried a more positive outlook on life

You can't help the silly grin that tugs on your mouth.

You: Alive and well

Typing bubbles pop up nearly as soon as you send your text confirming your continued existence.

Halls: Hooray!

Reg: Back at your place yet?

You: No. About to leave now

Reg: Good luck. Can I come over

You: Sure meet u there

Halls: No fair! I have work >:(

You lock the screen before Hallie can continue complaining, shoving your phone back in your purse and slinging it over your shoulder.

The bathroom is visible through the open bedroom door, directly across the narrow hallway. You slip inside, easing the door shut behind you. It's… cleaner than you'd expect from a single guy around your age.

You barely recognize yourself in the mirror. Your mascara is smudged, a few dark tear tracks running down your cheeks. Mortification coils in your gut. Had you cried in front of your hookup about Anthony? You wouldn't put it past yourself. The breakup is still fresh, tender and raw in all the wrong places.

Your lipstick has faded almost entirely, though it lingers around the edges of your mouth. Your hair is a tangled mess, and there's a darkening mark on your collarbone that has you shivering in the warm bathroom. You think of his mouth on yours, on your neck, your ear, trailing down in spite of the pathetic whimpers leaving your mouth.

"For fuck's sake," you mutter to yourself.

Cold water helps. You splash your face twice, scrubbing with your hands in hopes of getting rid of the evidence. You try to smooth your hair down, though it still looks a little rough, and try not to look around too much. As badly as your nosy self wants to snoop, peeking around feels too invasive.

When you're finished cleaning up, you spare one final glance into the bedroom. The man is dead to the world, but it does little to assuage your unease.

God, you feel guilty. What kind of asshole leaves without saying anything? You, you guess. But disappearing without a word sends the same message as explaining face-to-face that it was a one-time sort of thing, doesn't it? You can only assume so. This is your first one night stand. At least this way, you're saving both of you the time and awkward conversation.

It wasn't meant to be the beginning of anything. That had been the point. You had gone to the club because Hallie and Reagan insisted that getting over Anthony required you to remember that other men existed, that other men would be interested in you. You had spoken to the blond stranger because he was cute and because he had looked amused at your terrible opening line and because, for once, you had wanted to do something for yourself without first imagining Anthony's reaction.

And you did it. You proved whatever it was you needed to prove.

There's no reason to complicate the matter now.

That's the mantra you repeat to yourself as you skulk through the apartment, finding your heels by the front door and slipping into them. You escape into the hallway and close the door quietly after you.

His apartment is only on the second floor, thank God, and before you know it you're on the street in yesterday's clothes, squinting up at the morning sun. You're dismayed to realize he only lives a few blocks away from you, but at least it makes your walk all the easier.

Reagan is waiting for you outside your apartment door. She's leaning against the wall, scrolling through her phone and smacking her gum. She looks great, you realize a little petulantly. Her nearly white-blonde hair falls over her shoulder in a loose braid, makeup done and a cute pair of jeans and a tank top thrown on. You must look like you've been hit by a car in comparison.

"Hey," you sigh as you approach her, shouldering your purse as it starts slipping down your arm.

"Hey," she greets coolly in return. She gives you an appraising look before adding, "You look awful."

"Thanks," you grumble. You jam your key into the lock with a little more force than strictly necessary.

Reagan follows you inside, shucking her boots off carelessly. "So, tell me about last night."

You shrug, setting your purse on the kitchen counter. It feels so good to be back home after the morning you had, surrounded by your plants and books and fuzzy rugs. You decide you're never going to try the one night stand thing again. Too much work.

"It was good," you say, heading towards your bedroom. Reagan tails you wordlessly. "I think."

"You think?" she asks. She sits on your bed, leaning back on her hands.

"Well, I don't know." You dig around in your wardrobe for a pair of sweatpants and a nice, big t-shirt. "I don't remember a lot of it."

"I always forget you have a shit tolerance."

"Yeah, laugh it up. At least it's cheaper for me to get fucked up."

She waves a hand. "But black out? I mean, yeesh."

"I remember the important parts." You roll your eyes and step into the bathroom connected to your room. You throw a towel over the shower rack, setting your clothes by the sink, and turn the dial. You undress quickly, eager to get under the hot water, and slip into the shower.

"Did you at least get his number?" Reagan's voice is closer now. You peer around the shower curtains to confirm that she is now in your bathroom, trying to pop a pimple near her hairline in your mirror.

"No."

"What?" Reagan turns away from the mirror so quickly you hear her socks squeak against the tile. "Did you leave him yours?"

You duck your head beneath the spray, combing your fingers through your hair. The water is almost painfully hot, but it feels amazing on your tense muscles. "No."

She whistles. "So you really went for the whole hookup routine."

"I guess," you say, starting to wash your hair. "Isn't leaving in the morning the whole point?"

"Depends. Was the sex good?"

You squeeze your eyes shut. The easy answer is yes, the sex was good, and you don't think you've ever come that hard or that many times in your life. A tingle in your stomach reminds you of his fingers; a thumb swiping over your overly sensitive nipples; his middle and ring fingers fucking into you mercilessly as he pet your hair and pressed open-mouthed kisses to your skin; his big hands wrapped around your wrists while his cock brushed your cervix with every drunk, sloppy thrust.

The more difficult answer for you to swallow was that it hadn't just been good. To say it was good felt like a disservice to yourself. It was the best sex you'd ever had in your life.

You had slept with Anthony countless times. Of course you did. You'd gotten together your senior year of college, dated him for nearly three years, and you aren't a prude. Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. At the time it had felt only natural to fall into bed with him. In the beginning it was passionate, maybe fueled by that infamous honeymoon phase, and towards the end…

You never hated it. Sometimes it had been nice, when he had kissed your neck in a way that made you inhale sharply, or ran his hand along your waist with a tenderness that made your heart swell.

But there had always been a set distance between your body and your mind. A sense that you were observing yourself, taking notes on your own performance. Were you moving enough? Making the right sounds? Taking too long? Not long enough? Was your face doing something weird?

Anthony never complained, but he hadn't needed to. He had a very particular way of sighing when you wanted something, a way of treating any attempt of explaining how you'd liked to be pleased: like it was a chore, a complicated set of instructions for a piece of furniture he didn't want all the much anyway. He would try, sometimes, but with a reluctant concentration that made you wish you'd kept your mouth shut.

Eventually you started doing exactly that. It was easier to let him finish and call it good; easier to smile when he asked if enjoyed yourself; eventually you began to assume that's what sex was when the novelty wore off.

Sex became something mildly pleasant that you did for the closeness of it, or because it had been a while, or because the person beside you reached for you in bed and saying no required more energy than saying yes.

Last night hadn't felt that way in the slightest.

The stranger you left the club with had paid attention to you with an intensity that was almost embarrassing. He watched and listened for your reactions to his touch, his mouth, and adjusted accordingly—as though every hitch of your breath and involuntary roll of your hips was something worth noticing for its own sake. He had asked you what you wanted, and listened.

At some point, you stopped worrying about what you looked like. That miserable, exhausting awareness of yourself had slipped away, and you were able to be present. Entirely.

Reagan picks up on your silence and treats it like an answer. "It was, wasn't it?"

"It was… fine," you say.

"You are such a bad liar," she snorts. "It's actually a little insulting."

"I didn't know." Your voice comes quieter now.

"Know what?"

You swallow. "That it could be like that."

There's a brief silence, and you worry for a moment that you've really overdone it, the whole pathetic ex-girlfriend thing, but then Reagan sighs. The sound is full of such fierce irritation that you can't help but smile.

"I hated Anthony."

"You say that about every guy Hallie and I talk about," you say, unable to hide your amusement.

"I mean it, too."

"Besides, he wasn't that bad. He just—"

You cut yourself short. You shouldn't be excusing him or his behavior. You know this. Reagan's told you so many times that you're sure she's sick of it, and for once you finally understand.

There was constantly something about you that Anthony felt needed correcting. Your skirt was a little short. Your friends are immature. Your apartment is too cluttered. You laugh too loud when you drink. You expect too much. You make things difficult.

"I don't know," you finish lamely.

Reagan doesn't answer immediately. When she responds, her voice is gentler.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I was on your ass a lot about breaking up with him, and I'm glad you did, but I know it's been hard."

You're not sure what to say to that. It has been hard, to be honest, but also freeing. Reagan has never kept a guy around for longer than three months (by her own choice, she claims men get boring and pushy after that), much less three years. How could she understand what it's like to lose such a big part of your life?

You shut the water off.

Reagan gives you some privacy to dry off and change. You pad back into your living room to find her sprawled on the couch, texting, You sit beside her with a sigh, and she shoves her feet into your lap.

"I think," she declares, "that you're due some good karma from the universe."

"Yeah?" you say absentmindedly, grabbing the remote from your coffee table and flicking through streaming services. "Does the universe have Venmo?"

"Har har." She pokes you with her foot and you smack her shin lightly. "I'm serious. You're in for something good. Restorative. Something a little slutty, but in a healing way. You might even see your mystery man again."

A knot tightens in your throat. He only lives a few blocks south. It's a possibility, as much as you wish it wasn't. "I don't think that's how karma works."

"Maybe not," Reagan says, reaching forward to snatch the remote from you. "But wouldn't it be funny if it did?"

ᯓ★

The following Monday sees you in a rush. You're late to your staff meeting, again. This is thrice now, in the last month, but you can't help it.

Or, to rephrase, you absolutely can help it, you just hate staff meetings so much that dragging your feet in protest feels mandatory.

By the time you reach Grover Cleveland Middle School, you are sweating through the back of your blouse. Your phone and coffee balance precariously in one hand while you shoulder your tote bag and shove your way through the main entrance's heavy doors with the other.

The front office smells the exact same as it always does in the summer: floor wax, printer toner, coffee, and the faint tang of hand sanitizer. You inhale deeply, cherishing it one last time before it gets tainted with middle school body odor.

"Morning!" Mrs. Moreno chirps from behind the front desk.

"Morning," you grimace, glancing up to offer a tight smile. Someone has taped a cheerful paper banner above the mailboxes that reads WELCOME BACK, GCMS STAFF! in bubble letters. It's eight in the morning and you'd be damned if you said you don't want a drink right now. Such is the life of educators.

"You're just in time. Library."

"Thanks," you say, already moving.

The library doors are propped open when you arrive. Inside, the rest of the staff have already gathered around the long study tables, clustered loosely by departments, though a few stragglers sit in different groups. History near the windows. Math and science at the back. Electives closer to the computers. You take your place with the rest of the language arts department, along the sides across from physical education.

You slip into the empty seat at the end of the table beside Marisol Chen, who teaches sixth-grade ELA and, much to your envy, appears far more composed than your flushed face and heavy breathing.

She turns, glancing at you over the rim of her glasses. "Rough start?"

"Something like that," you huff.

You're relieved to find that you didn't miss anything. At the front of the room, Principal Alvarez stands beneath a blank projector screen, messing around with something on his phone. A few murmured conversations float around the room, coworkers catching up after the summer with polite small talk and meaningless questions. The assistant principal crouches near the laptop cart, sorting through the tangle of cords.

The week before school starts always feels like being slowly lowered into a pot of boiling water while someone self-important on the board describes it as professional development. You've only been teaching for four years, and when you were fresh out of college and starting at Grover Cleveland, you were so overwhelmed you had seriously weighed the options of gritting your teeth and dealing with it, or running away.

It's times like this you wish you had chosen the latter.

There are rosters to review, bulletin boards to finish, classroom expectations to go over, and at least one required meeting in which Alvarez goes over the year's vision, goals, updated policies, and that sort of bullshit. You're starting to suspect he's more in love with the sound of his own voice than anything else.

The projector finally flickers to life. A blue slide appears on the screen, titled Building Forward Together. Beside you, Marisol inhales deeply through her nose.

You nudge her and whisper, "Be strong."

"I'm trying."

Alvarez claps his hands once, looking supremely pleased with himself. "All right, everyone. Thank you for your patience. I know you're all eager to get back into your classrooms, so we'll try to move efficiently this morning."

You snort into your coffee, and Marisol rolls her eyes. You open your planner to a blank page and write Staff Meeting at the top, but you know before the meeting is over you'll end up with a whole page of doodles, little flowers and swirls.

"Before we get into our goals and some new updates," Alvarez says, "I want to start by welcoming a few new faces to our family."

Family. Ugh, you hate when people use that word. Nonetheless, you find yourself dragging your gaze up curiously. You know there's been a few new hires this year, one of which will be taking up residence in 214, the classroom right across the hall from yours. You hate to admit it, but you're excited. Your current "family," as Alvarez likes to put it, is a little lacking.

You clap politely for new office secretary and the paraeducator joining the seventh grade team, your eyes sweeping over the crowd in an effort to catch any unfamiliar faces that might be your incoming neighbor.

Alvarez checks the paper in his hand. "And finally, we are very excited to welcome the newest member in our science department, Ryland Grace. Ryland, if you could stand up, please?"

You—and nearly the whole language arts department—crane your neck to catch a glimpse of the man that stands from somewhere in the middle of the rest of the science teachers. No wonder you hadn't seen him earlier, tucked away like that.

He's tall, broad-shouldered, and Christ, he's handsome, but—

Oh, my fucking God.

You clap a hand over your mouth, turning your head away so fast that your neck pops, but it's too late. He saw you, you know it. His embarrassed smile had faltered, his eyebrows had shot up into his hairline. He fucking saw you, and recognized you as fast as you recognized him. How could you not? You were in his bed, only two days prior.

"What is wrong with you?" Marisol mutters at your desperate attempt to hide in the shoulder of her blazer. "He's not that ugly."

"Later," you choke out. You risk a glance back at the man from the club—at Ryland fucking Grace, your coworker that you slept with—and a small whimper escapes you when you see him looking back.

For a moment, you nearly convince yourself that you're imagining it. You were so drunk on Friday night, maybe he just looks really similar. But you know that's not the truth.

His blond hair is tamed, neater than it had been against his pillow. He wears a pale blue button-down tucked into dark slacks, the sleeves rolled to his forearms to combat against the heat. And those glasses—those stupid glasses. They'd gotten all fogged up from kissing, and you had plucked them from his face, admiring the way his pretty eyes went a little fuzzy, glazed over with need.

You think you might be sick.

He sits down, disappearing again behind your other coworkers, but you can feel the heat of his gaze pinning you down.

Or maybe you're imagining it.

Maybe, if there is any mercy left in the universe, Ryland Grace has already decided to be mature and professional about this; maybe he's looking at Alvarez now, taking careful notes on the district’s new instructional priorities; maybe he is not thinking about you at all; maybe, if you're lucky, he has forgotten the exact sound you made when he kissed down the side of your throat.

You press your pen so hard against your planner that the tip punches through the paper.

Marisol leans closer. "You're making me nervous."

"I'm fine."

She makes an amused sound. "You look like you need medical attention."

Your face feels too hot, your stomach twisting and rolling in nauseating circles. There's a nonzero chance that you actually do need medical attention, but you swallow it down with some coffee. "I said I'm fine."

At the front of the library, Alvarez clears his throat. “All right, now that introductions are out of the way, I want to shift our focus to this year’s building goals.”

A slide appears behind him.

BELONGING. CONSISTENCY. GROWTH.

Fine. Wonderful. All excellent concepts. You would love to belong somewhere other than this room. You would love some consistency in the form of never again seeing a man you slept with at work. You would love to grow into a new person immediately, preferably one with amnesia.

But alas.

You stare at the presentation slide while Alvarez continues speaking, his voice smoothing into the same distant, administrative hum as the air conditioner overhead. Around you, your coworkers nod along like normal people, people who have not recently discovered that karma has a staff ID and teaches eighth grade science across the hall.

Across the hall. You sink in your seat, wishing the floor would open up under you and swallow you whole.

You'll see him during passing periods, and at the copier. You'll see him during fire drills, staff lunches, parent nights, professional development days, and every other mandatory ritual this place invents to remind you that escape is an illusion.

Hell, apparently, is room 214 at Grover Cleveland Middle School.

Who would've thought?

ᯓ★