andrew garfield fan account

Your polite smile widens a little at the nickname. “You paged?”

“We’ve got a three-year-old girl. Suspected meningitis,” Robby briefs in a monotone, each word coated in a thick layer of fatigue. “High fever, lethargy, neck stiffness— labs are ugly, too.”

Your features soften instantly. “Oh, poor baby…”

Your eyes dart to the window. You catch only a sliver of the family through the edge of the curtain — young parents, likely in their early twenties, faking teary smiles for their sick baby, who sits in a too-big bed in a too-big hospital gown patterned with so many cartoon puppies.

“Parents are freaking out, obviously,” Jack adds gently, never once taking his eyes off of you. “We thought you could walk them through the admission process before we take her upstairs.” 

“Of course,” you nod, with a voice as gentle as you look.

Jack passes the clipboard over to you and allows his calloused fingers to brush your softer ones for a beat longer than probably necessary. Though if you notice it, you make no mention of it as you flip through the thin pages and follow behind Robby into the dim room. 

The chaos outside muffles when the door clicks shut behind you. 

A young mother — Nia, the form tells you — sits in a chair beside the bed with a wadded tissue clutched in her trembling hands. Her husband, Malcolm, sits on the edge of the hospital bed, wearing the long day all over, as his daughter curls lazily into his side. Ruby Turner is clammy with fever; her round eyes are heavy with it, too. And beneath her chubby arm, is a stuffed animal wearing a lab coat and a stethoscope around its long neck.

“Hi, there…” you greet in a gentle lilt, crouching beside the bed until you’re eye level with the toddler, who eyes your warm smile with a weary suspicion. “I have to say, that is a very serious giraffe you’ve got there, Miss Ruby.”

The girl blinks back at you with sleep-weary eyes; the same dark brown as her mother’s. “Pickles,” is all she can make out through her hoarse throat. The words came out like dry gravel, which rattles harshly in her chest when she coughs hard a second later.

Her dad pats her gently on the back with a wide hand and flashes you a tired smile. “She named him Pickles,” he clarifies.

“Pickles?” you gasp. “I had a dog named Pickles when I was growing up— He looked a little like that one there.”

You motion to the shaggy white dog on her hospital gown. The girl tilts her curly head down and begins pointing at each puppy herself, aptly naming each of them Pickles. It’s the first time the child has been moderately alert, or otherwise has been willing to engage, since she arrived some hours ago. Watching you work feels a little like watching a magic trick.

“Sorry. Hi. I should probably introduce myself,” you laugh warmly and rise to full height again, shaking both of the parents’ hands. “I’m one of the pediatric caseworkers upstairs— My job is basically helping families know what’s happening next. You know, all the boring insurance details, and making sure you guys aren’t going through things alone.”

The mother nods, wiping her nose with the crumbled tissue in her fist. “So what happens now?” she asks, voice teary and trembling.

You nod with a polite smile. “Yeah, so the pediatric unit is gonna start preparing a room for her upstairs, so our doctors can give her the full evaluation she needs— They’ll probably monitor her over the next few nights, too, just to make sure everything’s okay. And you’ll be able to go with her once transport comes, of course, we’ll just need to get everything squared away with insurance while she’s getting tested.”

“So she’s gonna be okay?” the father presses, half-strangled.

You never lie to families. Not ever. It was, as you saw it, the golden rule in any hospital. Jack noticed that about you, too — because he couldn’t help but notice everything about you. But he saw how hopeful you were without ever being dishonest, without ever making promises you knew you could not keep.

“She’s exactly where she needs to be,” you answer carefully. “And she has the best doctors I know taking care of her now. You guys made a great decision by bringing her when you did.”

The mother beside you sniffles. Her exhale leaves her mouth in a quiet sob, which she buries behind her hands before her daughter can see her crying. It’s not quite sad — certainly not as much as it had been earlier that day — but rather it’s a cry of distant relief; the first time all day she hasn’t felt like the worst mother on the planet.

Robby exhales quietly through his mouth behind you — scruffy cheeks puffing, obviously eager to leave. Jack, however, just keeps on staring at you, as you turn back toward the little girl with your voice now lowered in a feigned sort of seriousness.

“Now, Miss Ruby, I’m gonna need your professional opinion on this, okay?”

The girl blinks slowly back at you.

“…Do you think Mr. Pickles needs his own hospital bracelet, too?”

Jack sees the young girl laugh for the first time all day when you’re helping her wrap a plastic arm band around the giraffe’s stuffed leg. It’s basically your superpower, the way you make all the terrifying things feel halfway manageable. By the time you’re stepping back out into the hallway, with Jack and Robby at your side, the family is a little bit steadier than they were before you arrived.

Jack eyes you up and down for a moment, before leaning in to nudge your shoulder with his broader one. Your soft sweater grazes his bare arm, and he gets a faint whiff of your pretty perfume before he leans away again.

“When did you get so good at that, huh?”

Your head whips to the side. You blink like an owl up at him “…At talking?”

“Sure, yeah,” he laughs. “At talking people off the ledge.”

“Oh.” You bounce a shoulder in a lazy shrug, then reach to pull the neck of your sweater back up again when it slips off your collarbone. “I don’t know, I just… try not to sound like a hospital brochure, I guess.”

“Hear that, brother?” Jack quips, reaching behind you to clap Robby on the shoulder. “Try not to sound like a hospital brochure next time, yeah?”

The older man says nothing. He just lifts his hand and scratches at his temple with his middle finger, discreetly flipping him off.

You laugh under your breath and head back towards the elevator, pretty skirt swishing around your ankles. “Try not to traumatize anyone while I’m gone, alright?”

“Can’t make promises like that down here, Sunshine,” Robby calls back. “You know that.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to think we should just keep you down here permanently,” Jack says with a lazy shrug. His freckled biceps flex slightly when he crosses them over his broad chest, swaying back and forth on his feet. “You know, just— bring you into every room before the doctors go in. We’ll call you the Emotional Support Coordinator.”

“Oh, would you?” you scoff a faint laugh and hit the button for the upper floor. 

The doors part with a soft ding a second later. You step in through the threshold and turn to face him once more, giving him a much better view of the smile on your face.

“I mean, it’d certainly make me feel better,” he jokes.

“Well, you’re not the patient, Dr. Abbot,” you retort with a devilish grin. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got a few more years before your geriatric assessment, right?”

“A few,” he echoes sarcastically, light eyes squinted. “My opinion still counts, though.”

You shake your head at him despite the soft grin still dancing on the edges of your mouth. “You’re funny, Dr. Abbot,” is all you say, as you press the panel on the inside of the lift. The doors whir when they slide shut; your grin remains visible between them until hatch closes just ahead of you.

Jack drops his head with a chest-deflating huff when you’re gone.

Robby tries and fails to choke back his laughter. 

“You are officially 0 for 6, brother,” the man jokes. He claps Jack on the shoulder, hard, as his dark eyes squint under the weight of his smiling. “It’s honestly getting a little painful now.”

Jack turns to flash him a deadpanned look. “Shouldn’t you be clocking out now?” he wonders in a monotone.

“Not anymore,” Robby scoffs. “It’s just starting to get fun.”

The pediatric floor was quieter in the mornings, you found, after switching to the day shift some weeks back. It was never truly silent, exactly, but it was still a little bit softer, as the panic from the overnight patients faded into a calmer sort of quiet. 

Cartoon reruns play quietly behind closed doors, while lively children’s music can be heard from further in the main area, down the hall to your right. A softer set of lullabies, meanwhile, plays more distantly from the nursery behind the double doors to your left. And, somewhere within the soft sanctuary of it all, a wailing baby is fighting a losing battle against taking their liquid medicine.

It’s all confetti to you, really, from where you sit behind the reception desk with three different charts open on the monitors ahead of you. 

There’s a highlighter in your hand, a pen behind your ear, a paper cup of cooling coffee between your teeth, and approximately fourteen unfinished tasks glaring at you from the computer screen. 

You have not yet properly woken up — the same way the sun has not quite yet risen over the horizon. Your hair has been haphazardly dealt with, for one. Your cherry-colored sweater is bunched awkwardly at your waist, for another, while the white button-up you wear beneath it sticks out over top of your plaid-patterned bottoms. You vaguely noticed that your socks were mismatched when you slid into your scarlet flats, but were much too tired to bring yourself to care.

You don’t even flinch when the phone rings beside you. You reach for it with your free hand without looking, missing twice before finally plucking the plastic from the hook.

“PTMC—” You falter when you realize you still have the paper cup between your teeth. You scramble to set it back on the desk with the hand not holding the phone. You clear your throat and try again. “PTMC Pediatrics— How can I help you?”

“Morning, Sunshine.” 

Jack’s low voice crackles from the other line. You can practically picture him downstairs in the E.D. just now — leaning against the workstation with a computer glowing before him; with his messy silver curls, and his tired blue-green eyes, and that stupidly handsome half-smile he gets every time he talks to you.

You’re smiling at the thought alone before you even realize it. 

“Dr. Abbot?” you answer. “Do you need something? What didn’t you just page me—”

“Weren’t you the one who said I can call just to say hi before you switched to the dark side?”

(The day shift, he means.)

You scoff quietly and lean back in your swivel chair. “Well, I guess, that is preferable to getting paged about sick babies, so… I’ll take it.”

“Wow…” Jack croons drily. “You always say the sweetest things to me, you know that?”

“Well, what can I say? I’m very charming before seven A.M.”

“I think you’re very charming all the time, Sunshine.”

You falter for a brief moment, unable to tell if he’s flirting with you or if he’s just being nice and you’re the weirdo for thinking otherwise. So you shake the thought from your head and change the subject entirely.

“You sound tired, old man— Isn’t it almost bedtime for you?”

“Almost…” His sigh crackles through the faint static of the landline. “But unfortunately, there’s this case manager upstairs who won’t stop distracting me…”

You exhale a frustrated huff, utterly oblivious as you begin to gossip with him under your breath. “Is Hastings bothering you, too? Because she’s been hounding me about clearing beds up here since I came in an hour ago.”

There’s a long beat of silence on the other line, filled by the sound of distant chatter from the E.D.

“…I’m talking about you, Sunshine,” Jack clarifies.

“Oh…” you trail off, face burning hot. Your brain scrambles further when the light starts flashing on your desk, another call waiting. “That’s, uh— Sorry. There’s— There’s just someone on the other line.”

“Oh.”

You tuck the phone between your shoulder and cheek, fingers whizzing across the keyboard as you type with practiced (only now slightly anxious) hands. “So if you wanna have a conversation, you’re gonna have to trek all the way up to pedes, unfortunately.”

“Damn…”

“Yep…” you hum absentmindedly. “It’s a real difficult journey. Very treacherous elevator ride.”

“Well, you’re making a pret-ty compelling argument here, Sunshine.”

“Goodbye, Jack,” you lilt with a big dumb grin on your face, that you hope isn’t as audible in your voice.

“See you soon, Sunshine.”

You think nothing of his words when you decline his call and take another. You hardly expect to see him now, not when he’s still wrapping up the long night and briefing the day shift that’s trickling slowly in downstairs. He’s about half an hour shy of going home and collapsing face-first into his mattress — and you’re hardly special enough to lose sleep over.

Jack, however, respectfully disagrees. 

And so does Dana, who saunters into the workstation to start her morning, only to find the man hanging up the desk phone with a lazy grin hinting at the edges of his mouth. 

“What’s that look for, huh?” she croons in place of a greeting, shrugging off the jean jacket she arrived in and spreading it on the back of her chair before her.

Jack looks up from where he’s shoving the phone back into its cradle. “What look?” he scoffs. “I don’t have a look.”

“Oh, you most certainly have a look,” she argues.

“I have a face, Dana.”

“Uh-huh,” the older woman deadpans, half-distracted, as she logs into the monitor ahead of her, with her glasses sitting low on her nose. “And right now, that face looks like you’re the main character at the climax of a Nora Ephron movie.”

“…What’s a Nora Ephron?” Jack wonders with furrowed brows.

The corner of Dana’s mouth lifts in a crooked half-smile as she peers at him over the top of her clear frames. “Go ask Little Miss Sunshine about it. She’ll tell ya.”

Jack’s light eyes narrow in a smug sort of look as he strolls slowly past her. “Thanks for giving me an excuse to go up there, Evans,” he quips. 

“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “You were already on your way.”

There’s a newfound skip in his step, along with a faint limp in his prosthetic from the long shift, as he makes the elevator ride up to the pediatric floor — where he’s greeted instantly by soothing lullabies, children’s laughter, and reruns of old cartoons.

He’s swaddled instantly by the dim lighting and the soft warmth — both of which are rare to find in the cold, sterile chaos of the unrelenting E.D. just a few floors down. It’s like entering a whole new world when he steps out of the elevator.

Jack hears your voice, distant at first, but growing louder the further he treks down the hall. “No, I understand the policy, sir. You don’t have to explain it to me again—”

You exhale an annoyed sigh when the man on the other line prattles on, anyway, talking in a slow monotone as if you hadn’t understood him the first time. Despite your irritation, you perk instantly when Jack enters your vision, still in his black scrubs from the night shift, with a new exhaustion etched across his scruffy face.

He greets you with a tight-lipped smile anyway.

Your chest swells with a funny feeling accordingly.

“Sorry,” you mouth apologetically. “Just— one second.”

Jack waves a hand in your direction. “You’re fine,” he mumbles and turns away, idling awkwardly some feet away with his hands in his pockets, pretending not to hover. He marvels at the paintings on the walls, vivid scribbles from children of all ages, as he shifts on his weight — trying to relieve the distant pressure in his artificial limb.

You return to your phone call some feet behind him: “Yes, I get that. But this is a six-year-old going through extensive leukemia treatment— Delaying authorization for inpatient care would—”

You grumble an annoyed breath and drop your head into your hand when the man on the other line speaks over you once more. Jack glances over his shoulder at you, features softening instantly.

“—No, why should his parents waste their time fighting insurance, which should already be in place, by the way, when they could be spending it with their son? How is that fair?” you continue, obviously angry, but still so soft in your way. There’s a few seconds of silence as the person on the other line responds. You nod wordlessly to yourself at whatever they’re saying. “Yes, I will absolutely call back when your supervisor comes in— and every day until this is handled. Alright? Great. Bye…”

You set the telephone back on the hook with a huff.

“…Asshole,” you grumble around your breath, then get all sheepish again when your eyes find Jack’s. You cower under his softened stare. “Sorry… This insurance company’s trying to deny extended coverage for one of our oncology kids— because apparently compassion is illegal now, so…”

Jack musters a weak smile as he closes the distance between you. “I’m sure it’ll all work out.”

“Hopefully…” you sigh, a little embarrassed now, as you shrink further in your swivel chair. “So, uh... H-How was your shift?”

“Better now,” the older man croons, folding his arms along the countertop ahead of you, and leaning in until you can smell the cologne lingering on his skin — a mixture of leather and sandalwood.

“You’re such a suck-up, Dr. Abbot,” you say with squinted eyes.

His face twists into a look of faux-offense. “Well, that’s not a very nice thing to say to someone trying to invite you out for lunch, now is it?”

You brighten instantly. “Wait, really? That sounds so fun! Are Shen and Ellis coming, too— I haven’t seen them in ages!”

Jack’s smile falters slightly at the edges. “Well… Well, no, ‘cause I.. I thought, you know, it’d be just us. You know, you and me. Like a date.”

You blink owlishly back at him. “Oh…”

“Unless— Unless you don’t want to—” Jack stammers, quickly losing his ground.

“Of course I want to!” you blurt, a little louder and a far quicker than you mean to. “I just… I didn’t— I didn’t realize that you, you know, that you… liked me.”

His brows lower in confusion because, to him, it couldn’t have been more obvious that he was into you. He’d spent months tripping over himself to get your attention, including the time he ran into a crash cart ‘cause he was too busy staring at you to notice that it was in his way.

A chuckle sputters suddenly from his mouth accordingly. “I’ve been flirting with you for weeks! I mean, I’ve been calling up here just to talk to you since you changed shifts!”

“I thought you just liked bothering me!” you giggle in return, face burning hot.

“Yeah, well,” Jack tilts his silver head. “I do like bothering you, actually.”

“I like when you bother me, too…” you murmur sheepishly, struggling to meet the man’s unwavering stare as you swivel anxiously back and forth in your chair. You catch yourself smiling wider than you realize when you tell him, “And lunch sounds great, by the way.”

“Great…” Jack exhales a breath he didn’t know that he was holding, that he feels like he’s been holding in for weeks now. “‘Cause Robby’s kinda been threatening to ask you out for me if I didn’t do it myself, so… Happy to save myself the embarrassment.”

Your eyes widen with a girlish sort of horror. “Wait— Robby knew?”

“Sunshine,” Jack grins. “I’m pretty sure the entire hospital knew.”

The room itself was sparse but functional. He had a narrow bed, a desk, a small bathroom, and the viewport that looked like a prison window. There was a cabinet for him to keep his clothes in; which would have been nice, if he had any clothes at all. But as he wasn’t expecting to be forced to stay within government lines over the course of one meeting, he only had a few things. Eva Stratt promised they’d sort the matter of his new living situation the following morning. 

It was ridiculously easy to feel like he didn’t belong. Grace felt like a sock in a glove drawer. Though he was certain his exhaustion was mostly due to the afternoon he spent speaking to the most powerful people of the world. There was a lot of work to do. He'd had a very long day. He rubbed his face with both hands and let out a long, tired breath. 

“Fudge,” Grace muttered. “What am I doing here?”

A soft knock at the door made him flinch.

He turned, heart already kicking up. “Wh– Yeah?”

The door slid open with a quiet hydraulic hiss. He heard a voice before he saw the person it belonged to. “Dr. Grace,” it said. Familiar. He'd heard that before. The door remained ajar, but his visitor didn't step in. 

Grace clumsily stumbled on some empty boxes as he crossed the room. He was a ball of anxious energy, as eager as he was reluctant to be useful to the team. Did they need him working on something this early? He caught himself on the entryway with a huff. 

“Yes?” He said. “Dr. Grace, that's — that's me.” 

The familiar voice was accompanied by an unfamiliar face. Grace's eyes met a stranger's. They blinked at each other for a while, saying nothing in the time it took for Grace to place where he might have seen them before. He didn't have much luck. 

You stood at his door, dressed in a dark flight suit with a helmet tucked under your arm. A jet pilot. But Grace had seen plenty of jet pilots around; there were quite a lot of them there. The makeshift base for the Taskforce was, after all, a naval plane hangar. This was a jet pilot's natural habitat. 

“Good evening,” you said, when the silence stretched on too long. 

Grace flinched out of his thoughts. “Hello.” 

You shifted your grip on your helmet a little. “I wanted to check if you needed anything before lights out.”

“Um.” Grace wasn't aware that there would be a ‘lights out’, or that him needing anything was a matter of importance. “I don't really…” He trailed off, squinting his eyes at your face, still trying to place you in the myriad of people he'd seen that day. “Sorry, have we met?” 

Your head tilted a little. “We have. This morning. I flew you.” 

Flew him? Oh. OH! It hit him like a slap. 

When Stratt informed him that he would be picked up via jet, Grace’s mind conjured up the image of a private jet. The fancy ones with champagne bottles and shrimp cocktails. It would have been nice, and was greatly preferred. Instead, there was you, and the wildest ride of his meager life.  

The mere memory made him feel as though his guts were bubbling again. He got here on a high-speed jet; not to be confused with the boat they used to cross the River of Styx. Grace spent the first 20 minutes of that flight white-knuckling the straps and wondering if he'd left the stove on. Some of the pills they'd given him never made it to his mouth. The roar of the engine had been so loud he thought he blew an eardrum. Then, he passed out. At least, he was sure he passed out — for there was a sizable gap in his memory between being in the flight and being half-dragged out of the cockpit on shaky legs, knees buckling the second his shoes hit the tarmac. 

He didn't recognize you because of the helmet, and because he'd been too busy rekindling his relationship with God to have noticed who was driving him to his doom. 

“You!” exclaimed Grace, brows now raised in recognition. 

“Me.” You nodded your head. “Now that I'm here, I also wanted to apologize for the intensity of our flight. The Madame Director wanted you on the base by 9 AM and I received the assignment 8 AM, so.” You offered him a forced but apologetic smile. “I had quite a deadline.” 

Grace was grinning at you then, somewhat giddy to see your face. “It's fine. Not the worst ride I've been taken on.” He laughed, loud and awkward. “Sorry. Uh, you said you came to see if I needed anything?” 

You nodded again. “Yes, sir. I’ve been assigned as your personal attaché for the duration of the mission. My quarters are two doors down if you need anything.”

Woah. Okay, lotta’ interesting words there. 

“What?” Grace pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sorry, what does that mean? Attaché? Like the briefcase?” 

“No. It means I work for you. Officially. Whatever you need — transportation, resources, security clearance — I can make it happen. Ms. Stratt put me under your direct command. My priority is keeping you effective and on schedule.”

Grace blinked slowly, as if the words were yet to compute. “You work for me?” He let out a short, incredulous laugh. “That can’t be right.” 

You shrugged. 

“I'm a middle school science teacher,” Grace insisted. “You’re a naval jet pilot who shoots down planes. And you’re telling me I’m your boss?”

You had an unfazed, casual air about you. It was an odd thing to see alongside your intimidating stature. Your uniform was a damn good fit and it made you look like you should be telling Grace what to do. 

“If I might correct you,” you said, leaning in. “You’re not a middle school teacher here. You’re one of the valued scientists that’ll figure out how to keep the sun from dying. A guy like that deserves a bit of privilege, don’t you think?”

Grace opened his mouth only to close it again. He ran a hand through his messy hair. “I mean, surely they've got more important things for you to do.” 

“Yes, plenty.” You nodded. “We’re in the middle of the Pacific, hundreds of miles from the nearest port. If anyone needs something from the mainland, I’m usually the fastest way to get it here. Supplies, equipment, medical samples. This and that.” 

Grace's brows climbed higher with every word. “So you're like, the base's Uber,” he said with a snort. 

You didn't like that. Grace's smile fell upon seeing your jaw flex. He cleared his throat, weakly mumbling an apology. 

“Yes,” you agreed anyway. You sighed a breath out your nose. “If there's a way to do something without the paperwork, Stratt will take it. Most days that means I’m running errands for the whole facility. But for the duration of this mission,” you steadily met his eyes, “my primary responsibility is you.”

Grace gulped. “Why?” 

Your shoulders hiked up in an innocent manner. “In case you bolt.” 

He laughed again, nervous. “I don't see how I'd be able to do that.” 

“You seem creative enough. I'd be wrong to underestimate you.” 

There was a brief silence between the two of you. Grace didn't need to strain his ears to hear the soft creaking of the hull. The slow movement of the hangar was barely noticeable, but with nothing left to say, it was all he could feel. 

“Which reminds me —” You reached into one of the pockets of your flight suit and pulled out a compact military-grade radio. A walkie-talkie. It had a sleek design, reminding Grace of the ones he’d seen in movies. There was a single red marker already set. You held it out to him. “I might not always be available. Channel nine is direct to me. If you need anything — day or night — you use this. I’ll answer.” 

Grace held his fingers out at the device like it might bite him. After hesitating for a moment, he took it in his hand and gave it a closer look. His thumb brushed the smooth plastic as his eyes flicked upwards to glance at you. He tentatively clicked the protruding button on the side, and a matching radio from your utility belt crackled to life.

Without breaking his gaze, you took your radio and brought it up to your lips. “Read you loud and clear, sir.” 

Grace smiled and felt the tips of his ears turn warm. 

The overhead lights stuttered. One by one, each bulb down the corridor flickered shut, until the only illumination left was the soft blue emergency strip lighting along the floor and the faint glow from Grace’s viewport-slash-prison window.

Grace startled, glancing up at the darkened ceiling. “Power failure?” he asked, already tense.

“Lights out,” you replied calmly. “As I’d mentioned. Facility-wide curfew. The seabase runs on strict power conservation protocols after 2100. Non-essential lighting is killed to save the generators for critical systems.”

Grace looked around the suddenly dim hallway, then back at you, the emergency lights casting long shadows across his face.“So we just sit in the dark now?”

The corner of your mouth twitched. “Either you go to bed, or you head to the east wing. Most of the energy we’re conserving is for the labs. Is there anything else you need, sir?” 

“I don’t think you have to call me ‘sir’.” Grace fidgeted with his radio. There was that nervous laugh again. 

You seemed mildly endeared by it. “Two doors down,” you reminded. “Channel nine. Good night, Dr. Grace.” 

He nodded his head, looking a little dumbfounded. He watched you leave his doorstep and walk further down the hallway — only a mere two doors, as you had promised. Grace was about to return to his own room when he flinched upon realizing that he didn’t even know your name. He clumsily grabbed at his walkie-talkie, but it leapt from his hands like it was a live fish. He caught it before it could hit the ground. 

“Wait!” he said, squeezing the button. 

His voice echoed down the corridor and bounced off your device. You hadn’t been far enough for him to have needed the radio. You were standing right there. Grace felt like an idiot. 

You stopped, your back to him. You didn’t turn. You raised your radio to your lips and spoke. “Sir?” 

“I-I didn’t get your name,” Grace whispered into the feed. 

You told him your name, and your rank. Lieutenant Commander. 

“Sounds fancy,” Grace chuckled. 

“It’s alright.” 

“Do you have a callsign? Like in Topgun?” 

“I was waiting for you to bring up Topgun.” 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“You seemed like the type.” Grace watched your shoulders drop as you sighed. From down the hallway, you turned to look at him. You raised the helmet you’d been holding between your arm and your hip. A name was stencilled in bold white letters. 

Grace was smiling like an idiot. “Booker,” he read. 

“At your service.” 

“Why Booker?” 

“I read a lot. Anything else, Dr. Grace?” 

He shook his head, biting his lower lip. “That’s it for tonight, Booker. Will I see you tomorrow?” 

“Actually, yes. We have an early-morning flight. We’ll be retrieving the rest of your things from your apartment.” 

Grace felt his heart skip. He could go back to the city! And here he thought he was trapped here for the rest of his days. He gave you a firm nod and a small salute. He pulled himself back into his room and pushed the heavy hydraulic door shut. 

“Okay,” he said into the radio. “Uh, good night.” 

He didn't think he'd get another reply. There was silence on the other line. He was about to put the walkie away when he heard it fizzle. There was a soft beep.

“Good night, sir.” 

Grace realized that he didn’t actually hate flying. Turns out, it can be pretty cool when you're not fading in and out of consciousness. He spent most of the trip pressed to the canopy, eyes wide behind his borrowed visor, soft “whoa”s and quiet exclamations crackling over the intercom for every time the clouds parted, or the coastline slid into view below. You could hear the boyish wonder in his voice. 

Flying was better the second time around. Rather, when there was no desperate need to sprint from point A to point B. Stratt had given Grace the entire day to sort his things — he'd return to the city to pack for an undetermined amount of time. He'd file an official leave from his teaching at Grover Middle. He'd say his goodbyes. He wasn’t expected to return to the base until evening, therefore the deadline wasn't as tight. You were gentler with the plane, still hair-raisingly fast, but not as abrupt. At least now Grace had a moment (and the cognitive ability) to look out at the view. 

“Hey,” he called. “How long have you been flying this thing?” 

You adjusted your grip on the stick. You figured he'd like a look at the ocean. The jet eased into a gentle bank, tilting towards the glittering water. As you'd expected, Grace went, “Woaahh.” 

“Twelve years,” you replied. “Got my wings as a lieutenant junior grade.”

Grace made a low whistle. “Twelve years. Do you ever get tired of this view?” 

You looked out over the endless blue stretching beneath you. The water seemed as though it was scattered with diamonds, shining under the early morning sun. There was a thin white line of surf tracing the distant shore, clouds casting slow-moving shadows across the Pacific. It was the same view you’d seen a thousand times, yet it never failed to pull something from your chest. 

“It's like the first time every time,” you said softly. You looked over your shoulder. “World looks small from up here, doesn't it, sir?” 

Grace laughed his giddy agreement. 

Later, the jet touched down on a quiet auxiliary runway at Oakland International. The civilian side of the airport was mostly empty. You’d arranged clearance in advance as one of the privileges and responsibilities that came with your role. You landed smooth and received a small sound of approval from your passenger. 

“You're really good at your job,” said Grace, struggling to remove his helmet. 

You chuckled under your breath. “Don't start clapping.” 

When the canopy finally opened, the ground crew rolled the ladder over. Grace climbed down on shaky legs, resembling a newborn deer. His adrenaline had no use for him on land, other than to make his knees feel like jelly. You stepped out after him, his unbothered counterpart. You held his arm to ease him off the jet. 

“Could we do a barrel roll next time?” Grace beamed at you. 

You gave his back a solid clap, half-distracted by the TSA agent asking you questions. “If you promise not to throw up.” 

Grace didn’t hear your conversation over the loud whirring of the planes. He only managed to make the movement of your mouth. He figured it must have been something important. 

“Let’s go,” you called, ushering him off the runway to walk to a dimly-lit hall. It led to a parking space occupied by only one car; an unsuspecting white Honda with heavily tinted windows sat waiting for you both. 

Grace had no intention of getting in your way and followed whichever direction you nudged him towards. The agents who’d been speaking to you dissipated somewhere back in the airport. By the time he made it to the car, the both of you were alone. You opened the passenger door for him. Grace hurried to get in. You murmured something into your radio before you took your place on the driver’s side. 

“Seatbelts,” you told him. 

Grace nodded, buckling himself in. “Boy, you people mean business.” 

The car started with a soft hum. “Where to?” 

Grace sucked a breath into his teeth. He thought about it for a moment. He had the whole day, but a lot needed to be done. He figured he could leave his apartment last and deal with the faculty first. 

“Grover Cleveland Middle.” It seemed to drain him as he said it. He had to file his indefinite leave. Grace leaned his head against the cool glass. “Just, uh, go ahead and drive. I’ll tell you where it is.” 

The car glided from the airfield. 

The process itself would be easy. He knew that. A formal request to the principal, a quick meeting with HR, some paperwork citing personal reasons or, better yet, a damn letter from the president. It wasn’t complicated, and Grace knew his request wouldn’t be met with resistance. But the thought of actually doing it made his chest ache. He'd already been on leave — but that was of the temporary kind. The implications of the word ‘indefinite’ meant that there was a very real chance that he might never get to be a teacher again. There was no telling when his work on the base would end. It was a race against time, but the execution of the project itself could very well take decades. 

Grace went noticeably quiet, watching the San Francisco skyline unfold beyond the windshield. He’d do it for them, he thought. For those bright-eyed kids. For their future. He’d work for as long as necessary. But, god, would he miss them. He would miss the sound of a room full of twelve-year-olds groaning at an awful science pun; the spark of understanding in their eyes when they finally grasp something they’d been struggling with for weeks. 

Grace tried not to think about it. You didn’t say anything to interrupt his moment. Your eyes were on the road. 

After five minutes of nothing but the soft whirr of tires on asphalt, Grace sighed a very loud sigh and seemed to have taken you from some quiet thoughts of your own. “You ever been to the Bay Area?” he asked.

You nodded. “Passed by it a few times, stayed twice or thrice. I'm not entirely familiar with San Francisco.” 

His head lolled from the headrest, tilting to look at you with a defeated sort of languidness. “Where are you from?” 

You smiled a little. “Not San Francisco.” 

“Mysterious,” Grace grumbled. “Is it like, top secret information? Where you’re from? Is that something the government can’t share?” 

“No, I just don’t feel like saying it.” You glanced at him. “Sir.” 

Grace turned to face the window, pretending to take interest in the bridge, and definitely not so he could hide the dumb grin on his face. Maybe he didn’t entirely mind that you called him ‘sir’. 

The Honda pulled into the mostly empty parking lot of Grover Cleveland Middle School. Morning light filtered softly over the wide, one-story building, its brick facade still familiar and ordinary. A few kids were already milling about near the entrance, laughing and shoving each other like the world wasn’t actively ending. Life went on where life didn’t stop. 

Grace pushed air out of his puffed cheeks. He didn’t move for a while, even with the car parked. You didn’t say anything, watching to see what he’d do; if he’d change his mind. 

“Okay.” He turned to look at you. “Okay. I’m gonna go.” He opened his door, then raised his brows upon seeing that you opened yours too. You stepped out at the same time. “Oh, uh, I’m going alone,” he said over the roof of the car. “You wait here. It’s just a bunch of teachers in there. I’ll have a quick word with the principal.”

You nodded your head. “Copy. I’ll wait.”

Both of Grace's hands raised in an awkward double-thumbs up. He didn't know why he did it, but it was all he had managed. He felt weird and slightly flustered by the idea of having something of a security detail following him around. And the flight suit didn't help. Dark olive green, BOOKER on the name tape, Lieutenant Commander bars at the collar. Combined with your tight posture, you looked every bit the intimidating government operative you were. Against the gray, domestic background of a middle school parking lot, you stuck out like a sore thumb. 

“Okay. Good. I’ll see – I’ll see you in a sec.” He had to get out of there as fast as he could. Grace made a beeline for the entrance. The doors swung shut behind him, and the parking lot went quiet. 

Hardly five seconds later, a kid sped past you. He'd been trailing behind Grace at a distance that suggested he was trying to look like he wasn't following him. His sneakers scuffed against the concrete as he ran towards the stairs. He made it to the top of the front steps before something made him stop. The boy turned around. 

You were leaning against the car, arms loosely crossed. 

He stared. 

Your jaw tightened a little. You watched as he walked back to approach you. 

“Are you a pilot?” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

He thought about that. He gave your flight suit a closer look. “My uncle’s in the Air Force.”

“How interesting,” you replied, anything but interested. “I’m in the Navy.” 

His eyes went to the squadron patch on your shoulder, then to the name tape. He pointed at it.  “Which one’s your name, which one’s your callsign?” 

You quirked a brow. “That’s classified.” 

He grinned and revealed a chipped tooth. “Cool.” He took another step closer. “Whose car is that?”

“Government vehicle.” 

“Are you the government?” 

“I work for the government.”

“Is Mr. Grace in trouble?” 

“No.” 

“Then why are you here?” 

“I’m keeping him out of trouble.” 

The boy shifted his weight. He looked at the school doors, then back at you. There was a contemplative expression on his face. It was fleeting, but you caught it. “Is he coming back?” he asked. “Mr. Grace. To school.” 

Something in the question was heavier than the boy intended it to be. You felt your shoulders tense. Your expression (you hoped) shifted into something softer. “I’m not sure.” 

The boy nodded solemnly. 

In the distance, a school bus pulled over. 

His colleagues found him in the hallway afterward. They caught him outside his empty classroom, staring longingly at the seats. Some of them had been surprised to see him and were expecting to have him back. He had to break the news and tell them that he was merely extending his leave. They shook his hand and gave him pats on the shoulder. They wished him luck, for they knew he’d be needing a whole lot of it. 

The paperwork was faster than Grace expected. The whole ordeal was relatively straightforward. Indefinite leave of absence. Effective immediately. Reason: federal appointment, classified. All he had to do was tick some boxes then sign his name around seven times. He figured Stratt had informed his higher-ups beforehand. It was like her to be as impatient as she was efficient. 

His substitute was a younger man named Peter, twenty-seven, fresh from his credential program. Grace found him in the faculty anxiously going through the curriculum binder. He greeted him, sat with him, then told him which students to look out for. Despite his nervousness, Peter had a bright look in his eyes. That eager, go-to fire that assured Grace his kids would be in good hands. When it was time to go, he gave his palm a firm shake. Grace walked back down the corridor without looking at his classroom again. 

Pushing through the door that led back to the parking lot, the first thing Grace heard was laughter; familiar little voices occupying the otherwise lifeless space. He stopped at the top of the steps. 

You were still leaning against the car, arms crossed, brows slightly furrowed. Except now, ten students had gathered into a loose semi-circle around you. Some of them had their backpacks on the ground with no plans of leaving you alone any time soon. You were answering a question, which Grace couldn’t hear. But whatever you had said elicited another chorus of laughter. 

You looked up. You found him in front of the door. “Ah.” Your voice carried across the parking lot without effort. “Now you’re in trouble.” You nodded towards the kids’ science teacher. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Grace?” 

Ten heads turned around simultaneously. 

The sound that followed was difficult to categorize. It was somewhere between a gasp and a shriek in a vocal frequency that middle schoolers — who had just seen something they were not prepared for — were experts in. Several of them were already moving, backpacks abandoned, laces untied. The semicircle dissolved as they surged toward the steps with brand new energy. 

“Mr. Grace!” 

“Where have you been?!”

“Mr. Peter is so boring!” 

“Is it true they got you working on the serious science stuff?!”

Each voice was eager to be heard, and the questions, even more so. Grace came down the steps and into the middle of their commotion. “Hey, hey.” He raised both of his hands. He laughed at their liveliness. “One at a time, guys.” 

And, to their credit, they did speak one at a time. Only they did so in a lightning round and didn’t give Grace a second to answer. “Where are you going?” Marcus’ question was the one he caught. He’d pushed to the front of the group. Grace noticed that his arms were crossed in a manner that was similar to yours. “Like, where actually.” 

He shook his head, smiling tightly. “I can’t tell you. They’re keeping it quiet for now.” 

“Is it dangerous?” Bright-eyed Olivia. 

Grace felt himself hesitate. “Well, it’s — we’re just being precautious.” 

More chatter. They sounded like a council drawing a conclusion. 

“Your friend is super cool,” said Jeff, distracting the group. 

At this, Grace looked up to see you still standing by the car. You shrugged your shoulders at him. 

He spent the next few minutes in the middle of their questions and their noise and their natter, answering what he could and deflecting what he couldn't. Eventually, inevitably, the school bell rang. Grace had half a mind to drop everything and walk into the classroom with them, but he knew he couldn’t do it. Their conversation wound down as the dimming sun inched higher. His students left in ones and twos, backpacks reclaimed, shoelaces tied. Some of them even ran back to give you high fives. Nobody wanted to say goodbye. See you, Mr. Grace. Good luck. Come back soon.

Olivia shook your hand before she left. “Please look after him,” she said. “He’s a really good teacher.”

You gave her a smile so warm, you didn’t realize you were capable of it. 

Marcus was the last one to leave, standing at the bottom of the steps with his hands in his pockets. He had been a difficult kid. He’d been kicked out of his last school and didn’t get his act together until he ended up in Grace’s class. He turned out to be really good at chemistry. 

“You’re gonna do great,” he said. “You’re really smart.” 

Grace nodded. "Thanks, Marcus."

He watched him go, and continued to do so until he disappeared into the hallway, entering his room. Without the kids, the parking lot felt entirely empty. 

Grace walked back to the car.

The drive to Grace’s apartment was quiet. The radio played half-heartedly in the background, filling in for the silence with crackling showtunes and distant commercials. For a long while, the only audible sound was the hum of the engine and the steady monotone of tires against a concrete road. Grace had his head against the window, one foot tapping an idle beat. He'd sigh every once in a while, and you'd glance at him without saying anything. 

The car slowed before pulling up to a stoplight. You took the chance to check your phone for updates. Your brows furrowed at the sight of 4 unread messages. 

“You know, Marcus used to fail every test I gave him,” said Grace. The words left him like he'd been thinking about it for a while. “He didn't like being in school.” 

You turned your head and gave him a nod. “He was very concerned about you.” 

Grace chuckled. “Was he? He's a good kid. He was all over the place during the first semester, but boy is he smart. He just needed a nudge, you know? Most kids do. I try to be the teacher I would've wanted when I was a student.” 

You weren't listening anymore. Something on your phone had taken the last of your attention. Your eyes flickered in all the directions of your screen. You were reading a memo. That can't be right.

Grace didn't notice at first, continuing to talk about the rest of his class. Olivia was his top student. Abby was the second; she was a snappy one, but she was smart as a whip. Larry played guitar, and Jeff was on the football team, Regina liked to crochet. He would have told you about Eli's insane Mario Kart skills had he not realized that you were entirely preoccupied by your phone. The look on your face told him that something was wrong. 

“Everything okay?” asked Grace, tilting his head. 

You were about to answer him when a car horn blared from behind and startled you both. The light had turned green, and the SUV behind you had places to be. Tossing your phone on the dashboard, you grabbed the wheel and drove a small distance until you could pull over somewhere out of the way. 

Grace was still steadying his heart from the horn. “What's going on?” 

You shifted the gear into park. 

“There’s been a development,” you said, taking your phone again. “On the Taskforce.” 

Grace didn’t need to be an expert on reading people to know that you didn’t mean a good sort of development. He watched you scroll through messages and switch from one chatbox to another. The urgency in your movements made him anxious. “What happened?” he asked again. 

“Dr. Yusuf Adeyemi: the taskforce's lead atmospheric chemist. They found him this morning in his hotel room in Oslo.” 

Grace’s brows raised. “Found him? Found him, what? Dead?”

“Killed.”

He felt his stomach sink. “What do you mean killed?” 

“I mean they’re investigating it now and figuring he was killed.” Your brows furrowed as you typed. 

“So what does this mean?” Grace insisted. You’d just told him a man on the mission (in a similar position to his) had been murdered. “A-Are the scientists in danger? Why would anyone be targeting someone who’s actively working on keeping the sun from dying? That’s frickin’ stupid!” 

“Politics, Dr. Grace.” You weren’t looking at him. You were sending reports and updates to the according people. “Men love power and they don’t like sharing it. Eva Stratt has her enemies. Right now there’s talks of the Russian government forming their own Taskforce and opting to start another cold war; a race to see who solves the Petrova Problem first. The project that does gets a lot of credit.” You shook your head. “It’s chatter, but we’re taking it seriously.”

Grace paled in his seat. “You’re kidding me. This is the fate of the world we’re talking about and people are still concerned over who’s better than who.” 

You shrugged your shoulders in a distracted manner. “Men have started wars for dumber reasons.” 

Your phone rang. Grace flinched so hard he might as well have been shot. The screen lit up and showed Stratt’s name in bold letters. You picked up without thought. 

“Booker,” you said into the line. “Yes, ma’am. I saw it.”

Grace watched you, straining his ears to hear the other end. 

“Understood.” You paused. “How confident is the assessment?” Another pause, longer that time. Your eyes cut briefly to him, then away. “Yes, ma’am. He’s with me now.” 

Grace gulped. 

The call went on for a minute longer. It was mostly just you nodding and confirming that you understood. When it was done, you dropped your phone to your lap and held the wheel. Cars whirred past the rental. You were parked on the freeway. Grace felt like panicking, but as you weren’t panicking, he figured he shouldn’t either. 

“Am I in trouble?” he asked, hesitance in his voice. 

You contemplatively chewed on your lower lip. “Since yesterday, you were dubbed as the leading scientist in Astrophage biology.” You nodded. “I’d say you’re pretty important.” 

Grace held his head in his hands. 

“My directives have been updated,” you continued. “Effective immediately, I now double as your dedicated protection detail.”

He blinked at you. “My what.” 

You sighed a breath out your nose. “We’re short-staffed. Every critical member on the Taskforce gets one assigned. They’re working through the specifics right now.” 

Grace wished he hadn’t filed his leave. These sort of things didn’t happen to middle school teachers. “What do we do?” 

“That’s up to you, sir.” Your hand idly ran through the wheel. “Stratt suggests we return to the base immediately, but I understand that we still need to go to your apartment.” 

He couldn’t bring his thoughts together. His heart was racing in his chest. “W-What do you suggest?” 

You took a moment to reply. You looked out the window and up at the clouds. Your leg bounced in the time it took for you to start speaking again. “I’ll be with you,” you said. “I’ll keep a close eye out. I’ll make sure nothing happens — that’s my job. If you want to go to your apartment, then we can go. But you take everything you need, and we don’t linger. Stratt is right: the sooner we’re back on the base, the better.” 

To be clear, you were honored when your childhood best friend asked you to be a bridesmaid in her wedding, thrilled. You stood dutifully by her side through planning and shopping and bridal showers and bachelorette parties. You met her husband-to-be with open arms and didn’t even have to pretend to laugh at any of his jokes. Long distance travel from your current residence in Pittsburgh to your hometown for wedding events meant that you didn’t get to mingle much with the groomsmen, but were promised you would love them. 

Upon arrival at the rehearsal dinner two days ago, you were struck with the realization that you did love one of them, once. The best man, also known as the big ex that broke your heart right before you started your intern year at PTMC. 

“Lovebug!” He greeted, interrupting the bride introducing you, with a smarmy smile and overly affectionate use of his former pet name for you. “Fancy meeting you here!” An evil sort of shine glimmered in his eyes, reminding you of a predator locked in on its prey. One arm, clothed in a too-expensive Armani suit, wrapped snugly around the rail-thin blonde beside him and the pair of them exude an overall better-than-you aura. 

“Oh, you know each other?” Your childhood friend, Kate, asked with a small, excited gasp. She reached for your hand as well as his and held them both with a small shake. “What a small world!” 

“Uh, you could say that.” You mumbled, eyeing your ex uneasily. He flashed the pre-loved Piaget watch that you gifted him for his law school graduation, and you couldn’t quite tell if he was doing so just to rub it in, or if he actually forgot that you gifted it to him and was trying to show off. 

Voice thick with self-importance and false humility, he cut in again. “Lovie here and I helped each other survive the hallowed halls of Columbia together.” The girl on his arm looked less and less interested the more he referred to you with soured old pet names, but she clearly still had the satisfaction of being the one on his arm now, a fact that only made you pity her, want to warn her to get out now.

The gasp that tore at Kate’s throat could rival a soap opera star. “You mean that this Brandon, my fiance’s best friend Brandon is YOUR Brandon?” 

“Formerly my Brandon, yes,” you hissed and shook her hand from your wrist, “but that is all in the past, a fact that I’m sure your lovely date would appreciate being kept in the past, so you can address me by name if you don’t mind. I’m not your Lovie anymore.”

 A few more awkward moments of conversation passed. Conversation in which he continued to talk down to you and make you feel small, feel silly for showing up here alone when you didn’t even know he would be in attendance. Conversation in which you could not stop reliving the pain of catching him cheating on you at your own med school graduation party. Conversation in which you stupidly put your foot in your mouth and told him that no, you aren’t going alone to this wedding, your plus one just had to work late that night and would be joining you for the wedding itself.

Sitting here now, as Brandon wraps up what was admittedly a pretty compelling best man speech with a disgusting, drunken double entendre, you can’t help but wonder why you said that. It’s not like it was an easy lie to back up. You hardly know anyone here, nobody even close to being able to pretend they are your plus one. 

As the night goes on, all eyes are on Kate and her new husband. Or, all but two. You can feel his smug stare as they cut the cake, as they shared their first dance, and a familiar shame comes creeping back up your neck. The longer the night goes on, the more it feels like he is practically gloating, that he somehow won, coming up on top from your breakup with the successful career and beautiful sorority girl arm candy and not showing up to a wedding alone and lying about having a date. As if you weren’t killing it in your emergency medicine residency and saving lives every damn day. 

When the dance floor opens to the guests, you beeline for the bar and order a double of your go-to drink, scanning the room desperately one last time for a familiar face as Brandon and his date head right for you. 

“Where’s this date I heard so much about?” He asks, just to be the asshole he is, he clearly doesn’t care much past humiliating you. He greets the bartender by name in a slimy voice and orders his usual beer, not once asking his date what she would like.

You sweep your hair over one shoulder and fidget with the pendant at your chest. “He um, had to work longer than expected.” The bartender hands over your drink and smiles graciously when you toss a ten into the tip jar. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, preparing for more scathing remarks from your ex. He makes some sort of fake sentimental comment that lets you know he knows you’re lying, but it falls on deaf ears as you catch someone new walking through the double doors at the back of the room. You’re so desperate to find a familiar face that you could swear this newcomer approaching the bar is – 

“Jack! You made it!” Kate’s mom shouts the name and bounds over to the man who you can now confirm is your night shift attending physician. 

Brandon’s arrogant voice is still buzzing next to you, but you pay him no attention and mumble, “uh, if you’ll excuse me,” without even looking at him and make your way toward Jack Abbot. 

He catches sight of you over her shoulder, and he nods along with what she is saying but his eyes are fixated on you the second he recognizes you. Confusion colors his stare, but there’s something heavier there, a slow smirk that spreads onto his features as you approach and his eyes track your movement. 

“ –Oh, but please, go get a drink, what’s important is that you’re here now! We’re so glad you made it. Katie will be so happy to see you.” Your friend’s mom pulls Jack in for another quick hug and then is flitting off to greet more guests that she hasn’t had the chance to speak with yet, leaving you the perfect opportunity to interject. 

“I thought that was you, Dr. Abbot.” You say in greeting, a small grin gracing your lips. He cleans up well, not that you ever doubted it, in a well tailored navy blue suit and crisp white shirt pulled almost too-taut across his chest, no tie. “Pardon my French, but what the hell are you doing here?” 

He appraises you with his stare, eyes following the way that the satin bridesmaid dress hugs you in all the right ways, rolling his lips between his teeth before grinning again. You and Dr. Abbot are no stranger to lingering glances like this. Whether it’s your Sunday best at this wedding, or rumpled scrubs after a long shift, the two of you always seem to find each other in the chaos and appreciate what you see. Still, in this context, when you can feel his breath fanning against your sweat-damp collarbone, when you catch a whiff of his woodsy cologne instead of sterile antiseptic…it somehow all feels heavier. 

“I could say the same to you,” he breathes, reaches a hand out as if he were going to hold your waist, but hesitates and drops it once more. “We’re a long way from Pittsburgh.” 

“I grew up here,” you explain, wrinkling your nose at the memories, “Kate and I have been best friends since we were three.” 

“Small world,” he hums, lost in thought as he twists his wedding band in place on his finger. He seems to contemplate his next sentence for a moment, looking up to the ceiling with a steadying breath. “My late wife,” he finally utters, voice low and tinged with a melancholy fondness, “was her mom’s roommate before we got married. You wanna talk about best friends, those two were thick as thieves. If I hadn’t been stationed overseas when Katie was born we would have been her godparents.” 

You take the last sip of your drink, surprised to find it empty already, and let out your own, “small fuckin’ world.” Your eyes drop to the silver stubble along his jaw, the open collar of his dress shirt, and you bite back a grin, feeling lucky that you’ve found yourself in such a context to get to see him like this. 

“What’s that look for?” He prods.

You manage to giggle out a quiet, “nothin’.” 

Feeling a distinct lack of eyes on you, you turn back toward the bar to confirm that your ex and his date are no longer there, feeling a slight weight off of your shoulders, even for a moment. “I don’t mean to keep you, Dr. Abbot,” you say with a sigh and reach out to squeeze his shoulder affectionately, “go, find the people you came here to see.” 

“Alright, yeah,” he nods once, shoving his hands in his pockets, but if the tone of his voice and the way his eyes rake over your features suggest anything, he couldn’t care less to do anything but stand in the middle of the dining tables and keep this conversation going. “But honey,” his voice is warm, the term of endearment lingering between you, “we’re not at the hospital, please call me Jack.” 

“Sure,” you beam, turning to head back to the bar. Before you make it too far, you look over one shoulder to catch him still standing in the same place, watching you go. “Save a dance for me later, Jack?” 

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he promises. 

A blissful hour of cake and champagne and dancing carefree with the other bridesmaids later, you’re reminded all too suddenly of the reason your mood was sour to begin with. His date is sitting at their table, giving her feet a rest from the 5-inch heels she refuses to take off, and he has found a comfortable spot at your side, being annoying as ever.

The bar staff is busier now, but the same bartender from earlier recognizes you and the fact that you’ve tipped every single time, so she prioritizes taking your order. It, regrettably, still takes some time to get made, and as you wait, Brandon talks your ear off about how well things have gone for him in the year and a half since your breakup. You’re rubbing your temples and contemplating slamming your head into the wooden bartop when he gloats about your very real date still not being in attendance. 

Not for long, though. 

A warm hand finds the small of your back, and you stiffen for just a moment before the masculine scent of Jack Abbot’s cologne convinces you to relax once more. He presses against you in an embrace more familiar than you would expect, and the gravel in his voice sends a shiver up your spine when he leans down to ask, “you okay, honey?” 

When you turn to steal a glance at him, for all the warmth in his tone, his stare is harsh and cold and fixated on your ex. You wonder if he’s caught on, if he heard what Brandon was saying about your date and decided to play the part. That’s when you decide to lean into it, to put on a bit of a show. 

You pull your best pout and lean back into his chest, silently thanking the powers that be when he follows suit and drops his other hand to tangle his fingers with yours. 

“Yeah, I’m sorry darling,” the pet name feels foreign on your tongue but you pour all the sweetness you can manage into your tone to combat it. “I completely forgot what you asked me to order for you, I was just trying to remember when Brandon here came up for a chat.” 

Jack steels his resolve, tries not to jump to conclusions, because how many Brandons are there in the world? But he recognizes that look in your eyes, the pinch between your brows and the hesitation when the pompous asshole in front of you talks. He remembers the name Brandon from your very first week at PTMC, when Trinity practically forced the story of your breakup out of you, and Jack is a pretty smart man, he’s confident in his ability to put two and two together.

“It’s okay,” he assures, squeezing your hand affectionately, then orders an aged scotch on the rocks from the bartender who was patiently waiting. He plays the part of the doting boyfriend and smiles as he tucks your hair behind your ear gently. “You’ve had a long day, lots on your mind–”

“Stuck at work, huh?” 

Both you and Jack turn to Brandon in a snap, his bitter tone cutting through the sickly sweet moment, no matter how fake it may have been.

“Uh, yeah.” Jack answers dryly. “Happens sometimes in emergency medicine. Which is something that you understand all too well, don’t you, sweetheart?” He asks the question into your temple, and places a kiss there for punctuation. When did he get so good at acting? Your cheeks flame and you have to hold back the snort of a laugh at the way Brandon stutters in front of you. As soon as Jack’s scotch arrives, he steers you away from the conversation and back to his table. 

“Thank you,” you mumble pathetically into your own glass once you sit down. You giggle again at the absurdity of the situation. “You really didn’t have to do that.” 

Jack leans against the back of the chair, elbow perched on the backrest of your own, arm dangled casually around your shoulder. The ice in his drink rattles as he taps your shoulder with the cool glass and shrugs. “Maybe not, but I didn’t like the way he was talking to you. You are so much more than what one asshole makes you out to be. Especially one that cheated on you after four years.” 

“How did you–” 

“C’mon,” he laughs, and it’s contagious. “Same name as the guy who had you moping around for the first half of your intern year. Not to mention the fact that I’ve never seen anyone get under your skin like that, not even Robby when he’s in a mood. Wasn’t too hard to put together.” 

Emotion swells in your chest, your throat constricting at the mere feeling of being seen. 

You sit with Jack in the quiet as the DJ fades between songs. The room is alight with merriment, joyous laughter and shouting from the dance floor, cutlery clinking as the catering staff clear tables, a few people on the outskirts of the room chatting jovially, but between you and Jack it’s quiet. You sip on your drinks and occasionally catch the other staring, looking away all too quickly, until the DJ announces that he’s going to slow things down for a bit before switching to what he calls the “after the grandparents leave” playlist. 

The first few notes of Elton John’s Your Song drift through the room, and this time when you look at Jack, he doesn’t look away. Instead, he tilts his head to the dance floor in invitation, and you happily accept. He shrugs out of his suit jacket, abandoning it on the back of his chair and god bless it, rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing the taut muscle and freckled skin on his forearms in a way that should not be so delicious. Luckily, he doesn’t catch you staring before offering a hand to lead you to the dance floor. 

Among the other happy couples in the room, Jack Abbot holds you at a respectable distance, one hand on the small of your back and holding your own hand with the other. Together, you sway to the music and the rest of the room melts away. 

“I can’t believe I haven’t told you yet,” he says, so low and honey sweet that it feels dangerously intimate. His hand tightens on yours, “you look radiant tonight.” 

“Now that’s a million dollar compliment,” you hum, dropping his hand in favor of twining both of your arms around his neck, pulling him closer still and burying your fingers in the peppered curls at the base of his neck. “You clean up pretty well yourself. ‘S nice getting to see each other in something other than scrubs.” 

With your change in position, his hands now rest on your hips, drawing you more and more into his body heat as the song fades from tinkling piano to soft, acoustic guitar. He shakes his head at your words, eyes falling shut in thought, and he squeezes gently at the flesh on your hips. “No, I mean it,” looking back into your eyes, there’s a ferocity there that makes your steps falter, breath caught in your throat. “Not just as a pleasantry or as someone putting on a show for some asshole…I think you’re incredible, sweetheart.” He pauses, deliberates on his words, like he is making sure his point lands. “I mean, you’re a sight in scrubs too, especially when you’re making sure everyone knows you’re the smartest one in the room, but you’re a goddamn knockout right now. This dress. This dress was made for you.” 

“I think you’re letting all the romance in the air get to your head, Dr. Abbot.” You tease, continuing to toy with the hair at his nape and savoring the way his hands grip your hips tighter again when you say his name. 

“Please,” he huffs and finally pulls you flush against him, arms wrapping tight around you, and he murmurs directly in your ear, “drop the formalities. It’s just Jack here.” 

“Mmm, if you insist,” you sigh and rest your cheek on his shoulder, enjoying his closeness for the remainder of Dylan’s original Make You Feel My Love.

When the song is over, you don’t part, not all the way, but you lean back enough to squint up at the man in front of you affectionately. He holds your elbows and savors the way you’re admiring him for just another moment. 

You’re about to say something when there’s a beat drop and an air horn and lights all dim. Some of the dancers around you hoot and holler, and suddenly Kate is at your side yelling something about “our song.”

“Oh, yeah,” you shoot her a tight smile, then back at Jack with drawn brows. “Give me just a minute, Kate?” 

“No, go ahead,” Jack insists, patting his right leg sheepishly, “I need a break anyway, you girls have fun, I’ll still be here when you’re done.” 

You give him a sympathetic look, but he isn’t having any of it, insisting you go enjoy your night and celebrate with your friend. 

From the semi-privacy of the dance floor, in low lighting and pumping bass, she asks you, “Okay, what was that about? You know that’s basically my uncle, right?”

You only shake your head and promise to tell her whenever you figure it out for yourself. 

The rest of the night passes in a blur of dancing and flashing lights. You celebrate with your friends, share a drink with Kate’s mom and reminisce on your childhood, catch her up on your residency, and even join her new husband, Jack, and her father out on the balcony of the venue, enjoying the cool night air as the three men talk over celebratory cigars. The one thing that you don’t miss as the evening goes on is the spiteful stare of an ex boyfriend whose attendance you couldn’t care less about. 

When the attendance dwindles, you hang back to help break down some decorations and make sure the couple isn’t left with loads of work for themselves. Kate’s parents and siblings practically have to shove you out the door, insisting that they have it from there and you’ll miss the last shuttle back to your hotel if you stay any longer. So you grab your clutch and dangle your heels from your fingertips, padding out to the shuttle bay with bare feet and a happy, exhausted little smile. 

“‘Bout time.” 

Jack is leant against the brick exterior of the venue, his jacket dangling from two fingers over his shoulder, sleeves still rucked up, hair and shirt collar still rumpled from your hands earlier, and he looks like he could eat you for dessert. 

“You didn’t have to stay!” You simper and tap his chest with your clutch. 

“Wanted to make sure you made it back safe,” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like he actually was your date. You aren’t sure if it’s the weight of his sentiment or the light breeze that makes you shiver, but Jack picks up on it immediately and he’s quick to offer his jacket, holding it open for you with a quiet, “here.” 

You envelop yourself in the warmth of the jacket, surrounded by the comfort of his scent and hum of cicadas. Suddenly shy in the vast open air outside of the venue, you mumble your thanks to his shoes, peering down to avoid eye contact. 

His knuckle catches your chin, lifting your face to meet his eye, shifting his hold to stroke absently at your cheek with one thumb. 

You don’t realize how close you’ve leaned in, eyes flicking rapidly between his own, until he speaks, barely a whisper and you can feel his breath fanning across your lips. “When we get back to Pittsburgh,” he drops his own gaze to your lips, ever so quickly before meeting yours again. “Can I take you to dinner?” 

He waits for the ghost of your nod before finally closing the miniscule gap between you. His free hand joins the other, caressing both of your cheeks with eager hands and pressing his lips to yours. Jack swallows your small noise of surprise, and you can’t help but grin into his lips, bringing your hands to rest on his chest as he kisses you, unhurried, like he’s studying every reaction, every hitch in your breath. 

The hotel shuttle arrives and the brakes squeal as it pulls up to a stop beside you, but you’ve only just gotten a taste of kissing Jack Abbot and you have no intention of stopping now that you’ve started. You pout when he pulls away from your lips, twist your hands in the fabric of his dress shirt, and savor the low rumble of his laugh at your disappointment. You chase his lips and kiss him once, twice more, not wanting to burst the dreamy bubble you’re in just yet. 

“Honey,” he near chastises, “the shuttle’s gonna leave us,” this time he interrupts himself to pull you back into him, pressing one last soft kiss to your forehead that makes you melt a little bit more. 

“Fine,” you hum, and let go of his shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles from where you held it. He guides you onto the shuttle and nods at the driver in thanks. Once he’s seated next to you, you lean your head on his shoulder and blink up at him. “But I wanna keep kissing you back at the hotel.” 

The shuttle driver suppresses a laugh as he pulls off of the curb, but neither you nor Jack pay him any mind. 

“Of course, sweetheart,” he relents with a sly smile, brushing your hair out of your face, “all night if you want to.” 

It was by chance, choosing your roommate. An online search that yielded only two results.

The first—a man in his fifties who was, exclusively, looking for women in their twenties to share an apartment with. That one was easy to ignore, which left you with only a single other result that you had no hope for after reading the description of your first choice.

To your surprise, the description of your second option for a roommate was exponentially better.

Male, thirties, no pets, open to males or females. I occupy one bedroom in a two bedroom apartment and am looking for someone to occupy the other. You will have your own room, but a shared living room, kitchen and bathroom. My occupation is a middle school science teacher, so my schedule is set. I would prefer someone with a similar work schedule, but am open to other options as well. Rent and utilities will be split equally. If you are interested, my contact information is listed.

A year later, you can’t help but be grateful for giving your second option a chance.

If you hadn't, you never would have met Ryland Grace.

You and Ryland had clicked almost instantly. He was kind and accommodating, even taking a whole entire Saturday to help you move all of your boxes and furniture in when you made the big move. The two of you also built your new dresser together that first weekend, which is the first big test of any relationship, platonic or romantic. It didn't end in arguing about who was right and wrong, instead the time was spent laughing together and getting to know how each others brains ticked. Admittedly, though, it did take the two of you entirely too long to build that dresser.

The two of you fell into an easy rhythm of living together. It helped that your schedules were similar, giving you more time to spend together after your workdays to get to know one another past just the surface level details. You had expected your roommate to be someone you were cordial with, spoke to in passing, but never went out of your way to get to know on a deeper level, but with Ryland it was different.

You found yourself looking forward to coming home and being able to debrief about your days together, which quickly became a habit. Ryland always speaking of the students in his classroom and you, always the kids that came into the library. Sometimes they overlapped, his students coming into the library after school to work on projects. You had heard stories about their fantastic science teacher, which you later learned was Mr. Grace. On one occasion, you let it slip that you knew Mr. Grace, which didn't seem like a big deal at the time, but you later realized was a mistake.

Ryland came home the very next day with a story about the huge rumor that had dropped that day about Mr. Grace’s secret girlfriend who worked at the library. The two of you spent the rest of the evening laughing about it, and it turned into one of your favorite inside jokes that you shared.

You did find yourself becoming attracted to the scientist-turned-science-teacher, but that was something you would never confess to, at least not to Ryland. It was too nice of a living situation to risk things turning sour, so you bit your feelings back and swallowed them down the best that you could. There had been hints of reciprocal feelings, small gestures and comments that never went any further—nothing physical or concrete to really go off of.

Which is why you found yourself hooked up on a blind date—someone a friend had said you might like. You didn’t have high hopes, but you still agreed.

You just hadn’t told Ryland yet.

You make your way towards the kitchen, freshly showered and dressed, but still stifling a yawn against the back of your hand as you cross the threshold into the kitchen.

“Good morning, sleepyhead. Did you snooze your alarms again?” The familiar cheery voice of Ryland greets you. He has his back turned towards you, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He's already dressed, wearing his knitted fox cardigan that you love, and had, admittedly, stolen a few times to wear to work. You received lots of compliments on it, too. It also was more ammunition to feed the secret girlfriend rumor at school.

“It’s not even seven yet, Ry.” You argue, pulling the chair out from the kitchen table and taking a seat. You did snooze your alarm, but you wouldn't dare to tell him that. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right this early in the morning.

“You’re usually showering by six, I didn’t hear the faucet turn on until quarter after six this morning.” He states matter-of-factly, finally turning to face you. He’s holding two cups of coffee, you notice one of the mugs as his—a mug you bought him for his birthday that says I make horrible science puns, but only periodically.

The other is yours—a mug he bought you for Christmas that’s speckled with stars, and in the center it says you’re the star of this story. He places the mug in front of you without a word before bringing his own mug to his lips and taking a large sip of his coffee, drowning almost half the mug in one go. You're positive it's probably already his second cup this morning.

“Wow, Ry, that’s a bit creepy, don't ya think? I think I might need a new roommate who hasn’t memorized my shower schedule.” You tease with a smile, wrapping your fingers around the mug and letting the hot porcelain warm your palms. Truthfully, you liked that he had memorized your schedule. Knowing that you take up space not only in his apartment, but in his mind too makes your stomach flip with what you can only describe as butterflies.

“C’mon, after a year of living together I know your routine and our rhythms. You’re trying to paint me unfairly as some freak and I do not appreciate that, thank you very much. Especially this early in the morning.” His eyes crinkle behind his glasses as he laughs, watching as you take a sip of your coffee. You hold it in your mouth, the sweetness of the creamer mixed with the bitterness of the coffee coating your tongue deliciously before you swallow with a content sigh.

He has your coffee preferences down, too. He used to tease you about how much creamer you consumed, saying that you liked the sugary taste more than the coffee itself, which while it was definitely true, you always argued that that just wasn't the case.

Though, recently, you’ve noticed that there's always an extra unopened container of your favorite creamer sitting in the fridge, waiting specifically for you. He doesn't acknowledge this new habit, doesn't hold it over your head. It's just Ryland being Ryland, doing something for you and expecting absolutely nothing in return. Just one of the many reasons why you've found yourself holding a certain fondness for him—a crush? That sounds utterly ridiculous for your age, so you'll stick with fondness.

“Good?” He raises his eyebrow expectantly, his glasses have slipped down his nose, so he's staring at you over the lenses rather than through them, waiting for your response.

“Perfect.” You answer, placing the mug back down, a soft clink rings out as it hits the table. He smiles and nods, already knowing what your response would be.

"It's Friday, so you're off at four today, right?" He asks casually, bringing his mug back to his lips and finishing off his coffee before turning and placing the empty cup in the sink basin.

"That would be correct." You nod even though he can't see you. "You know, you're really not helping those freak accusations we talked about. First my shower schedule and now my work schedule? It just keeps piling up." Your voice is light, your smile shining through the words.

"Can't a guy just have a good memory?" He teases, spinning back around to face you. That slanted smile you've grown attached to is plastered on his lips.

"Maybe." You return with a shrug of your shoulders, smile still on your face. Everything pauses as the two of you just look at one another, taking each other in. The moment is soft and fleeting, but it still makes your heart clench. Before you know it, he's pushing himself away from the counter and coming to pass you, reaching his hand up and ruffling your hair as he passes by.

"Hey!" You protest, swatting your hand at him and missing, which earns you a childish laugh from him as he carries himself to the living room, entirely too pleased with himself.

The conversation lulls as the two of you go about your morning, existing side by side, but not exactly together. His presence is always near, but never overbearing. It’s nice, comfortable even. You finish your coffee off before standing and making your way to the sink to set your empty mug beside his in the basin. His footsteps sound in the hallway, old floorboards groaning under his weight as he makes his way back to the kitchen where you still are, grabbing your lunch from the fridge to pack it away.

When he reaches the kitchen, he has his bike helmet in his hand and his backpack on his back, signifying that he’s getting ready to leave. “Did you want to get food from that new Thai place tonight? I’ve heard good things this week in the break room about it. I can grab it on my ride home if you do.” He offers, pausing by the table as you zip up your lunchbox. Your movements still as you take in his words.

Your date is tonight.

You know you're not doing anything wrong by going on a date, but your stomach still flips with a weird sense of guilt for Ryland and the fact that you haven't told him yet.

“Actually, I won’t be home tonight,” you start, and you can see the confusion wash over his features in real time. “I have a date tonight.”

Your heart just dropped to your stomach.

You're sure of it.

It takes a few seconds, but he responds. “A date?” He echoes the word, voice slightly frayed at the edges. He tilts his head, shifting his weight between his feet uncomfortably as he waits for your response.

“Yeah,” you laugh nervously, picking at the zipper of your lunchbox. “A blind date. One of my friends set it up, it’s silly really.” Your cheeks start to warm as you finish your sentence. That guilt that started in your stomach is working its way up to your chest, and it's moving rapidly.

Ryland recovers swiftly, nodding his head and giving you a small smile, but you're not really sure it reaches his eyes.

Are you making things up? Seeing things that aren't there?

You have to be.

“It’s not silly. Is he picking you up?” He questions, but you think you know what he’s really asking. Am I going to meet him?

“No,” you shake your head quickly, “I’m taking the bus. Meeting him at the restaurant. I didn’t want him to know where I live just yet. I know my friend knows him, but I just didn't really think that was a good idea. You never know." You know you were rambling, but you just couldn't stop yourself. It's something you do when you're nervous—a trait you've found out you share with Ryland.

“Yeah, you never know really. That’s smart. Definitely very smart. I'm proud of you. Well—uh, I’ve got to head out. I'm going to be late if I don’t get going now. I’ll see you after work? Will I see you? Before your date?” He's rambling too, the both of you just word-vomiting all over the place from nerves. It could be funny if these weren't the circumstances.

“Yeah, I’ll be here. I’ll see you before I leave. I hope you have a good day.” He's walking past you and to the door as you speak, planning his exit as quickly as he can. With his hand on the knob, he pauses and turns his head over his shoulder to look at you once more.

“Yeah, you too. Sounds good. I'll see you tonight.” Then he’s out the door, leaving you standing alone in the middle of your shared kitchen with the feeling that you're doing something entirely wrong.

───

Your shift at the library seems to drag on and fly by simultaneously. It’s probably the nerves. At this point you don't know if they're from your date, or seeing Ryland when you get home.

Probably both.

───

Before you know it, you’re home and changing into your dress for the date that you're not even entirely sure you want to go on anymore. You don’t feel the need to make any drastic changes to your makeup, so you just do a small touch up on your makeup from work. Taking a final look in the mirror, you exhale a deep breath and work up the courage to make your way to the kitchen where you know Ryland will be waiting.

When you reach the end of the hallway, you see him sitting at the table, a pen in his hand and his focus on the stack of students’ tests that sit in front of him as he works through grading each of them thoroughly.

“You know you really shouldn’t be bringing work home, Mr. Grace.” You tease him like normal, because it's the only thing you know to do. Smoothing the skirt of your dress out, you close the distance to the kitchen table where he's stationed. His focus flicks up towards you, you watch the way his eyes take in your appearance, the way they linger on your dress before moving up to your face.

“That’s the life of a teacher. Overworked and extremely underpaid.” He responds casually, placing his pen down and stretching his arms out. You hear something pop, probably his back from being stiff and him sitting crouched over the table.

Something you've gotten on him for plenty of times.

“Isn’t that the truth.” You smile faintly, tapping your fingers against the table.

He only nods, so you continue, “Well, I’m getting ready to head out. Do I look okay?” You question him quietly, pulling your arms to your sides so he can get a good look at you. You find yourself wanting his validation.

“Yeah, you do,” he nods, giving you a small smile. “You look very pretty in your dress. I like that color on you. It looks good with your skin tone.” His voice is soft and sincere, almost shy in a way as he speaks. It makes you smile, a real grin that you can’t contain.

“Thanks, Ry. I appreciate that.” And you do. More than he will ever know.

“If you need anything, just call me, okay?” His voice has grown serious now. “If anything at all goes wrong—don’t hesitate. Call me and I’ll be there to get you, even if I have to sit you on the back of my bike and peddle the both of us home.” You let out a small laugh at the mental movie your mind creates for you. It's ridiculous, but you're one hundred percent positive that he's telling you the truth.

“I’ve got you on speed dial. You're my emergency contact if it goes south.” It sounds like a joke, but he really is your emergency contact.

Just the same as you are his.

“And you better use it if you need to.” He smiles, voice full of sincerity.

“I will. I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

“I’ll see you soon. I hope it goes well.”

“Thanks, Ry.”

Then you're out the door, leaving Ryland sat at the kitchen table wondering why his heart feels like it's been broken into two.

───

You knew the date wasn’t going anywhere almost as soon as it started. The man was nice, the conversation flowed, but you just didn’t click.

It also didn’t help that you kept comparing him to Ryland all night. Comments he made, jokes he said that you just knew Ryland would never say. He didn't have that same effect on you that Ryland had. That easy connection that blossomed between the two of you almost instantaneously just couldn't be replicated with the man you met tonight, but that didn't surprise you, not really. Ryland was one of a kind, the type of soul that you could never find in another body no matter how hard you looked.

You knew your feelings for Ryland were there, constantly lingering and slowly growing, but you hadn't realized just how deeply they ran until tonight. All your date had shown you tonight was that you never wanted to go on another one if it wasn't with Ryland.

───

You turn the doorknob to your shared apartment and let yourself in—the apartment is dark and quiet, except for the sound of old reruns playing on the television in the living room. Your eyes flick to the time on the clock and you furrow your brows.

It's late.

Ryland is usually sleeping by now.

You slip your sandals off slowly, careful to not make any excessive noise. Cautiously, you make your way towards the living room, your steps are quiet just in case Ryland has fallen asleep accidentally on the couch. It's not common, but it has happened before. You peer into the living room and see him on the couch, but he's not asleep just yet. His eyelids look heavy, half-lidded, trained on the television, but you're not sure he's actually watching it. You see an empty takeout container of what you can only assume is the Thai food he spoke to you about this morning. The old floorboards creak under your foot as you step on a particularly touchy spot, giving you away. His head turns quickly, eyes opening wider as he sees you standing in the entryway.

"Are you trying to sneak in on me?" He teases sleepily, that easy humor threading itself through his voice as he speaks.

"You caught me red handed." You sigh dramatically, raising your hands in mock surrender as you carry yourself further into the living room, not focused on being quiet anymore.

He watches you, silently, but you can tell there are words sitting in his throat that he won't let come out just yet. He waits, ever so casually, as you take a seat on the middle cushion of the couch, curling your legs up under yourself.

"Did you wait on me?" You know those aren't the words he wants to hear right now, but you ask anyway, eager to hear his answer.

"Yeah, well—I tried to. I think I was about half asleep when you came in. Didn't even hear the door open." His response was what you were hoping to hear. A smile forms on your face as you watch him shift his body to face towards you. He props his elbow on the top of the back of the couch, leaning his head against his hand, the movement causing his glasses to slightly shift.

"I was quiet. I thought you'd be sleeping so I didn't want to disturb you." You shift now, scooting in deliberately closer to him. Your knee knocks into the side of his sweatpant clad thigh and he feels it, glancing down at the contact before bringing his eyes back up to find yours again.

Neither of you move.

"You never disturb me." He tells you softly, the words dancing around in the air for a moment as you pause.

"I don't think there will be a second date." You finally say, giving him an entryway into the conversation he's been waiting to have.

You swear he almost looks relieved when he hears confirmation that the date didn't go as planned. His shoulders loosen ever so slightly and he nods his head. "I'm sorry it didn't work out." The words sound sincere enough.

"No, don't be sorry. I didn't have high hopes anyway." You shrug casually, sighing lightly. "We just didn't click very well—you know?" You scrunch your brows together while you think and he gives you a nod to continue. "Sometimes you just click with people and you know it will lead somewhere. That didn’t happen.”

"Yeah, I understand what you mean. Completely." A pause, then he opens his mouth to speak again, closes it, and the words wither up and die on his tongue before he can even spit them out.

"Like, you and I, we click. I just didn't feel that with him." You're hoping he catches the hint you're throwing him, but knowing Ryland, he probably hasn't.

"Yeah, we clicked very well. We're very good friends."

There is the confirmation that he hasn't caught the hint. It makes you laugh, how oblivious he can be to things sometimes. Your laughter confuses him, his brows now knitting together as he thinks.

"What?" He questions, letting out a nervous laugh because he feels like he's missing out on something.

He most definitely is.

"He just wasn't you, Ry." The words are quiet, but they're out there now. Hanging between the two of you like a bridge, an invitation that you hope he will accept.

"What? I'm sorry—what was that?" He's leaning his head in closer to you now, as if he'll understand what you're saying if he can just close the distance between the two of you.

You try again.

More straightforward this time.

"He wasn't you. I think I knew it wasn't going anywhere before I even met him. I kept thinking of you, and he just wasn't you. The way he made me feeling isn't the way you make me feel. You make me feel things I've never even experienced before. This date just made me understand what I've been too stubborn to acknowledge for awhile. I have feelings for you, Ryland." Your nerves have caught up to you, evident from the lengthy explanation you give him. He's quiet, taking your words in and trying to digest them—make sense of them.

Your heart is trying to make its way outside of its home in your chest as the seconds tick by.

"You don't know how long I've hoped to hear those words from you." He breathes, his words dripping with honesty. "I think I've had feelings for you since about the fourth month of you living here. It was so hard not to, but I didn't want to make you uncomfortable so I just tried to push them down." You think he's finished, but he continues. "I almost went crazy tonight, sitting here thinking about that awful date and worried you would come home with good news. I know that makes me a horrible person, but I don't think I care anymore."

His confession has you melting, your legs turning to jelly where they sit beneath you. You lean closer into him, reaching your hand forward, not realizing where it's about to land, and place it on the top of his thigh. The two of you look down to where your hand has landed, its place on his thigh that is so dangerously close to his dick. You both look up at the same time, eyes locking on each other. You find no indication that he wants you to move, so you leave your hand there.

The energy between the two of you has shifted, becoming more charged.

You're close now, so close that you can feel his breath fanning across your face. It's warm, heating your cheeks. His breath smells like the spearmint toothpaste that sits in the holder alongside both of your toothbrushes. His eyes are searching your face, looking for any indication of you not wanting this.

Not wanting him.

He finds none.

And still, he asks, because that's just who he is. Always needing one hundred percent certainty.

"Is this okay?" His voice is soft, scared almost, breaking quietly near the end.

Your brain is short-circuiting, all dizzy and fogged up from the closeness paired with his scent. You can't get any words to form, so you do the next best thing—you nod.

"No," he shakes his head, "Words, please. I need to hear you say it, okay? Please?" He finishes with your name, whispering it so delicately, so softly, as if he's afraid he'll break it, break you, if he doesn't treat it with the utmost care.

"Yes," you manage to mutter, still nodding your head, "Yes, this is okay. Please." You finish stronger, the words coming out louder than the first.

There's a pause, a nervous breath, then his lips are on yours. It's not a perfectly practiced kiss you'd see in movies, it's clumsy, noses bumping into each other and breathy laughter throughout. Two people beginning to learn each other in a different way, a more sacred way.

His hands are hesitant, finally raising them to slide up your thighs and settle on your hips. He pulls away, his eyes are dazed and his pupils are blown wide. "Still okay?" He questions again.

You don't respond immediately, instead, you shift your weight, bracing your knees against the couch cushions and raising to balance on them before you swing one across his lap so that you're now straddling him. His hands keep their place on your hips through your movements, rubbing soft circles against the fabric of your dress as you get yourself situated on his lap. Your hand that was on his thigh moves to rest at his side. The skirt of your dress has risen up, bunching up around your thighs from your movements. You can't help but feel the way his hardening length presses into you.

"Yes," you tell him, raising your hands and placing them on his broad shoulders, gripping the fabric of his t-shirt between your fingers. "Is this okay?" It's your turn to question now, to confirm that he wants this, wants you, just as much as you want him. You watch his eyes flutter shut for a moment, his chest heaves as he takes in a long breath. Exhales, then his eyes are open again.

"Yes," he says, voice still slightly shaky with residual nerves, "this is more than okay." He confirms, a sheepish smile making it's way across his lips.

A smile tugs at the corner of your own lips, then you're leaning back in and capturing his mouth with yours once again. His lips are soft, softer than you imagined they would be. You're both still shy, almost unsure of yourselves when it comes to this new territory between the two of you. You take a chance, moving your hands from their place on his shoulders to his head, threading your fingers through his blonde locks. You tug, just hard enough, that he gasps into your mouth.

You swallow the sound down greedily, wanting to hold onto it forever—keep it locked away in a place only you have access to. His fingers tighten, ever so slightly, around your hips.

You pull away this time, getting a good look at his face. His cheeks are tinted red and his lips are a darker shade of pink than usual from your kisses. You bring a hand around, placing a finger under his chin and making him tilt his head back. He obeys so easily, tilting his head back quickly with no resistance at all.

"Did you like that? Me pulling your hair?" Your voice is sweet, honey coating every word.

"I think—" he pauses when your lips find his jaw, "I think I like anything you do to me." He breathes, hands tightening around your hips instinctively. You let out a small giggle, your breath fanning across his cheek. You continue to kiss along his jaw, then down his neck. The collar of his shirt has been pulled down slightly from the bottom edges being trapped under your thighs. You continue, kissing down to his exposed collarbone, pausing momentarily before nipping lightly at the sensitive skin that stretches along the bone.

He groans softly—then, subconsciously, his hips buck up into your panty-clothed core. The friction is nice, pulling a soft gasp from your throat. His hands still.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to. I really didn't mean to." His words are quick, full of remorse at his unintended actions.

"No, it's okay," you whisper, trying to console him. You begin to make your way back up his neck, planting small kisses against the base of his throat as you move. "Can we take your shirt off? I wanna see you."

"No."

Oh.

The word makes you pause, pulling away from him almost immediately. Your skin grows hot from the feeling of embarrassment. He tilts his head back down so the two of you are face to face again. When he sees your expression, his eyes go wide and he scrambles to correct himself.

"No—I mean, yes, we can." He sputters, using his hands on your hips to pull you even closer to him. "Yes, I want you to see me. I want to see you too. I just—if we're going to go further than this I don't want it to be here—on the couch I mean. I want to do it right, in bed." He clarifies quickly, trying to salvage whatever he can of this interaction. His thumbs begin to circle your hips again in hopes of calming you.

You finally let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

He wants to do it right.

"Okay," you whisper, nodding your head in agreement. "Can we go to the bedroom, then?"

"Yes, please." He nods, tapping your hips lightly with his fingers to signal for you to get up.

You place your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, swinging your leg off of him and placing your foot on the floor. He keeps one hand on your hip, steadying you as you stand. Your dress falls back down, no longer bunched at your thighs.

It's his turn to stand and he does so quickly, bumping into you on the way up.

"Sorry," he hums, "Just excited." The honesty makes you laugh.

"Excited to have sex with me?" You tease, tilting your head up to see his face.

"Yes—excited for that reason. To have sex with you." He smiles shyly, the light from the television allowing you to see the tint of red that spreads across his cheeks.

You shake your head with a smile before turning to make your way towards the bedrooms. He follows closely behind, keeping a hand placed on your hip to tether himself to you as if he's afraid one of you will float away if he lets go. You continue, coming up on the first bedroom in the hallway—which just so happens to be his.

You reach for the handle and turn it, pushing the door open to step into his room. You've been in his room a handful of times before to grab something for him or to turn off his fan, but never for a reason like this.

His room isn't fully dark, a small lamp sitting on his bedside table illuminates the room just well enough for you to see. He has a bookshelf in the corner where dozens of textbooks on molecular biology, DNA, chemistry, and other sciences sit.

Just light reading for him.

His desk sits along the wall, the chair pushed halfway in. Papers and pens are scattered all across the face of desk. He has an unfolded basket of clothes sitting on top of his dresser. Folding them is the worst part! His voice pops into the back of your head. You swear you've heard him say that at least one hundred times by now. He watches the way you take in his bedroom, the way your eyes linger on certain things. He finds himself becoming self-conscious when he notices the clothes on his dresser.

"Sorry, I wasn't expecting visitors." He says truthfully. He never would have imagined that he would be ending his night with you in his bedroom.

He surely wasn't going to complain, though.

"With the amount of times I've heard you complain about folding clothes, I'm honestly surprised you only have one basket that isn't folded." Your voice is light, you're smiling as you talk. He laughs from behind you, his hand running from your hip up your side.

"Ry, can you unzip my dress?" Your voice is quieter now, the gentle humor that was there just a moment ago has faded into something softer.

He doesn't speak, but you feel his hands trail up your back to the zipper that sits at the top of your spine. He grabs it in his hand and you swear you can feel his fingers tremble slightly before he works up the courage to pull the zipper down, down, down, all the way to the base of your spine. His hands raise back up, pushing the fabric from your shoulders and down your arms. The dress drops, and you're left standing in your bra and panties, facing away from Ryland.

His hands hesitate before they move down to the clasp on your bra, it takes him a moment, but he unclasps it for you. You shrug the straps from your shoulders and down your arms to let it fall to the ground, joining your dress in a pile by your feet. You have one final article of clothing to shed, which you do so yourself. You hook your fingers into the waistband of your underwear and bring them down your legs before stepping out of them. The pile of your clothes on the floor is now complete.

You take a breath before turning around to finally face Ryland. Your nerves disappear the second you see the lock on his face.

His eyes are wide and his lips are parted. There's something so soft about the way he's taking you in. You think you're going to have to reach out and poke him to bring him back down to earth, but then he speaks.

"You are absolutely beautiful." He reaches his hand out to your hip, finally touching you without the barrier of clothing. His fingertips are soft as he squeezes the flesh between his fingers—it almost seems like he's testing you to make sure you're real. His fingers trail up your stomach, leaving goosebumps in their path. He pauses at your breast, looking towards your face once more for an invitation.

You nod.

He continues.

His touch is soft, ghosting over the flesh of your breast. He grabs a hold of it, holding it in his palm. His fingers close around your nipple, twisting the hardened bud between his fingers. Your body is on fire under his touch. You whimper softly, heat coiling down low that has you squeezing your legs together to get any amount of friction you can.

He takes note of that.

"You like that?" He questions, wanting to take his time to learn you.

You nod.

You're becoming impatient, wanting to see him and feel him.

"It's your turn now." You urge him softly, your fingers coming up to grip the hem of his shirt. He nods, his hand moving away from you and grabbing onto his own shirt. You help him raise it up and he maneuvers it off of himself—it joins your pile of clothes in the floor.

You knew Ryland had a nice build, but you didn't expect this. His biceps are large, and the skin on his stomach lays tightly over his muscles. It's now your turn to bring your hand up and run it across his stomach, feeling the warmth of his skin and the way his muscles contract under your fingertips. Your hands glide around before settling down low on the waistband of his sweatpants.

"Is this okay?" You say the words that have become habitual to the two of you at this point.

"Yes, please." His eyes meet yours through his glasses as he confirms. You nod, hooking your fingers into the waistband of his his sweatbands along with his boxers and pull the both of them down his thighs at the same time. He steps out of them, and now the pile of your clothes on the floor is truly complete.

You're able to take him in now—all of him.

He's bigger than you imagined. Not huge, but a good size and thickness. You know the stretch is going to hurt so good. He's hard, his dick is poking out and red at the tip. You reach your hand down to grasp him in your palm, then pause. You raise your eyes to his and he's already watching you.

He nods.

You continue.

You grip him in your hand, running your thumb over his leaking slit to gather some wetness. He's sensitive, already twitching in your palm with minimal effort on your part. You stroke from the tip to the base of his dick and it has him groaning, a sound pulled deep from his chest. That heat, the need, coils low in your stomach again.

"You're so gorgeous, Ry." You tell him, watching the way his eyebrows knit together in pleasure. His eyes catch yours again and you see the way his cheeks turn that familiar shade of pink. He's so responsive it makes you weak in the knees.

"Gorgeous." he repeats, like it's a foreign concept to him. He doesn't really believe it.

"Yeah, really gorgeous." You confirm with a simple nod of your head, like it's the most obvious thing you've ever said to him.

To you, it is.

You stroke him languidly a few more times, enjoying the feeling of him twitching against your palm.

The feeling curling deep in your stomach is becoming too hard to ignore.

You need him.

"Lay down on the bed, please." You tell him softly, giving him one final stroke before taking your touch away from him completely. He whines at the loss of contact, his hips jerking closer to you. His eyes are open and watching as you step closer to the bed.

"Wait, no—I want," he pauses, unsure of himself, then, "can I taste you, please?"

His words land hard, a pulsing sensation flows through you, right where you need him the most. Who would you be to deny him?

Especially when he asks so nicely.

"Yes." You nod, eager for the contact with him. You face the bed, crawling onto it before turning yourself around and laying on your back. The air from your movements causes a waft of his scent—a mix of his aftershave, shampoo, and that detergent he swears by, to blanket you, enveloping you in a nice little cocoon of him. He follows you, making his way onto the bed and lodging himself between your legs, his arms hook under your legs and his hands rest so gently against your stomach.

He takes in the sight of you sprawled out and ready for him and he swears he's in heaven—or as close to heaven as he will ever get. He places a kiss against your thigh.

"You look so pretty." His breath fans over you as he says it, causing your pussy to clench around nothing.

You shy away, covering your face so you don't have to look at him. "Hey, no—I want to see you, please." His voice is so soft it makes your heart ache. You oblige, uncovering your face so your view is now Ryland between your legs.

With your attention now on him, he gets to work quickly. He flattens his tongue, licking a stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, circling the bundle of nerves with his tongue. You gasp, which only encourages him more. His tongue moves back down to your entrance, prodding your hole to get a better taste of you.

He devours you like a man starved, scared that this will be his first, and last, meal. Though, at this point, the both of you know that this isn't going to be a one and down type of encounter. He's attentive, quickly learning what you do, and don't like. He licks back up, focusing on your clit, finding that spot that makes you keen and arch your back from the sensation.

"I'm gonna come." You manage to choke out, your thighs flexing tighter around his head. Your voice, those words, are music to his ears. His tongue becomes more precise, flexing to a taut point and circling around your clit to help pull your orgasm from you. Your eyes shift down, the sight of Ryland between your thighs paired with how deliciously he's sucking on your clit are enough to send you over the edge. The coil in your stomach snaps, hot pleasure coursing through your limbs. You reach your hand down to grab a handful of his hair, trying to pull him away from you, but he doesn't let up.

Your grip on his hair paired with tasting you on his tongue has him moaning, sending vibrations through your already overly sensitive cunt. He lets you ride out your orgasm on his tongue, his movements eventually slowing to a halt.

Neither of you speak for a moment, you because you're still too blissed out, chest heaving as you suck in deep breaths. Ryland because he can't believe this is happening. He has stilled, his head resting against your thigh. You feel a few light taps, Ryland's fingers against your stomach, and you look down. His fingers are still wrapped around his hair and his glasses are crooked, but he doesn't notice. The mixture of spit and your release are coating his lips and chin. He's smiling up at you so sweetly it makes your heart ache that familiar ache.

"Good?" He asks, voice unsure. You want to laugh. You just came on his tongue and he's still worried he didn't do good enough of a job.

"Great." You breath, giving a light tug at his blonde locks to signal him to come up. He wastes no time, unhooking his arms from your legs and crawling up the bed, caging you between his arms. Your hands move to his face, fingers grabbing at his glasses to correct their placement. You catch his eyes with yours.

His eyes are soft as he stares into yours, so full of something you can't quite name yet. Your fingers run down his cheek and settle on his jaw, thumb brushing against his skin. He leans into it. The yellow light from his bedside lamp catches his skin so perfectly, casting a warm hue across his face that paints him as one of the most beautiful paintings you've ever laid eyes on. He's so beautiful like this, face so relaxed and carefree.

You think he's an angel—something otherworldly for sure.

You feel his length twitch against your lower stomach, hard and leaking from the slit with desire. That familiar heat is already forming in your belly again. "I want to feel you," you tell him, voice quiet and sure. "All of you, Ry."

"Okay," he nods, "I want you, too."

You smile, removing your hand from his face and snaking it between the two of you, grabbing his length and stroking him. "Can I be on top? I want to see you."

"Yes," he nods, quicker this time. "You can have me anyway you want me. Anything you want." His voice is so certain and he's moving before you can say another word. Taking his position with his back flat against the bed, you raise to your knees and sling one leg over him, straddling him once again. His hands find your thighs, resting near the top of them like that's exactly where they were made to be.

You raise again, giving yourself room to take him in. Your hand raises to his lips, fingers splaying out expectantly. There's a flicker of confusion in his eyes.

"Spit." He does so without another command, so eager to please and be good. You gather the spit on your fingers, using your thumb to get the residual saliva left on his bottom lip. You reach down again, grabbing ahold of him once more, fingers now wet and ready to help lubricate him. You give him a few pumps, coating the spit along his length. His hips buck at the contact, a quiet groan leaving his lips as his eyes screw shut. His tip prods at your entrance and you sink down ever so slightly, dragging the moment out.

He whines, a sound so beautiful you want to have it on recording so you can play it whenever you want.

Slowly, you sink down further, taking him in inch by beautiful inch, until you're fully seated on him. A quiet moan slips past your lips at the stretch, the fullness you feel. He fits inside you so perfectly, completely made for you, and you, made for him.

You quickly decide that this is it, you're complete.

Ryland Grace has been your missing piece all along.

You just can't believe it's taken you a year to realize this.

His hands grip your thighs, fingernails marking crescents into your skin. "You—you feel so good," he gasps, swallowing hard. "I know I'm not going to last long." Embarrassment weaves itself into his words, but he shouldn't feel that. To you, it's endearing. He's going to come quickly because of you.

"That's okay," you start to shift your hips, raising up, then back down slowly, setting your own rhythm. "I want you to feel good." Moving quicker, you place your hands on his stomach to steady yourself, the tight muscles under his skin flexing as you gain momentum.

He says your name, but it's broken off at the end with a moan, "I don't think I can have you like this just once and be done." A breathy laugh, trying to be nonchalant, but his words are anything but casual and he is literally inside of you, already twitching as your walls squeeze around him.

You continue your motions, the drag of him inside of you making that coil in your stomach already begin to tighten. "I can't either."

He whines at your response, hips bucking up into you as you come down onto him again. The tip of his dick hits a certain spot inside of you that has your vision blurring. You chase that feeling, moving up and down feverishly, trying to catch the sensation again.

Ryland is a moaning mess under you, caught between scrunching his eyes closed in pleasure and trying to keep them open so he can watch the way you get yourself off while using him.

"I'm gonna—" a low groan, "Come. Can I?" Come inside? He doesn't have to say the words for you to understand where he was going with the sentence. Nodding, you work quicker, grinding against him to help him reach his peak.

"Please," you beg, "I want to feel you. Please come inside me, Ry." The nickname paired with your movements help throw him over the edge. He's gasping, hips bucking as he releases inside of you. You continue to grind against him, milking him thoroughly as you chase your own orgasm now. Your clit rubs against his pubic bone, the friction helping that coil in your stomach get closer and closer to snapping.

Ryland knows you're close, feeling the way your walls are constricting around his twitching dick. He watches you move, working yourself up and using him to get there.

He thinks it's the most ethereal thing he's ever seen.

"There you go," he croons, rubbing soothing circles against your thighs with his large hands, "Use me. Let go for me, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

Ryland has never called you anything other than your name before.

The unexpected use of the pet name and the sound of his voice is enough to let that coil snap. For the second time tonight, you're coming all over Ryland Grace. Crying out, you ride the high down until there's nothing left to hold onto anymore.

All that can be heard in the room is the sound of both of you breathing, heavy long breaths as you both try to get oxygen back into your lungs. His hands continue to work themselves over your thighs, then up your hips and your sides to help you ground yourself back to him.

Before you know it, he's wrapping his arm around your back and readjusting himself so he's sitting with his back against his headboard, still inside of you, but growing softer, as you straddle him.

His hands move to your face, fingers wiping back the sweaty hair that's sticking to your forehead. He looks happy, a sweet smile tugging at his lips while he watches you through his glasses.

He would do whatever you asked him to.

He's sure of that now. Maybe he always has been.

"What?" You question, scratching your nails lazily against his abdomen.

"Nothing," he smiles wider, "I was just thinking—" a pause, "does this change our roommate agreement?" That humor that flows so easily between the two of you is back, not changed by the events that just took place or the fact that he is literally still inside of you.

The question is so silly it makes you laugh, a deep sound coming up from your stomach.

"Yeah, Ry. I think it does."

Tomorrow morning the two of you will have a lot to figure out, but tonight, you’re just happy to be in each others arms.

────୨ৎ────

With a sigh and a wave of your hand, you gave Olivia the okay to answer the question. She happily took your permission and ran with it, always the first to answer any questions you posed in class. If only the rest of these damn middle schoolers were as eager as she was.

“Penelope didn’t want to marry anyone else, so she gave them an impossible task,”

“Why does she always know everything?”

Marcus thought his comment was whispered just low enough that you wouldn’t hear him in the first row, but he was never quite that lucky. He quickly shut his mouth and looked anywhere but in your direction the second he caught sight of the disapproving look you were casting directly at him.

“You are exactly right, Olivia. Thank you for answering my question,” there were a few chuckles in the room at the obvious sarcasm laced through your words, as you hopped up onto your desk to relax and get a better look around the room full of kids. “Penelope knew the only person that could string her husband’s bow, was her husband himself. She needed to buy time, especially when these suitors only really wanted to be the ones to inherit Ithaca-”

There was a loud knocking on the door to your classroom that had been left open for the last 20 minutes of class, interrupting your words. You weren’t surprised in the slightest to meet the eyes of none other than Ryland Grace, the science teacher.

“Uh- sorry! Didn’t mean to interrupt important book talk stuff. Super important, you uh-you never know when Shakespeare will come up at your future desk job,” the cringe that Ryland physically did at his own comment was easy to see, even from across the room. He gave you a sheepish smile, his glasses barely hanging onto his face from their unconventional spot hanging off of one of his ears. The blonde held up the brown bag in his hand, and you could practically smell the food that rested inside. “I’m early, I’m sorry. Didn’t think you’d want to have a cold burger for lunch.”

“I told you!” Marcus still didn’t understand the concept of a whisper, leaning over to his best friend Jason at the desk beside him, slapping him on the arm. “They’re totally dating!”

“As if Mr. Grace could pull her,”

There was a chorus of snickers and laughter through the class, any semblance of order you might’ve had descending into chaos as every single one of your loveable, little shits just kept casting looks between you and Ryland, who still stood awkwardly in your classroom doorway with reddened cheeks.

Your face was surely no better, you were sure you could feel the heat that was emanating off of your skin, as you ran a hand down the burning skin of your face and wondered why you chose to teach these little menaces for the rest of your life. The world decided to be kind to the pair of you though, for once, letting the lunch bell save you from any further embarrassment from a group of 13 year olds.

“Please come to class prepared to actually answer questions tomorrow!” you called out over the hustle and bustle of the class as they grabbed their things, eager to scurry off to their lunch hour and finally eat. “Your unit test is at the end of next week, and I would prefer not to fail all of you.”

They weren’t listening, but by this point in the day you were hungry and didn’t have the energy to try and argue with them.

Any of that tiredness they brought to your bones? It disappeared the second you watched the way they all interacted with Ryland on their way out the door.

Big smiles, every single one of them excited to see the school’s favorite science teacher lingering in the doorway to their English class. You could just barely hear the tail end of one of Ryland’s terrible science puns, something about a hungry planet needing a ‘light snack’ that got a groan out of Marcus. All it did was bring a soft smile to your face, though, one that somehow softened even more at the quick, secret handshake Olivia shared with him before she was out the door.

Then, it was just the two of you, smiling like idiots as you locked eyes across the room again. And god, did you want that fluttering group of butterflies in your stomach to calm down for just a moment.

Having a crush on Dr. Ryland Grace, the former molecular biologist turned San Francisco middle school science teacher, was inevitable from the moment you turned up at the school for your first day over a year ago. Incredibly smart, amazing with kids, and so incredibly handsome you thought your heart stopped beating the first time you saw him–hell, Mrs. Doyle, the math teacher for over 5 years, said there were at least 4 other young teachers that absolutely had crushes on this man. You were far from the first.

He broke that perfect vision of himself you were building in your head within 5 minutes of meeting, tripping over his own two feet and knocking the stack of papers a mile high from the Principal’s hands, but you had only found it even more endearing.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he apologized again, long legs striding across the room and reaching your desk in a matter of seconds. “I had a free period before this, a-and you mentioned this morning you forgot lunch so I grabbed some for both of us-”

“Sal’s?” you questioned, pointing to the bag of foot now sitting on your desk with the familiar logo. “They’re, like, 10 blocks away. Why’d you go that far?”

“Because I know they’re your favorite,”

The flare of heat in your cheeks was instant. Ryland Grace, who rode a damn bike to the school every day, used his free period to ride 10 blocks away and pick you up lunch from your favorite spot, all because you mentioned offhandedly at 7 a.m. about forgetting your lunch for the day.

Well, he certainly didn’t do that for the four fresh out of college teachers that had crushes on him. You’d mentally consider that a hefty win in your book.

“How sweet of you to remember,” Ryland simply waved you off, head turned away as he passed your wrapped burger into your hands, taking up space on your desk chair while you stayed comfortable on top of your desk. “You even remembered tomatoes this time!”

“I forgot them one time and I never hear the end of it,” laughter was shared between you both for a moment as Grace took a bite of his own burger. “I caught the tail end of that discussion. Olivia answering all your questions like a champ?”

“Isn’t she always,” you shot back with another laugh, turning slightly on your desk to better face him. “I swear she’s the only one that I can ever get to answer any of my questions. She might be the only one that does any of my assigned readings.”

“To be fair, can you blame her?” Ryland’s words were muffled slightly by the food in his mouth. You couldn’t even contain the slight smile that grew as he managed to just barely catch the ketchup dripping off his burger before it could smear itself on the stack of papers that needed graded at your desk. “Shakespeare was just…so interesting. Couldn’t get enough of his stuff. Don’t know why your kids don’t want to read it.”

There was silence for a moment, your eyebrow quirked in his direction. The blonde stopped mid bite of his burger, looking back at you quizzically, trying to figure out what he had said wrong.

“You know we’re currently learning The Odyssey, right?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll let you think about that for a second,”

He did, just slowly blinking in your direction. He glanced at the chalkboard behind you, covering in little notes you’d made throughout the class discussion, before they flickered to the copy of the book that sat on your desk. That was finally when you saw the light bulb flicker on above his head, Ryland’s eyes shutting as he let out a loud sigh.

“...that wasn’t written by Shakespeare, was it?”

The laughter that bubbled out of you practically had you throwing your head backward.

“No, but I’m sure Homer won’t be too offended,” feet landing on the ground as you hopped off your desk, you gave Ryland’s shoulder a quick squeeze as you moved past him. “The attempt was cute, though, it was a good try.”

Cute. Why in the world did you let that one slip? You were practically cursing yourself in your head for that one, taking another bite of your burger as you worked to erase the whiteboard to prepare it for your next class. You didn’t dare steal a glance over at Ryland, in fear that your little slip-up was going to ruin everything.

There was only quiet for a moment before the single moment of awkwardness was gone.

“I promise you I know Homer wrote that. I swear!”

The desperation to believe him drew another laugh out of you. Sparing a glance in his direction, Ryland was giving you his best, exaggerated puppy dog eyes, begging you to believe him, as a smile just barely squeaked its way onto his lips.

“Right, of course you did. My mistake. Whatever you say, Ryland-”

“I mean it!” It was his turn to laugh this time, a sound that had those butterflies rattling around once more. “I was just…distracted.”

“Uh-huh, distracted,” as if you were preparing to scold one of your students, you turned to face him fully with a hand on your hip, eyebrow raised expectantly. “By what, exactly?”

If a human being could buffer, Ryland Grace always seemed to be constantly buffering. Your eyebrow remained raised, waiting for him to piece together his response. All he could do was open and close his mouth like a fish, before looking away and taking another bite of his food.

“Nevermind that, just finish your food before it gets cold. I did bike, like, three miles to get that thing,”

With a roll of your eyes that held zero malice what-so-ever, you made sure the blonde could see your next bite of your food, a satisfied smile on his face.

“Back to the previous topic,” you steered the conversation in another direction, wiping off the last bits of chalk on the board and writing down your next period at the top so that you could start the discussion on the reading over again. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard to get some of these kids to just read the content. They all pay attention in your class!”

“I heard Jason make a comment yesterday during class that Marcus has a crush on Olivia. Maybe they’re too distracted to read,”

You shot him a skeptical look.

“Marcus, crushing on Olivia? He was just making fun of her before you came in the room,”

Ryland averted his eyes, suddenly very interested in his ID badge hanging around his neck from his school issues lanyard.

“W-well, maybe he just doesn’t…know how to express his feelings,” he spared a glance up at you, seeing you were still watching, as he tripped over his words again. “It can be hard for boys–and men–of all ages, to…tell someone how they feel.”

“Well, I don’t know where he’s learning from, but making fun of the girl you like isn’t the right way to go about things,” you shot back.

“Then teach them!” Ryland sounded absolutely ecstatic, that light bulb over his head going off again as he looked like he’d come up with the world’s greatest idea. “Classic literature, there’s plenty of great love stories in there. Get his interest by teaching them about that, so he can learn from them.”

“Alright, give me an example then, Mr. Suddenly an Expert in Classic Literature,”

“Romeo and Juliet,” he said like it was the easiest thing in the world, balling up the remnants of his finished food and tossing it in the bag it came in. “Greatest love story ever told, so great Taylor Swift wrote a song about them.”

“Except they don’t run off and get married and live happily ever after, Ryland. Romeo thinks she is dead and kills himself with poison, and when Juliet realizes he’s dead she stabs herself,”

Ryland’s excitement fell slightly, his mouth forming a little ‘o’ shape.

“...oh,”

“Don’t think that’s what I want to teach young, impressionable pre-teens about love-”

“Daisy and Gatsby, then! He loved her so much he stood on that dock staring at the-the bright yellow light of a stoplight for her,”

“It was a green light and it was the dock light, first of all. I’m not even sure how you could be that off. Secondly, Gatsby is murdered at the end of the book and Daisy doesn’t even attend the funeral, she and Tom move away and pretend it never happened,”

Ryland’s eyes are shut at this point, his fingers massaging his temples and those glasses just barely hanging on from their place around his neck.

“...does anyone not die in these old books?”

The sound of your laughter permeates the room and you sweep over, collecting his trash and combining it with yours. You never even spared him a glance, though you could feel his eyes on you, as you swept the trash away with you to the other side of the room, his voice echoing across to you.

“I’m going to get lucky on one of these guesses!”

What Ryland Grace was really lucky about was how adorable you found him, and how head over heels you were for him, because his lack of literary knowledge was astounding.

❤︎

“I’m sorry, you’re trying to tell me that aren’t currently fucking the eye candy that is the science teacher in room 305?”

“Evelyn!”

Evelyn Doyle was in her late thirties, married since she was 18, and already had three kids with her high school sweetheart. Since you had transferred into Grover Cleveland Middle, you’d become fast friends and she had become a great mentor.

She had, sadly, caught onto your pathetic crush on Ryland Grace before you had even fully realized it, and was now ‘vicariously living through you’ as she always said.

“There’s not a single child left in this entire school right now,” she shot back, gesturing around her empty classroom, as she finished cleaning up anything her students had left around at the end of the day. You rolled your eyes at her excuse, perched on the edge of her desk. “Please, I’m tenured, what are they going to do?”

“I’m more so yelling at you for butting into my love life, once again,” was your reply through laughter. “Ryland and I are good friends, that’s it.”

It was her turn to laugh, finishing up her cleanup around the room before she joined you at her desk, packing her things away into her shoulder bag.

“Oh please, you keep denying that little crush of yours-”

“I never said I was denying that,” you cut her off. “Lord, you realized I liked him before I even did. But he and I aren’t anything besides friends. I’m not lying.”

Your pleas fell on deaf ears, like they typically did when you were around Evelyn. She simply waved your statement off, tossing her bag over her shoulder as you followed her out of her room and down through the quiet of the school hallway. The quietest the hallway ever was, in the hours right after students were sent home for the day. You’d rather be anywhere else, preferably at home, but these mandatory once-a-month staff meetings were unavoidable.

“Whether you’re telling me the truth or not, you have to understand why everyone thinks so–teachers AND students. I think even some parents think so!” The only response she got was an eyeroll, her shoulder bumping into your’s playfully. “He brings you lunch at least once a week, meaning he rides that dingy bike to get whatever you’re craving that day.”

“It’s usually just something random-”

“Constantly in your classroom, or vice versa,” she cut you off, and you quickly realized you weren’t getting a single word into this conversation. “I’m pretty sure Principal Marshall has considered, somehow, moving your classroom closer to his just so he’ll stop being late to classes because he’s busy talking to you.”

Okay…yeah, you didn’t have a retort for that one. Your classroom was on the opposite end of the school building from Ryland’s own, and yet every time he had even a split second he was somehow always leaning in your doorway. Even if it only resulted in a conversation that lasted all of a minute.

Many times those ended with your students having to remind him that the bell rang and he definitely had students in his own class unattended, waiting on their teacher. More than once he’d slipped as he tried to sprint back to his classroom from yours. It didn’t matter how short those little conversations were, though, because every second around him was precious to you.

“Awe, look at you blushing about it-”

You slapped Evelyn’s hand away, throwing her a look of disdain that didn’t really hold any true malice to it.

“Look, all I’m saying is the ball is in his court,” was the response you finally settled on as Evelyn propped the door of the small auditorium open for you to enter. “Ryland is nothing but friendly to me, so if he’s interested then he’s got to show me.”

“You’re acting as if you’ve made your own feelings clear, honey,”

“No, but I clearly don’t do a good enough job of hiding them,”

Speak of the devil: there he was. Ryland’s head shot up the moment the pair of you walked into the auditorium. Those damn glasses hanging down from one side of his face, framing his stubbled jawline perfectly. A smile lighting up his face the second those blue eyes found yours, gesturing to the empty seat beside him.

A packed auditorium, as you and Evelyn were the last ones there. Every seat up practically filled, and yet Ryland Grace sat among a crowd of people, eyes trained on you and a single seat saved for you amidst it all.

All you could feel was the heat in your cheeks, and the touch of Evelyn patting your back as she laughed, voice low but loud enough to hear as she shifted past you to find a seat of her own.

“Doesn’t have interest in you my ass,”

Her words swam through your head with every apology you muttered to the other teachers as you snuck past them in the cramped rows, happily taking the empty seat beside Ryland.

“You didn’t have to save me a seat, you know,” your voice held a hint of teasing to it, but it was soft. Filled with an adoration that you knew you were terrible at hiding. Luckily, Ryland was terrible at picking up on it.

“Wanted to sit next to you,” he whispered back as Principal Marshall began to drone on about updates neither of you particularly cared about. He leaned in close, a hint of his breath wafting over the shell of your ear as he spoke. “You make these slightly less boring.”

Close proximity to this man was your worst nightmare, and the cramped auditorium wasn’t helping. That single touch of his breath against your skin was enough to send a simultaneous shiver down your spine and another round of heat to your cheeks. His suit jacket covered arm rested on the shared armrest between your seats, the edge of his bicep ghosting against the bare skin of your arm with every little shift he made, tapping incessantly against the armrest.

The slight action made you smile. He never could sit still in these meetings, always hated them.

“Did anything fun happen in class today?” you kept your voice low, eyes trained on the principal, as your head tilted slightly over to Ryland so he could better hear you.

“Uh, if you count Madison telling me that she thinks the sun orbits the earth, then sure,” you had to stifle your laugh at that, casting Ryland a side glance as he grinned at you, doing a terrible job of whispering back at you as usual.

“How could she possibly think that?”

“You’d be surprised,” Ryland leaned just a tad bit closer, the side of his arm pushed up fully against your own. You could almost hear the smile in his voice without even having to look over at him. “The National Science Foundation estimates that 26% of Americans still think the sun orbits the earth.”

“Jesus, that many?”

“Well, 100% of them are stupid, so,”

Nasty looks from other faculty were shot your way that second you choked on your own breath, slapping a hand over your mouth in an attempt to stop yourself from breaking out into uncontrollable laughter. You gave them the most sympathetic look you possibly could, learning how to breathe normally again before mouthing sorry at them all.

Ryland didn’t care in the slightest for the warning look you shot him, a bright smile on his face as his eyes seemed to trail over every inch of your face.

“If you keep doing this in every faculty meeting, they’re going to separate us, Ry,”

“I met Madison’s parents for the first time last month for parent-teacher conferences,” he continued, ignoring your plea. Instead, he leaned in even closer, eyes locked on yours, and god it was impossible to look away. “They are, 100%, undeniably, part of the Flat Earth Truthers Club.”

You shook your head, a smile creeping back up on your lips. Ryland’s gaze could still be felt on the side of your face as you turned back to face the front, eyes focused back on the principal again in an attempt to pay attention to the meeting.

“Flat earthers are ridiculous. They’re just scared of science,”

“Well, you know what they say…the only thing they have to fear is sphere itself,”

There simply wasn’t enough time to clap your hand over your mouth and conceal your laughter, a split second of it breaking through the quiet of the auditorium. And Ryland? His smile was somehow even brighter than it was before, still locked onto your face, never having strayed once.

“Dr. Grace, is there something you feel needs to be shared with the rest of your fellow faculty?”

Principal Marshall’s voice was enough to knock Ryland out of whatever trance he seemed to have put himself in. Eyes wide as if he’d just seen a ghost, hands barely able to catch his glasses as they almost fell right off of his ear where they dangled, a burst of red spread through his cheeks instantly as his deer-like eyes locked onto the unamused principal.

“I-I uh, no. No, nothing, Principal Marshall,” he scratched at the back of his head, ruffling up his already messy hair, a nervous tick you’d picked up since the moment you’d met him. You simply buried your head in your head, eyes trained on your shoes and Ryland out of the corner of your gaze, terrified to look up at your fellow faculty that you’d already apologized to once. “Just getting super jazzed about faculty updates. Hard to keep it in here. I’m like a mushroom, getting all…hyphae…”

A collective groan sounded through the auditorium at the terrible biology pun that rolled off of him with ease. All you could do was smile into the palm of your hand.

“Please just…pay attention to the meeting, Dr. Grace, before I separate you and your other half,”

Other half. That’s not how she meant it, but it was impossible not to let your mind wander to the idea.

Early mornings. Coffee, the smell of eggs and toast burning in the kitchen. Ryland and his hair that was surely even more unkempt that early in the day. The guarantee that he definitely had about 120 science puns ready to go at any moment.

Late nights. Curled up on a couch. A movie, a shared blanket, warm in the embrace of his arms. The quiet of just being with someone that made you happy in ways you’d never felt before. The promise of another day with them on the horizon.

It was becoming increasingly harder not to think about Ryland Grace like that every day, of what a life with the awkward, endearing science teacher could be.

And as Principal Marshall continued her meeting, and your eyes met the blue ones that were already looking at you: soft, kind, a hint of something you couldn’t understand in them, you could only dream he thought the same thoughts when he looked at you.

❤︎

“Alright, who can tell me the day of the first human space flight?”

Not a single middle schooler, packed into the building’s planetarium, raised their hands at first. Many of them started whispering to each other, confused looks on their faces, but Ryland just waited with a smile on his face. A brave soldier from Mr. Harkin’s class, Damien, finally raised his hand.

“Uh, Mr. Grace? Wouldn’t that…be today?”

“Excatly!” Grace’s clap echoed through the room as he pointed toward the young kid sitting in the front row of seats. “International Day of Human Space Flight, commemorating the first human space flight by Yuri Gagarin. It was a trick question, and you passed my tiny friend.”

Were you excited about losing a chunk of your day to escorting your class to the planetarium, along with other classes in the building, for a special science presentation? Absolutely not, especially not with how terribly your class did on their last The Odyssey assignment.

When you found out that Ryland was giving the presentation during your allotted time? Suddenly, The Odyssey meant nothing to you. Not when you could watch Ryland teach, something he did so effortlessly.

The way he captured every single child’s attention with ease. That glowing smile on his face every time they answered a question right, and simply the way he seemed to love what he taught. You were captivated every time you got the chance to see him teaching the thing he loved so much.

“Yuri Gagarin was a Soviet cosmonaut who became the first person in space in 1961 aboard the Vostok 1,” the planetarium was lit up with the night sky, little stars reflecting down. You could almost see them in the students eyes, in their bright smiles as they looked up into the vastness of space. Your eyes trailed to Ryland, already looking at you with a soft smile of his own, before he cleared his throat and moved throughout the room, focusing back on the kids. “Over the course of 89 minutes, his ship traveled to a maximum altitude of 187 miles, as it orbited the Earth.”

“Wait, so we weren’t the first people in space?” one of your students, Lydia, called out. Ryland laughed, pointing over at her.

“No, we kind of sucked,” you rolled your eyes with a grin at Ryland’s statement, though it drew a laugh from all of the kids. “No, America had actually scheduled its first space flight for May 1961, so this was a huge blow to us. It really heated up the space race.”

“He really is good with them, isn’t he?”

Glancing over, Mr. Harkin had saddled up beside you on the edge of the room, head tilted toward you and voice low so as to not disrupt the lesson the kids were being taught. Your gaze drifted back to Ryland as he continued his lesson, eliciting more laughter from the kids. It only brought another soft smile to rest on your lips.

“He is, in a way that I just don’t understand,”

Those blue eyes you’d become so fond of met yours for a moment across the room, face illuminated by the light projecting onto the planetarium’s dome walls. The little grin he wore seemed to drop just slightly, gaze still locked on you but flickering every moment over to Mr. Harkin as he spoke to the students. Harkin’s elbow dug lightly into your side.

“Careful, you’re giving him major ‘heart eyes’ across the room right now,”

You did your best to conceal your laughter, shooting Harkin a look, Ryland’s gaze still felt on the side of your face even as you looked away.

“Why do I feel like I’m about to find out that every teacher in this school has a secret betting ring going on when it comes to Ryland and I?”

“I mean, it’s not a secret. Principal Marshall runs the damn thing,”

“Mr. Grace?” one of the youngest girls in the grade, Aurora, called out, raising her hand up to get Ryland’s attention. “My mom told me the other day that there’s 8 planets in our solar system. What happened to Pluto?”

Ryland went to answer when Mr. Harkin beside you laughed, capturing the attention of everyone in the room, as he shook his head at his young student.

“No, honey, scientists a couple years ago decided that Pluto wasn’t a planet anymore,”

Your eyes flickered to Ryland, who was already staring at Harkin from across the room as he tossed his little crochet earth back and forth in his hand. His response was a bit of a forced laugh.

“Well, your teacher isn’t wrong. Scientists classified Pluto as a dwarf planet a couple years ago,” he explained to the kids, eyes trained on the little crochet sphere in his hands. “But there’s 8 other very important, even closer planets that we should focus on. I mean, who really cares about a tiny, slow planet that takes 248 years to orbit the sun–honestly, he should just accept that he’s slowly falling into obscurity and stop trying to steal the spotlight.”

The room got quiet. Your eyebrow raised slightly, head tilted, as everyone just seemed to stare at Ryland, who had yet to look up.

“Uh, Mr. Grace?” some student in the back called out. “Why did you call Pluto ‘he’? Are the planets boys and girls like us, too?”

Ryland’s head shot up, as if he suddenly remembered he was in a room full of students. His eyes shot to you, his mouth opening, then closing, before he quickly looked away.

“I–well…planets don’t really…I’m not trying to misgender the planets, you know? That’s not for me to decide, that’s for them to–you know what, does anyone else have any other questions that aren’t related to Pluto?”

You really didn’t want to laugh at Ryland, but only he would be able to accidentally turn a lesson about space and planets into almost a lesson on bodily autonomy. He caught your eye, his widening just slightly and you could almost see his cry for help written across his face, but it only made your laughter worse.

It was little Madison that raised her hand next, speaking before she’d even been called upon.

“Are you sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe?”

Ryland hung his head in shame, the shaking of his head evident from across the room as a few of the kids around laughed at the young girl’s comment. You were quick to shoot them a warning look, not keen to hand out any detentions today.

By the time your gaze turned back to Ryland, he was already looking at you. His gaze flickered to Harkin, then back to you, and it was like a light bulb had just flickered on the way his eyes lit up.

“Yes, Madison, I’m sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe. And I can show you,” his long legs crossed the room in seconds, his body sliding between you and Mr. Harkin as his hands landed on your shoulders with a tiny little squeeze that sent your heart leaping through your chest. “But to do that, I’m going to need this volunteer that I’m not quite giving a choice.”

“It’s not volunteering if you didn’t ask, Ry!”

You exasperatedly tried to whisper to Ryland as he steered you across the room to stand before all the kids. He only shook his head as a bunch of your own students started cheering for you around the room, only worsening the red that coated your cheeks the second his hands had landed on your body.

“I need you for this,” he shot back hastily, positioning you in the middle of the room, standing in front of you. His body blocked the students from your vision, blue eyes boring down into yours, hands gently squeezing at your upper arms as you begged the blush in your skin to not be too obvious. “You trust me?”

A ridiculous question, because the only answer was yes. You gave him a nod, and Ryland’s smile only widened as he turned back to the kids in the room.

“Alright, kids. Your gorgeous teacher here is the Sun,”

Little oohs and awes sounded from the kids around the room at Ryland’s little slip in of the word ‘gorgeous.’ There was a sting in your bottom lip as you bit into it with your teeth, trying to contain your own smile. Marcus spoke up from across the room without raising his hand, as usual.

“Then what’s Mr. Harkin?”

“Oh, he’s Pluto,” Ryland shot back immediately, nodding his head. “Suits him.”

Laughter rang through the room, the young boys as rambunctious as ever. Ryland met your astonished look with a tiny wink of his own, one that forced a small laugh to tumble from your lips. Then, he began to slowly spin, walking around you in a circle.

“And I am the Earth,” he called out to the kids, and you could only hope he didn’t trip over his own two shoelaces. “The Sun holds 99.8% of the mass in our solar system, which means it’s packing some massive gravity.”

Ryland stopped spinning himself, still moving around you in a circle. He held his hand out toward you, and you slipped yours into it without hesitation, spinning in that circle slowly with him.

“Because the Sun holds such intense gravity, it’s actually pulling Earth into it. But, Earth has such high forward velocity that it actually keeps us moving sideways. Put these two together, and it keeps Earth moving in an almost perfect circle around the sun. Can anyone tell me another fun fact about our movement around the sun?”

The words went in one of your ears and straight out the other. There was no paying attention, not when Ryland’s hand held your own. Soft skin, just slightly rough around the edges, and those blue eyes were so soft, locked onto you as if there was nowhere else he wanted to look.

“Our speed changes!” Olivia called out from somewhere in the back, but you didn’t even try to look and find her. “When we’re closer to the sun in our orbit we move faster, and the further away we are, the slower we move.”

“Very good, Olivia!” Ryland called out, sparing just a quick glance over to the kids in the room as his hand held yours tighter, still spinning slowly together. “Madison, we also know this works because there’s other sun-like stars out there that are also orbited by planets. Like Tau Ceti, which has four Earth-like planets orbiting it.”

“Is the sun important for other things, besides just being the center?”

Ryland’s eyes flickered to you, and you watched as he paused. The slight hesitation on his face, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple for a moment, before those blue eyes locked onto yours and refused to look away.

“I-It is…for a lot of reasons. The Sun is the Earth’s entire reason for existing. The Sun gives the Earth life. The Sun is the reason the world is beautiful,”

Your breath hitched, eyes still trained on Ryland. There was something in his words, something in that earnest, raw look that he had written across his features as he looked at you that added a weight to his words. A weight that sent a tiny chill across your skin, raising the hair on your arms.

“Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing,”

There was quiet across the room. Then, a couple snickers, followed by Olivia’s smug little voice.

“The Sun sounds beautiful the way you talk about it,”

“She is,” his voice was lower, softer than it was before. Until, he seemed to realize what he said, the red on both of your faces spreading further than before as his eyes shot wide. “THE SUN I mean! I-I’m talking about the sun, obviously, b-because this is a science presentation!”

Laughter rang through the room, little chants of your names mashed together coming from some of the kids as the bell rang and saved either of you from further embarrassment.

Ryland, being Ryland, chose that moment to finally trip over his own two feet. You pulled on his hand as hard as you could, saving him from plummeting to the ground as he instead just landed on his one knee.

“Make good choices,” Ryland commented lowly as some of the kids walked past the two of you, still snickering and giggling to themselves. You let go of his hands finally, simply resting it on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “Don’t uh, I don’t know, blow up the world during lunch or anything. Or pop those chip bags and give kids heart attacks, whatever you kids do these days.”

You laughed, stepping around Ryland as your kids lined up outside of the room, waiting for you. He shot you a sheepish smile from the floor, and your skin still burned with heat at the memory of his words as you looked at him.

“Every time I think you’re doing well with those kids, they manage to knock you down a peg,”

“Yeah, well, what’s new?”

When you met your class outside, you didn’t let them get a word in before you warned them not to say anything. You could still hear little comments talking about ‘shipping’ their English and Science teachers the entire way back to your classroom.

❤︎

Ryland Grace didn’t understand how he had ended up here.

Well, he did. Calling the leading scholar in his field a “staggering waste of carbon” at a UNESCO conference in Denmark was an easy way to get blacklisted from the field he’d studied in for many years in college. It was an easy explanation for how he ended up teaching middle school science at Grover Cleveland Middle in San Francisco.

Not that he had a problem with teaching! He actually loved it. Loved his kids, loved talking about science. He loved teaching the future little scientists of the world about why every facet of science was awesome. The pay wasn’t great, though.

Especially when it was the reason he rode a bike to school daily.

And there was currently the equivalent of a monsoon raining down from the sky onto the pavement, the reason he’d been standing at the front doors for the last 20 minutes hoping that the rain would simply let up. The heavens didn’t take pity on him, though, and it only rained harder and harder. His rain coat and bike were not meant to withstand heavy rain and damaging winds to this extent. 

Best cast scenario? It takes him a little longer to get home on his usual 20 minute bike ride than normal. Worst case? He crashes and dies, dead in a ditch covered in mud.

“Ryland, please tell me you aren’t thinking of riding your bike home in this?”

Then there was you. You were probably the single greatest reason why he loved teaching at Grover Cleveland Middle. If he ever had the unfortunate chance to meet that scientist from the conference again, he’d thank him this time for being a staggering waste of carbon, because it led him down a path to you.

“I can’t be that bad,” he tried to joke, waving you off as a crack of thunder seemed to shake the entire building, and his fake confidence faltered for a second. He glanced back at you, coat wrapped around your bag instead of yourself in order to keep its contents dry. “Just, you know…the slight threat of bodily harm.”

He really wished the path that led to you was less bumpy and full of himself looking like an idiot, but at this rate he’d take what he could get from the universe.

“Yeah, absolutely not,” was your immediate reply, head shaking as she fished your car keys out of the bag still covered with your coat. “I’m giving you a ride home, can’t risk the best science teacher’s life over a dumb storm.”

Ryland immediately shook his head, turning to face you beside him. He was not letting you risk your own life in the storm for him. If it really came down to it, he’d sleep at his desk. There was a change of clothes he kept in the bottom drawer, it wasn’t the first time he’d had to do it.

“I can’t let you-”

“This isn’t up for discussion,” Ryland snapped his mouth shut as you cut in once again, dangling your car keys up in front of him with a little shake. “I…care about you, okay? I want to know you are home safe.”

There was no stopping the immediate heat that filled Ryland’s cheeks, and he knew it. There was red blooming across your own, but Ryland shook all wishful thinking from his mind. The AC unit in this school was unreliable, you were definitely just flushed from the heat. No other reason.

Ryland decided he wasn’t going to put up a fight at this point, but he wasn’t going to let you do this without anything in return. He shrugged the yellow raincoat hanging over his own shoulders off as he kicked the glass door in front of him open, the muffle sounds of the torrential downpour now louder as droplets of water splashed into the front door. He held the jacket out, hanging it above your head to protect you from the rain.

“At least let me save you from getting drenched,”

“You’re going to look like a dog that just had a bath by the time we reach my car,” Ryland only smiled at your joke, and the little giggle that fell through your lips. The close proximity didn’t help as he held the jacket up around you.

“Actually, it’s not windy today,” he shot back with a grin, nodding out the propped open door into the rain. “That means if we run, I’ll be drier than if we walked, because the rain that’s hitting us from above is proportional to time. Though, the rain hitting us from the front is proportional to distance, and when running-”

“Ryland Grace, you are adorable when you get all science-nerd, but if we’re going to run…we should run,”

Ryland was thankful that you couldn’t see the renewed heat flooding his cheeks, as you were both too busy sprinting through the torrential downpour to the staff parking lot.

Being a gentleman (who was head over heels in love with you and too terrified to say a damn thing) was thrown out the window with how fast you were booking it to your car, the idea of shielding you from the rain with his jacket abandoned after just a moment booking it across the lot. He could feel the coolness of the water settling against his skin as it soaked through every layer of clothing he had, every few seconds having to furiously wipe at his glasses in hopes of seeing through them.

None of it really mattered in the end, not when he heard your laugh. The little shrieks of laughter as a particularly big drop happened to fall right in your eyes. Or the laughter as Ryland managed–in his signature fashion–to slip on the final step into the parking lot, and you had to double back in laughter to help haul him to his feet.

He’s spring clumsily through the rain a thousand more times if he got to see you smile like that. And that is why his kids always told him that he was definitely ‘whipped’ for you. Whatever that meant.

The second you had both jumped into your respective seats of your vehicle, doors slamming shut, there was only a moment of silence between the both of you. Ryland felt like his chest was going to explode, remembering why he always hated gym class, his heavy breathing mixed with yours as you both caught your breath, before you locked eyes over the center console.

Then the laughter resumed.

He held his hand to his stomach, feeling an ache settling in as he couldn’t stop his own laughter. Your’s grew slightly louder in his ear as you leaned over, trying to help him wipe at his glasses that were still covered.

“I was right, you look like a wet dog,”

Ryland’s only response was to shake his soaking wet hair like one, a simple reaction that earned yet another shriek of laughter from you and a light slap to his shoulder. You muttered something unintelligible under your breath, but Ryland found himself unable to tear his gaze away from your lips as you started the car and began to pull out of the staff lot. How soft they looked, the way the little beads of water running down your cheeks fell over them.

Whipped. He still didn’t get it, but he agreed wholeheartedly with his kids at this point.

There was no driving fast in this rain, especially when the windshield wipers were moving at their highest programmed speed and it still wasn’t enough. It was quiet in the car for just a moment as you pulled out of the parking lot, but Ryland broke it the second your phone had connected to the car’s bluetooth, music filling the space between him and you.

Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars.

“Frank Sinatra,” Ryland couldn’t help the growing smile on his lips as the familiar song flooded through the car speakers. He kept his eyes trained on the side of your face, watching the little smile grow on your own lips, eyes focused on the road conditions in front of you. “Old books and old music. Didn’t know you had such an old soul.”

“You calling me old, Ryland?”

“N-no!” Ryland immediately back track, hands flying up and shaking back and forth as his eyes went wide. “I might say some stupid stuff some–okay, most of the time–but I know better than to comment on a woman’s age.”

“I’m just teasing you,” he could thankfully hear the sincerity mixed in with the teasing lit to your voice. “But yes, I do enjoy some old music. Always been a big fan of Sinatra, especially this one.”

“It’s a nice song…just not scientifically accurate,” he caught the side eye that you threw his way for just a moment, another crack of thunder banging across the sky and almost shaking the car. Ryland couldn’t help but jump slightly. “Jupiter only has a 3.13° tilt to its axis, so it doesn’t experience seasons like we do. Mar’s would, though, because its axis is tilted at 25°, only 1.5° more than our own tilt…”

Ryland trailed off as the car rolled to a stop at a red light, and he caught you fully facing him this time with a bemused expression written across your face. His smile dropped just slightly as he let out a sheepish laugh, adjusting his glasses as they slid back down the wet bridge of his nose.

“...I went full science-nerd again, didn’t I?”

Your laughter drowned out the rain beating against the roof of the car as your attention returned to the road once more.

“You always do, but I happen to enjoy it very much,”

If only teaching paid more, because the commute to Ryland’s apartment was a lot shorter than his bike ride home every day from work. 

Parked in an open space across the road from the dimly lit apartment building, Ryland Grace hesitated with his hand on the handle of the door. His eyes swept out over the area around the vehicle, still being hounded with rain. The top of his road looked like the beginning of a river, the way the water was rushing down the small incline to pool at the bottom.

“Thanks…for this,” he gestured toward the weather right outside the card.

You moved to respond to him, when the weather alert on your phone propped up on your dashboard sounded out. Ryland could just barely make out the headline: FLASH FLOOD WARNING.

The roads were far too dangerous, and Ryland already knew from various conversations that you lived on the opposite end of town from him.

He…could ask you to stay for the night. Just for safety reasons, obviously! He was quickly trying to work through the pros and cons list in his head.

Pros: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman he’s been head over heels in love with for the last year would be safe and not driving in this storm.

Cons: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman he’s been head over heels in love with for the last year would be inside his tiny little apartment that looked like it had been hit by a separate hurricane than the one it felt like they were currently suffering through.

“I should probably get home-”

“Stay,” Ryland cut in, quickly continuing his words after his vague statement. “I-It’s just, the roads are bad, and you live on the other side of town. This storm is just going to get worse, and I-I’d hate to know something happened to you.”

You hesitated, he could tell, shaking your head.

“Ryland, I couldn’t ask you to let me stay,”

He hesitated himself for a moment, every feeling he’d kept bottled up for a year now threatening to escape past his lips. Instead, he settled on echoing your own words.

“I…I care about you. I want to know you’re safe,”

Moments later, he had his rain coat draped over your head as he rushed you inside his apartment to shelter from the storm.

Ryland’s hands shook the entire time as he put his key into his front door’s lock. The last time he had guests over…was never. His apartment was built and designed for him and his brain, scattered with notes and books and piles of arts and crafts that he worked on in order to decorate his classroom. It was not meant for visitors, especially not ones as pretty as you.

“Don’t, uh, mind the mess,” he mumbled, holding the door open and motioning after you, allowing you to take a step inside his apartment as he let out the small breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Chucking off his sneakers, little puddles of water forming below them on the ground, his jacket found its way into a pile with them. Ryland wiped his hands nervously against the thighs of his jeans, the action doing nothing against the soaking went material, as he watched you take in his apartment.

The apartment that looked like it had been ransacked, at least partially. Stacks of books relating to a thousand different topics were stacked on the ground by the tv stand, on top of the coffee table along with the coffee cup he’d abandoned there early in the morning in a haste to get to the school, and and by his desk that had a stack of papers scattered around it after her strewn them about in order to find one specific slip of paper at 11 p.m.

It was a mess, and Ryland regretted everything.

“It’s not messy, it’s homey,” your reply sent a burst of heat through his skin as you turned to him with a bright smile, leaving your own bag and coat by his pile of wet items before gesturing to your own soaking wet clothing. “Do you maybe have something a little less…wet?”

He scurried away into his bedroom, trying to ignore that little section of his brain that took your comment in a MUCH different way.

His bedroom was worse. Ryland wasn’t letting you sleep on the couch, but he surely wasn’t letting you see his room in a state like this.

Clothing was thrown across the room and Ryland quickly ran about, shoving piles of clothing away into corners where he was certain you wouldn’t be able to see any of it. Throwing it into his closet and slamming the door before it could fall out, pushing it down in his laundry basket, kicking it under his bed so it was out of sight and out of mind, whatever he could think of.

“Great idea, Ryland,” he muttered to himself, pulling on a dry pair of sweatpants and a tshirt for himself, trying to shake the remaining water out of his hair as he rummaged for something you could wear. “Almost get the woman you’re in love with killed by letting her drive you home in a monsoon. Invite her to stay the night in your apartment that makes you look like an even bigger loser than you are. Amazing idea. A doctorate in molecular biology and this is the best you can do.”

You were waiting by the couch in his living room, just glancing around at everything with a smile, when he reappeared. Sheepishly, he handed the folded clothing over to you, hand running through his soaking wet hair as he pointed down the hall.

“You can take my bed for the night. Uh, just leave your clothes in the bathroom, I can throw them in the dryer in a bit. I can scrounge up something to eat in the meantime,”

“Thanks, Ry,” your hand reached out, squeezing his upper arm lightly, and he felt the heat in his skin instantly bloom under your touch. “For all of this.”

If it wasn’t for the giant crack of thunder that flickered the lights of the building for a moment and made Ryland jump out of his skin, he would’ve forgotten how to breathe again.

He rummaged through every part of his kitchen, desperately trying to find something that he could make the two of you to eat that also wouldn’t make him seem pathetic. All he could come up with…was a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of jelly.

Yesterday. He’d stayed late after the end of the day to help in tutoring. He forgot to go grocery shopping. Ryland let out a sigh at his realization, back to his fridge door and head banging back against the stainless steel, hand running down his face and dragging against his skin as his glasses were knocked off, hanging off of one ear.

“Great,” he muttered into his palm. “Just absolutely freaking great, Ryland.”

Ryland Grace desperately wished he had the guts, the bravery, to just simply tell you how he felt.

From the moment he met you, when you had arrived for your first day at Grover Cleveland Middle, he was a goner. It had been a long time since he’d had a partner, his last one certain that he was too busy with his head in the clouds to pay attention to her, and she wasn’t wrong. But from the moment he looked at you, waving and smiling as you introduced yourself to all of the teachers that had gathered to welcome you, you were suddenly the only thing his brain wanted to focus on.

He had been so focused on you, too busy admiring every inch of you in silence, that in his typical clumsy fashion he tripped over his own two feet and knocked Principal Marshall’s papers out of her hand, spreading them five feet across the floor. But you’d joined him on the ground, laughing lightly to yourself, as you helped him clean up the papers, and Ryland knew he was a goner for you.

It only continued every single day, getting worse, and you somehow became his friend. His only friend, if he was being quite frank. So he tried to hide the way he really felt, too scared to mess anything up. He’d rather have you in his life in any way he could, then mess this up and lose you forever.

Keeping those feelings in was getting increasingly harder in the last few months. Which explained why he’d traveled cross town just to get lunch from your favorite place, or compare you to the sun and basically called you his entire reasoning for living in front of a bunch of children-

Either Ryland was going to blurt it out at some point, or he was taking these feelings to the grave with him.

“Peanut butter and jelly? Sounds like we’re eating like royalty tonight,”

He shouldn’t have looked over at you. He really, really shouldn’t have. Leaning against the opposite wall of the kitchen, hair still damp and dripping onto the cheesy “I had potential” shirt he’d been gifted by one of his students the following year. Sweatpants that were bunched up around your ankles so that you didn’t trip over the length, waist tied in as tightly as possible so they didn’t just slide right off your hips.

Ryland Grace had never thought it possible that you could look more gorgeous than you did every day, but he stood corrected. He felt more in love than he ever had just looking at you right in this moment.

“Sorry, I don’t exactly…live a life of luxury,” Ryland awkwardly laughed as he spoke, pulling out two sad paper plates from the cabinet next to him and flashing them in your direction, shaking them lightly in the air. “Hope this doesn’t ruin my perfectly curated image.”

His eyes followed you as you brushed past him, humming to yourself with a little grin. You fumbled through every drawer in the kitchen, looking for something, when Ryland quickly popped open the one right next to him, showcasing his small selection of utensils. You flashed another heart-stopping grin at him before digging out two knives from the drawer.

“That image cracked a long time ago, Ry. Like that time you let Marcus perform some chemical reaction and got the fire department called to the school,”

The tall blonde groaned to himself, rubbing at his temple as you pushed past him to throw some of the bread down onto the plates and crack open the jars of peanut butter and jelly set out.

“That was one time!” he tried to defend himself, saddling up beside you as you passed him one of the knives. He almost completely missed the opening of the peanut butter jar, eyes too transfixed on the sight of you in his clothing. It was still up in the air if his heart was actually working correctly yet. “I learned my lesson very quickly not to let him handle any more chemicals.”

“Don’t worry. I made the mistake of doing popcorn reading when we were working on The Outsiders. Marcus seemed to end up with every single instance of profanity in the book, which he would yell at the top of his lungs,”

Ryland snapped his fingers, glancing down at you at his side with a teasing smile.

“You know what? That explains that really loud ‘HELL’ I heard across the school a couple months ago. I was so sure that it was going to shatter the windows of my classroom,”

“Oh, shut up! It wasn’t that bad!”

Your laughter permeated the air, elbow digging into his side as you spoke. And when your eyes locked with his, and Ryland got the perfect look at every square inch of your face, he could see it so clearly in his head.

Mornings just like this, where you’d both struggle to get out of the warmth of the blankets. The way he would surely annoy you with his very disorganized morning routine, but he’d make up for it with coffee already set out for you, just as you liked it. The lingering moments by the door, too wrapped up in each other because you didn’t want to leave the peace of this space, even though you were going to the same place.

Late nights, curled together on the couch with some movie playing on TV that neither of you were particularly paying attention to. Whispered words, laughter shared. Kisses that lingered, hands that trailed-

Thunder broke Ryland from his spell, thoughts gone in a flash. He was back in his dingy kitchen, with you just inches away, staring up at him as the picture of true beauty.

“T-This is nice,” he cleared his throat, turning back to his sandwich as he spread his toppings along the bread, heat blooming across his cheeks again. It always did around you. “Making dinner with someone…no matter how sad the dinner is. I haven’t done this in awhile.”

“Right,” your voice responded after a momentary pause. “Sarah, wasn’t it? You were dating her when we first met. What, uh…what ever happened to her?”

“Oh, we broke up a long time ago,” Ryland waved the comment off, shaking his head. “She just, uh, thought my head was too far in the clouds. Didn’t think I wanted to be down here on Earth. She wasn’t wrong. It was for the best, though. She hated…all of this. The rundown apartment, the lack of a car, my love of science. She just never understood it. I was just…too much for her. But she’s with Mark now, so I’m sure she’s happy.”

Ryland chose not to mention that his last relationship had been dead long before it officially ended, the pair not having seen each other in well over a month by that point. If his math was right, which it usually was, Sarah had started dating Mark before she’d even broken it off with him.

He also failed to mention the relief he felt inside when she had called it off, knowing his heart had belonged to you the moment your eyes had locked with his.

Fingertips just barely ghosted over Ryland’s cheek, and he froze in place. Eyes trained on the plate in front of him, he could feel the way your hand curled around his cheek. The way your thumb glossed over his skin, back and forth, and the way your other fingers barely grazed over the shell of his ear. He couldn’t help the way he instantly leaned into the touch, a touch he hadn’t felt in so long.

Ryland turned his head, still resting in the palm of your own, to look you in the eyes. You gave him the softest smile, hand trailing across his cheek and ghosting over his jawline. His eyes watched it move, the way your fingers gently curled around the frame of his glasses dangling precariously from his face, and placed them gingerly back where they belonged, resting on the bridge of his nose.

His breath caught, your body so close to his, as your hand trailed back down and rested on his chest for just a moment, your own gaze flickering to its resting spot while his gaze stayed on your face.

“You are never, and will never be, too much, Ryland. Not for the right person. They’ll love every part of you. The clumsy parts, the nerdy parts, every part that makes you…you,”

The Sun. That’s what you were to Ryland Grace. He meant every word he had said in that planetarium that day, driven by the rare jealousy of seeing Harkin that close to you. 

The Sun was the reason Earth had life. Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing.

Without you…well, Ryland Grace had accepted long ago that he didn’t understand what it was like to truly live until he’d met you.

Your eyes flickered for just a second, and Ryland took in an audible breath, swearing they settled on his lips for just a second. The apartment was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge and the pattering of the rain against the living room windows.

The moment shattered with yet another terribly timed clap of thunder, your body jolting away from his, focus turned back to the counter in front of you, face hidden from his wide eyes.

“Y-you know…I can’t tell you the last time I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,”

Ryland shook his head, smiling slightly to himself at the little stutter in your own words, turning back to finishing his own food as well. But the moment still lingered in his head, the heat that bloomed from where your skin touched him still lingering.

“Since peanut butter is banned in school for allergies, probably awhile,”

“I almost forgot that rule a couple weeks ago and almost packed peanut butter crackers,” you joked back, before Ryland heard you snap your fingers. “Oh! Speaking of work, did you put yourself down to volunteer for the school dance next week?”

Sandwiches finished off, Ryland packed the ingredients away and stashed them back in their appropriate spots, laughing awkwardly to himself.

“Hah, uh, no I didn’t. I chaperoned last year and kind of left covered in punch, became the kids’ favorite ‘meme’ for a week afterward since one of them got a picture of it,”

He turned back to you. Leaning against the island counter, holding your sad little sandwich in your hands, face still lit up red as you smiled toward him.

“I think so far it's me, Doyle, and Harki, plus Principal Marshal and I think Katie and Dawson from the front office. We could really use another teacher,” he swore the fluttering of your lashes was on purpose just to kill him and his resolve. “Sign-up? For me?”

Well, there was no universe in existence where Ryland said no to a request like that.

Rejoining you at the counter, he held his own sandwich in his hand, reaching out and tapping it against yours as if you were sharing a toast.

“For you? Totally,”

Even as you both took a bite of your sandwiches, eyes still locked together, Ryland felt as if something had shifted in the air. Your eyes were still as kind, your smile still bright, but it felt like there was a new weight to your gaze as you looked at him.

And he swore–and hoped–for just a split second, that your eyes had just flickered down to his lips again.

❤︎

The student council had outdone themselves with this end of the year dance.

As you stepped through the main doors of Grover Cleveland Middle’s building, the smile on your face grew immediately at the sight before you. The walls were lined with little fairy lights, little styrofoam planets hanging down from the ceiling at various lengths, glow in the dark stars right around them and glowing. Silver streamers hung around the fairy lights, with the check in desk decorated with tons and foam and lights behind them to look like twinkling lights in the clouds.

“A space theme?” you called out as the two kids in front of you ducked away from the registration desk. Evelyn Doyle finally looked up from the sign-in sheet, grin growing as she took in the sight of you and rounded the desk. “I hadn’t heard anything from the student council on the theme, but they did well.”

“Nevermind the theme, you’re finally here!” you laughed as you threw her arms around you, reciprocating the hug, before her hands landed on your shoulders in order to get a good look at you, eyes trailing you up and down. “And look at this dress, oh my god!”

The deep yellow dress fell right around your knees, the fabric light and airy as it swooshed through the air with every move you made. Buttons lined the front down to the tie around your waist, leaving just enough room for the little gold necklace resting against your collarbone. You thanked yourself for choosing a short sleeve option, already feeling the heat in the building from how many kids were all packed in and dancing together.

“Thank you,” was the sheepish reply you gave your friend as she let you go. “I’m sorry I’m late, I caught one of my student’s parents in the parking lot and they turned it into a mini parent-teacher conference, sadly.”

“Not a problem,” she waved the comment off, gesturing toward the doors of the gym just off to the left of you both. “Just get on in there, have some fun, and keep those slow dancers at least 12 inches apart at all times.”

If the hallways were gorgeous, the inside of the gym shone even brighter. Bathed in blue and purple, even more little lights twinkled around the room, hung off the walls, the ceilings, and on every surface they could possibly find. Moon and star decals, made by the art students, hung off the walls and from the ceiling, almost glowing under the lights.

Your eyes trailed over all of your children, scattered throughout the room, already having been dancing for at least thirty minutes. The smile on your face grew as you watched each one of them, gathered with their friends as they danced together in groups, or even stood off to the sides and just observed from beyond the dimly lit dance floor.

Mr. Harkin had been stationed at the punch table, and you could hear him from across the room warning these middle schoolers not to try and spike the punch. You could only giggle to yourself, shaking your head at his antics, before your eyes swept over the crowd once more-

The music seemed to stop in your ears, breath hitching, the second you laid eyes on him across the room. Ryland Grace.

He wasn’t in anything fancy. A nice pair of jeans, the worn pair of black dress shoes you’d seen by his apartment door that night. A dark green shirt was tucked into his jeans, adorned with a worn, navy blue suit jacket overtop, and those same glasses almost falling off the bridge of his nose as he spoke animatedly to Olivia.

Ryland looked good. Too good, in your eyes.

For just a second, he looked up, and his eyes happened to meet yours across the room. You thought for sure you’d forgotten how to breathe.

Whatever had happened that night, in the silence of his apartment with only the beating of the rain against the windows and the roof as a witness, had shifted something. From the moment your fingertips had ghosted along his skin, your hand had rested against his chest, and you’d been close enough to see the specs that danced in those ocean blue eyes of his up close, nothing had been the same.

Like the little bubble you had been existing in with your harbored crushed had finally popped. Like a toe had dipped just slightly over a line, and there was no going back from then on.

You always blushed around your friend, every time he’d manage to fumble his way through a comment that borderlined on a kind-of-not-just-friendly compliment. But since that day just a week or so ago, every time he has been within a few feet of you, your face lit up like a hot summer’s day.

Moments where he’d find a second to linger in your classroom door, held a new weight to them. Sharing lunch together, fingers just barely brushing for a second as you both reached for your food, to moments when you’d simply be walking together down hallways, back of hands brushing along each other’s but no one making any moves to stop it from happening.

Something was different, and you weren’t sure you wanted to go back to how things were before. Not after touching his skin, or existing in his orbit like that. Not when you’d seen the side of him beyond these school walls.

You were in love with Ryland Grace. You had been for a long time. And, finally, you were done trying to pretend that there wasn’t at least a small chance that he felt the same.

“I need your help,”

The heated staring contest between you two was broken by the sound to your right. You turned, just to see Marcus standing directly beside you and reaching up to pull on the sleeve of your dress. His hands wrung together, foot tapping incessantly on the ground, and you immediately knelt down in front of him to get a better look at his face that he was trying to hide from you.

“Marcus? Honey, what’s wrong?” you asked gently, hands coming to rest on his arms as you tried to get him to look at you.

“I…I like Olivia,”

Oh. It was one of those problems. The anxiety you felt in that moment finally washed away, an easy smile falling to your lips as you took a quick glance over in Ryland and Olivia’s direction, the former’s eyes still locked onto you from across the room.

“I did hear a rumor about that. Olivia is a great girl,”

“She is,” he said quickly, finally looking at you. His nerves were basically written across his face. “I-I’ve been really mean to her. I didn’t mean to be.”

“I know, honey. Sometimes feelings can be confusing,” you stood up, hands on your hips as you looked down at him with a smile. “Do you want to dance with her?”

“I do,”

You held your hand out toward him with a smile.

“Then why don’t we start by going and apologizing to her?”

With Marcus’s hand in yours, you confidently led him across the room, eyes locked back onto Ryland’s as you approached. He stood with Olivia at his side, who was talking his ear off, a dopey looking grin on his face as he nodded to whatever she said as he continued to watch as you approached him.

“Dr. Grace, I’m sorry to interrupt you and Olivia,” you announced yourself to the pair with a grin of your own, hands on Marcus’s shoulders and you lightly pushed him forward. “But Olivia, there’s something that Marcus here wants to say to you.”

The young boy shuffled awkwardly forward, hands wringing together again as he stood in front of his crush.

“I, uh, I wanted to say I was sorry. For being really mean to you. I didn’t mean it,”

Olivia’s eyes went wide, as she too shuffled uncomfortably for a second. Ryland saddled up to your side, the pair of you sharing a glance as you watched the interaction happen right before your eyes. His hand graced over yours lightly, and it took everything in you not to reach out and lock your fingers with his.

“Oh! It’s, um, it’s okay. Thank you,”

“Say, Marcus?” Ryland called out to them both, catching the boy’s eye and gesturing toward Olivia with a wink. “What do you think of Olivia’s dress?”

“I…I think she looks really beautiful,”

That comment finally seemed to catch Olivia off guard, her eyes wide in shock as she giggled nervously.

“Oh! I…thank you, Marcus. You look really nice too,”

“Thank you,” his posture seemed to straighten out at Olivia’s reaction, like seeing her accept his compliment gave him the confidence he needed. “Do you want to dance with me?”

Olivia shot you and Ryland a look, and you both immediately gave her a thumbs up. Then, your happy eyes could only watch the two pre-teens awkwardly shuffle away together to the dance floor, not daring to meet the eyes of the other.

“Look at us, playing matchmaker for middle schoolers,”

“I think they did that for themselves, we just helped,” you laughed, turning your head. The laughter died on your lips the second your eyes met with Ryland’s, voice low and breathy as you whispered to him through your smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he whispered back just as breathily. His hand came up to the back of his head, running through his hair for a moment, and you could see the red and pink hues that lit up his cheeks. “I got worried when I didn’t see you. I was ready to call you.”

“You could’ve,”

“I’ll remember for next time,” he shot back, hands finding their way to rest in the front pockets of his jeans. His eyes moved back over the crowd, finding your two young students once more. “I’m proud of him for that. That…must have taken a lot of guts to do.”

You followed his gaze, landing on the pair as they danced together, laughing and talking like old friends.

“Like you said before, it can be hard for boys to express their feelings. All he needed was to pull up his big boy pants and ask her,”

Ryland laughed beside you.

“Yeah…I should probably follow in his footsteps,”

You glanced back to him, seeing him already watching you. A single eyebrow raised toward him quizzically, even though your heart felt like it was ready to beat directly out of your chest.

Ryland’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were trying to force out words that he couldn’t quite seem to get right. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath, hoping inside that whatever he wanted to say would address the weight that seemed to be hanging between your gazes.

“Stay here,”

There wasn’t even time for you to respond before the tall blonde rushed away, almost tripping as he dashed over to the DJ booth across the way from the makeshift dance floor. He whispered something to the DJ, and you could see the thumbs up he got in return, before he rushed back over to you, panting slightly.

“Ryland?” you questioned softly, the man who held your entire heart without knowing it standing just a foot in front of you with a nervous grin on his face. “What did you just do?”

As if on cue, the song changed, and familiar lyrics floated through the room, bouncing off the walls.

Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars

“I’m pulling up my big boy pants,” he responded with a nervous laugh, his hand outstretched toward you. “And asking you to dance with me.”

Nothing else existed the second that you slid your hand into Ryland Grace’s without hesitation, letting him pull you in. You weren’t in the school, not in a room decorated for a middle school dance, and certainly not surrounded by middle schoolers and a bunch of faculty that had placed bets on you both.

It was just you and Ryland Grace. That’s all you wanted it to be.

Your arms found a place to rest around his shoulders, fingertips just barely brushing past the strands of hair that tickled the back of his neck. There was a fluttering in your chest the second that his hands made their way to your waist, curling around the divet just above your hip bone, pulling you into him just by another inch.

In other words, hold my hand. In other words, darling, kiss me. Fill my life with song, and let me sing for ever more.

"I didn't tell you yet…,” his voice was soft, words whispered just between the two of you in a crowded room. “But you look beautiful,"

"You don't have to flatter me, Ryland,"

"No, really, you look-"

"Like a banana in this yellow dress?"

He paused. His tongue poked out, running along his bottom lip, and you could see the nervous bob of his Adam’s apple before he spoke again.

"...like the sun,"

You are all I long for, all I worship and adore.

Oh. That fluttering in your chest was back, and suddenly, you weren’t at a middle school dance anymore. You were back in that planetarium, spinning in circles. And this time, there were no doubts in your mind. You were the Sun, and he was the Earth. And what was the Earth, without its Sun?

"Ryland-"

"I wasn't lying,"

You cocked your head.

"...about what?"

"That I knew Homer wrote The Odyssey,"

That drew a short laugh from you, but you could still see the nerves that were laced through Ryland’s smile.

"Right, you were just distracted,"

"I was. By you. I'm always distracted by you,"

In other words, please be true. In other words, I love you.

You took a deep breath. He’d crossed the line for you, thrown himself onto the other side, and was waiting for you with open arms. It was just a leap of faith.

“I’m always distracted by you, too. Since the day we met,”

The song faded away, melting into the next. There could’ve been eyes on you both, either from students or from faculty, but nothing would break either of your gazes away from the other.

Ryland took a quick look around the room, before his hands took hold of your own, bringing them down between you both. He gave you a grin, one filled with more happiness than you had ever seen–and you knew your own matched his perfectly–before he tugged you toward the doors of the gym.

“Come with me,”

“Ry, we’re supposed to be chaperoning!”

“I don’t see Principal Marshall anywhere. What’s the worst she could do, fire us?”

“Quite literally, yes!” you shot back with a laugh.

Ryland only shrugged his shoulders, tugging you again, and you didn’t even try to fight back. Your feet simply moved with him.

“Worth it,”

Hands clasped together, fingers intertwined, your laughter echoed off the walls of the empty hallways as Ryland Grace ran you down them, a destination clear in his mind. Every few seconds he’d look back, just smiling at you as his eyes trailed over every single inch of you, before you’d yell at him to look at his own feet before you’d both be sprawled across the linoleum floors.

The door to his classroom was open as you flew inside, hand slipping from his as you caught yourself on the projector cart sitting in the middle of the room. Spinning on your heel, you caught his eye just as he shut the classroom door behind him, and the silence enveloped you both once more. Finally alone, no prying eyes to watch.

The momentarily confidence that seemed to seize hold of Ryland dissipated in that moment. He wiped his hands against the front of his jeans, chuckling awkwardly as he took a few steps toward you.

“What was your plan here, Dr. Grace?” you teased, taking a couple steps toward him as well, too high on the feeling of everything you’d just finally realized. High on the feeling of finally not denying what your heart knew long ago: you and Ryland Grace were never just friends.

“I’m not going to lie,” he shot back, coming to a stop just in front of you, barely an inch or two separating you. “I hadn’t thought this far ahead.”

“Then stop thinking,”

No one had leaned in first. It had been both of you, as if drawn together like two magnets, as your lips finally found one another's.

Goosebumps rose across your skin as Ryland Grace’s mouth moved against yours with an ease that shouldn’t exist between two people that have never kissed before. It was like a perfect dance between two partners that knew each other better than anything.

Your lips never left his, moving against his as if you couldn’t believe you had deprived yourself of this for so long, as your hands wound around his shoulders. Fingers curled into his hair, finally carding themselves through the blonde strands that felt so soft between your fingers.

The slightest little moan, enough to send heat coursing through your body the second you heard it, slipping from Ryland’s mouth into your own. His hands grasped at your hips, winding around your back to press into your lower back and tug you as close as humanly possible, as if he was a starved man that craved to touch you in any way that he could.

His lips were soft, a feeling that you knew you were going to crave for the rest of your life now that you’d had a single taste of them. You pressed further into him, a small mewl tumbling from your own lips and swallowed by his mouth as you pressed every inch of yourself into him, desperate to hang onto the moment in case the world would be cruel and wake you from this dream moments later.

The need to breathe was what finally separated you, but not far. Ryland’s forehead pressed to yours, his breath fanning out across your skin. His hands still gripped at your hips, holding him to you, as yours stayed carded through his hair, nails gently scraping at his scalp as you chest heaved as it tried to level your breathing back to normal.

“If I haven’t made it clear already, you’re my best friend,” his words were breathy, accented by the way he was still trying to catch his breath. But his smile was bright, his eyes almost shining, as he looked down at you. “And I’m completely in love with you. Literally, since the moment we met.”

You laughed, trapped in this little bubble with him, as your hands slid from his hair to instead cup his cheeks. The tip of your nose just barely brushed against his, and he bumped his right back against yours without hesitation.

“I’m completely in love with you too, Ryland Grace. Since the moment you tripped over your own two feet,”

The sound of your laughter filled the empty, dark science classroom again as Ryland’s hands came to scoop you up around your thighs, spinning you in relentless circles. All you could do was hang onto his broad shoulders and smile, his lips peppering a thousand kisses to every inch of skin he could possibly reach.

The Earth needed the Sun, like how Ryland said he needed you. The person that makes it all worth it, that makes the days brighter, that makes this short little life worth it.

Six locks the door and glances back at you, “You know those two guys that live next door to us?” 

“The college students?” you ask.

He nods, “Well, one of them went away for the weekend, and the other has had his girlfriend over the entire time. They’re either arguing or having loud makeup sex.” 

You grimace at that. “It’s so much worse than that,” Claire grumbles out, “The people that live above us decided that 2 a.m. is the ideal time to rearrange furniture.” You give them both a sympathetic look and gesture for Six to sit in the armchair. He leans his head back, allowing himself to sink into the chair. 

“You should’ve texted me. You guys could’ve crashed here since I’ve been working the night shift,” you tell him as you set your bag down.

He knew you had been working the night shift for the past four days, your work schedule was something you always kept him updated on. “I didn’t want to bother you,” he murmurs, “His roommate was supposed to come back, I thought it would be over…nothing could have prepared me to hear a threeway.”  

Your eyes widen at that, “Good god.”

Claire begins to lull away, you crouch down to face level and rub her back gently, “Can you stand up for me, Sweetheart?” She nods her head and sits up, pausing for a moment, and then pushes herself up onto her feet. You guide her down the hall towards your room, letting her crash there. She looks up at you, her eyes barely open as you lay her down on your bed, “Thank you,” she whispers, as you unfold and drape one of your blankets over her. 

“You’re welcome, baby.” 

— 

“She okay?” his voice was gravelly as he spoke. 

“Out like a light,” you assure him. You set down extra pillows and blankets on the coffee table and start taking the cushions off the couch. “You okay with sharing the pull-out with me?” 

He helps you pull the metal handle and unfold the bed, which makes a creaking noise that pierces the room, “And you’ll behave?” 

“Haven’t I always been a good girl for you?” you tease, prompting Six to give you a look that you can only interpret as his sleepy attempt at a glare. 

You leave him in the living room, heading to the bathroom to take a much-needed shower. The hot water beats against your skin, the exhaustion you had been feeling for the past few days seeps into your bones. You try to let your muscles relax and relieve all the tension stored in your body, but you’re still a bundle of nerves. 

Six was still awake when you got out of the shower, “Strawberries,” he murmurs.

“What?” you question, walking into the kitchen, opening the fridge, and scanning the shelves for something to eat. Six trails in behind you, “Strawberries,” he repeats, “You have strawberries on your shorts.”

Your lips form an ‘o’ as you put what remains of the pasta you made a few days ago to heat. The dish was steaming when you took it out of the microwave and set it on the table. You didn’t think Six would sit at the table with you, but much to your surprise, he does. You press play on your answering machine and listen to your voicemails instead of waiting idly for the food to cool. Most of them were unknown numbers, your typical scam calls, the one that did catch your attention was from your former real estate agent. The message itself began playing halfway through, it was clear she hadn’t waited for the beep to start talking, “...I know you wanted to stop looking but the asking price for the house on 73rd you liked dropped by a lot…” her voice starts to break up, and the voicemail stops. 

Six raises his eyebrows at you, “I didn’t know you were looking at houses.” The confusion of his voice made it seem like more of a question than a statement.

You shrug it off, “That was before.” You feel the side of the container with the back of your hand to determine if it has cooled down enough to finally eat and sink your fork into the pasta. “You know you can go to sleep, right?” 

He nods, crossing his arms over his chest, “I know…why’d you stop looking at houses?”

You were blowing on the forkful of pasta before bringing it up to your mouth, you held up a finger, telling him to give you a second as you ate. “Why do you think?” you answer. 

A quiet hum leaves his lips, “Left the job after they hired you to take me out, and now this…I’m starting to think you’ve got a soft spot for me.” You scoff at that and point your fork at him, “In your dreams.” 

“If only you knew.” 

You recognize quickly that he’s probably far too tired to realize the shift in his demeanor. This felt like old times, back when the two of you would shack up in between jobs, it was nice and you wanted to revel in it, but just like then, you knew it was only temporary, that you would have to let go even if you didn’t want to.

It wasn't until he started speaking again that you realized you had gone quiet, “Are Claire and I actually the reason you stopped looking at houses?” 

“Yeah,” you don’t even bother denying it, “I kept telling myself it was just until you guys settled in. We’ve walked away from each other so many times before, I figured it would be no different this time around. I guess I didn’t think I would get attached…but now…I make sure I never have a night shift on Fridays so I don’t miss a game night, keep three different kinds of hot sauce in my pantry, and have essentially half of Claire’s things scattered around the apartment.” 

He goes quiet, and you’re almost certain you had gotten a little too touchy-feely for his liking, but then he starts to talk, “No one else uses the mug you always use when you come over. It's just yours...and Claire doesn’t actually like tea, we only buy it ‘cause we know it’s your favorite.” 

You smile softly at that, your heart warms at the small gesture, “You do?” 

“We do,” he confirms.

—

You finished eating and opted to leave the dish to soak, telling yourself it was a problem to be dealt with in the morning. You head back into the bathroom to brush your teeth and complete your skincare routine. 

You watch in the mirror as he appears in the doorway a few minutes later, watching as you complete the steps of your skincare routine, “You know I’ve already got a shadow, right?”

Six sighs heavily, stepping into the bathroom, and leans against the counter, just observing you, “What is that?” 

“Moisturizer,” you answer, working the product into your skin. “Want some?” 

He didn’t have a chance to reply when you pumped some of the cream onto your fingers and started applying it to his face. “Is it supposed to be cold?” His hand rested on your waist. You shush him and rub the moisturizer into his skin.

He lets out a quiet “Thank you” and waits for you to leave the bathroom before following suit. 

“You want me to build a pillow wall between us?” you tease as you lay down. You expect him to lie beside you, but he just stands at the foot of the pull out. You pat the spot beside you, “Why are you just standing there? Come to lay down.” 

“Move over,” he instructs.

You furrow your eyebrows at him, “Why? What’s wrong with that side?”

“Nothing,” he states. You’re about to press further to understand what the issue is, but he answers your question before you even have the opportunity to ask it, “This side,” he motions to the side you were lying on, “Is closer to the door.” 

You huff out a sigh and reluctantly roll over onto the other side. He was right, the side you laid on was closest to the door. You didn’t think it was that big of a deal, but you knew better than to try and fight him on this one. He flicks off the lights and waits a few seconds to let both of your eyes adjust to the darkness. The springs creak under both of you as he gets in. Silence fills the room as the two of you lay beside each other. You turn on your side to face him, only to find he’s already looking at you. “I missed you, you know? Don’t think I’ve said that yet,” you say quietly.

Six doesn’t say anything at first, instead he stretches his hand out and rests it on your hip, giving it a gentle squeeze. You could tell he was testing the waters, you weren’t expecting any other kind of acknowledgment beyond that, but you were pleasantly surprised when he snaked his arm under you and pulled you to his chest by your waist, “Miss you too,” his words coming out in a low rumble.

You lift your head, “Yeah?” you ask, unable to suppress your grin. 

His hand comes up and pushes your head back down to his chest, “Don’t let it get your head,” he mutters. You let out a breathy laugh and zeroed in on the loud thumps of his heartbeat under your ear. 

You soak in the moment, you know that it isn’t going to last forever, but you allow yourself to indulge in the comfort that being held by him brings anyway.

According to the glowing numbers of your cable box, only ten minutes had passed. The tranquil silence that washes over the two of you, combined with the feeling of his hand rubbing up and down your back, soothes you, “Court?” You whisper. 

He lets out a groan, letting you know he’s listening. You take a deep breath, “I know it's a bit outlandish, but if I did move, would you and Claire come with me?” 

Your words hang in the air for a second, ‘Would you want us to?” You could hear his heartbeat pick up ever so slightly as he spoke. 

“Yes,” you affirm, shifting and nuzzling your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the faint scent of his body wash. 

“I'll go wherever you go,” his voice hushed, “We can talk about it more in the morning with Claire, she’ll be ecstatic.” A content hum escapes your lips; it was the answer you wanted to hear. You inhale deeply and let your body completely relax against him on the exhale. You stop trying to fight off your drowsiness and let your heavy eyes close. There’s a delicate pressure against your forehead before you finally doze off. A kiss.

— 

The repeated clicks of a camera are what woke you up. Your face was smushed against Six’s chest, and your eyes fluttered open and immediately squeezed shut when you were blinded by a flash. Claire’s giggle rings in your ears. You sit up and rub your eyes. You blink repeatedly before your vision becomes clear. Claire was standing on one of your dining chairs, her Polaroid camera in hand, “Good morning,” she chirped.

“Morning, kiddo.” Your voice was hoarse as you spoke. You stretch and let out a yawn. You turned to the side to look back at Six’s sleeping form and brushed a few strands of hair that fanned across his forehead.

“I’ve never seen him like this before…so at ease,” she whispers, stepping down from the chair. A soft smile appears on your face as you continue to look at him, “Probably been a while since he’s gotten the chance to sleep in,” you say, matching her volume.

Claire taps her chin with her pointer finger, “Sure…but don’t you think it might be for another reason?” You knew what she was getting at, but you chose to dismiss it: “Nope, definitely the sleep.”

“And not who he’s sleeping with?” she questions, tilting her head. You avert your eyes away from Six and back to her, “How do you feel about pancakes for breakfast?” It was a terrible attempt at changing the topic, but when her eyes lit up at the mention, you knew you were in the clear. “With chocolate chips?” You nod and instruct her to go brush her teeth, letting her know that there are extra toothbrushes in the cabinet under the sink.

You wait until you hear the door to the bathroom close before saying aloud, “I know you’re awake,” as you continue to play with his hair. He opened one eye, peeking up at you before rolling over onto his stomach, lazily draping his arm over your lap. If you had to guess, it was likely that he’d been awake from the second Claire dragged the dining chair from the kitchen and into the living room. 

With a soft pat, you lift his arm just enough for you to throw your legs over the side of the pullout and stand. “You want chocolate chips in your pancakes, too?” He makes a noise which you take as a yes. 

Claire was out of the bathroom and eager to help by the time you were adding the wet ingredients into the dry. She stood beside you as you focused on getting rid of any lumps. “Can I add the chocolate chips?” 

You point to the bag, silently indicating it’s time. She sprinkles the chips into the bowl of batter, watching from over your shoulder as you fold them into the mixture. “So you’re off for the rest of the—” she starts, only to cut herself off when Six enters the kitchen, “Nice of you to join us in the land of the living.” 

“It’s too early to deal with you two,” he mumbles, clasping his fingers together and holding them over his head to stretch. His shirt rises, and you’re able to catch a glimpse of his happy trail. He tries to reach his hand into the bag of chocolate chips Claire’s holding, but she's quick to slap his hand away and hold them away from him and scolds him, “You haven’t even brushed your teeth!” 

—

Claire knew something was up just from the way the two of you sat across. “You guys look like you’re about to tell me you sent the family dog to live on a farm upstate and that he’s in a better place now,” she jokes, uncapping the bottle of syrup and dousing the stack in them. 

You and Six exchange glances before he clears his throat, “We do actually want to talk to you about something.” The firmness in his voice makes her wary, a worrisome expression spreads across her face: “Now I’m nervous.” 

“How do you feel about moving again?” The question makes her slump into her seat, “Why? We’ve been doing so good here, I like it here.” 

“You like her,” Six corrects. The corner of your mouth curves up when he says that. You knew Claire had grown attached to you, but it felt good to hear. “And you don’t?” Claire counters, “I don’t understand, we both like it here…we have someone here, why would we leave?” 

You pinch the bridge of your nose, “We should have practiced this….I’m moving and—”

The frown on her face deepens as she interrupts you, “You’re moving?” 

“I am, but,” you emphasize the word, “Six and I talked about the possibility of you two moving with me. Same area, just out of these crummy apartments and into a house.” You watch as Claire perks up, “Move in with you? For real?” 

Six nudges you with his elbow, his nonverbal way of saying “I told you so.” He nods his head in confirmation. Claire is beaming. “So you’re okay with the three of us living together?” you ask her.

She shakes her head ‘yes’ profusely, “This is great, we get to live with you, I got pancakes, and Buster’s well.” Six’s eyebrows crease and he confusingly repeats the name. “The family dog? God, Six, you gotta keep up,” she retorts, cutting into the pancakes, a grin gracing her face when he takes a deep breath and sighs.

—

So when his short sentence was served – and after Roy managed to get himself killed in prison over a pack of cigarettes – Gator left.

The asphalt he walked on everyday now, from his modest apartment to work, started to feel more and more like he could get used to living here. The lingering anxiety of moving away, of adapting to his new condition, of wondering who he is now, was slowly ebbing away with each step he took on the hot pavement.

Gator became a creature of habit along the way. He follows the same route to and from work, goes to the same shop to get his disgustingly sweet vape juice, and orders from the same delivery service for his usual takeout dinners. He keeps to himself most of the time, only interacting with people at work when he absolutely must, which is entirely way more then what he’d prefer.

It’s not that he doesn’t like people. He’s never really been shy, that was beaten out of him early. No, it’s more like he doesn’t know how to interact now. Sure, he can usually sense when someone’s there, but how do you even approach someone without sight? And by the time he realizes that it’s Cheryl, the fifty-something-year-old receptionist that finds him quite handsome but is also extremely intrusive, he loses all good intentions he might have had. Because of this, his new coworkers find him quite cold and distant. But hey, what do they expect from the blind ex-cop with indicators of a troubled past in the form of scars on his lip and wrist? They know better than to ask details about all that. Well, most of them. Not Cheryl.

“Say, how did you… you know?” She asks one afternoon after she monopolized his break talking about her grandchild.

Gator’s jaw clenches a bit, trying to stay polite as the lady pulls at a rope he does not want to untangle. “How did I what?”

Cheryl squirms a bit, not knowing how to breach that subject, but she still goes for it anyway. “You know, the… blindness,” she almost whispers, like it’s something taboo even though she’s the one bringing it up. “How did it happen?”

The breath that leaves Gator is slow and full of his new-found ability to hold back. “Accident,” he says simply, almost harshly, before standing up, scrambling for his cane and walking back to his office. Maybe, if he wasn’t trying to change, he would have blown up in her face and put her back in her place for even asking about it.  Something Tillman-esque to relieve himself of the pent-up frustration that comes with not seeing a damn thing.

But he tries though. God, he tries. To be a better man than his father. To be a better man than himself and how he was raised. He just doesn’t always know how, like asking a fish to paint or a lamp to cast a shadow. Sure, maybe it can be done, but it’ll take time. Rearranging. Good thing he has that, now.

The smell of coffee and maple assault your senses as you enter The Overflow, the shop you work at that. A few patrons are scattered across tables and love seats – students preparing for a test, businessmen on zoom calls talking way too loudly, and a young couple entirely too busy looking at each other with hearts in their eyes to be bothered by it.

You reach for your apron as you slip behind the counter, waving off your coworker Sam who is eager to finally go home. The soap bubbles nicely as you wash your hands – Jenny finally got the good kind again, nice.

You like working the afternoon shifts into the night until the coffee shop closes at 9. It’s less busy, allowing you to catch up on some reading. Plus, the owner, Jenny, lets you put your playlist on the shop’s speakers. It’s gonna be a good day, you tell yourself, getting on with prepping your workplace as you like it, humming under your breath.

Gator doesn’t know what makes him swerve to the left instead of the right when he exits the building at 4PM. Was it the strong coffee smell he could always pick up when the wind blew the right way? Was it the fact that Gary, his coworker that wears too much aftershave, mentioned getting his tea there in passing one morning? Or was it the fact he had a long night of work ahead of him, needing to redo an assignment he realized he had misinterpreted? Probably all of those.

The bell above the door rings faintly, not that it needs to, the clear lack of lubrification on the hinges enough to alert to any new client. You look up from your book and are surprised to see a new face. His sunglasses are dark, completely hiding his eyes. His hair is slicked back, sharp-looking. He’s wearing a black button down and dark jeans, his cane tapping lightly against a chair as he takes a tentative step inside, mapping the place.

Noticing the cane and sunglasses, and how you’ve never seen the man before, you stand up and offer a bit of help in localizing himself in the form of a greeting. “Hi! Welcome to The Overflow.”

Gator turns his head in your direction and offers a polite smile, making his way to the counter now that he had a voice to follow and the confirmation he was in the right place. “Um, hi.” His hand taps the counter a few times as he reaches it. “Could I get a large drip coffee to go, please?”

Up close, you can see him better. The moles adorning his jawline and his neck. You smile and turn around swiftly, grabbing a large paper cup. “Sure thing. What name should I write down?” You ask over your shoulder.

He scoffs a bit and shrugs. “Doesn’t matter,” he mutters as his shoulders roll in on themselves a bit.

You pause and look back at him, feeling a little sheepish. “Oh, it’s just so I know who to call forward if another customer gets in,” you try to explain, the uncomfortable feeling of maybe having said something you shouldn’t have gnawing at you.

Perhaps he would have reacted another way in another life, like getting defensive and not giving you the light of day. But he doesn’t. Instead, he realizes his mistake of thinking the name baristas write down on the cup was more for the customer than for them. “Right. Um, sorry. It’s Gator,” he says calmly, scratching the back of his neck.

You tilt your head at the name. “That’s an original name. Like alligator, but hold the ‘alli’?” You ask, trying to make the moment a little lighter, not wanting to scare away a potential new customer.

The corner of his mouth turns up, but it’s not really a laugh. He’s heard that before. But the way you sound like you’re not afraid of him… that’s new. “Yeah, like that.” His fingers tap lightly against the counter.

You turn to the coffee machine and start the process of scooping ground beans in it, pressing the button that makes it rumble to life. You lean a hip against the counter and study him a bit as the liquid energy starts to drip. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around here before.” It’s an innocent enough statement. An observation. An opening.

He shifts his weight and clears his throat, not expecting you to keep talking to him. “I work down the street, but yeah, first time.”

You hum and nod, taking the now filled cup. “Well, hopefully it’ll be good enough for a second time. What should I put in your coffee, sir?”

“Nothing. Black is fine,” he says, fishing for his wallet in his pocket. He takes out his card as you close the plastic lid of the cup and slide it to him.

The terminal beeps softly as you enter the total in it. “It’ll be 3,50,” you say with a smile, even though he can’t see it.

He looks hesitant, realizing he doesn’t know where the terminal is. “Um…”

You gently reach for his card with a polite “Here, let me. Did you want to put a tip?”

Gator freezes for a second as you took his card, the tips of his ears turning pink from embarrassment. “Yeah, 15%,” he forces himself to say.

You press the card to the terminal, and it beeps as you hand it back to him. You take the cup of freshly made coffee and carefully place it in his waiting hand, your fingers brushing with his in their helpful endeavour. “There you go.”

He nods politely, mutters a “thank you” and turns around to leave from where he came from.

“Have a good rest of your day!” you exclaim as he leaves, watching him go as you lean over the counter. You find yourself hoping he’ll come in again.

He doesn’t. At least not for a few days. The problem isn’t the coffee. No, it was decent and not too overpriced. He just didn’t like that he had needed help. And that it hadn’t bothered you. Or at least, it seemed like you weren’t bothered by it. For some reason, that stuck in Gator’s brain. Your kindness.

It’s a few days later when he dares to go back to The Overflow again, this time before going to work. As he walks in, the shop seems way busier than last time. He stops behind an older lady in line, her strong eau de parfum signaling her presence. He waits his turn, trying to hear the steps of the people in front of him so he knows when to come forward. He feels out of place, like maybe this was a bad idea.

But that’s when he catches it again. Your voice, laughing with your coworker, someone called Jenny, as you steam some milk. His shoulders instantly relax a little bit, feeling like maybe this won’t go too bad after all.

When it’s his turn to reach the counter, you notice him. Of course you’d remembered him. It’s not everyday you see a handsome blind man at work. Your words let him hear the way you smile. “Good morning… Gator, Right? I take it that first coffee was pretty good, huh?”

He gives you a slight smile at that and nods a bit. “Hi – uh, good morning. Yeah, t’was pretty good. Can I get a large black coffee to go again, please?”

“Sure thing,” you reply and quickly get to work, the line of people still extending after Gator.

When you finish his coffee, he holds out his card for you, silently asking for you to make the payment for him again.

“Here. So sorry this dang terminal doesn’t allow me to move it,” you say as you take his card, and tap it against the terminal.

He pockets it back. “Don’t worry about it. Thanks, for your help.” The warmth of the coffee seeps through his hand as you safely hand it to him.

“You’re most welcome. Have a good day.” Your soft voice triggers a smile to spread on his face.

Wait... she didn’t ask for a tip. He fishes out a dollar from his leather jacket, places it on the counter and leaves, mirroring your words. Before he can exit though, he hears your coworker shout your name as she seems to be struggling with something. Oh. It almost sounds as good as your laugh that follows it as you answer her.

It becomes routine, well every other day. He comes in before work, or after, orders the same thing, and leaves after letting you take his card. For some reason, he looks forward to it. Maybe it’s the way it simply makes him feel normal to get coffee at the local coffee shop, like everyone else. But also, maybe it’s how he knows just by the faint smell of coconut when he enters the shop that it will be you there.

One afternoon, he comes in after work to get his liquid courage for the night ahead of him, but he immediately pauses in the doorway. The overall smell of The Overflow is exactly the same – freshly ground coffee beans and maple. But the undertones are off. He walks a bit further inside and doesn’t hear your familiar greeting when he usually comes in when it’s less busy. He reaches the counter, now more accustomed to the layout of the place.

You were in the back, struggling with a big pouch of creamer when you heard the door. It took a minute to get everything settled before you walked back out to the front of the shop, wiping your hands on your apron. “So sorry, what can I – Oh!” You pause when you see it’s him and smile. “Hi Gator.” You enjoyed saying his name. So what.

He instantly relaxes and smiles at you, flashing a toothy grin that you rarely pulled out of him, but made your own wider when you did. “Hi. I uh… didn’t think you’d be here today when I came in.”

Your brows furrow and you cross your arms as you reach the register. “Huh? Why not?” The confusion in your tone is evident. You don’t know that Gator learned your schedule through trial and error, and now only comes to the shop when you’re working, a lingering side-effect of his past life. You also don’t know that abruptly changing the body mist you use every morning would throw him way off.

“I just…” He thinks for a second, and yeah no. He can’t say the smell thing. Sounds way too creepy. “Um… I don’t know. Guess I’m used to hearing you greet me earlier.” The teasing joke lands a little flat, but you chuckle anyway. He leans in slightly, not realizing that you can see him trying to get a better sample of the new scent.

You notice. Of course you do. But you don’t say anything.

And next time he comes in, you’re back to the regular body mist. Warm coconut. Just so he knows a few seconds earlier that it is you working that day. That’s just being friendly, right?

The sun is warm on your skin as you walk through the city, about to reach The Overflow a bit earlier than what your shift demanded. The music in your earbuds makes your steps lighter, drowning out the town’s usual soundtrack.

That’s when you see him – Gator – leaning against a building not far down the street, pulling from a clunky vape. Charming. His hair is not in his usual gelled back style, a few strands falling on his forehead.

You approach him and before you can say a word, his head perks up with a slight smile. “Hey.” Your name falls from his lips smoothly, assured, more confident now after getting to talk to you a few times when he had spontaneously decided to drink his coffee at a table on slow nights. You’d gotten to know more about him and him about you.

You giggle and step a bit closer. “How did you know it was me?” You ask, amused, because you know it’s from the perfume.

“Lucky guess.” He says with a smirk, blowing the vapor away from you, but not well enough that you don’t catch the sweet strawberry scent of it.

You hum. “So, is this where you work then?”

He gestures vaguely and nods. “Yeah. Smart girl.”

Something flips a bit in your stomach as he addresses you like that. There’s a beat of awkward silence, the kind that comes when you start to know someone, but then you break it. “Well, I gotta get to work too, so…”

He nods and bows his head forward a bit. “Yeah, of course. Don’t let me hold you.”

You don’t know what compels you to do it. It’s too forward. Hell, he’ll probably take it badly, knowing better now how he doesn’t like to ask for help. But, whatever. He told you that he didn’t really know anyone around town last time he was at the shop, and it made your chest ache for him. “Hey, Gator. Before I go, I was thinking that I could like, give you my number, if you wanted? Just so you have a friend you can call if you need something, you know?” You wince silently but force yourself to stick with it.

Gator goes stiff. He wants your number, that’s for sure. But you’re offering it to him as a friend? Because you pity him and think he’s alone and needs help? It leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, makes him feel like a shadow of a man. He wants to scoff and tell you he doesn’t need help. But then that would definitely ruin his chances. And he keeps telling himself he’s changed, that he’s a better man now. Is he really if he brushes you off out of fear of being a burden?

He lets out a long breath through his nose, his jaw clenching in a way that tells you this is taking an effort. His phone slips out of his pocket as he hands it to you. “Yeah, okay.”

You quickly put in your contact info in it, sending yourself a quick text so you have his number as well. “Cool. Don’t, huh… don’t be afraid to call, yeah? For anything.” You say as you hand it back, your fingers brushing his. The pavement crunches slightly as you take a step back. “I like your hair like that, by the way.”

The tip of his ears flush pink and he instinctively reaches for it at the compliment, his hand burying in his hair. A compliment. He doesn’t think he’s gotten one in years. “Huh, thanks.”

The taste of something faintly metallic seeps on your tongue as you worry at your bottom lip. “Anyway, see you later!” You say in an overly chirpy voice. You turn around and walk toward the coffee shop like you’ve been burned, cringing at your use of “see you later” for a blind man.

Gator his left there, still reeling from the whole I like your hair thing and the fact that he has your number now. The heat from the blush that’s going down his neck starts to thaw the frost that had taken over his limbs, and he lets himself smile.

The next time he comes in the shop in the afternoon, about a week later, you decide to try out something. It takes you longer to complete his usual order, but he doesn’t complain, chatting with you about work and how warm it is in this town. Before making him pay this time, you hand him the cup. “Here.”

His brows furrow and disappear under his sunglasses as he picks up the cup, a different shape he is used to. “What is this? Think you got it wrong, sweetheart.”

Oh, yeah. He had started calling you that and it did things to you. “Just try it, Gator.” There’s an amused lilt to your voice. He can practically hear how your hands are propped up on the counter, eyes trained on him for his reaction.

A short puff of air escapes his lips, and he brings the cup to his mouth, taking a small sip so as not to burn himself. The taste of coffee, obviously, but also of sweet maple and milk wash over his tongue and he almost buckles at the knees. Roy had always made him take it black, saying it was the only manly way to do so.

You smile at the obvious enjoyment of the maple latte you just made him. “So? You like it?”

“It’s… different,” he simply speaks, trying to hide how much he seems to be appreciating what he considers to be something that only girls order.

The giggle that leaves your lips is like music to his ears. “Thought you’d like something sweet, especially after I saw you inhaling that awful strawberry vape.”

You’re teasing him, he knows, but also, you pay attention. You did something that you thought he’d like. That felt special. He laughs and nods, taking another more confident sip. Fuck, it is good. “So you just decided to change my usual?”

You know Gator means it like a joke, but it still makes you a bit nervous that maybe you did something wrong. You shrug and lean your hips forward against the counter. “Don’t worry. That drink’s on me. And if you really don’t like it, I can make you your usual.”

He shakes his head decisively. “Nah, don’t bother. It’s good. Thanks.” He gives you that gorgeous smile you like so much and you stare at it. The anxious knot in your stomach unfolds and it feels like every moth on earth has finally found, buried deep inside your guts, the prodigal moon they were searching for and are now dancing all around it.

After that, the maple latte becomes his usual.

He had asked you for “whatever you made yesterday” when he went back to the shop the next day. That made you smile bright, and he was devastated he could never see it.

You had called him at some point too, under the guise of needing help picking the right kind of door chain for your front door. You remembered Gator told you he was a security consultant and he used to be a cop before he went blind, so you figured it was related enough to not seem too out of pocket. You had described the types of locks at the hardware store you were at, and he patiently guided you to the safest option. “You should get a deadbolt too, if you don’t have one. Gotta be safe, sweetheart.” He didn’t tell you, but it eased him that the first time you guys called each other was because you had needed help, not him.

After that first one, the calls became more of a regular thing. He called you about asking you what new takeout he should get because he was feeling adventurous. You called him for his opinion on types of chairs when you were slightly drunk after going out with your friends, because that had been the heated debate of the night. “You don’t get it, Gates. Rocking chairs are the obvious choice.”

You didn’t really notice how the calls became longer, how you’d stay on the phone with him for hours sometimes. Half the time you were just cooking or reading, no one saying a word, but still on the line. You told yourself it was just for company. For Gator, it was reassuring. Proof that he could get to know someone and not scare them off. Proof that he could be close to someone without feeling like they’re just afraid of his name.

You had told him one night you used to watch hockey with your dad when you were younger, and it opened the door. Sports was the one thing he preferred to listen to on TV, because the built-in narration of the commentators didn’t make him feel like he was different, unlike other shows where he had to activate the audio description. “Would you wanna come over and watch a game sometime?”

The question had made you pause. Would you go over to his place? Would it be a date? Surely he wasn’t dangerous, knowing him for a few months already. He’d have done something by now if he was. That made you relax and accept the offer. “Huh, yeah. I don’t really watch it anymore so I might be rusty, but it would be fun.”

The three knocks reverberate in the hallway of his apartment building as you hope you wrote down the correct address. You hear shuffling from inside, but not his cane. Damn it, is it the wrong door? You take a step backward, clutching the wine bottle in your hand tighter. Before you could completely panic though, the door opens and he smiles, saying your name in a question. Not that he needs to, that warm coconut doing all the work.

His hair is free of gel, his sunglasses on his face, and he’s wearing a tight black t-shirt that stretches deliciously over his chest and shoulders. The loose denim cladding his legs is more relaxed than the pairs he usually wears to work. He doesn’t have his cane, and you realize that he likely doesn’t need it in this space anymore. He probably knows the layout of his apartment like the back of his hand now.

Your mouth takes the shape of a smile as you answer him. “Yeah, it’s me. Hi, Gator.”

He moves to the side and opens the door wider for you to come in. You brush past him and toe off your shoes. The smell of lingering cleaning supplies and takeout make the space inviting as you step further inside, following him. You reach the kitchen and living room where the apartment develops in an open area, a hallway to the side leading to the bathroom and his bedroom. He clears his throat and speaks before the silence gets awkward. “Want something to drink?”

“I brought some wine if you have glasses,” you answer, shaking off your nerves and placing the bottle on the kitchen island.

He nods and grabs the counter of the island, walking around it as he touches it to know where he is going. He stops in front of a cupboard and opens it, carefully pulling out two wine glasses. For some reason, it surprises you that he has those.

“I hope you like red,” you say softly.

He smiles and searches for the handle of a drawer with a few taps of his hand, opening it and retrieving a bottle opener. “Yeah, I like red wine. Pass me the bottle.”

You slide the bottle in his reach and lean your hip against the counter, watching him. His hands – his big hands – wrap around it and go up the neck to the cork. He takes his time, aligning the bottle opener and twisting it enough, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each movement. To say you are mesmerized is an understatement.

Gator grunts softly as he pulls on the cork and the bottle opens. The butterflies, or more realistically the light-hungry moths, came back to life in your belly. He looks in your general vicinity and pushes the bottle toward you. “If you don’t mind, I’ll let you pour it out. Usually just put my finger in there to know when to stop, but that don’t seem appropriate for a d- … for this.” He chuckles, tips of his ears turning pink.

Was he about to say “date”? God, you hoped. “No problem,” you say with a giggle as you take the bottle and pour out the two wine glasses. You hand him one, just like you would usually do with the countless coffees you’ve made for him before, and brush his fingers a bit more intentionally this time. “There you go.”

You notice that the TV is already on and playing the pre-game commentary when he leads you to the living room area, his free hand brushing the wall until it reaches the couch. He sits down in his usual spot and gestures for you to sit next to him. You do so, noticing how he doesn’t have any type of decoration anywhere. Even though you understand why, it still feels a bit strange. There’s not even a blanket, which yes can be pretty, but they also hold a function. You keep those thoughts for yourself.

The conversation picks back up as if you were just talking on the phone. The wine loosens your lips a bit – the both of you – and it’s easier to talk about your past and his. He doesn’t tell you everything, but it’s enough to know he had a rough childhood. A rough young adulthood too. It makes your heart ache for him. But then the conversation becomes more playful, talking about hockey and your hobbies. You keep looking at him because you don’t have to worry that he’ll catch you, and he’s also turned toward you.

He says something at some point, he forgets what it was, but it makes you laugh and he feels your warm and soft hand steadying yourself on his arm. Heat blooms from the place of contact up to his shoulder and neck. He wishes so hard that he could see you. He knows you’re beautiful, but the small touch you just granted him makes it not enough. He needs to feel it. Feel you. But he holds back.

The evening goes on, the game finishes and the commentators start their whole analysis of it, but you’re not paying attention. The conversation had died down a bit after the second glass of wine, and your head was now resting on Gator’s shoulder. You’re not asleep, he knows that, but he’s staying so still just so you won’t realize and move away. Your gaze is locked on his hand on his thigh, his fingers flexing slightly, making his veins bulge. Without really thinking it through, you reach out and lace your fingers over top of his.

His breathing hitches. His heart stops for a second. But then, instinct takes over and he turns his hand to properly lace his fingers through yours. It makes you smile and shift a bit closer, getting even more comfortable. “Is this okay?” your voice is soft, testing.

His comes out rough, affected. “Y-yeah, it is.” He turns his head toward you and his nose brushes the slightest bit in your hair. The smell of you, the one he knows so well now, hits him harder than it ever has. He relaxes further into it and hums, his thumb rubbing a small circle on the back of your hand.

You stay like that a few minutes, basking in the feeling of it. You have to go home though – you’re working the early shift in the morning. Reluctantly, you pull away and sigh. “I don’t really want to, but I gotta head back home.”

His lips part to protest the distance, but he understands. And he won’t push for more. Not with you. Maybe if you had met him in another life, another town, he would have. But not now. “That’s… yeah. I get it. No worries.”

You stand up and grab the glasses to put them in the sink, before going to the front door. You put on your shoes as he reaches you and waits for you to speak. “I had a great time, Gator. Maybe we could do it again sometime?”

He smiles and nods, a weight leaving his shoulders at your admission of wanting to hang out with him again. “Yeah, I-I’d like that. Had a really good time, too.”

You stand on your tiptoes and put a hand on his shoulder to balance yourself. You reach a bit and place a soft kiss on his cheek, feeling the barely there stubble. Big mistake. You won’t stop thinking about that now. “I’ll catch you later, then.”

Once again, he’s frozen in place. He hums as he hears the door to his apartment open and then click shut. Fuck, he thinks. How did I manage that?

The next time you’re over at his place to “watch” the game, it doesn’t take you long to be in the same position as last time. You want to soak into his warmth more, have more time to smell him properly. The kind of shower gel he uses. The cologne he wears gingerly. His sweat from being this close to you. It all cumulates in a symphony that his distinctively Gator.

He doesn’t protest, of course. The heat of your hand in his. The way your hair tickles his jaw and neck. The smell of summer on you. It makes him feel dizzy in the best way.

You both laugh at something the commentators say, and you turn your head, pressing the bridge of your nose against his neck. You breathe in.

Gator’s hold on your hand tightens. You notice and pick up your head to look at him, eyes half-lidded and mouth slightly parted. When he loses the weight of you on his shoulder, he turns his own attention toward you. You don’t want to take him by surprise. “Can I… kiss you?”

He swallows thickly and gives you a small nod, not trusting his voice to sound remotely confident enough if he speaks. You lean in and gently press your lips to his. It’s more of a question than a kiss, really. You pull back, breath uneven. A pause.

Then his lips are back on yours without you having to move. His free hand cups your neck and his fingers tangle with the hair at the base of your skull. You move with him, your own free hand coming up to rest on his chest. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The kiss quickly turns into something natural – your preference for the lower lip complementing his own for the top one. Hums of approval harmonize between the two of you and you quickly lose yourself in the feeling of him so close. His hand on your neck pulls you in even more, and the way the kiss deepens as you part your lips makes your nose bump his glasses a few times. You pull back with a giggle and reach for them to take them off. As soon as he feels them come off the bridge of his nose, he quickly reaches for your wrist and stops you.

You gasp a bit. His hold is firm, not painful, but clearly meaningful. “Don’t.” he says, his voice shaking.

“Gator.” You say softly, placing back the glasses from the half inch they had moved up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-“

He cuts you off. “It’s okay. S’just… probably not pretty under there.” He lets go of your wrist and his hand falls limply to the couch beside him. He feels inadequate. He knows it’s probably wishful thinking if he’s to be close to you like this that you’ll never see him without his glasses. He doesn’t even know what his eyes look like. Nadine had told him once when she visited him in jail that it just looked like his eyes were closed, but he didn’t really believe her. He thought she was trying to spare his feelings.

You cup his face and rub his cheek with your thumb. “You don’t know?”

He shrugs, but his face tilts ever so slightly into your warm palm. “Someone told me it’s like they’re closed, but… I don’t know.”

“I can tell you, if you want. Won’t change anything, I promise.” You offer truthfully, wanting to be the person he feels the most comfortable with.

He thinks about it. His first instinct is to push you away and roll into a ball to protect his soft underbelly from getting hurt. But then something deeper, stronger maybe, wants to unfurl and roll onto his back, to offer it to you to either rub soothingly or stab. He follows that voice. “I-… yeah, okay.”

You nod and slowly reach for his glasses again, half-expecting him to stop you once more. He doesn’t. You carefully remove the dark sunglasses from his eyes and set them on the coffee table. Your hand is back to cupping his face as soon as you can, grounding him.

There are faint scars around his eyes, but nothing that disrupts the shape of his eyelids. It does just look like his eyes are closed, with a thin white line that peaks out where the lids don’t fully meet, surrounded by long and dark lashes. If you had to guess, it looks like whatever happened to him was really focussed on just getting the eyeballs.

He’s not off-putting in the slightest, not that you think he could have been even if it was different. You don’t even think to describe what you’re saying, the only word that leaves your mouth, before it’s on his again, is a whispered and ragged “handsome”.

The kiss picks up again and Gator’s shaking. Here he was, baring the softest part of him that even he had never seen. And there you were, kissing it better like it was something worthy of love. His hand hesitantly comes back up, cupping your face in its trembling state. She’s still there.

In that moment, Gator feels like he would do anything you’d want him to do. Anything. Not because he needed to prove his worth to you, like how he’d feel doing all those things for his dad. No. He’d do anything you’d ask of him because you had earned it. You had seen him, trusted him, gained his thrust, and cared for him. That warrants devotion, he believes.

The confidence starts to make its way back through him, his hand cupping your neck again. It’s as if that confidence can seep right through your skin when you untangle your hands that we’re still clasped together to straddle his lap. He lets out a surprised little noise against your lips, his hands immediately dropping to your thighs to steady you. Your own fingers tangle in his hair to hold him where you want, deepening the kiss.

The weight of you on him is intoxicating. The heat of it. The way all he can feel and hear is you. It’s the first time he’s ever kissed someone since he went blind. He thought it wasn’t for him anymore. That his time had passed. But there you were, and he wanted more.

His hands slid up from your jean-clad thighs to your hips, bringing you a bit closer. The ample give of them felt perfect in his large hands. Your back bows in response, pressing your chest to his more firmly.

You pull back and start peppering kisses toward the side of his face and his jaw, going down to his neck where he has the most kissable moles you’ve ever seen.  His lips wrap around your name like caramel, and it spurs you on. “Gates…”

He can’t think. Not when all he can focus on is your lips on him. “huh?”

You let out a soft huff and smile against his neck, before pulling back and pressing your forehead to his. “I want you.”

He almost moans just at that. But there’s a little thorn inside him that keeps digging in the wrong place, chafing against his self-worth, like maybe this is all a sick joke. “You sure?” His voice is uncertain, shaky. His hands tighten on your hips before they loosen again. How can someone so pure want me?

Your thumb traces his pulse point, feeling it stutter a bit. “Yeah. If you want me, too.” Your response comes so quick, so assured, that he can’t help but believe you.

His lips are back on yours as his hands slip under your shirt to grab at your waist. You hum in approval, your hips rolling in a tentative first grind against him. It punches out a moan from him, his own hips instinctively pushing up into yours.

You bite his lower lip and let it go, before soothing over it with your tongue. Your hips start a pace of their own, addicted to feeling his reactions. You pull on his hair to bare his throat to you more and you resume the kisses and licks to his skin. You can feel him wriggling under you, his now obvious arousal pressing against the crease of your thigh.

“You feel… so good.” He says breathlessly, his hands starting to wander a bit more under your shirt. He’s touching everywhere – your back, your hips, your stomach. He’s trying to map you out and learn you, like he did his apartment.

You pull back and sit up more firmly on him, taking the hem of your shirt and removing it from your body. For some reason, the fact that he can’t see you makes you feel less shy. More confident. Like maybe touch is a better way to learn someone than sight, after all, because less assumptions can be made. You toss your shirt on the floor and unclip your bra, letting it follow.

“Do you want to touch me?” You ask, always asking for consent before making him do something.

He nods and swallows thickly. “Yeah. Please.” Oh, he begs.

You take his large hands and guide them to your chest. His palms and fingertips are warm and slightly calloused. He’s hesitant at first, not knowing how to enjoy such a thing when he can’t see you or how you react. The slight furrow in his brows and the way he seems to be angling his face toward where he thinks yours is gives him away.

You let out soft noises, whimpers of enjoyment so he knows he’s doing good. He grows more confident and cups your breasts fully. His thumbs find your hardening peaks and he flicks them gently. You moan louder in response, grinding your hips again. Well, that makes him smirk. “You like that, sweet thing?”

“Mhmm….”

He leans forward and starts planting kisses where he can reach your skin. His mouth clumsily goes down to where his thumb is, replacing it and taking your nipple in his mouth. Your hands, that were feeling up his arms and shoulders, shoot through his hair and tug. You arch into his touch, letting out a moan of pleasure.

He lavishes attention to your breasts, and it feels like being worshipped.

You pull at his shirt. “Gator? Can I take off your shirt?”

“Yeah, God, yeah. You can do whatever you want to me.” He says with a breath, his hands leaving you to raise his arms.

You take the invitation and reach for the hem of his shirt, taking it off him. Your eyes widen as you discover the patch of hair on his chest – how it gets scarcer and then thickens a bit more to form a happy trail that disappears beneath his jeans. The sight makes your mouth water. “Fuck.”

He chuckles and rests his hands on your hips again, his thumbs dipping under the waistband of your jeans slightly. “Mmm… Don’t think I’ve heard you curse before. You like what you see, sweetheart?” He may have changed, but he can still be cocky.

“You have no idea.” The giggle that comes out of you makes him grin before he feels your lips against his. Not long enough though, before you’re standing up. His lips chase after yours, his chest heaving as he loses all sense of where you are. “Mind if we move it elsewhere?”

He shakes his head and stands up. “Lead the way.” His voice is steady, but he feels like he’s about to fall apart on the inside. Finally, he feels your soft hand in his, pulling him toward his bedroom.

It doesn’t take long for you to take off your jeans once you reach it. He hears the zipper, and he instinctively takes his own pants off. It’s a little awkward, but God you don’t care. Giggles and puffs of air escape your mouths as you both strip.

A minute later, the comforter feels soft and plush under your knees as you take position between his legs. He’s bare in front of you now, laying on his back. You take your time. You’re not even touching him, just letting your gaze roam over his broad chest, the way it tapers into his hips, leading to his strong thighs. His cock – impressively big – rests pretty against his stomach, flushed and hard.

You’re so mesmerized that you don’t notice it. The way his breathing shakes, his hands clutching the comforter. He swallows hard. “Sweetheart? You there?” His voice sounds broken.

He’s in the dark. He knows you’re close, but he can’t feel you. He can’t reach out because he’s scared he’ll bump into you and make it awkward. He just needs to feel. Your skin, your weight, your affection. Being without it, even for those dreadful seconds, is making his pulse skyrocket with anxiety.

You realize and immediately place your hands on his thighs. “I’m right here, baby.”

The sound that leaves him is one of strained relief. His hands slide down to yours and covers them, wrapping around your wrists. “I need to feel you. I can’t…. please, don’t stop touching me.”

It breaks your heart, the desperation in his voice. “I won’t, I’m sorry. You just look too g-”

He cuts off your apology by shaking his head, his thumbs tracing circles on your wrists. “Don’t apologize, I just… S’the first time I’ve ever, um… you know, had this happen since going blind. It’s… weird.”

You squeeze his thighs softly. “We can always stop if you want. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. We can go slow.”

He lets out a chuckle that’s more of a pleading breath. “I don’t wanna stop.” His hands are starting to pull you forward. “Wanna feel you.”

You grin and hum, leaning over him to kiss him again, your arms now on either side of his head as you press your front to him. His legs spread to accommodate you as you kiss the side of his face toward his ear. His hands go up and down your sides, stopping to squeeze your soft curves at the sound of your whispered voice. “Will you let me make you feel good, baby?”

He shudders at your words, nodding desperately. “P-please.” It’s been too long, and he’s desperate. But also, it’s you. You’re making him like this. Soft and pliant and yours.

You start making your way down his neck and his chest, leaving a trail of sloppy, open-mouth kisses down his abdomen. When you reach the hair just under his bellybutton, you lick a stripe through it, making his hips buck up uncontrollably. His hands are now resting on your shoulders, needing the contact. “God…”

As you reach your destination, you sit back on your heels and keep one hand on his thigh to ground him. Your free one finally wraps around his impressive cock, already leaking with precum. It’s warm and impossibly soft in your palm. “Fuck, you’re so pretty, Gator.” The praise leaves your lips as you start stroking his length slowly, looking up at his face for any sign of distress.

All you find his relief. A gorgeous whimper snakes out of him, his hand tangling with yours that is still on his thigh. “You’re… fuck.” He speaks your name like it’s the answer to everything.

When your thumb swipes through the bead of precum coming out of his flushed tip, it looks too inviting. You bend over and lick it before wrapping your lips around it, needing to taste him, to feel the weight of him in your mouth. It’s salty, heady, and warm. An absolutely dizzying combination that makes you moan and immediately take him deeper, coating him with your saliva.

His back arches off the bed with a desperate moan, his free hand coming up to cup the back of your head. He doesn’t force you, he just needs to hold you. “Fuuuuck, sweetheart… oh my god.”

You hum approvingly in response, starting to bob your head, stroking what you can’t make fit in your mouth with your hand.

Gator is blind, but he swears he sees stars in that moment. It’s probably a neurological reaction to the pleasure you’re bringing him, but it still feels like a miracle. His hips rock up softly, not enough to really make you take him deeper, but enough that you know he’s chasing the feeling. “You’re so good. Feels so good, holy sh-“

You can feel your arousal start to drip down the inside of your thigh, but you focus on him.

After one particularly well-placed twirl of your tongue around his tip, he gently pulls you off him with a shattered moan. “God, sweetheart. I’m sorry, s’just I’ll come if you keep going, and I need to feel you.”

You wipe the dribble of spit that was going down your chin with the back of your hand. You let your hands go up his thighs, past his hips, and then over his stomach and chest. You straddle him, the mattress digging on either side of him as you settle your weight on top of him. “Need to feel you too.”

Your core, so warm and wet with your desire for him, presses against the underside of his aching cock. He lets out a hiss and grabs your hips to hold you against him. The way his cock glides through your folds as he bucks his hips up gently makes him throw his head back against the pillow. He must feel it.

His hand clumsily goes from your hip to your stomach and then to your mound, stroking the soft hairs he finds there. “Can I touch you?”

“Yes.” It comes out like a plea as you raise your hips slightly to give him space.

His fingers dip down through your folds, their accuracy in finding your clit disarming. He doesn’t need sight for that. He feels the slick gathering on his middle and ring fingers as he circles your clit, the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard leaving your lips. “Fuck, you’re so wet, sweetheart. S’this all for me?”

You practically whimper, hips rolling against his fingers as you feel yourself getting even wetter. “Just for you, Gates. You have no idea what you do to me.”

He grins at that, his fingers trailing lower and circling your entrance. You press down a bit, and he answers by pushing them inside you, punching out a moan from your lungs. The tightness and liquid heat have his mouth parting in a moan. “Can’t believe I get to do this… So perfect for me.”

Your head falls back as you start grinding against his hand, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in tight circles. “Oh god, baby… don’t stop.” The way he’s making you feel is like a drug. It’s simultaneously the best thing you’ve ever felt while it’s just simply not enough. It’s hard to tell if you’ve ever truly felt like this with your past partners – the primal need to be filled. It makes you ride his hand even harder.

Your walls start to clench around his fingers, and he lets out a strangled breath, his free hand grabbing your hip and helping your grinding movements against his other one. “That’s it, sweet thing… come for me, let me feel it.”

It doesn’t take long before you are, moaning his name as your hands dig into his chest for support. “Gator! I’m coming! Oh fuck!” Your hips stutter, trying to ride it out as much as you can on top of him. His mouth is open, breathing heavily, rutting his hips up as you come. God, he wishes he could see you fall apart for him.

You feel yourself gush around his fingers, your body falling forward on top of him. His fingers still and he gently pulls them out of you while his arm wraps around your waist to hold you against him. He kisses your temple as you come down, panting into his chest. “So good.” “You’re perfect, baby.” “Thank you.” He whispers sweet nothings against the side of your head.

You come back to your senses and press a kiss to his chest, and then his neck where those damn moles are. “I need to feel you inside, Gator. Please.”

And who is he to deny you anything? Not after you just gave him everything. He nods and rolls you both so that you’re on your back and he’s hovering on top of you. He plants one hand next to your head, while the other one, the one that was inside you, comes up between you to his lips. He sucks on the fingers coated with your slick, moaning around them as he tastes you. “Y’taste like heaven.” Even just the sight of it makes you moan.

His hips press down on yours and he grinds them gently, his cock aligning through your folds after a few slow thrusts. Your hands go down his chest to his sides and stomach, stroking his soft skin. Your legs spread even more to give him space. “Are you sure about this?” He asks one last time.

“Never been more sure of anything.”

He shudders, his fingers now coated in saliva and your arousal go to rub at his tip as his hips lift slightly. He grabs his cock, and he carefully tries to align it with your entrance. He feels your wetness at first, your still swollen clit, and then the way your flesh parts and becomes even softer as his tip goes down to your entrance.

His breathing is ragged, like he can’t comprehend that this is happening and he’s not imagining it. He pushes his hips forward, the tip of him barely breaching your entrance. It’s already overwhelming, the tightness and warmth. “F-fuck. Tell me if it’s too much, or-“

Your hands snake around to his lower back and pull, making him penetrate you more. “Please, Gator.” It comes out desperate, pleading, like you’ll die if you don’t feel him fully inside you right now. “Please, deeper.”

He bottoms out as soon as the words leave your lips, punching out matching moans from the both of you. “God, you feel incredible.” His forehead presses against your own, before his lips try to find yours again. You meet him halfway, hands coming back up to cup his face.

He starts pulling his hips back and letting them fall, making you whimper against his mouth. He seizes the opportunity, his tongue delving past your lips in greedy exploration. He finds a pace with his thrusts that’s slow enough that he can keep kissing you, while still fast enough to work up a delicious friction.

Your hips move to meet his thrusts, your arousal dripping down and definitely staining his bedsheet, though neither one of you cares. You break apart to gasp for air, your moans spilling free as he changes the angle and hits that special spot inside you relentlessly. “Ohhh fuck. Right there, Gator. Oh my god.”

“Yeah, baby? Feels good, huh? Fuck, you feel so perfect.” He’s clearly gaining more confidence as he feels you getting even more slippery and clenching around him every time he speaks.

You let out a louder moan at his praise and your eyes roll back in pleasure. “You feel so good inside me. I’m- holy… fuck, I’m close again.”

His cock twitches inside you at your admission, his face ducking down and pressing against your neck. He inhales deeply, catching all those sweet undertones of coconut, sweat, sex, and you. “Touch yourself, sweetheart. Wanna feel you come on my cock.”

His groans resonate in your ears, sending little shocks of lust and pleasure down to your pulsing core. Your fingers reach your clit, the bundle of nerves slotting between your middle and ring finger as you start drawing circles. The dual stimulation of his perfect cock hitting all the right spots, combined with your fingers, make your whines and moans louder and filthier. The knot in your stomach tightens, your pussy clenching around him like a vice as you focus on the sensation. “Gator… Gator….”

Your sweet voice, now dripping with sin and pleasure, propels him dangerously close to his own end. His hand traces down your side until it reaches your hip, holding you steady as he fucks you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. “I’ve got you. Let go, baby. Give it to me.”

You shatter at his words, back arching off the bed to feel him even closer. The knot in your stomach unfurls and spreads through your whole body in lazy and heated waves, the pleasure feeling like warmed honey spilling freely. The moan that leaves you is utterly broken and raw, a testimony to the depth of your orgasm.

It’s too good. He can’t help it as your walls clench around him and milk him for all he’s worth. His arms wrap under you as he cradles you closer, his hips giving a few more thrusts in your fluttering core. His mouth opens in a wrecked cry against your neck, maybe a twisted version of your name, as he spills deep inside you.

The warmth of his spend seeps through your walls and into your belly, filling a hole you never knew was there. Your arms are still wrapped around his shoulders, your legs falling limply to the mattress as you come down from your high.

His weight settles over you, the bridge of his nose tracing a line on the side of your neck, nuzzling closer. His hair feels damp from sweat but still incredibly soft as you bury one hand in it, holding him close. Your lips press on his forehead.

He sighs, his cock softening inside you. He gives one slow, lazy roll of his hips before lifting them and slipping out of you. He rolls onto his side, never letting go of you, pulling you into his chest. “That was…” He lets out an incredulous breath.

A giggle bubbles out of your chest. “Yeah, it was.”

You both stay there, breathing together for a little while. The mess between your legs is getting sticky and itchy, but you don’t care. The way your legs are tangled together, your head fitting perfectly in that nook between his shoulder and chest… it’s like a puzzle finally clicking in place.

Your fingers play with the hair on his pecs, while his brush against your scalp. “Gates?”

He hums. “Yeah?”

“Thank you for trusting me.”

Thunder grumbled over the towers like something trapped in the clouds. Wind tugged at the banner lines, making the Wizard's painted face ripple on green cloth. Inside, the big, hollow voice had just sent Dorothy and her companions away with their impossible task, and the guards were already muttering about "sending the child out tonight" as if that were reasonable.

You caught Glinda in the corridor outside the hall, skirts swishing as she walked too quickly for someone pretending to float.

"We can't let her leave now," you said, falling into step beside her.

Glinda jumped. "Shiz, don't do that, you nearly made me drop my wand."

"It's almost full dark," you pressed. "The road's new but not safe. There's forest, patrols, the Witch's monkeys—"

"Allegedly," Glinda muttered.

"And she's twelve. A literal child," you hissed. "If something eats her out there, the Wizard doesn't just lose his broom-fetcher, he loses a story."

That made Glinda stop.

She turned, eyes sharp under all the powdered sweetness, blue cutting through mascara and fear.

"He would hate that," she said slowly.

Which meant, in the twisted logic of this place, you had a lever.

Ten minutes later, Dorothy Gale of Kansas, one scarecrow, one lion, and one tin man each had a stamped, begrudged temporary guest pass and firm instructions to report back to the gates at dawn.

The guards grumbled. Morrible pursed her lips but said nothing… Yet.

Glinda fluttered her hands and told Dorothy how lucky she was to be having "a little sleepover in the greatest city in the world" as if she hadn't just watched that same girl get tasked with witch-killing.

You watched Dorothy clutch the pass to her chest like it was something holy, and something in you unclenched.

For tonight, at least, she'd be within walls you knew.

Hours later, most of the palace had gone quiet.

The storm outside had settled into a steady, sulking rain that rattled softly against the high panes. Candlelight flickered in the guest wing, turning the green stone warm and gold.

You stood in your own small suite, staring at yourself in the mirror.

The blue and orange sweater didn't match the turquoise dress.

It never had.

The combination should even be treason.

It was an old cardigan, soft with years, a little frayed at the cuffs. Too big in the shoulders, too long in the sleeves. The kind first-year boys wore when they thought looking serious would make people take them that way.

It smelled faintly of ink and soap and a spice you'd never identified.

You tugged it tighter around your ribs.

You'd taken it from his house after the house fell on his governor.

You'd stood in the doorway, staring, and then stepped forward and picked it up and folded it into your bag with shaking hands, because you couldn't bear the thought of it lying there alone, collecting dust.

Now you shrugged it over your work dress. The hem of it hit you mid-thigh, ridiculous and cozy. The sleeves hung past your hands until you rolled them up.

It was simply a theory.

If the tin man was just another stranger with a sad story, it was... comfort. Armor of a different sort.

If he wasn't…

Well.

You'd find out.

You picked up the basket of supplies from your table. Food, cloth, a battered sewing kit, a few pilfered cushions, three different kinds of oil, and stepped out into the corridor.

One storm.

Four visits.

You'd start with the easiest.

Dorothy's room was on the second level of the guest wing, a small chamber meant for low-level diplomats and people Glinda was moderately fond of.

You knocked softly.

There was a thump, a scramble, and a muffled, "Just a moment!"

The door cracked open.

Dorothy peered out, braids damp from a recent wash, cheeks pink, wearing a cotton nightdress that was clearly palace-issue and clearly two sizes too big. Toto sneaked his head through the gap at knee-height and sniffed enthusiastically.

"Oh!" Dorothy's face brightened when she saw you. "Hello! I didn't know they let you come up here."

"They don't," you said. "I came anyway."

You slid sideways into the room before the guard at the end of the hall could decide to be officious.

Dorothy's room was a mess in the particular way only twelve-year-olds and certain absent-minded professors managed. A dress hung over a chair, one shoe upside-down near the window, a guest pass folded and unfolded so many times it was already going soft at the creases.

"I brought these," you said, holding up the basket. "Dinner. Real dinner, not whatever the kitchen sends to people they think won't complain. And a change of clothes. That dress you arrived in is... brave."

Dorothy giggled, some of the tightness around her eyes loosening.

Toto bounced at your feet, nails tapping.

You spread the haul on the little table. Bread still warm from the oven, thick slices of roast, a pot of something that had started life as soup and ended as hearty stew, clean stockings, a sturdier pair of boots from stores, and a simple, sturdy travel dress in a deep blue that wouldn't show every speck of road dust.

Dorothy stared as if it were more treasure than anything in the Wizard's vault.

"Is this—Is this all for me?" she asked.

"Well it's certainly not for Toto," you said, just as Toto tried to climb into the chair. "If you go walking into the Witch's forest in her sister’s shoes and a parade dress, you won't get ten miles."

Dorothy's mouth flattened.

"Do you think we'll make it?" she asked quietly. "To the Witch. And back."

You hesitated.

"I think," you said carefully, "that you made it here, which no one expected. And that you've picked up a scarecrow, a lion, and a man made of tin along the way. Which definitely wasn't in anyone's story."

Dorothy smiled faintly at that.

"They're my friends," she said. "Even when they're thoughtless. Or upset. Or scared." She glanced at you. "The Tin Man... he sounds very angry."

"I'm sure he has reason," you said.

"So does the Witch?" Dorothy asked, almost in a whisper.

You looked at her, this small girl from nowhere land who'd had a house dropped into her life and then watched everyone around her rearrange themselves to use her as a piece on their board.

"Yes," you said. "Doesn't mean she's not dangerous."

"Are you angry?" she asked suddenly.

It caught you off guard.

"Yes," you said, surprised by how easy it was to admit it out loud. "All the time."

"But you're... nice," Dorothy said, brow scrunching.

"Those things aren't opposites," you said, softly. "Eat your dinner, Dorothy. Sleep. The yellow brick road will still be there in the morning."

You stayed long enough to make sure she actually ate, to help her with the buttons of the new dress so she'd be ready faster at dawn, to let her chatter about Kansas and how boring it had seemed until it wasn't there anymore.

When she started to yawn between sentences, you tucked the blanket around her and told her a cleaned-up version of an old Gillikin fairy story. One where the girl outwits the wizard and the witch and ends up exactly where she chooses.

"Is that true?" Dorothy murmured as she drifted.

"Not yet," you said. "But it could be."

She was asleep before you finished the sentence.

You scratched Toto between the ears, blew out the candle, and slipped back into the hall.

Three more.

You squared your shoulders and headed for the end of the corridor, where the oddities were housed.

They'd put the scarecrow in a room near the laundry.

It made a certain kind of bureaucratic sense. He shed straw like it was a hobby, but it still felt rude.

You knocked on his door.

"Come in!" he called, sounding entirely too cheerful for someone stuffed with hay.

You opened the door and had to swallow a laugh.

He'd taken full advantage of the space.

Straw drifted across the floor like pale snow. His coat hung over the back of a chair, pockets turned out. Toto's earlier visit must have gone through here, judging by the little paw-prints in the dust.

He stood in the middle of it all, shirt unlaced, hands on his hips, examining himself critically in the warped mirror nailed to the wall.

"This arm," he was muttering. "Too floppy. This leg. Absolutely no respect for physics."

He saw you in the reflection and straightened.

"Ah. Clerical angel," he said. "Come to tell me I'm a fire hazard?"

"I came to bring you this." You lifted the armful of cloth and twine. "Extra stuffing. Thread. Needles. If you're going to walk into the Witch's territory, the least we can do is make sure your seams hold."

He brightened, genuinely delighted.

"You brought me... replacement parts," he said. "How thoughtful. No one's ever done that before."

"No one's ever walked you into a death-quest before either," you said dryly. "Sit."

You made him perch on the chair while you set the basket down. Up close, he looked rougher than he had in the hall. Straw sticking out at odd angles, fabric worn thin from weather, and whatever the guards had done to him in the cornfield.

You threaded a needle and started tucking the straw back into the worst of the tears.

He watched you work in the mirror.

"So," he said lightly, "how was your evening? Threaten any more Wizards by proxy?"

"I'm only allowed three wizard-threatening memos a week," you said. "I have to ration them."

He laughed, soft and startled, like he hadn't expected to find anything funny tonight.

You sewed in silence for a moment. Straw rustled. Rain ticked against the window.

"You're not as brainless as you tell people," you said finally.

He made a thoughtful hmm noise.

"I've found people expect less of you if you announce your deficiencies first," he said. "It's a habit I'm trying to break. With mixed results."

You tied off a knot and snipped it with your teeth.

"When you were..." You searched for the word. "Younger. Did you talk this much?"

He went very still.

The room seemed to go with him.

"Depends who you ask," he said lightly. "My tutors would say not enough. My friends would say too much. A certain green girl would say I talked myself into trouble more often than not."

There it was.

You met his gaze in the mirror.

"Fiyero," you said quietly.

His eyes flicked to you.

For a second, something bare and sharp showed through the stitching.

He didn't confirm.

He didn't deny it either.

"You should be careful with names," he said, voice gentler. "They have a tendency to get you killed around here."

"I work for Glinda the Good and edit the Grand Wizard's speeches," you said. "I think I passed 'careful' years ago."

He made a small, pained sound that might have been a laugh.

You set the mended sleeve down, picked up his coat, and started reinforcing one of the shoulder seams.

"You saw him, didn't you," you said. "Before all this... happened." A flick of your eyes toward his stuffing.

"Once or twice," he said. "In the city. In the wrong rooms."

"Is the Tin Man Boq?" you asked.

The question hung between you like a live wire.

He didn't answer.

He looked at the wall, at the ceiling, at the floor.

Then he said, very casually, "Tin dries out faster than straw. No matter how well you oil it the first time. If you leave him too long in one place, he'll seize up again. Especially in the joints."

Your throat tightened.

"That isn't an answer," you said.

"It's the only one I'm allowing myself to give," he replied.

You finished stitching in silence.

When you were done, you patted his newly reinforced shoulder, more out of comfort than to test your work.

"Thank you for letting the cub go," you said quietly, surprising both of you.

He froze.

"You remember," he said.

"I remember a lot of things no one wants me to," you said. "It's in the job description."

He huffed.

You closed your eyes just for a moment.

"Tell him he's braver than he thinks," you said. "If he asks."

"He won't ask," Fiyero said. "But I'll tell him."

You left before your chest could decide whether it wanted to ache or just crack.

Two down.

They'd put the lion in the stable wing.

He looked offended about it, in a miserable, apologetic way, like he knew he belonged outside but didn't quite believe he deserved even this.

He was curled in a far stall when you came in, big body hunched, tail tucked close, ears flicking at every distant clap of thunder.

He jumped up when he saw you, then winced.

"Oh," he said. "I—I'm sorry. We're not supposed to bite staff. I mean, I'm not supposed to bite anyone. I wasn't going to."

"I brought you some food," you said, lifting the covered platters. "And a brush."

His nose twitched.

"Food?" he echoed hopefully.

You set the containers down and uncovered them.

The smell of roasted meat and herbs filled the stall.

The lion's eyes went huge.

"For... me?" he asked.

"For you," you said. "The kitchen tried to send gruel. I threatened to file an official complaint for discrimination against carnivores."

He blinked at you.

"Does that work?" he asked.

"More often than you'd think," you said.

He approached the food with comical delicacy, then gave up the pretense and tucked in, tearing into the meat like he hadn't eaten properly in weeks.

You let him eat until the desperate edges smoothed, then held up the brush.

"May I?" you asked.

He froze, mid-chew.

"N-no one's brushed my mane since... since I was little," he said quietly.

"Then they've all been cowards," you said. "Sit."

He sat.

It took a while.

His mane was a tangle of burrs and dirt and old leaves. You worked slowly, carding the brush through the worst of it, fingers following to undo knots.

He flinched at first at every drag of the bristles, then slowly relaxed, eyes drifting shut.

"We’ve met before. You were at Shiz," you said after a time. "The cub."

His ears twitched.

"Yes," he said. "With my cage. My home."

"Elphaba let you go," you said. "She risked... everything."

"I remember her hands," he said softly. "Green and sharp."

You smiled sadly.

"That sounds right."

He was quiet for a long moment.

"I tried to be brave," he whispered. "Out there. In the forest. After. But I kept hearing the cage in my head. Every time the trees creaked. Every time men shouted. I thought... if I roared first, maybe I wouldn't hear it."

"You're here," you said. "You walked all the way to the City. That's a kind of courage."

"I was shaking the whole time," he said.

"That doesn't make it not courage," you said. "It just makes it honest."

He shifted, mane brushing your hands.

"I don't want to be a coward," he whispered. "Not when everyone is counting on me not to be."

"No one sensible expects you to stop being afraid," you said. "They just hope you won't let it choose for you every time."

"Is that what courage is?" he asked.

"That," you said, "and showing up anyway."

He huffed a breath that might have been a little laugh.

You finished trimming the worst of the split ends and stepped back.

"There," you said. "King of the Forest.”

He looked at the reflection of himself in the polished brass of the water trough.

His eyes went wide.

"...Thank you," he said reverently.

You smiled.

"Try to sleep," you said. "Tomorrow will be loud."

"It already is," he murmured, but he stretched out on the clean straw as you left, head on his paws, looking a little less like the world had already beaten him.

You stepped back into the corridor, the sweater soft around your shoulders, Boq's sleeves rolled over your wrists.

The basket was lighter now.

Almost empty.

You knew who was last.

They'd put the tin man in the yard.

Of course, they had.

Too heavy for the guest wing, someone had probably said. Too loud in the halls. Too much of a reminder.

He stood under one of the overhanging galleries, where the rain couldn't quite reach, facing out toward the gates as if he could see through the high doors and all the way down the road.

He turned when he heard your footsteps on the stone.

His eyes dropped immediately to the sweater.

His whole body seemed to jolt.

You stopped a few paces away, suddenly aware of how small you were in comparison, how his shadow fell long across the flagstones in sharp angles.

"I brought—" you started.

"You shouldn't be here," he said.

His voice was harsher than before, scraped raw; the echo of it bounced off the walls.

You tightened your grip on the basket handle.

"Good evening to you too," you said.

He shifted his weight, joints ticking.

"Go back to your tower," he said. "You've done your duty. You got the child an audience, you got them a bed. You don't owe them anything more."

"I didn't come for them," you said.

He flinched.

Metal made the motion sharp.

"I don't need an audience either," he said. "I'm not a petition. I'm not a... cause."

"You are very much a cause," you said. "You cause paperwork. Suspicion. Talk. I've spent an entire day explaining to people why there is now a lion in the stables and a scarecrow on the laundry schedule. Add 'tin man rusting in the courtyard' to that and they'll start charging me overtime."

He looked away sharply.

"You shouldn't joke," he said. "Not about this."

"Boq," you said.

The name came out before you could stop it.

He froze.

You could hear the rain in the silence that followed.

Very slowly, he looked back at you.

"What did you call me?" he asked.

"Boq," you said again, because there was no going back now. "Clerk Boq Woodsman. Assistant to Governor Nessarose Thropp. Munchkin of Munchkinland. Red headed Idiot. The man who stole my pen at least twice a week and left tea rings on my notes."

His eyes were wide and shining and terrified.

"No. You are mistaken," he said. "You've—You've got the wrong—"

You closed the distance between you in three strides.

He tried to step back; the wall was already at his shoulders.

You reached up and curled your hand in the front of his chestplate, the way you had once curled it in the collar of his Shiz cardigan to drag him into a kiss.

The metal was warm.

Not just from the day's heat.

There was a faint hiss where rain hit one of the seams and steamed away.

"Look at me," you said.

He didn't.

So you did the only thing you could think of.

You lifted your free hand and smacked his arm.

Tin rang against your palm.

He jerked, startled.

His eyes snapped to yours.

They were grey now, not the soft brown they'd been at Shiz, but the shape of them, the way the corners creased, the way they tried and failed to hide what he was feeling.

"Oh, Boq," you breathed.

It wasn't graceful.

It wasn't dramatic.

It was just the sound a dam makes when it finally stops pretending to hold.

You felt your own eyes sting.

"Boq," you said, and this time it was not an accusation, it was a relief. "It's you."

He made an awful, strangled noise.

"Don't," he said. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" Your voice wobbled. "Recognize you?"

"Be kind," he bit out. "Wear my sweater. Look at me like nothing has changed."

"Everything has changed," you said. "And you are still you."

"You don't know what I am now," he snarled. Anger sat badly on him; it always had. "You didn't see—"

"Then tell me," you said. "Because the last thing I saw was an empty house and a child girl with your governor's shoes on her feet."

He stared.

"You—"

"I went to Munchkinland," you said, words spilling fast now, too fast. "I took the early train the morning after the house fell. I thought—I thought maybe you'd been there, that you'd been hurt, or trapped, or— I went to your office. Your house. The field road."

Your fingers clenched harder in the tin.

"There was nothing," you said. "Just her underneath the house and your sweater over a chair."

He closed his eyes.

His head thumped back softly against the wall.

"I meant to come back," he whispered.

"I know," you said.

"No," he said, sharper. "You don't. I filed the forms. I hid them in other forms so Nessa wouldn't see. I packed a bag. I went to the train station. I bought a ticket. They wouldn't let me board."

He laughed.

It was a horrible sound.

"She wrote a law," he said. "While I was filling out the papers. No Munchkin leaves without her permission. Not even if the Wizard himself drafts them. She kept me like—" he broke off, then forced it out "Like a pet. Like that lion in the cage. And I stayed."

"You tried to leave," you said.

"Not hard enough," he snapped. "If I had, maybe she wouldn't have gone out on that road calling my name. Maybe that house would have fallen on empty dirt. Maybe you wouldn't have had to see what you saw."

Your throat closed.

"She cast a spell. Nessa," he said, lower now. "You would've hated it. She opened the Grimmerie. She... she saw your letters. She saw the way I—" His voice cracked. "She said you couldn't have my heart. She was going to... take it away."

You remembered the version of Nessa at Shiz, clutching books and bitterness, desperate for anything that was hers. You remembered her hand on Boq's sleeve, her eyes on you.

"She read it wrong," he said. "The spell. It hurt. Everything hurt. I could feel it shrinking. I could feel myself... going. I thought that was it. That I was going to die on her office floor with a tin tea set under my hand and your name lost in my mouth."

Your eyes spilled over.

You didn't bother to wipe them.

"Elphaba was there," he said. "She tried to stop it. She couldn't. So she did... something else."

He looked down at himself, at the plates and seams, the axe in his hand.

"This," he said.

You reached up and set your palm flat against his chestplate.

No heartbeat.

But warmth.

Steam curled in tiny wisps from a vent near his collar.

"Sounds like she saved your life," you said.

"She turned me into… this," he said. "A warning. A joke. I'm not sure which."

"She gave you a chance to be here," you insisted.

"At what price?" he shot back. "Do you know what it's like to wake up and not feel your own pulse? To try to hit your chest because you think maybe your heart just needs a reminder and hear metal?"

You flinched.

"I went to find Nessa," he said. "I thought—I don't know what I thought. That I'd still be able to talk sense to her. That I'd be able to... make something right. Then, I saw what I was. I saw what both of them had done." His jaw tightened. "I nearly killed her."

You thought of Nessa under the house.

"I ran," he said. "Into the forest. I meant to find Elphaba. To make her undo it. To make someone undo something. Instead, the trees insulted me and the rain turned me into a statue until a little girl from nowhere poured oil on my elbows."

"And then you walked into my hall," you whispered.

"And then I walked into your hall," he echoed bitterly. "Looking like the thing every poster warns people about."

You swallowed hard.

"I was so worried," you said, voice breaking around the words. "I thought you were dead. I thought maybe you'd left and decided you'd finally had enough of Oz and me and everything and then I saw the house and—"

He jerked his head.

"Don't," he said. "Don't cry over this."

"How can I not?" you demanded. "You are alive. You're you and you're not and you were alone under those wretched trees for—how long, Boq?"

"I lost count," he said.

"I didn't," you said. "Every day without a letter. Every week without your arrival or knock at my door. I counted all of them."

His mouth twisted.

"You're pitying me," he said.

"I am furious for you," you snapped.

"At me," he insisted. "For being stupid enough to stay. For not fighting hard enough. For letting this happen."

"Yes," you said, because you were done lying, especially to him. "And at them. At Nessa. At the Wizard. At Oz. But not at you for existing. I love you, Boq."

He laughed again, softer, still bitter.

"You still love me," he said, like he didn't believe it even as he said it.

"Yes," you said.

The word surprised both of you with how easy it was.

Rain hit the flagstones beyond the gallery in sheets.

"Don't," he said.

You stared.

"Don't say that," he forced out. "Don't... spend that on me. You deserve more."

"More than you?" you asked, incredulous. "More than the man who walked me to classes at Shiz in the snow? More than the clerk who rewrote Nessa's drafts to make them kinder when she wasn't looking? More than the man who crawled into my bed at dusk and promised he'd file forms just to come back to me?"

He shut his eyes.

"You deserve a man with a beating heart," he said. "Someone who can give you children without worrying they'll inherit his curses. Someone whose chest doesn't echo when you lay your head on it. Someone who doesn't remind you, every time he moves, of all the ways he failed before he got to you."

Tears spilled faster.

You didn't look away.

"You don't get to decide what I deserve," you said, voice shaking. "You never have. You tried, once. Remember? At graduation? You told me I should go to the City, that I could do better than letters from a Munchkin who couldn't even say what he wanted."

His eyes opened.

They were very bright.

"And you kissed my cheek," he said hoarsely. "And walked away to do something impossible."

"And then you followed," you said. "With letters. And now with this."

You squeezed his shirtplate where your fist still clutched it.

"I don't care if it's tin," you said. "I care that you're in there."

He stared at you like you were the storm.

Dangerous. Ridiculous. Necessary.

"You'll regret it," he said finally, quiet and furious. "You'll wake up one day when this is over and realize you attached yourself to... what's left of a man someone else tried to tear apart, and—"

"Then that will be my mistake to make," you said. "Not yours to pre-empt."

He pressed his mouth into a thin line.

You could see the argument building behind his eyes.

You decided not to give him room for it.

"I'm going with you," you said.

That got his attention.

"What?" he demanded.

"Tomorrow," you said. "When Dorothy goes to fetch the broom. I'm going with you all."

"Absolutely not," he snapped.

"You don't get to decide that," you said. "I know the maps better than any of you. I know which paths the guards patrol and which they're too lazy to bother with. I can read the Wizard's orders and see what he's not saying. Dorothy needs someone who can do more than swing an axe and make jokes about brains."

"The Witch will kill you," he said, voice rising. "Glinda will throw you in a cell. The Wizard—"

"The Wizard already uses my work to make his lies sound prettier," you said. "I'm not convinced this is worse."

He took a step closer.

"You are not," he said, low and intense, "walking into a forest full of monsters for me."

"I'm walking into a forest full of monsters for a twelve-year-old girl," you said, jerking your head toward where Dorothy slept three floors up. "And for a lion who still hears his cage unlock when he closes his eyes. And for a scarecrow who remembers what it felt like to bleed. And for a man who thinks he doesn't get to feel anything anymore."

His hands clenched around the axe.

"You'll die," he said.

"You might," you shot back. "Again. Do you want me to sit here tidying Glinda's speeches while that happens? Pretend I don't know the shape of the road you're on?"

"Yes," he said.

It was so honest you almost laughed.

"I love you," you said again, because it seemed to be the only thing that cut through the noise in his head.

He flinched like you'd hit him.

"Stop saying that," he said. "Stop—"

"No," you said. "Boq, I love you. I loved you when you were five feet and so of nerves at Shiz. I loved you when you were Nessa's exhausted clerk. I loved you when you were late to every letter because you fell asleep at your desk. I love you now, when you're made of tin and fury and stubbornness. I will love you when this is over, whatever shape you are then."

His jaw worked.

No sound came out.

"I'm going," you said, softer. "Glinda will hate it, but she can't countermand a signed release without admitting she's been using a child to do the Wizard's work."

He stared at you like he didn't recognize you.

Or like he was seeing the parts of you he'd always known. Sharp, stubborn, terrifyingly determined, and realizing you'd only gotten worse.

"This is madness," he said.

"You used to like that about me," you said.

He made a noise that might have been something like a sob, if metal throats made those.

"You're going to get yourself killed," he whispered.

"Probably," you said. "But at least I'll be beside you when you do something equally stupid."

He glared at you.

You glared back.

"You are," he said through his teeth as you finally let go of his shirt, "the most aggravating person I've ever met."

"You're welcome," you said.

You turned to go.

He followed you to the edge of the gallery, arguing all the way.

"You'll slow us down," he insisted.

"I kept pace with you when you had legs," you retorted.

"The lion will panic," he said.

"I brushed his mane," you said. "We're friends now."

"The scarecrow will talk too much," he said.

"He always did," you answered. "I have practice tuning him out."

"You should stay here," he tried. "Fix the laws. Change something that way."

"I have been changing things that way," you said. "And it's still come to this. Maybe it's time I changed something with my hands instead of just my pen."

You reached the door to the inner stair.

Stopped.

Turned.

He loomed there, all angles and worry, rain making a blurred silver curtain beyond him.

"I'm not letting you settle for what's left of me," he said, quiet now, last line of defense.

You stepped back in, reached up, and set your hand against his cheekplate.

It was smoother there, warm.

His eyes closed, just for a second, like he could feel it.

"I'm not settling," you said. "I'm choosing."

He opened his eyes.

Whatever he saw in your face made the fight go out of his shoulders, just a fraction.

"I hate this," he muttered.

"I know," you said.

"I hate that you're right," he added.

"I know that too," you said.

You went up on your toes and pressed your forehead briefly to his.

Metal and skin.

Warm.

"I'll see you at dawn," you whispered.

He didn't try to stop you again.

As you walked back toward your room, Boq's sweater soft around you, you could feel his gaze on your back all the way down the corridor.

You didn't look back.

You'd already made your choice.

🌪️ 🌈 💚 🌪️ 🌈 💚 🌪️ 🌈 💚 🌪️ 🌈 💚

Want to follow this fic down the Yellow Brick Road? 🌪💛 🫧

You never thought there was anything particularly special about the way Michael Robinovitch treated you. Why would you? The man was professional, and focused, primarily. But sure, kind and compassionate when he needed to be. He really didn’t seem much different than any other friendly coworker.

You had started at the PTMC ER earlier that fall, along with a new batch of med students and interns. You had come from LA, your first attending position, where you spent a good amount of years gaining a good amount of experience. Still, despite the warm weather, sunny beaches, and ample theme park access of California, you grew restless away from your roots.

You were an east coast girl, born and raised. You missed your west coast cousins and aunts and uncles, but were happy returning to your childhood home, siblings, nieces and nephews. You’d spent a long time away, and it felt good to be back. The changing of seasons reinvigorated your motivation and natural patterns of function.

The first day you started at “the pitt”, as you learned was the nickname, was one of the first truly crisp fall days of the season. And after years away, you revelled in it. No matter if you would curse yourself in months time when the inevitable blizzard would shut off your power. You just let yourself romanticize it, with chai lattes and chunky sweaters and apple pie.

You were welcomed in by Gloria Underwood, chief medical officer, who briefed you, barely, before handing you off to the ER staff. You were in too good a mood to be bothered. A much warmer, albeit gruff, doctor showed you to the lockers and pointed out the supply room, meds, and bathrooms.

“And through those double doors is chairs,” he said, motioning lazily behind his shoulder. “Wait times are usually about eight hours, if we’re lucky. Ambulance bay back there, straight to trauma, and — ah, look who it is!”

A woman with short blonde hair and giant sunglasses was sauntering into the hub from the bay, keeping her own pace, unbothered by the chaos that already swarmed around her.

She approached the doctor, Jack Abbot, with a small grin beginning over the lip of her travel mug. When she spotted you, she took off her sunglasses to properly assess your appearance. While you were generally very confident in your practice, unshakeable, even, especially when it was a man questioning your lead, this woman’s judgement felt true and important. She smiled. Kindly, but also like she knew something you didn’t.

“New attending?” she questioned.

“That’s right,” said Abbot. “This is Dana Evans, the charge nurse. She runs this place, really.”

“Oh hush,” she swatted at Abbot. “I couldn’t do it without my other nurses. The doctors…”

She trailed off, smirking good naturedly. You laughed and introduced  yourself.

“It’s good to meet you, sweetheart,” she said, shaking your hand. “Lord knows we need ya. Robby’s been doing the job of two attendings and he’s not handling it well.”

She fell into a chair at her station and immediately tapped in to take the day's stock. You drummed your fingers against the counter.

“Robby, is he the chief attending? Robinovitch?” you asked, scanning the area.

“That’s him,” said Abbot, sitting down at his own computer. “But  you won’t find him down here. He’s up on the roof.”

You cocked your head.

“What’s on the roof?”

“Oh, just a little ritual he likes to do,” said Dana. “Watch the sunrise, abate existential crises before coffee. That sort of thing.”

“Sure,” you said.

You’d dealt with your fair share of anxieties, and had gone to some extreme lengths to quell the suffocating feelings. You had no mind to judge this Robby guy for his.

“Well,” said Abbot, clicking out of his account. “You should probably wait for hand off before you get started. Robby can be a little… controlling.”

Great, you thought. Another man you had to prove your competence to. What did a degree mean, really, until a mediocre man vindicated it?

“He’s just tense,” said Dana, as Abbot stood and stretched. “It’s been a rough time for him.”

“Every time is a rough time for him,” chuckled Abbot. “At any given moment, you could say that and be right.”

Dana flicked him with a paper file. “Quiet, you,” she said. “Just don’t take it personal if he’s a little… short. He can take some time to warm up, is all.”

You pressed out a smile, fearing for the worst and hoping for the best.

“Oh — speak of the devil,” said Abbot.

You turned and saw a tall man, with short brown hair and a full, white-flecked beard, stalking towards the hub with a sullen expression. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed up to his elbows, what you could only imagine were quite large hands tucked into the pockets. He was hot. Objectively. You tried not to get yourself excited. You were fully prepared for him to be an adversary.

He barely glanced at you as he got closer. Kept his eyes fixed on the board. You had to fight the urge to roll yours. Perhaps Dana could sense your growing unease, because she jumped up with a tablet in her hands, and called all the night shifters over.

“Okay, people, wrap up the chitter chatter,” she said, peering over her reading glasses at the small crowd amassing. “Day shift’s here to take over, so make sure you set them up for success, alright? I don’t wanna see any gaps in your charting.”

As she handed it over to Abbot to give the final word, wrap up last big cases, policy updates, the regular housekeeping, you let your eyes wander to Robby, only to find his already on you. You half smiled. He just turned back to the board.

As people started to clear out, mumbling and yawning with bags heaved over their shoulders, Robby and Abbot bro-hugged goodbye. Clearly they were good friends. Dana definitely knew him well, too. He’d probably been at PTMC for most if not all of his career. No wonder he was controlling.

You busied yourself with a tablet until he finally truly turned his attention to you. “And you’re the new attending?” he said by way of greeting. 

You gritted your teeth and faced him. You tried to look as neutral as possible.

“That’s me,” you said. “I’m —”

“I know who you are,” he said, holding out a hand. “I’m kind of in charge here. It would be a problem if I didn’t know who was coming and going in my own ER.”

You shook his hand.

“I’m Michael Ro—”

“I know,” you cut him off right back. “It would be a problem if I didn’t know who I was working with.”

You watched him closely, bracing for annoyance, but you were met only with a small smile. Somewhat approving, even.

“Fair enough,” he said. “Why don’t I show you around before we get started?”

“Dr. Abbot already did,” you said. “I’d be more interested to jump right in. Get a feel for how you work and teach here.”

He nodded.

“How about ectopic pregnancy in one?”

You eyed him carefully.

“Lead the way.

You quickly found that you and Robby worked well together. He was perfectly civil. He even said please and thank you in the middle of messy traumas. He was direct, firm, but calm and patient with med students. He sat down with patients whenever possible, whether to fully comprehend the scope of the problem or to ease their minds in the face of uncertainty. And he was quite charming with ladies, which you were much too quick to notice.

Your first day was good. You got to interact with lots of students, interns, residents, and nurses who had been at the pitt for varying amounts of time. Some, like you, were brand new, while others were closer to Robby in tenure. Your first impression of Dana was proven correct early on. She was sharp, fast, and commanding. Robby trusted her implicitly and she really did run the place.

While the excitement of moving back home, new apartment, new job, did begin to wear off after a couple weeks, you were thankfully left with a familiar, steady rhythm and comfortable rapport with your colleagues. And despite the comments by Abbot and Dana, Robby was delightful to spend time with. Most of it at the bedside, across blood and broken bones, but he proved himself nice to chat with as well.

The first time he ventured past the strict workplace boundaries of your relationship was in early October, after an MVC that left only one survivor. You were trying not to spiral by the coffee pot when he spoke up.

“So, you’re from California, right?” he said, taking a sip from his mug, eyes ahead of him. “Cedars-Sinai?”

You smiled, dumping cream and sugar into your own mug and giving it a stir.

“Yeah, I mean — I moved from LA, but I grew up here,” you said. “My mom’s from California and that whole side of the family lives there, so I spent all my summers there as a kid.”

“Is that what motivated you to move?” he asked curiously.

“Kind of,” you said, using your sleeves to pick up the steaming mug. “After my Nana died, I moved to look after my Grandpa. Did my residency there. He passed a few years ago, and it got me feeling homesick, so. Here I am.”

It hadn’t crossed your mind that that might have been oversharing until you saw Robby’s big, sad brown eyes on you. You smiled awkwardly.

“So, what about you?” you asked. “Been here a while?”

He huffed a half-laugh.

“Practically from the womb,” he said. “Did my residency here and everything.” “It shows,” you said.

“Calling me a dinosaur?” he joked weakly.

“Everyone is somewhere, sometimes,” you said. “You should try interacting with my nieces and nephew. Try to help them with math homework.”

He was smiling warmly, and just opened his mouth to say something else when Dana cleared her throat from the table. She was eating leftover pasta with a peculiar expression on her face you couldn’t decipher. Robby’s smile quickly fell away. It was as if he and Dana were having a silent conversation, in a language you only learn from years and years of friendship. You looked between them.

“You need something, boss?” you asked Dana.

“No, not at all,” she said with a shit-eating grin. “Just caught a little rigatoni in the back of my throat. Carry on! You’re an aunt, you say?”

“Um, yes,” you said, still a little wary. “My little brother has three kids. Marisol is the oldest, she’s 12, and then the twins are Elias and Gabriella, they’re 8. My sister in law has four siblings, but I’m their favorite.”

You couldn’t help gloating a little, especially since you had spent so much time away. You had been worried you wouldn’t be able to connect with them as much, but you needn’t have. They fell in love with you all over again, the same way they did every time you visited. Gabby and Eli had already insisted you be present at every single one of their track meets and soccer games, and you’d earned massive points with Mari for buying her “lipstick” (shiny lip balm) when her parents said no.

“I bet,” said Dana, still grinning from ear to ear. “Speaking of — Robby, how’s Jake?”

He seemed less enthusiastic for some reason.

“He’s good, just started applying to colleges,” Robby said.

“Your nephew?” you asked, sipping your sugary coffee.

“No, kind of a,” he trailed off. “Basically my step son. I dated his mom for a few years, but we stayed close.”

You smiled, chest warming. You’d never really talked about family to Robby before, and he never brought one up like others liked to do. You were almost under the impression he didn’t have any, but you knew he’d be an excellent role model. An excellent father, one day, maybe, but you didn’t need to think about that or your ovaries could quite possibly explode.

“That’s great,” you said, too softly. “He’s lucky to have you.”

Robby just stared at you for a second, smile pulling at his lips. You turned to Dana, who was still smirking like the cat that got the cream. It was a little too silent for you, so you straightened up and headed for the door.

“Well, I’d better check on my concussion,” you said. “CT should be back soon.”

Both the quiet and Robby’s smile stayed after the door was pulled shut. He stared at the spot he watched your face disappear, black coffee going cold.

“Wow,” was all Dana said.

“What?”

“Oh, please,” she chuckled, taking a big bite of pasta. “Asking about her past? Initiating conversation?”

He shrugged nonchalantly.

“You might as well stand outside her door with a boombox,” said Dana.

Robby just took a long sip.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

***

You were charting at the hub when you were pulled, gratefully, from work by a shy voice behind you.

“Hey.”

You turned and saw a newly minted intern, Whitaker, approaching you with big, nervous eyes. He clutched a tablet to his chest like a shield. You tried to smile as nicely as you could. “Hey,” you said back. “What’s up?”

“Um” — he looked around anxiously — “I have a patient who is presenting as psych: 25 year old with hallucinations, paranoia, very disjointed speech.”

“Yeah, sounds like classic schizophrenia,” you said sadly. “They’re in the window, it’s unfortunately common.”

“Right,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s just — I don’t know, something feels off to me. No family history of mental illness, no warning signs like social isolation, crazy mood swings… very sudden, you know?”

You took the ipad he handed and looked over the patient’s chart. No response to haldol, nor to quetiapine.

“Well, you never know,” you said. “It’s not as common, but the prodromal stage can be skipped. What are you thinking?”

Whitaker hesitated.

“The only real symptoms to suggest this are migraines, which could be anything!” he said quickly. “But I was thinking maybe a brain tumor? It’s a shot in the dark, but I’d really like to get a CT, just to rule it out. It’s just that both of his parents had cancer, one died, and I know CTs are expensive, and time consuming, and he’s taking up a bed, I just —”

You held out your hand to gently silence him. His mouth snapped shut instantly.

“I think that’d be a good idea,” you said. “What type of cancer did his parents have, do you know?”

“Breast cancer and osteosarcoma,” he said.

You hummed.

“This is also a shot in the dark,” you said, “but he could have LFS. I mean, he’s young, relatively healthy, hasn’t been exposed to toxic chemicals… It’s worth the cost to be safe. Order the CT.”

You handed the tablet back and he smiled.

“Right, yeah,” he said. “It’s just that Robby gave us this whole speech about unnecessary expenses, you should have heard how he laid into Dr. Mohan, not to mention wait times, and patient satisfaction scores —”

Boy did this kid overthink. You cut him off again.

“There’s a difference between covering your ass, and covering your bases,” you said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “We must rule out the worst possible scenario. Hopefully he doesn’t have cancer. If he does, you’ll not only possibly save his life, but save a psych bed for someone who really needs the treatment, huh?”

He nodded.

“Good. Now lets just go talk to Robby,” you said. “I’m sure he’ll be fine with it.”

Whitaker blanched.

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary,” he said, as you handed the ipad back to him. “He’s already in a bad mood today, and I’ve already managed to piss off Santos, I don’t need him mad at me, too.”

You didn’t think he was in a bad mood. You’d talked to him not two hours ago, seemed fine, asked about your niece’s softball game. You thought it was cute how scared the interns and med students were of someone so sweet.

“He won’t be mad,” you said, steering him towards the breakroom you saw Robby just walk into. “He’ll be impressed you’re taking the initiative. Taking care of your patients.”

You had to practically push him through the door. Robby was just pouring himself a cup of black coffee. He did look tired; dark circles around his eyes, hair with a mind of its own, but his face still lit up a bit when he saw the two of you coming.

“Hey Robby!” you said, putting an arm around Whitaker’s shoulders. “Whitaker here had a question about a patient. Mark Venis, in three?”

You took the tablet from Whitaker’s shaking hands and pressed into Robby’s strong, steady, gorgeous ones. Sexy, too. You cleared your throat.

“The schizophrenia case?” he said, putting on his glasses.

Lord, his glasses.

“Actually, we’re not so sure,” you said. “Dennis?”

“Uh,” Whitaker stuttered. “I just thought maybe it could be a brain tumor. And I’d like a CT. I know it’ll take time and money, but he’s had headaches and — and his family has a history.”

You nodded.

“Possible Li-Fraumeni Syndrome, I thought?” you said. “Long shot, but, you never know.”

Whitaker still looked scared. Robby looked down at the tablet, then back up at Whitaker, then at you.

“Makes sense,” he said, handing it back to a stunned Whitaker. “Better safe than sorry.”

You smiled. Whitaker looked a tad indignant. He crossed his arms.

“You know he’ll have to be waiting in a bed for the CT to happen,” he said cautiously. “Could take up to four hours, if we’re really backed up.”

Robby peered at him over his tortoise shell rims.

“It’s best to rule this out,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Worth the wait. Why don’t you go inform Mr. Venis’ emergency contact of his condition, and that he’ll be headed up to CT soon?”

It was almost cute to see, though you didn’t understand why, as Whitaker’s face scrunched into something conveying mild annoyance. He tucked his tablet under his arm and turned to the door. “Nice catch, Whitaker!” you called after him. “That poor kid, he’s so anxious all the time. He looks like a Victorian ghost, it’s kinda cute.”

Robby snorted into his mug. 

“You think Victorian ghosts are cute?”

“Sometimes,” you said cheekily. “I think lots of people would still be cute if they were ghosts. Poor ghosts get such a bad rap. We only hear about the murderous ones.”

Robby shook his head. “Well, if I’m ever a ghost, I promise not to murder you,” he said. “I’ll come say hi.”

“Please do,” you said. “Things must get lonely on the ethereal plane.”

He laughed again, and you smiled. How anyone could be afraid of such a cutie, you didn’t understand. His face was covered with smile lines, and his beard fluttered when he laughed if he hadn’t trimmed it in a while. You knew it had to have been at least a week today as you looked at him chuckling prettily under the fluorescents. You probably spent too much time looking at him.

Out at the desks, Whitaker slammed the tablet down on the counter with more force than necessary. Everyone jumped.

“Sorry,” he grumbled. “Just a rough patient.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” asked Mel.

“Well, this guy came in with symptoms of late onset schizophrenia,” he said. “He’s in the age range, but I wanted to send him up to CT to rule out an alternative.”

“Robby shut you down, huh?” asked Santos. “God, Huckleberry, I told you not to ask him for anything extra today. He’s in a pissy mood. We have another perfectly good, emotionally stable attending available to us now. Thank god.”

“I went to her!” he said. “And when she brought it up to Robby, he said yes. Like, immediately.”

There was a pause. Mel’s brow furrowed, but Santos’ lips curled into a smirk.

“Looks like Dr. Robinovitch has a crush,” she said.

“No way,” said Whitaker. “You think?”

Her eyes found you and Robby, exiting the breakroom together, pressed close and chatting happily. Robby’s smile was the first she’d seen on his face all morning. Her smirk turned shit-eating.

“I know.”

***

The case had seemed straight forward when you heard it from Dana. Incoming trauma, a 37 year old woman crashed her car into a telephone pole on her way to work, lost consciousness behind the wheel. Head lac, some burns from the airbag, but relatively okay, considering. No one else was hurt, and it seemed like the best case scenario.

But as she was being rolled in, you quickly realized something was not right. Something was really, really wrong.

She was screaming at the top of her lungs. You could see remnants of vomit on her clothes although her face appeared to have been wiped clean. A sheen of sweat covered every surface of skin. It didn’t seem plausible that a head lac and some friction burns could cause such intense pain; most likely there was an underlying cause, and everyone knew how car accidents liked to hide things.

Probably broken ribs, you thought, as she clutched her middle. She was curled into a fetal position. Could be internal damage as well, the way she was yelling. You ordered pain meds immediately.

“Hi Mrs. Martinez,” you said slowly, leaning down closer to her. “Do you know where you are right now?”

“Hospital,” she gasped out between cries.

“That’s right, very good,” you said calmly. “Can you tell me where your pain is?”

Her eyes were still scrunched tight, clenched fists twisting her shirt and pulling just to have something to do. She struggled to talk for anguished moans.

“My stomach,” she panted, tears streaming down her face. “I have endo.”

As she was transferred from stretcher to bed, she let out a sharp shriek, and you did your best to steady her. Your mind was running fast, but you needed her to be able to speak comfortably to get the information for proper diagnosis.

“We getting the morphine up?”

“Right now,” said Santos quickly. 

People buzzed around, getting an IV, hanging fluids, examining her known injuries. You stayed by her side and wiped her sweaty forehead with a cool cloth. 

“FAST, CBC, CT,” you chanted, as you saw Robby enter the room.

“What do we got?” he asked, jumping right in.

You let Mel King take it.

“37 year old female Teodora Martinez, MVC due to syncope, shallow head lac, burns from airbag deployment,” she rattled off. “History of endometriosis, looks like she’s having a flare up. No known allergies in her chart.”

Mrs. Martinez’s groans slowly lowered and tapered out as the drugs began to work. Eventually her eyes opened, though droopily, and you rolled up a stool next to her.

“Hi Mrs. Martinez,” you said clearly. “Does the pain feel better now?”

She nodded.

“Can you rate it on a scale of one to ten?”

“Now, it’s like a three or four,” she said sleepily. “Before, it was like a nine or ten.”

You nodded slowly. “Is that normal for you, when you have an attack?”

She shook her head quickly.

“No,” she said shakily. “It’s been worse for almost a week. It’s never been this bad before. I went to the emergency room, but they just gave me some ibuprofen and sent me home. They said it was nothing, that it would pass.”

More tears leaked from her eyes.

“That’s why I thought it would be okay to go to work. But it got so bad, I think I passed out. I couldn’t see straight. Was anyone hurt?”

“No,” you said solidly. “No one else was involved in the crash, okay? We just want to make sure you’re okay.”

You pulled back to give her a moment and asked Mel to contact Mrs. Martinez’s family. Robby was watching from the corner. You stood and walked towards him.

“She went to a different emergency room and they sent her home,” you filled him in. “They sent her home with nine out of ten pain, Robby.”

You huffed angrily, tugging at the sleeves of your gown. 

“She feeling better now?” he asked.

“Said so,” you said, glancing over at the poor woman. “Got her on morphine, IV bolus. Might need to start a drip if we can’t figure this out.”

Santos caught your attention. “Head looks good, no concussion,” she said. “Didn’t even need stitches. All patched up now. What’s the plan?”

Robby spoke before you could.

“We’ll check for internal bleeding, doesn’t look like any broken bones,” he said, throwing his gloves out. “We’ll just have to manage her pain until she feels good enough to go home, have someone pick her up. Refer her to her primary care or a specialist. Not much you can do for endo without surgery.”

Everyone started moving immediately, but you were ticked off.

“No!” you said sharply.

The room stilled. You took a deep breath.

“No,” you corrected, more calm now. “I don’t think this is just endometriosis. This is not a normal or livable pain level.”

Robby sighed.

“Unfortunately, that level of pain is often reached with this condition,” he said gently. 

“No it’s not!” you said. “Because when you live with chronic pain your whole life, you build a tolerance. Your ten is probably her six. And she knows herself best, she knows when something is wrong. We have to trust her. We need a transvaginal ultrasound, blood tests, stool sample, fucking colonoscopy if it comes to it!”

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“Torsion? Anything,” you said. “I understand pain is normal for her, but it could be masking something much worse. It would be irresponsible for us to write it off as the most likely thing. Sometimes it is a zebra, you know.”

The room was silent. Santos’ eyebrows were in her hairline, Mel was frozen with the phone in her hand, Princess looked unsure whether to burst into laughter or flee the scene. Even Langdon and Donnie winced from where they were eavesdropping in the hall.

Everyone knew Robby would lash out sometimes, especially in stressful, high stakes situations. Everyone knew he hated to be questioned, especially in front of a crowd of people. And he hated being wrong.

But you didn’t know.

And you wouldn’t.

“You’re right,” he said simply. “Princess, will you grab an ultrasound? Let’s get Mrs. Martinez a gown, too.”

You nodded, satisfied, and that was all he needed.

Even as you conducted the test and paged surgery to get a bed ready, people were walking on egg shells. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it didn’t.

“There,” you said, pointing it out on the screen. “You see that?”

Mrs. Martinez nodded.

“That is your ovary, being twisted,” you said. “It’s called ovarian torsion. Blood flow is being cut off which is very painful. You’ll need surgery.”

She covered her mouth with her hand. You removed the probe and covered her up.

“I’ve been walking around like that?” she whispered. “This whole time?”

“Yes,” you said, patting her hand comfortingly. “I’m so sorry. It should have been diagnosed immediately. You’re a real trooper. Most people wouldn’t have made it as long as you did.”

“What will the surgery do?”

“We should be able to twist it back the right way, and tack it down to prevent reoccurrence," you said. “You’ll be sent up to surgery, and they can give you more information. Okay?”

“Thank you,” she said earnestly, gripping your hand.

“Of course,” you said, and you nodded at the nurses ready to wheel her out. “Good luck.”

“I’ll head up with her,” said Robby. “Make sure they don’t keep her waiting too long. Good job, doctor.”

You smiled as she went. It was always a good feeling to trust your gut and turn out right.

“Think she’ll lose the ovary?” asked Santos.

“I’m not sure,” you said, smile slipping. “She said the pain had been going on for a week. We don’t know if blood was cut off the whole time. I’d guess she probably will, but Garcia can work miracles sometimes, ah?”

You elbowed her, and the usually composed Trinity flushed just a bit as she nodded.

You pulled off your PPE, and as you turned to toss it in the bin, you caught several pairs of eyes. Mel was peeking out from behind Princess, periodically as she picked up discarded packaging, like she was trying not to. Princess had an odd little smile on her face as she pressed buttons on the blank unresponsive ultrasound machine that had already been turned off. There was a tension in the air you hadn’t noticed before. “What?” you asked.

No one answered, just glanced at each other. You felt your face for a bit of stray food, maybe, or your hair for something stuck, but there was nothing. You placed your hands on your hips.

“Seriously, what?”

“Sweeheart,” said Dana’s voice behind her. “Well done.”

She appeared at your side, giving your shoulders an affectionate little shake.

“You should have seen it,” said Princess euphorically. “I was waiting for him to implode, but he had nothing but heart eyes.”

You shook your head tiredly.

“I sure wish you would clue me in,” you said, annoyed.

Dana chuckled.

“Let’s go for a walk,” she said, pulling you out and towards the office you had only ever known as the betting room. 

You leaned against the open door frame. She smiled knowingly at you.

“You yelled at Robby?” she asked.

Your cheeks flooded with heat. That was what this was about? You hadn’t thought you were being rude, and he hadn’t responded like you were, but you could get away from yourself when you felt strongly about something. Who didn’t? Thinking of it now, maybe your voice was a little unnecessarily loud.

“I didn’t mean to, honestly,” you said. “Do you think I upset him? He’s always so polite.”

At that, a loud snort came from Whitaker, who was pretending to chart at a desk a few feet away from you and Dana. Next to him, Princess, Santos, and Perlah slapped his arm.

“Shoo, you four,” said Dana with exasperation. “Stick your noses someplace else for a second.”

They walked away, muttering curses at Whitaker in Tagalog. Dana turned back to you.

“You yelled at him a bit,” she said. “Nothing crazy. Not even nearly as bad as he can be, and you had a reason. It’s just that he — doesn’t usually take so kindly to interruptions, or differences of opinion in traumas. He likes to take charge and keep it.”

You made a face.

“But I was right!” you scoffed. “He responded exactly as he should have. He was being dismissive —”

“I know, honey, I know!” she said. “He has some blind spots sometimes, so sue him. He’s a little rough around the edges.” She smirked. “Unless it’s you he’s dealing with.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Robby’s sweet on you!” she said.

You wanted to laugh, but you felt like the air was punched from your lungs. You just gaped like a fish out of water.

“He is not!”

“Oh please, take it from a professional in dealing with Robby’s moods,” she said. “Has he ever yelled at you? Disregarded an idea you had? Snapped at you? Asked you to come in on a day off? Even criticized you?”

“Of course not,” you said. “He’s not that kind of guy!”

“My sweet summer child,” she said. “Ask anyone else on the floor, on any floor in this hospital, and they’d have some things to say about your loverboy. He’s a curmudgeon, at heart.”

‘Curmudgeon’ didn’t feel cohesive with any of your Robby experiences. He always spoke to you in a soft sweet voice, wished you well, asked about your week, assisted you with cases. Always ready with a smile. Always taking shifts you needed covered. Was that all a front? Or… all for you?

You thought back. Robby can be a little controlling… You should have heard how he laid into Dr. Mohan… I was waiting for him to implode… 

You glanced across the floor to where he stood with a med student, back from surgery, hands on his hips like a disappointed father. The poor kid looked on the verge of tears. Robby rolled his eyes, and walked away while the student was still speaking. You’d never seen him roll his eyes before. Which, now you thought about it, was crazy. Everyone could get pissed and act like an asshole. But it seemed Robby had been careful not to, around you.

Your chest felt weird, your face and neck warm. You tried very hard not to think about exactly why he treated you so differently.

You turned back to Dana, all the fire drained from your body. She pinched your cheek like a grandma.

“Careful,” she said. “Now you’ll start to see what we see.”

Your face twisted uncomfortably. Would everything change?

“Hey,” said Dana. “Don’t let it scare you off, alright? There aren’t a lot of people he shows his sweet side to. Keep it in mind.”

As she walked away, your eyes scanned the area for him again. He was already staring at you, something akin to admiration in his gaze. He didn’t immediately look away, and neither did you. Just stood and looked to your heart’s content, until Langdon came and pulled Robby away. You kept your eyes on him as he walked, and he turned back for one more glance.

Robby liked you.

A different type of fire sparked in your chest as you smiled to yourself. You were going to have a lot of fun with this…

---

This is a Wicked retelling told through a Boq x Reader lens 💚

Twisted together from the new films, the original Broadway spell, a dash of Wizard of Oz canon, and my own little bit of wicked magic along the Yellow Brick Road 🌪

1. Somewhere Between Comfortable and Invisible

2. Loathing, Lighting, and a Boy Named Boq

3. Our Spot by the Window

4. Ozdust and Other Bad Ideas

5. Picnics, Midterms, and Quiet Corners

6. Already in Deep

7. Cold Air, Warm Jacket, Unsaid Words

8. Wicked, Good, Gone

9. His Name in Ink

10. You in Ink, Me in The Margins

11. The Letters That Never Leave

12. Hello Again

13. Things They Can’t Legislate

14. First Light Comes Early

15. Couldn’t Be Happier

16. Request Denied

17. No Exceptions Clause

18. The Heart She Couldn’t Cage

19. Rust in the Rain

20. The Wedding that Wasn’t Wonderful

21. Where He Should Be

🩶🪓🌧️ 🩶🪓🌧️ 🩶🪓🌧️ 🩶🪓🌧️ 🩶🪓🌧️

If you’d like to be added to the taglist, please comment on the most recent update 💌

The Vibe