dylan

said shirt lol:

Whining lowly, Ryland rolls over onto his tummy, mindlessly reaching over to pull himself closer to you so he could leech from your heat— but all he palms are the empty blankets, devoid of both your body and your warmth.

He's not sure which he mourns more.

"[Name]…" He grumbles, his voice muffled from his pillow, but it becomes clearer and normal as he flips himself over onto his back. For a minute, all he does is lay there, stretching widely and groaning at the pleasant ache.

He disliked when you'd get out of bed before or without him. It felt alike a betrayal— moreso the fact that he couldn't cuddle up to you and attempt to convince you to stay in bed a little longer with him, than anything you'd actually done.

Calling your name again, he lets his arms fall onto the bed beside him as he yawns, letting the silence of the lack of response blanket the room. He can't hear the shower on, either, so he sluggishly lifts his head up, squinting slightly as he glances around the room.

What he notices first are your dresser drawers are still open — you had a habit of not closing them to avoid making more noise when he was sleeping — so you must've at least already showered… or changed.

Were you going out to do something? He can't recall you saying anything about doing so.

Kicking his blankets off, he climbs out of bed, stumbling as the comforter stays coiled around his leg— It takes a second, but he gets it off before tiredly snagging his glasses off of his bed-side table, finally making it over to the door without any further troubles.

Sliding them on to rest along the bridge of his nose, he pulls the door open, blinking slowly and letting his vision clear as he walks down the hall; he can hear music playing, so he follows that rather than just meandering destination-less.

So you hadn't gone anywhere.

At the thought, something in his chest eases, unfurling what he hadn't even realized was tense.

Jeez.

Maybe the "Always within close proximity of you for over a handful of years," truly did do more to him than he'd realized… aside from not being able to sleep unless he was near you, anyway, but he knew that was a normal side-effect of being in close quarters to someone, alone (mostly), for years. It was natural, but he held only a little shame over it.

Over how needy it made him feel.

Rounding the end of the hall, he peers around the wall and into the kitchen; and upon finally spotting you, his body stops him in his tracks without his permission, keeping him near the wall just beyond the threshold of the kitchen.

You've got your spine to him, blissfully unaware of his staring as you mess with something in a "pan," on the "burner." An organized mess lays spread out on the counter— the tub of butter with a butter-knife (not really, but it's one of the ones Adrian and Rocky created as a substitute) stuck in it, a cutting-board slick with cut "strawberries," (again, an Eridian substitute) and their juices…

"Are you making breakfast?" He blurts, feeling the words tumble tiredly out of his mouth before his brain even registered the fact he was talking.

Your shoulders lift just faintly.

When you quickly turn around at the sound of his voice, he's graced with your surprised but stupidly pretty face— his heart jumps in his chest as his gaze flits between you, a random object, and back to you, stuttering in its usual rhythm as he fights the urge to stare.

Just… you look great. Annoyingly great for the time of the morning; you look as if you could've been an ageless, celestial being, while he's just… him. Messy, exhausted, with a likely chance of sleep-lines still indented into the fat of his cheeks.

Just Ryland.

Just yours.

It takes him a minute to get out of his head so he can focus on the face you're talking.

"Mmn. Rocky 'n his cluster dropped some stuff off pretty early," You respond, and he watches the way your head tilts just slightly, then the way your eyebrows draw together in subtle concern. "I told them to come back later, so you could sleep. Did I wake you up?"

He swallows, breathing in slowly through his parted lips.

Does he look as ruffled as he feels? He can't tell.

"No— no, you didn't, so… don't worry." He fumbles, shaking his head as he adjusts on his feet, then he reaches up, running his hand through his sleep-tussled hair to try to straighten it out some. "What'd you get up so early for?"

As his voice cracks from left-over sleep, he winces.

After a second, he finally urges his feet forward and steps into the kitchen, lifting himself up onto his toes so he can see what you're making— and within the pan looks like a stranger version of pancakes… if they were dark, blue, and a lot thicker.

He continues. "Are those pancakes?"

My god, I haven't had any of those in forever.

Between Me-burgers and Rocky's Erid version of vaguely shaped coma-sludge, he'd almost bid anything that didn't taste slightly metallic good-bye.

"Maaaybe," You drawl, and his gaze flits quickly between your face and the pan— though it slows its switch when a smug smile pulls upon your mouth. "Robert, Balboa, Junior, and Rocky were knockin' on the door pretty hard this morning. Woke me up,"

"I'm going to take a guess and say this was why?" He pipes up, raising an eyebrow curiously as he shifts on his feet. "Seriously, this is amazing stuff— smells good, too, surprisingly."

You laugh as you turn back to what you're cooking, and he watches over your shoulder as you flip the make-shift pancake, feeling curiousity nag in his brain rather incessantly; he was eager, sue him.

"Bingo," You muse, "They were pretty excited to show me. They wanted to wake you up so you could see it too, but… I figured you could use the sleep."

"Yeah," He murmurs, stepping back to lean against the counter— the edge is cold against his back, so he pulls away pretty quickly and with a shudder. "You're probably right."

It's true; getting used to and settled into Erid has definitely taken some tolls on his general function. The gravity, the "food," the new-found space, the bio-dome (he always got jittery with excitement when he'd look at it, and their creations)…

He hasn't slept that well anymore lately, unless you'd…

Actually, he probably shouldn't think about that now. It was way too early.

Nonetheless, he did last night, and he feels pretty good— or maybe that's just the idea of trying this new formula of food.

Okay, listen…

He was going to try to wait, but he can't anymore.

The idea is too appealing.

Pushing away from the counter, he slips behind you and over to the plate of already-done pancakes, ignoring your snicker and the side-look you give him.

"What?" He questions (rather cheekily), before tearing a piece of one off, then tearing that into two, "Are you trying to say you're not just as excited to try this as me? I mean, come on, it's space pancakes! Who doesn't want to try space pancakes?"

"No, no," You laugh, shaking your head with a smile he catches even through the corner of his eye, "I didn't say anything. Continue, please."

"Uh-huh, that's what I thought."

Humming a low, confident noise, he hands you your piece before shoving his own into his mouth, falling quiet and trying to desipher the taste the moment he does so. You do the same, and for a moment, only the music you're playing keeps the room from true silence.

Until he breaks it.

"It's kind of sweet," He announces, his eyebrows furrowing curiously as he swallows, "In a weird, almost tangy way. It's also very thick. Do you know what they made it out of? Did they say?"

Lifting his gaze, he looks over to you, his focus roaming over your expression to see what you're thinking— of it, of the experience, of his opinion.

You nod slowly, swallowing. "Some group of stuff, but I don't know of what. They didn't have a word for it." You pause, running your tongue along the front of your teeth. "I agree, though. It's pleasantly odd."

"It's better than coma-sludge," He muses, snickering to himself. "Anything is better than coma-sludge."

Tearing another piece off, he tries it again, attempting to find anything he didn't the first time about it— whilst he does so, you turn the "burner," off, pulling the last pancake from the pan and setting it atop the others on the plate.

It's tasty, again, in a weird, unfamiliar way. It's enjoyable— he could get used to this pretty quickly.

You, breakfast every morning, trying new things…

"Coffee's back in stock, by the way," You pipe up, breaking the short bout of quiet between the song changing. "They dropped more off for you."

His eyebrows twitch upward, and he follows the rough gesture of your hand to the tub of the aforementioned Coffee, sat over in the corner counter-top. It wasn't quite like earth Coffee— in the way that he could only have very, very little. Any more than that, and he'd be up for two straight days.

He's speaking from experience here.

He'd rather avoid a repeat offense.

"Thanks," He murmurs, shoving another piece of pancake into his mouth as he moves across the kitchen, quickly getting himself some— at the sight of the leaves being radiation green instead of yellow, he pauses. "Why is this one green? I don't remember the last one being this vibrant. Or green."

"Different plant subspecies, I guess," You shrug, moving within the kitchen to get yourself your own drink. "You can ask 'em when they come back— they said they were supposed to, anyway. Robert really didn't want to leave the first time."

"Really? It's usually Junior that hates to leave."

"Mhm," Your voice softens just faintly, and a breath of a laugh tumbles from your mouth right after— his brain latches on to the noise, and he suddenly wishes you weren't playing any music so he could've heard it better. "Heard some notes from him I hadn't ever heard before when Adrian was nudging him away from the door. It was kind-of cute."

Picturing the image in his head, he nods slowly, feeling a small smile pull the corner of his mouth upward. "…Yeah, that does sound cute. Wish I could've seen it."

He moves on with a curious sound, pushing the little container a bit more back and away from the edge — he'd knocked it over twice just like this before — before he reaches upward, pulling the cabinet above him open and snagging a cup from inside.

And for a moment, neither of you say anything; the only reason he's not rambling and asking you all sorts of questions about what notes Robert made and what they could've meant was because he knew you liked the song playing; Lorraine, by The Excellents.

It was a good song. He liked it too.

Closing the cabinet, he exhales slowly, getting his coffee made as you hummed lowly to the song behind him— the sound kept him from getting too far within his thoughts, from soiling his own mood dwelling on things he knew he couldn't fix.

He had quite the habit of that.

Characteristically, he can't hold his tongue for long, even with his hands busy. "Did they say when they were coming?"

"Mm-mm."

Grunting a lazy form of acknowledgement, he closes the container of coffee, nudging it back into its typical spot before he grabs a spoon and his cup, moving over to the island counter beside you. You're idly eating one of the pancakes, fiddling on the laptop— as it was your day to have it. It got passed between the two of you and Rocky like a tennis-ball; you'd have it for a few days, then Rocky would come to the door and demand it was, quote, Rocky's day for the human technology again.

It usually wasn't.

He stirs his drink in a lazy, broken rhythm before lifting it to his lips, more caught up on staring at your hands as you type than anything else.

What you'd done with those exact hands; from fixing the Hail Mary on the trip here, to logging all of the little Pebbles' questions so he'd remember them for their next class, to sinking your fingers in his side while he'd—

He chokes on his sip, quickly pulling the cup away from his mouth like it burned. He covers his mouth with his other hand, coughing into his fist before bringing his arm up and continuing to into his elbow, turning away from you both to hide the heat in his cheeks, and protect you from his germs.

"Wha— Are you okay?"

Your voice, as concerned and gentle it is, helps nothing good at the moment.

All is does is remind him of how it sounds similar whilst doing other things, just more broken and out-of-breath— how he affected you then, that he could make you sound like that, how good you made him feel during…

Yeah? You're sure?

"Yes!" He blurts, voice raised and a lot louder than he meant it to be— he clears his throat, shaking his head rapidly. "I— I mean, yes. I'm okay. It was just… a lot, uh, warmer than I expected it to be. Sorry, hah."

He laughs awkwardly, keeping his gaze focused on anything but you, even when the heat of your hand seeps into his shoulder as you place it there. He has to wrestle the instinct to not sink into your touch, to lean back and stop pretending he didn't want to be all over you, all the time.

His cheeks have never felt hotter.

"Ryland," You call, the underbelly of your voice easing just slightly around the syllables.

His name sounds almost holy when you say it like that.

"W— What is it?"

Rocky and Adrian are coming later, he reminds himself, there's no time for anything. Focus on… quite literally anything else, for the love of science.

"You're sure? It didn't burn you or anything, did it?" You pull on his shoulder just slightly, and his brain crumbles almost instantly— finally letting you turn him to face you, even when he feels ashamed about the fact he's getting worked up over you just existing around him.

That's embarrassing— that's what teenagers do. He's passed that age twice over.

"…Yes," He mumbles, "I'm sure. It was just a common, humanly mishap. Everyone makes those… on Earth."

In his peripheral, he can see your eyes as they flit around his face, as if checking for any damage anyway. After your shoulders ease, your hand slips from his shoulder and to his bicep, making warmth bloom all the way down everywhere you touch and his breathing kick up a notch.

Now he's getting really distracted.

"See?" He continues, clearing his throat softly as he looks away, back to you, away again, then back to you. "Just clumsy, like always."

I want to kiss you so bad.

He wants to kiss you so badly.

Humiliatingly badly.

You seem to notice it, too— the inferno and the embarrassment in his stomach twist and tangle strangely as he glances up, catching the way your expression changes from worried to… something else. He feels like he needs to talk about something, anything, to distract himself from his own emotions; his want to touch you, his need for you to kiss him at least once right now, just to stave it off for a little while.

"You know, um, we— we should probably eat," He laughs, but it's strained and airy, almost shy. "You know, before Rock and his family get here?"

Attempting to force his brain to want you to let go, he steps back, and when your hand falls and the bottom of his spine bumps into the edge of the cold counter-top, he swallows. Loudly.

He misses your touch almost instantly, and he's the one who made you stop.

He was a coward.

You say nothing, but the amusement on your face is leaving enough hints that he can put together.

Your silence makes it all the worse; you're just staring, letting himself run around in circles like a dog chasing their tail. It makes him feel exposed, bare— though you make that feel good. Weirdly good.

Before the Hail Mary, when someone made him feel this way, he'd just shut down and run away screaming internally. But he doesn't want to do that with you, no. Instead, all he wants is for you to draw him closer, warm him up with yourself, make his brain turn off for a little while.

You don't make it feel like a bad thing.

"You, uh, you know how Rocky gets," He continues, each of his open-mouthed breaths coming in quicker and quicker the longer you stare— his heart is beating so fast, he can hear it in his own ears. "All annoyed and grouchy for how— how long we take to finish."

Again, you just raise an eyebrow, just slightly, and say nothing. Not even a single one of your typical hums, or casual grunts of acknowledgement.

He gives up.

Hanging his head, he presses the heels of his palms into the cool edge of the counter, aiming for a physical distraction from his own slew of embarrassment and shame; but his body feels so hot he barely registers it, his focus being yanked towards you and your presence no matter how hard he tries to pull it away.

You were like his North Star, constantly drawing him towards you no matter where he was or what he'd try.

"I give up," He announces lamely, picking his head back up and licking his lips. "I give up. Just—"

He doesn't even know what he wants to say; what he was going to say. Instead, he finally shuts up, looking at anything that isn't you. The wall, the cabinets, his shoes, your throa— the flooring, the pancakes sitting on the counter that are probably cold by now.

Sucking in a long, steady breath through his mouth, he glances back to you, staring at the expression on your face as you just stand there, fingers curled into your palm like you were waiting for permission to do something.

"Just…"

He still doesn't know— but something in his chest claws at the cage of his ribs, just waiting for him to figure it out, to say it.

You weren't the teasing type; playful, yes, but not in moments like these, where he was fumbling over himself. He's not sure if your silence or the teasing would be better now.

"Just…?" You question, giving him time to figure it out, but also trying to help him along to whatever that truly was.

He shakes his head, letting his gaze drop back to the floor. "I don't know what I was going to say."

He can hear your clothes ruffle when you reach up, but what you do is out of his peripheral. "Do you know what you want?"

Does he?

Does he really?

He thinks he does. He just never had the chance to really think about it— on Earth, he didn't want to. On the Hail Mary, he never had time, never thought he'd live long enough to ever figure it out. But here, with you, he's got plenty, and he still… has no clue. He was emotionally aimless.

He knew what he loved doing. Teaching his students, talking with them, helping them learn and figure things out. He knew he liked it when you'd lay in bed together and he'd just ramble his brains out. He knew he always felt the most confident about himself when he was around you, that you soothed his random bubbles of insecurity and failure. He knew being around you felt good, an instant gratification for whatever stress he was having then.

He knew that…

He's found it.

You.

He wants you.

"You," He says finally. "I— I know I want you."

In a bout of strange self-assuredness, he tilts his head back up and fixes his gaze to your face, bouncing between making very intimate eye-contact and staring off somewhere at your collarbone so he doesn't have to watch your expression shift in the ways he knows it will.

It's almost odd; you've been together (At least technically, saying so felt nearly awkward) for a good while already. You've gone through the hoops, the near-deaths of finally getting here, all of the scary parts, but… saying a complexly simple I want you felt more big a jump than anything else.

Maybe it's how plain and sure it is. I want you. It's blunt; it doesn't need to be pulled apart for him or you to know exactly what it means at its core, as it's just as deep at its surface.

"O… Kay," Your voice sounds almost unsure for a second, but he's not sure if that's of yourself or him. Either way, it doesn't feel pleasant, unlike what tumbles from your mouth right after. "You've got me. All the way. I'm yours."

Your response repeats in his head once, twice, trying and failing to catch and sink in multiple times— he can feel his heart beat in his throat, in his fingertips, in his tense stomach.

I'm yours.

Your words finally register completely, making the tangle in his chest ease as his shoulder droop.

"Okay," He repeats, nodding once, then twice, like he was trying to convince himself of something. Of what, he's not one hundred percent in the know of. "Okay, okay, okay. Cool. Yeah, this is great, um… I should probably stop talking now— and preferably before I say something else really embarrassing… again. Sorry. I'm done now."

Instead of brushing him off, all you do is smile and step closer; steadily and slowly enough to give him ample time to decide what he wanted.

But he knows it now.

Standing up a little taller, he inhales shakily, looking down at your lips multiple times in the few seconds it takes you to be standing right in front of him. You're close enough he can feel your warmth, imagine the way you'll touch him next.

Should he be doing that? Probably not, but you don't look like you mind all that much.

You don't touch him like you do, either.

Your hand curls loosely, gently around his left wrist— he stares at you face, but you're staring at where you're touching, slowly dragging your fingers upward and ghosting your touch over the burn scars there. Your fingers press lightly into his underarm as you keep going, your thumb taking in a careful, rhythmic back-and-forth motion over the worst part of the scars.

He swallows.

"They, uh, they don't hurt anymore," He says, staring at your face, then watching the motion of your thumb. "If you were wondering."

You hum a low, affirmative sound, though your focus is clearly not pulled away from what you're doing with your hands. It feels strange— he couldn't sense the heat of your hand, or the feather-like pattern of your thumb, but his brain still acted like he could. It was more alike a phantom sensation, knowing he couldn't feel it, but his mind behaved otherwise.

What he feels almost completely is how intimate the moment is.

"I can't really feel anything there, either," He admits, voice lowered. "It's kind of weird."

"Should I stop?"

God, please, no.

He stops himself a split-second before those exact thoughts tumble from his brain and out of his mouth; a rare event for someone like himself. He's not sure if he should be grateful for this being the first time, but it takes the title nonetheless.

"No, you're, um, you're alright."

What's not alright is how badly he still wants you to kiss him— it's like it's all he can think about. Most days, the interest came sporadically, rather than any certain time (outside of the obvious), and rarely this intense. His brain tacked it as a physical need; like breathing, it physically ached that you weren't as close as he wanted.

It's half his fault, though. He knows it. He could man up, tell you himself, but he doesn't.

The feeling of your hand drifting upward pulls him from his thoughts, forcing him back into the present and to look at you. You look as focused as ever, but where a blank slate of an expression would typically lay, an intense, concentrated one takes its place this time.

"You look focused," He murmurs, a small, amused grin forming along the curves of his mouth. "Really focused. More than normal, you know."

Is he talking just to distract himself?

Maybe.

Can you tell?

Also maybe.

"Yeah?" You muse, gaze downcast and following the trail of goosebumps your hand carves into his skin— you slowly go up his arm, to his shoulder, then back down. Were you teasing him? He was unsure if you were doing it on purpose or not, but that mattered not to the slew of butterflies in his stomach.

"…Yeah," He agrees, swallowing quietly. "You do."

As your hand pulls from his wrist and slips over to the low of his hips, his breathing jumps almost instantly as your touch truly registers, making his stomach twitch and his mouth part. You caress him like he's something worthy, someone you're reverent of— at the thought, an unidentifiable emotion coils in his chest, suffocating his lungs like a disease.

"You, uh— You don't have to take your time or anything," He stutters, "You're not gonna break me… I think."

The jest comes out strained and slightly stiff, and the same goes for the shy, awkward laugh that trails it; he wasn't used to someone taking this much time just to touch him. It creates a strange but also pleasant concoction of emotions in his stomach.

Nerves, warmth, comfort, shyness, attraction…

You make him feel all sorts of funny ways, and most he's never felt before. At least not all at once.

"Mmn, I know," You mutter, your hands pulling his sleep shirt up as you splay them out over his ribs, "But rushing isn't any fun. Doesn't feel as good, either."

The cool air of the room laps at the bare parts of his stomach, a violent opposite to the blatant heat of your fingers as they curl around the curve of his side. You finally flit your gaze away from his stomach and up to his face, making him all of a sudden be aware of how hot his cheeks feel.

Is he blushing?

He's probably blushing.

You tilt your head. "All good?"

"Yes," He blurts, nodding almost immediately. "Yes. Absolutely."

"Can I kiss you?"

"Dumb question."

The kiss that comes after is heated.

He leans into it instantly, hands reaching out for your waist, his fingers tangling in the fabric of your shirt as he gasps into your mouth, letting his eyes close. You're so warm. And everywhere. His brain faintly registers the feeling of your hands tightening around the meat of the low of his hips, but what is accepted in full clarity is the groan that falls from your mouth and into his.

Tilting his head, he chases after your lips— getting what he's wanted has never felt so good. It's nearly euphoric, the need for more and more and more swallowing his shame and absorbing it whole. Even whilst he's losing oxygen and needs more, he doesn't want to move away.

And in doing that, you're forced to.

The second he senses you're about to pull back, his hold on your shirt tightens, wanting you close even as the burn of him losing his breath aches into his lungs, shooting warning signals to his brain he ignores until what feels like the last minute.

This time, he lets you move back without complaint, gasping for air the second your mouths disconnect— his brain feels almost fuzzy, like it's stuffed with cotton as you pant against him, your desperate breaths syncing for a split second before they fall out of rhythm again.

You nudge your forehead against his, the cold of the counter pressing into his back as you press against his front; he tilts his head back as you dip your head down, groaning as you mouth at his throat and press the tips of your teeth where you lick.

Your hands slide up his spine underneath his shirt, making a shudder drip down the notches of his spine as he leans into you more, wanting to tuck his nose into your pulse point and never move again.

"I love you," He breathes, resting his head against yours as he attempts to catch his breath. He only opens his eyes when he feels you plant kisses upwards, along his jawline and dotted around the corners of mouth— the way you do so, the way you kiss in general, is enthralling.

"I love you," You murmur, pressing your lips to the underside of his jaw as you catch your breath, too. "So much."

Before he gets to say anything else, the doorbell rings once, twice, three times…

He loses count after the tenth time.

“Holy fuuuudddgggeee! Fudger- fuuu” Ryland’s not-so profanities muddle into groans. A cloud of foam sprays from the nose of the fire extinguisher in his hands, snuffing the growing flames into nothing more than thick dark smoke. He holds his arms straight as he assaults the fire with sweeps of the extinguisher from side to side.

The science teacher coughs as he chokes out huffs of smoke. He fans his face in an attempt to clear the air, but it doesn't do much to alleviate the burn in his throat. The fumes flood his senses. Still, he sprays the extinguisher twice more for good measure.

It was supposed to be an easy experiment, trivial really. Ryland has done this experiment a million times and it has never gone this wrong.

Mr. Grace meticulously adjusts the gas dial on the bunsen burner on his desk. A room full of curious students watch him closely. “Okay, kids,” he starts “Get to somewhere you can see.”

The students raise their heads to get a good look. On his desk, besides the mountains of paperwork he’s pushed to the side, are cups of different powders and liquid, as well as the bunsen burner. Ryland grabs a box of matches and tosses them up and down in his hand.

“Alright, as many of you know, we’re going to be literally playing with fire today. And I am required by law to remind you of the safety measures, so let’s make this quick.”

“Do we turn on or adjust our burners without my permission?” He asks the class, pointing the thumb of his free hand to himself.

“NO!” The class responds.

“Do we put our body parts within one foot of the flame?”

“NO!”

“Do we put our hair up before starting the experiment?”

A mix of nos and yeses chorus from the room between the kids mindlessly answering and those actually listening to the questions. Ryland smirks.

“Ha, gotcha. Yes, everyone with long hair put it up. Keep your safety goggles on and come to me if you need any help, am I missing anything?” The students in the front row shake their heads. Ryland places a finger to his lips. “Oh! Listen to my instructions! The most important rule.”

The students laugh, but Ryland can tell they’re getting restless with excitement. “Okay, let’s get started. Everyone pay close attention to the demo I’m about to do.”

Ryland pulls his goggles over his glasses, which immediately fog up. He looks over the rim of his frames as he grabs one of the cups in front of him. “You guys have learned from our geology unit that different minerals have different properties. Density, hardness, colors. Those properties can also cause fire to burn different colors.”

He grabs a metal spoon and scoops the powder in the cup. He tilts the cup forward enough for the kids to see without spilling it. The shiny blue powder glistens, drawing the students even closer. “This is copper sulfate, a mix of sulfur and copper.” He raises the cup to his nose and makes a curious face. “Surpisingly, it has no smell,” he observes. “But don’t eat it! It’s not rock candy!”

He carefully pours the powder from the spoon into the barrel of the bunsen burner. “Any guesses of what color this will turn the fire?”

“BLUE!” His students respond enthusiastically.

Ryland smirks. “We will see.” He checks the gas line once more. “Okay count down.”

“THREE!”

He turns the gas handle.

“TWO!”

He lights a match.

“ONE!”

He lights the top of the bunsen burner using the match, igniting a small green flame. The students let out their ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’, shiny eyes reflecting the green hue back to their teacher.

“Woah, right?” Ryland hypes as he adjusts the flame's size using the needle valve until the flame is substantial and glowing brightly.

Well, it is for a second, before it flickers and dwindles. The blonde man’s eyebrow scrunches. “Huh,” he says, “that’s weird.” He fiddles with the needle valve… nothing happens. He scratches his head. Sweat is collecting at his brow now from the foggy goggles and he’d really like to wipe it off. 

Ryland finally adds more gas with the handle. Maybe there was a problem with the gas pressure? And it had built up pressure at first? Whatever, he turns it up again.

He goes back to teaching, explaining the science of the green flame. The gentle whir of the air conditioning started. On good, now it won’t be so muggy and hot in here. Especially once all the burners are on, the room would be a sauna. The fire dances with the cool flow of air from the vents. Ryland considers taking off his goggles and fixing his glasses, but he figured that would be a bad example to the students. 

Just as Ryland is answering a question from the girl in the third row, the fire surges, angry and vibrant.

Ryland jumps back. “Holy crap!” he exclaims, pushing himself against his whiteboard. He quickly remembers he’s the teacher, the trained scientist, and the only adult in the room; thus, it’s his job to handle this. He reaches back over to cut the gas, but not before the barrel literally falls straight off the base, tumbling down like a dead tree. Stupid piece of junk. Curse this school's ancient equipment.

Good news: the fire is disconnected from the gas. Yay!

Bad news: the fire has fallen onto all of Grace’s paperwork. Boo!

Any thoughts that Ryalnd had were quickly cut off by the screams of 13 year olds. The kids run to the back of the classroom, confused, scared, but waiting for instruction. They don’t really practice fire drills where the fire takes place inside their classroom. Ryland needs to think fast, because the green flame is increasingly feasting on stacks of research papers and handouts.

“Remain calm!” Ryland yells over the chaos. He reaches for the fire extinguisher he thankfully put nearby. Though, of course, he thought it wasn’t going to be him who caused the fire. He backs up and rips the pin out. The sound of the metal pin hitting the floor is muted by the spray of the extinguisher.

The room is as silent as a desolate battle field by the end of it. Mr. Grace looks at the students. They look back at him, all with the same thought in their heads.

What. The. Fu-

The ear shattering ringing of the fire alarm blares. Even the terribly inefficient smoke alarm (which Ryland highly doubts has been checked since… well ever) recognizes the smoke rising to the ceiling. The sprinklers (which have definitely never been used) release drenching sprays of water.

The kids screech and cover their heads. Ryland just sighs. His clothes droop and stick to his skin. He appears to be more of a wet rat than anything. He pulls his goggles up to his forehead and takes his glasses to wipe them off. It won’t do anything considering they’ll just get wet again, but it makes him feel just a bit calmer, more in control.

“Alright, everyone out into the hallway. Single file. You know the drill.”

It was a disaster. One that Ryland wasn’t entirely sure that he was ready to take responsibility for.

The parking lot was filled with students and teachers taking attendance. Most of the kids out there looked uninterested, but were grateful for the break from school. Everyone probably would have assumed it was just another drill had it not been for Ryland’s class of completely soaked children. He could already see his students gossiping with kids from other classes now. Oh, great.

Thankfully, everyone was accounted for. Ryland finishes taking attendance and wipes the sticky hair from his forehead. He already feels a sense of doom come over him.

Principal Croffely storms over, a stern look on her face. Ryland felt a shiver down his spine, though that might just be his wet suit jacket. The woman approaching him was… terrifying to say the least. She was a great principal, the perfect mix of strict and fun. However, she did not respond so happily to any mishaps- like fights, or graffiti, or, you know, a fire. Not to mention, Ryland doesn’t think she’s aged since he’s been here. She looks just as young as she did in the year books from when Ryland was in middle school.

“Mr. Grace,” she speaks in a low, calm voice. It’s a trap, and he knows it. “Please explain to me what happened?”

Ryland pulls at his collar. Despite it being soaking wet, his neck feels very hot all of a sudden. He’s seriously thinking about how to explain himself without risking his job, but there really is not any other way to phrase it without saying: “I started a fire.”

He runs a hand over his face, pulling his glasses down to balance below his chin and pinching the bridge of his nose. “It all happened so fast really.” He chuckled. He looked up to see Croffely… not as amused.

“A, um, material mishap happened with the 8th grade experiment. The bunsen burner I was using for a demonstration broke and fell over. The papers on my desk caught fire.”

The silence between them was loud.

“I am so sorry. But for what it’s worth, I put it out with the fire extinguisher before the sprinklers came on. Everything should be completely fine now. And the experiment was a success while we were at it! Bright green-blue flames.” The man speaks proudly and confidently for someone so in the wrong. Somehow Ryland’s endearing charm had given him immunity from all previous trouble. He thinks it is because all of the older teachers see him as someone to mentor. But he doesn’t think that’s going to help much this time.

Principal Croffely lets out a long sigh. “Well, I appreciate the situation being handled. None of the students are injured?”

Ryland shakes his head. “They were all at least 6 feet from the fire at all times when this took place.”

“Well that’s the most important thing… You’re lucky Mr. Grace. But I will be speaking to you later about how we can hopefully prevent anything like this from ever happening in the future. Yes?”

Ryland nods like an obedient child. He usually takes scrutiny well. Trust him, he’s used to people disagreeing with him. He never lets a bit of criticism stop him (just look at the UNESCO conference in Denmark), but there are a few authority figures that really make him squeamish and desperate for approval. One of those people being Principal Maria Croffely, who has a history of being an amazing teacher long before Ryland got wrapped up in the job. 

Croffely gives him a final firm nod and an unreadable look- it probably says “you’re on thin ice”- and walks off to check on the other classes. 

The man finally takes off his disgusting suit jacket. He is not sure how long they’ll have to stay out here. Since the problem is solved, they should just have to wait for the admin to turn off the sprinklers in his room. He’ll have a better chance of drying off in the San Francisco sun without wearing his thick jacket. His tongue sticks out in disgust as he wrings the material and watches the water wring onto the asphalt of the parking lot. 

 Ryland can hear a resounding siren in the distance. That signature “wee-woo” of American emergency vehicles. Ryland grumbles. “No way,” he whispers.

The science teacher jogs to catch up with Principal Croffely. “Ma’am- I mean, Principal Croffely, ma’am. The fire department isn’t coming, are they?”

The dark haired woman turns back to face him. Her strong jaw seems to always be in a permanent clench, so he’s not really sure if she’s clenching it harder now in annoyance.  “They have been alerted, yes. And they are automatically deployed when the school’s fire alarm goes off and they haven’t been notified of it being a drill.”

“Great, just notify them that it was a drill.”

“It wasn’t a drill.” She deadpans with a cocked eyebrow.

Ryland chuckles to cover up his own annoyance. “It’s really unnecessary. I know I started the fire but I know how to put one out. It’s not that hard. Plus, the sprinklers must have gotten rid of any other chance for the fire to restart. The fire department coming out here is a waste of my- our time and theirs. While they’re looking for the fire I already put out, I could be fixing the damage to my room.” Ryland couldn’t help his sass. His want for firefighters not to arrive came from his stubbornness and extreme desire to fix all of his problems himself, especially the ones he’s caused. It’s insulting, really, that they think he can’t put out a gosh darn fire. Heck, he could be a firefighter… if he wanted worse pay, more hours, and to put his life on the line… so maybe not.

Mostly it is just embarrassing and Ryland doesn’t want any more people to know about it than those who have to.

Principal Croffely looked upon him disapprovingly. Ryland wasn’t used to people being so much taller than him, but she was easily 6’3 with her heels on. “While I want to trust your judgement, Mr. Grace, you did remind the both of us that it was you who caused the incident. The firemen, and women, will come assess the situation and the damage before we proceed. It won’t hurt to have professionals out here.”

She’s right. Ryland knows she’s right, but he still wants to argue. Unfortunately for him, he has no more time to make his case as a sleek fire truck pulls up to the school in front of them. Ryland covers his ears, protecting them from the loud blaring siren. The lights on all faces of the automobile flash an angry red, but overwhelming lights and noise soon stop after the truck parks. 

A bald man jumps out of the driver's seat, quickly approaching the principal. Ryland assumes he has the top rank among the men there. Something about the way he holds himself. 

“Lieutenant Geralds, ma’am. We received a distress call, what seems to be the problem?” He extends his large hand. He and Principal Croffely engage in a handshake strong enough to break bones, Ryland’s sure. Although relatively short, the large bear of a man seems like he could barehandedly break a log in half so Ryland would do anything to not get on that guy’s bad side.

“Science experiment gone awry.” Croffely looks beyond exasperated. “Mr. Grace here,” she gestures to the meek man beside her, “had a, what did you call it? Ah, a material mishap, and some papers caught fire.”

“I assure you the emergency is completely resolved,” Ryland butts in. “I’m usually more adept with fire, but I am very adept with an extinguisher hehe.” He swallows his awkward chuckles. “So, no issues here, sir.”

Lieutenant Geralds looks almost disappointed. Like he really wanted some action or something. “That’s good,” he says anyway. “I’d still like to check out the classroom before we leave and make sure everything is in order.”

“Of course,” Croffely agrees.

“And I seriously doubt we’ll need our full crew for this, so I’ll just send in one man for the job if that’s alright with you.”

“Surely one person is enough. I’m also sure that Mr. Grace will be happily willing to escort them to his classroom and explain the situation.” She side-eyes Ryland with a sharp glance. Ryland, who previously had just been looking back and forth between the individuals, like a small child listening in on his parents conversation, just gives a thumbs up and a forced smile. Whatever it takes to get this over with as quickly as possible.

Lieutenant Geralds walks back over to the truck and knocks bangs on the back door. “It’s all you, Squirt!” He barks in his deep gruff voice. The door opens up and whoever answers to “Squirt” hops out. The door covers his face momentarily as he exchanges a quick word with the lieutenant.

Then, you step into the light of mid-day. Not smiling or frowning, but a pleasant neutral expression on your face. Ryland raises his glasses to actually see properly. And, now, he knows this must be a joke.

The nickname “Squirt” evokes the image of someone small, kinda scrawny, short, probably. The man now in front of Ryland is not a “Squirt”, that’s a man. Like not just 5 bites, but a full meal of man. That’s the irony of it, he supposes.

You leave your helmet inside the truck, which gives Ryland a full view of your face- and that is absolutely not fair. You look like you came straight out of one of those shirtless firemen calendars. Except, you're a lot cleaner than he expected (on account of not having fought any fires yet today). And you’re not shirtless, obviously. 

Ryland realizes that the previous comparison might bring up some questions, so he would like to make some amendments: 1. No, he has never, and will never, own a shirtless firefighter calendar. 2. No, he’s not thinking about you shirtless (well maybe a little), but he knows an attractive man when he sees one. There’s science and a pattern to what makes someone attractive. 3. There’s a reason people like men in uniforms…

“S-sir?”

You’re smiling now, gazing upon the drenched man with an inquisitive look. Croffely nudges Ryland and clears her throat.

Ryland looks around and realizes you have your hand extended to him. “Crap, sorry, got a little in my head there,” he tries to help the situation and shakes the extended hand. Your palm is rough from the effects of manual work, but warm and inviting. The handshake is squishy on account of Ryland’s still damp palm.

“S-sorry. Just sprinkler water, I promise.” He drops your hand and wipes it off on his jeans, which are equally, if not more, wet.

You shake your head, dismissing the concern and let out a low chuckle. You turn to Principal Croffely to shake her hand as well while introducing yourself.

“Thank you for the help,” the woman says, “Mr. Grace’s classroom is where the fire emerged, so you can follow him there. I’ve just been walk-ied and alerted that the sprinkler system has been turned off, so you shouldn’t have any trouble.”

“No problem, ma’am. I’ll be sure to take note of any damage or concerns before radioing the lieutenant to let you know when it’s all clear.” You pat the walkie-talkie on one of your belt loops. Both firefighters and school admin use walkie-talkies apparently.

You turn back to Ryland, eyeing him up and down. Ryland doesn’t usually feel self-conscious but his face feels hot enough to boil off whatever water is left on his skin. He’s not a people person anyway and now he has to interact with someone while embarrassed and wet. He probably looks like a sad stray cat.

 His expression hardens as he tries to compensate for the nerves. Instead of presenting himself as the mess-up teacher that caused a fire, he’ll act like the hero who put it out. Both are true, but he chooses to ignore the former.

After taking your time looking at him, you walk off silently. Ryland’s left with his mouth agape. Okay then, rude. 

You reopen the side door to the fire engine and seemingly search around the seats. When you return you’re holding a rolled towel. 

You offer the towel to him. “You look cold,” you whisper softly. He blinks, not quite sure what to do. His first instinct is to reject it; to tell you that he’s just fine and doesn’t need the pity of a devastatingly rugged fireman. He figures the best (and most normal) response is to just accept it.

“Thanks, yeah.” The towel is nice and hot and unbelievably soft. Ryland melts into it easily as he wraps it around his shoulders. He glances back up to catch your kind gaze. You’re smiling so sweetly he feels nauseous. No wonder people fall in love with firefighters who save them. He knows if he was in a burning building and accepting death, and he saw a face like that, he’d probably fall in love with you too. And something about that makes him unreasonably angry.

“Lead the way.” Ryland nods, turning on his heels. He walks towards the front entrance, checking every few steps to make sure you’re trailing behind. You catch up to walk next to him so he doesn’t have to look back, with a rugged smirk still on your face.

Ryland opens his mouth a few times, clamming up. The silence is excruciating, and he can see you observing him in his peripheral vision. You’re probably judging him, or making fun of him. He has to say something.

“So, Squirt, huh?” God, don’t say that. He fights the urge to facepalm. Maybe something in his subconscious is trying to embarrass you, so that way you’re on equal footing and Ryland doesn’t feel so miniscule. He’s trying to fight that part of himself.

Heat rises behind your cheeks, but you’re still smiling. “You heard that, huh?” You shrug your shoulders, pulling your gloves on. “The crew calls me that because I’m the newest and youngest. Also because there was this incident with the hose my first time.”

Ryland raises an eyebrow.

You blush harder and glance away. “Long story. Anyway, yeah, they all call me ‘Squirt’ or ‘Kid’. I really hope that doesn’t end up being my permanent nickname, but it probably will. At least until I do something else more embarrassing, so it could be worse.”

The man beside you nods. “I guess it always could be. It’s a good name, though. Makes you sound like a cartoon sidekick… or a set up to a really dirty joke.”

“There are so many dirty jokes,” you laugh, a grave look on your face. 

Ryland can’t help but crack a toothy smile. Dang it, he was supposed to be establishing his “dominance”, in a sense, showing that he’s not a total fool, but instead he’s laughing with you and getting lost in your eyes. He clears his throat and continues silently to his classroom.

When you finally arrive, there is water seeping out from the gap between the door and the floor. 

“Got a wet floor sign?” You joke. Ryland doesn’t respond and simply opens the door to reveal a very wet room. The space is in complete disarray. Chairs are knocked over from when the students ran out of them. Some of his non-laminated posters are sliding down the walls, completely ruined. Somehow, his solar system is high enough that it is out of the range of the sprinkles. Thank god. If that model, which took him months to perfect, was ruined, he’d break down right here in front of this other grown man.

“Fiddlesticks,” he “curses” under his breath, examining the damage.

You’re similarly gazing around, but with a different look in your eye. Admiration, maybe. “Nice room,” you say, “though I’m sure it’d be nicer if it wasn’t like a drained fishtank.”

Ryland rolls his eyes. “A drained fishtank would be drier than this,” he comments matter-of-factly.

“Right, sorry…” No more jokes for now, you guess. You decide to stop flirting making small talk and actually do your job. “So, what happened?”

The science teacher groans loudly. He does not want to have to explain this again. “I plead the 5th.”

“You do know I’m not a cop right? You can’t really do that.”

Ryland bites his lip, holding back a smile. “I can and I will,” he says. It only takes him a couple seconds to fold and tell you. You are the professional after all, it’s not really like he can hold the information from you. While he explains the story with far too much detail, you inspect the bunsen burner and the papers on his desk.

“I hope these weren’t important.” You lift a half-scorched, fully-drenched piece of paper. There used to be words on it, but the ink has smeared so badly it’s illegible.

The blonde sighs. “Not really. The kids won’t like having to turn in their reports again, but they’ll survive.”

You nod. “What gas did you use?”

“Propane.”

“And there wasn’t any sparking, correct?”

After you ask all of your questions, you come up with the conclusion. “It just looks like there is some rust at the bottom of the burner here.” You point with your gloved finger. “That caused the needle valve to not function correctly, and for the barrel to fall over.”

Ryland steps closer, bending down to see better. Sure enough, the bottom of the bunsen burner is eroded with rust that he isn’t even sure how it got there, or how he didn’t notice it. 

It isn’t until he stands straight that he notices how close you are. He can smell the light musk of whatever body wash or cologne you use. He can see every little hair on your face from this close; every little mark he can commit to memory. He wants to reach out and touch your ruffled hair. His “manly” front is dissolving as he stutters and blushes. 

You stare at him so innocently. It should feel infantilizing, but it doesn’t. Instead it feels genuine. Like you’re genuinely waiting for him to find his words and hear what he has to say. That just makes him more flustered. 

Eventually you raise your hands to his cheeks. You push up his glasses that were slipping down to the tip of his pointed nose. Your hands slide down his jaw to his shoulders and you pull the towel tighter around him. You smooth your hands over his shoulders and give them a gentle squeeze.

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to go inspect the rest of the equipment." You wink and step from behind the desk. 

“Y-yeah.”

It’s been a long time since Ryland has been completely dismantled emotionally. He’s not the most social person and typically avoids interactions where he can make a total fool of himself. It’s not often he’s this flustered. And for a long time, he didn’t even know men could make him feel this way. Turns out there is a difference between finding a man attractive and being attracted to one. Ryland spent most of his life not distinguishing between those two things. It was only after he got dumped by his college girlfriend, Linda, that he took the time to really look at his sexuality and attraction. He realized he is equally interested and disinterested in most people (he doesn’t care much for labels).

Even if Ryland didn’t know about his sexuality, he thinks he would realize it right now, with a man like you in front of him, making his intelligence fall apart.

You circle the classroom, checking the other burners for possible rust. Ryland tries to keep his eyes focused elsewhere. He works on throwing all the ruined papers and posters into trashbags. He’s muttering to himself the whole time.

“Okay,” you say, “looks like the burner over here-” you point to a bunsen burner in the center lab table- “and here-” you point to one in the back- “are shot. No saving. The other ones just need to be dried off and cleaned with WD-40. They should be fine after that.”

“Okay.” Ryland nods. “God, I’ll have to put in a request for new ones. We won’t be doing this experiment for years probably. Or until we get the funding.” He mutters to himself under his breath.

You lean back against one of the lab tables. You toss your head back and throw him a sideways glance. “What was the experiment anyway?”

Ryland scoffs. He feels the set up for a nerd joke coming. Maybe something about him not being able to do a middle school experiment right. Or just about how pathetic it was that he’s a teacher. Why is Ryland so defensive right now? He doesn’t know. But you make him nervous, and he feels the need to protect himself.

He scoffs. “I wouldn’t really expect you to understand.” It’s so funny how that cocky pretentious Ryland from his academia days returns so easily when he’s on guard, even after he’s spent years trying to bury that version of himself. 

You don’t look offended at all, however. “Try me.”

He looks up at you. “Uhh- I-” he swallows- “By placing certain minerals into the barrel of the burner, like copper sulfate for example, it alters the hue of the flame by shifting the chemical composition of the burning material. Thus, causing the flame to appear as a mix of the gas’s natural burning color and the minerals chemical components.”

Ryland feels smug and crosses his arms over his chest. You squint your eyes.

“You put rocks into the burner and it causes the fire to burn different colors?”

The science teacher's jaw drops open, before he clenches it. He stutters, “No!- I- I mean, yes! B-but, uhh, it’s more complicated than that!” He tightens his arms across his chest, hugging himself, and looking away. He’s acting like one of his students when they argue with him about a test question.

You laugh. “I’m sure it is. I’d love to hear all the specifics sometime, but I’ll save your time.”

“Wait, you’d actually be interested in learning about it?”

“Sure. I’m always interested in some science facts.” You beam and walk closer. You lean in and cup your mouth as you whisper, “Don’t tell my crew this, but I’m kind of a huge nerd.” 

You lean back, grinning. “Though, they probably already know.”

Ryland feels warmer when you’re in his proximity. His cheeks dusted in pink as he pushes his glasses up his nose. For once, he finds himself without anything to say. Over and over, you’ve proven you’re more than the asshole Ryland meaninglessly assumed you were, all in order to protect himself from the thought of his mistakes being perceived. You’re making it really hard for him to be short with you when you’re so… nice. And, because of that, Ryland’s the one being an asshole.

“Anyway,” you continue, “it might be a cool experiment for me to show the kids.”

Ryland’s brain buffers like a 90’s desktop computer. He had never considered that maybe you have kids, much less the partner that usually comes with having children (often, but not always.) Stupidly, he asks, “Wait… you have kids?”

Your face scrunches in confusion. “Huh?- Oh! No, oh god, no.” You shake your head adamantly. “I lead the tours and the demonstrations for kids who visit the station. I teach them about fire safety, life as a firefighter, how to plan for emergencies- stuff like that. I think the crew made me do it as a punishment at first, but I really love teaching kids so I’ve just stuck with it.”

The blonde lets out a sigh of relief. Don’t ask him why he’s relieved, but something about you not having kids eases something in him. Because maybe that means you don’t have a partner either.

“You like teaching?” He asks, fiddling with his fingers.

You nod. “Yeah, I like it a lot actually. Being a firefighter has always been my dream job, but if I wasn’t doing that most of the time, I probably would have gotten a degree in education and became a teacher.”

“Who knows,” you say, “maybe I would’ve taught science.” You pat the man’s, now dry hair, that’s poofing up. It’s a cute look. His breath catches as he feels your gloved fingers against his scalp. He likes the feeling, closing his eyes and leaning into it.

As he opens his eyelids and catches your teasing gaze, he knows his face must be fire-engine red. He takes a half step back and casts his gaze down.

You huff a curt chuckle. You wish all emergency calls were this fun (joking!). You let your fingers fall back to your side from his light yellow tuffs of hair. “I better let them know everyone’s set to come back inside.” You delicately break the moment.

“Yeah- you uh… you better do that,” mutters Ryland.

“Do you have anywhere for the kids to stay while they’re drying off your room?” You ask with a gentle tone. Ryland’s head picks up.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. We’ll just be in the cafeteria I guess.” It warms his heart that you care about the kids. For only a second, he lets himself imagine you as a teacher. In a classroom next to his where he can see you (and shamelessly check you out) everyday.

You straighten up, turning your professionalism back on. You walk to the door, but hesitantly, looking back every few seconds as Ryland had when he was leaning into the building- as if you’re hoping he follows you. You clear your throat. “Well, Mr. Grace, I’ll leave you to it.”

Silence falls between the both of you, but you make no further move out of the doorway. 

“Uhh, make sure you clear your desk off before your next fire experiment,” you say, jokingly, as a final remark. You’re one foot out the door, when Ryland seemingly teleports behind you and pulls shyly on your fireman’s jacket, stopping you in your tracks.

You turn to face the man once again. He opens his mouth a few times but says nothing, still trying to find the words. Finally, he coughs out, “Wait!”

You smile- so hard it makes your teeth hurt. “I am.”

Ryland curses under his breath. “I mean, if you’re really interested in teaching, Career Day is coming up soon. Next week. I know you’re probably busy and-”

“I’ll be there.” You cut him off. Now you’re both smiling like little kids. “You can call and give me the information.”

“Call?” Ryland asks, and for a moment, he hopes that means he gets to have your number.

You nod, smirking. You’re not going to be that easy. “Call the station and ask for me. I’ll respond.” Ryland pouts, not able to help himself. You pat his cheek twice and turn to the door, leaving for real this time. “I’ll see you, Ryland.”

The man tilts his head to one side. He doesn’t remember telling you his name. You lean back towards him and put a finger to his chest, pointing at his name on his faculty badge at the end of his lanyard.

He smiles. As you make your way down the hallway, he calls after you. “What name should I ask for when I call?”

You throw a laugh over your shoulder before simply saying, “Just ask for ‘Squirt.’ They’ll come find me. I can’t wait to hear from you.”

“I can’t wait either!” Ryland grins. “Squirt,” he whispers, slightly baffled at the utter ridiculousness of the day’s occurrences. Who would have guessed that he would be excited to make a phone call?

Ryland forced himself to wait a full day before calling the number for the local firehouse. He didn’t want to come off as too eager or desperate, though he definitely is. Over that time, he was able to pinpoint the source of his rudeness from the last day. It was a lot of things: feeling embarrassed that he messed up an easy experiment, caused a fire, and got (lightly) scolded by his boss were all contributing factors. To make it worse, and he’s even more embarrassed to say this, but let’s face it! You’re insanely hot and it made him really nervous. Apparently when Ryland’s nervous around hot people he starts acting like a jerky idiot and ruining his chance. 

That’s not to say he had a chance. He’s been “out of practice” for years. Since he broke up with Linda in fact. And he didn’t even know if you swung that way. Even if you did, who’s to say you’d be interested in a 30-something year old middle school science teacher?

Ryland takes a deep breath and lets out a long shuttering huff. He’s spiraling again, but trying to compose himself, lest he be an utter mess around you again when he finally calls. It’s after school now. He figured if he made the call before going home, he could justify it to be for school purposes. He sits at his desk, drumming his fingers against the table. His laptop sits open to the webpage of the local firestation; the non-emergency number has been highlighted by his cursor. 

He glances at the clock and groans. He needs to make this call and bike home before it gets dark. He types the number into his phone with trepidation, making sure every digit is correct. Ryland stares at the screen for a second before mumbling “Screw it,” and pressing the green call button.

The line rings only twice before a tired sounding voice resonates across the line. “This is the nonemergency line for the San Francisco fire station #032. How can I help you?” The man on the other end lets out a barely muffled yawn.

Ryland lets out a breath that he wasn’t aware he was holding. He had really hoped you’d be the one to answer the phone to save him the trouble. Alas. He clears his throat. “Hi, yeah. This is, uhm, Ryland Grace? Is… Is ‘Squirt’ there?” His face flushes although there is no one there to see it. The nickname is already pretty absurd but the awkward way he says it makes it sound so much worse.

A chuckle comes through his phone’s speakers, turning into a full on guffaw. “You’re the teacher?” The voice asks.

“Yes…,” Ryland responds meekly.

The laughing continues on the other end. Ryland can faintly hear chatter. 

“Did you hear that Molly? Squirt’s boy actually called!... Yeah!... Yes, could you go wake up the guy? He’s probably knocked out on the couch... Thanks, Molly.”

Ryland silently listens on the other end. He tosses his Earth-shaped bean bag in his hand. He gives it a squeeze between tosses to calm his nerves. He rubs his thumb over the worn-out crocheted yarn, the texture reminding him of the fibers of your gloves last night you were with him. He squeezed the beanbag again, thinking of your large gloved hand in his.

“One moment, Mr…. Ryland, you said?” The voice pulls Ryland back into the moment.

“Y-yep. That’s me.”

The man snickers “God, I’m never letting Squirt forget this,” he mutters under his breath.

Grace perks up when he hears your voice in the background. His grip on his cellphone tightens.

“Hand over the phone, Bennie.” You growl, “no, he called me let me talk to him… Man, go away.” There’s some shuffling on the other end before Ryland hears a sigh into the microphone. “Ryland?” You speak, your soft tone opposing the harsher one you were using with your crewmate just a second ago.

“Hey.” He says breathlessly. “Were you expecting me, Squirt?” He says the name with a bit more confidence now, and it rolls off his tongue easily.

“You know I was.”

The two of you do not get to speak for nearly as long as Ryland would have liked. You were about to get whisked away for a task just 30 minutes into the call, which sounds like a long time, but he felt like he was just getting past your coy exterior. Halfway into it, he found himself leaning onto his desk with his chin resting in his palm. He might as well be a teenage girl, twirling her hair and kicking her feet on her bed. 

Fortunately, he was able to give you all the information about Career Day and you confirmed that you would, in fact, be able to attend (yippee!). Beyond that, you told him you’d be there in your full firefighter gear, which made him more excited than he’d like to admit.

“Okay, well I’ve got all the info for next week down,” you say. “I should really get going, now.”

Ryland chews his lip. “Mhmm,” he hums, disappointed. “Do I get your name now or do I have to keep calling for ‘Squirt’?” He chuckles. He’s half joking, but still hoping he can get your real name.

You laugh alongside him. “Not yet. I don’t really mind the nickname when you say it.” Your sultry tone throws Ryland for a loop. He chokes on air and falls into a coughing fit. You chortle on the other end. “Sorry, sorry. That was so bad, don’t know why I said that.”

Ryland tries to catch his breath, but he’s laughing between his coughs. He finally gasps a deep breath, filling his lungs with air. “‘s okay,” he mumbles. You can hear the smile on his face over the phone.

 “Though,” you continue, “I figure it would be a lot easier to reach me if you have my number. Do you have a pen nearby?”

“Y-yes!” Ryland leans over his desk to reach towards his cup of pens. He fumbles around and misses the cup before finally grabbing one. “Got one, got a pen.” He mutters, prepared to write on the nearest piece of paper to him (it’s one of the worksheets he planned to assign tomorrow. He’ll just reprint this copy.)

You slowly say your phone number, digit by digit. “Got all that?”

Ryland nods even though you can’t see him. “Got it… I’ll text you?”

“You better. I need to go now, or the Lieutenant will kill me- Yes!? I’m coming, Bennie! Give me a second, damn!”

Ryland hears a barely muttered “bye” before the line drops. He sighs dreamily. The sun is slowly inching closer to the horizon in the west, shining perfectly through the large windows in Mr Grace’s classroom. He thinks the kids will like you, just a feeling. 

The teacher was swamped in the next week; between prepping for Career Day, fixing up the damage to his classroom, and teaching 5 periods a day, he barely had time to daydream about you. Well, that was at school. Outside of work, he still had plenty of thoughts about your face, and your scent, and your touch. That being said, Career Day came faster than anyone had expected. Next thing Ryland knew, it was Wednesday and you were walking into his classroom with a guest pass, your full uniform, and a duffle bag full of other firefighter stuff.

You give him a heartstopping smile as you walk into the classroom, stopping to lean against the doorframe. “I see your room’s good as new”

Ryland nearly jumps out of his skin. He looks over his shoulder to see you giving him that signature smirk. He rolls his eyes. “You’re early. I said 8:00.”

You shrug as you casually stride into the classroom. “I like to be punctual.”

The blonde sighs. He’d been getting all the worksheets about “What I Want To Be When I Grow Up” ready for his students. His glasses had been pulled beneath his chin, where he usually wore them. You point to the frames. “Do you ever wear those things correctly? Kind of takes away the purpose of glasses, you know.”

Ryland walks closer. Despite your jeers, he’s still smiling. “I didn’t invite you here to tease me,” he says, fixing his glasses to the bridge of his nose. “I invited you to do a career presentation. Speaking of which-” his voice softens to a gentle murmur as he casts his gaze aside. “Thank you for coming. You really didn’t have to clear your whole day to be here… I appreciate- and I’m sure the kids will appreciate it…” He trails off.

You place a comforting hand on his shoulder. His eyes find yours again. “No problem. I love teaching kids about what I do, it’s a passion of mine. Thank you for having me.” There’s a subtle tone in your voice that makes Ryland’s heartbeat quicken ever so much.

“Also.. I just want to say I’m sorry again for how much of a jerk I was when we first met. I’m not going to make any excuses. I was just… I was being a dick for lack of better words.” The curse sounds foreign and forced on Ryland’s tongue.

You wave your hand dismissively. “Stop it! You already apologized on the phone. You weren’t even being a dick last time.”

Ryland raises an incredulous brow. You laugh at the look on his face.

“Okay, yeah. You were being a little bit of a dick. But I understand you were having a bad day. I forgive you, for what it’s worth.” You grin.

“I’m glad you came back.” Ryland admits. The words slip out before he really thinks about their implications.

“I am too.”

The rest of the day Ryland watches you repeatedly give an interactive presentation on firefighting (including having a “Stop, Drop, & Roll Contest” where you time how fast students can flop to the ground and start rolling like a log.) You really were good with presenting, and good with kids. Ryland can tell you’ve done this before. It was also incredibly attractive to get to lay back and watch you talk about heroic fire fighting. Every block, a new group of kids come into the room to be impressed by you. You even let some kids try on your firefighting gear.

It was easily a successful day. Not only did Ryland get to stare at you shamelessly for 6 hours, but you decided to spend lunch with him as well. That time was filled with getting to know each other, joking, and (not-so) subtle flirting. Notably, you had leaned over to wipe the crumbs of a sub sandwich off of Ryland’s lips, which he’ll be thinking about for days, if not weeks.

By the day’s end, you are both pooped from dealing with rowdy kids. Still, you’re slow to pack your things, clearly not wanting to leave quite yet. As you carefully pack your duffle bag, you continuously glance up at the other man, who is always looking back at you.

“Not so bad, huh?” you ask. “The kids seemed pretty entertained.”

“You did great.” Ryland replies.

“High praise coming from you, Mr. Teacher.”

Ryland shrugs. “What can I say, you deserve it.” Then he says your name, your full name.

Your head whips around at him to see him pointing at your name and id number on your helmet. You sigh with a smile. “It was only a matter of time before you found my name, or until I simply told you.”

Ryland smiles smugly. You roll your eyes. “Are you proud of yourself? For figuring it out without me telling you?”

Ryland laughs, his cheeks dusted in pink. “A little bit. I can keep calling you Squirt if you’d like. I don’t know if you reserve your first name for people… closer to you.”

You shake your head. “You can call me whatever you want to,” you say lowly.

It gets quiet in Ryland’s classroom. You zip up your bag and it seems to hit the both of you at once that this could very likely be the last time you see each other. Ryland’s brain is whirring, thinking of ways to not have to let you go so soon. There’s no way he can start another fire at school without definitely being fired. Maybe he could start one in his apartment, just a little one. It wouldn’t even be that hard, he’s set the smoke detector off multiple times from his own terrible cooking. But he doesn’t think his landlord or the other tenants would appreciate that very much. Maybe he could get a cat stuck in a tree. He’d have to get a cat first. Maybe he could get stuck in a tree.

While Ryland’s making up ridiculous ways to get to see you again and abuse your personal phone number, you’re just admiring his thinking face and wondering how long it'll take from him to break from this daze. He doesn’t notice you coming closer until you brush a stray strand of hair out of his face behind his ear.

“Ryland,” you repeat for what must be the tenth time.

You startle him a bit. His eyes widen in shock, but he doesn’t back away. “H-huh?” He gasps.

“I asked if you wanted to have dinner sometime.”

“Dinner?! With me?”

Gosh, he’s so dumb. You snicker, “who else could I possibly be talking to?”

Ryland’s face heats up. “I just- I don’t- yes.”

“Yes?” You cock your brow, fiddling with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Yes, I want to have dinner with you,” Ryland finally spits out. The words slur together with the speed of his speech, but the meaning is still clear.

You thread your fingers into the man’s blonde locks. His impossibly blue eyes gaze straight into yours. He seems to be holding his breath in anticipation of your next move.

One of your hands slides down to pinch his chin and angle it towards you. “I’m going to kiss you now, if that’s alright.”

He breathes out a confused, “Wha-” before it registers that you’re leaning in. You hover right over his lips where you’re able to breathe in each other’s air. He shudders, breath fanning against your face. You give him plenty of time to pull away, but it doesn’t seem like he’s going to. In fact, he leans in quickly, crashing your lips together.

It’s a very clumsy crushing of mouths for the first few seconds. Spit and teeth and lips clash. You smile into it all the same, tilting your head to find the right angle. Ryland’s hands stiffen by his side before he’s able to ground himself by pressing his palms against your hip bones. He grips your waist like a lifeline, slowly melting into the kiss. 

He tastes like coffee and that sandwich he had for lunch. The gentle scent of his soap and cologne feels heightened. You can feel his heated skin against your own.

Ryland whines as you slowly pull away, but the need for air outweighs his want for the kiss to continue forever. His eyes blink open, pupils blown out in icy blue irises. His expression is a mix of dazed happiness and confusion. Nothing is said for a few moments as you both just bask in each other’s warmth, your faces staying inches apart.

“Hi,” Ryland whispers.

“Hi,” you whisper back. A breathless laugh is shared between you. “Are we still on for that dinner?” 

Ryland nods enthusiastically. “Defenitelly… I, uhh, didn’t know… I- I wasn’t even sure you were into guys like me… or guys at all…”

“We’re in San Francisco, all the firefighters are gay.” You say matter-of-factly. “I can name like 4 gay guys in my crew- 5 if you count lesbians.”

Ryland laughs. “San Fran firefighters are gay, good information to know I guess. I’ll tuck that away for later.”

You jokingly shove him away lightly. “You’ve got other gay firemen you’re flirting with? Wooowww.”

“You know I don’t,” Ryland says with a scoff. “I didn’t even know you’ve been flirting with me, honestly,” he mumbles.

You try to fight the laugh coming out of your mouth, you really do. But you can’t help it. You shudder with laughter and let your head drop against the other man’s shoulder. “You’re joking right?” You finally let out between chuckles.

You can feel Ryland’s face heating up as you tuck yourself in the crook of his neck. “I couldn’t tell! I mean, it seems more obvious now, but how was I supposed to know you’re into me?” The science teacher sounds like he genuinely didn’t pick up on your overly apparent flirting. 

Another laugh escapes your lips. You press a kiss to his neck and slowly work your way up his jaw before kissing the corner of his mouth. “For an incredibly smart man, you can be insanely dense at times.”

Ryland punches you softly in the shoulder while covering his red face with his other hand. “Shut up.”

“Gladly,” you reply, pulling his hand away from his face and leaning in to steal another kiss.