soso

You didn’t know who he was or what he studied, nor did you care to find out.

In general, you were pleasant with everyone you crossed paths with and your first time meeting Ryland Grace wouldn’t have been any different from seeing any other random grad student if he hadn’t immediately pissed you off. To his credit, he didn’t even know he had done something to irk you and it hadn’t been his intention to be a thorn in your side- not at the beginning at least.

If you hadn’t already been having the worst day of your life (woke up late, missed the bus and had a denied scholarship application sitting in your email, to name a few of the events that morning), maybe the two of you could’ve hit it off and been fast friends. He was probably nice enough and besides occasionally being a smartass, he had a good head on his shoulders. Smart, confident and easy on the eyes- all things that pointed to a person you could get along with.

So how had he immediately put himself on your shit list?

Well, he was sitting in your spot.

No, the little nook in the University’s library did not have your name on it, nor did it actually belong to you.

But you’d been sitting there, in the same sunny little spot of the library that you’d come to call the closest thing to heaven you’d experienced during your doctorate studies, every day since you began your research. After extensive lab work, you’d disappear into the almost always empty corner of the library to type up your findings for hours at a time. 

No one had ever been in your nook before. Until Ryland Grace decided he wanted to sit there too.

You’d already had a day from hell so stumbling up to your spot midafternoon only to find that someone else had already claimed it with all of his stuff immediately infuriated you.

He seemed to be around your age, most likely working on his masters or PhD like you were. A spread of papers, books and packets were strewn over the desk surface, no apparent rhyme or reason to their organization. The guy was tapping away at a laptop where a huge spreadsheet of data was displayed, completely ignorant of your presence until you cleared your throat.

Any other day, you would’ve grumbled about it but found a different area to plant yourself for the night. But not that day. You were too irritated and too tired to let this dirtbag take away the last scrap of peace you would get until the sun set.

The blonde haired intruder jumped at your pointed grumble, pulling a pair of wired earbuds out of his ears and looking you up and down from his seat. You most definitely looked like a hundred miles of bad road but you couldn’t have cared less.

“You’re in my spot.”

The quirked brow he gave you had you seeing red.

“Pardon?”

“You’re in. My spot.”

He seemed at a loss for words, looking past you where you knew a slew of other perfectly empty desks sat. “Uh… can’t you go sit somewhere else?”

You ground your teeth together. “No.”

Gesturing to all of his stuff on the table, he shrugged in a half-assed apology. “Sorry, I’m pretty comfortable here and I’m kinda busy, so…”

The stare off the two of you had for several seconds was charged with tension. He wouldn’t back down and you didn’t want to either, but he had the advantage. He had already claimed your nook and if you went and complained to one of the library staff several floors down, they would look at you like you were crazy. Every spot in the library was first come first serve, you had no special claim to this specific spot.

So you moved. To a table very close to the one he occupied. And spent the better part of your evening glaring daggers at him. 

He’d look up occasionally, meet your gaze and go back to his studies, like he wasn’t bothered at all. It sure bothered you that he was so nonchalant about everything. You could only watch with a sneer as the sun slowly set, bathing your perfect little nook in warm, golden sunlight and in turn making the messy jerk look ethereal while you were stuck in the library’s shadowy interior.

You’d been the one to leave first. It was late, you were exhausted and you had a 10 minute walk home in the dark. The stranger didn’t seem to be ready to leave at all, dutifully typing on his laptop and occasionally shuffling through the mess on the table for a notebook or sheet of paper marred with scribbles.

He’d looked up when you stood, giving you a smug grin that nearly had you flying into the booth to wring his neck. Unfortunately, there were laws against that so you just settled for a middle finger and left.

You thought that would be the end of it.

A one off encounter that you’d fume about for weeks and a man who you’d never see again. The university was big and hopefully you’d made your point that the spot was yours so he’d find somewhere new to study.

When you walked up to your spot the following day in much higher spirits, your good day shattered when you saw the familiar fluffy haired head over the back of the booth. He’d come again. And deliberately sat in your spot.

You decided right then and there that Ryland Grace was the bane of your existence.

For two weeks the man hogged your little piece of heaven. Try as you might to come earlier and claim it yourself before he could, he was always there. Did he ever do anything besides study? Did he eat? Did he sleep? Surely he didn’t spend the night at the library, but you wouldn’t put it past him to hide when the library staff shut the place down and stay until morning. The jerk would probably do that to be petty.

You could’ve found another spot. Surely there was another booth a floor up that was the exact same layout and would get just as much sun. But you refused out of principle. You wouldn’t let this asshole get his way. He wanted to sit in your spot? Fine. If your glares weren’t enough to deter him, you’d turn to another method to smoke him out.

The shocked face the man gave you when you slid into the booth opposite of him one day was worth every drop of fury you’d endured for those couple of weeks. His look of distress when you shoved all of his things to his half of the desk, leaving your half clean, was priceless.

“Hey! Why??”

“You want to sit in my spot? Fine. We’ll share.”

You began unpacking your things while the blonde tried to straighten out his. “You messed up my system!”

Neatly setting your own books on the desk and opening your laptop, you laughed incredulously. “That was your system?”

His scowl was searing. “Yes. I don’t expect you, of all people, to understand my method of madness.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You’d parted ways very angry that day. 

The next day, you did the same thing: sat opposite of him and pushed his things to his side. And the next. And the next. And the next. He slowly started to learn to keep his things on his half of the desk to save himself the trouble of ‘reorganizing’. 

One time, you were surprised to find you’d beat Ryland to your nook and nearly jumped for joy. Finally! Your persistence must’ve paid off and he’d found somewhere else to plant himself. You were all smiles- up until a thick book was dropped onto the table, scaring you half to death, and that stupid messy mop of hair plopped into the booth with a smug grin. Said mop of hair then proceeded to give as good as he got; shoving your things from his side of the table back to your side.

Thus began your slightly hostile relationship with the man you eventually learned was molecular biology doctorate student, Ryland Grace (you read his name on one of the papers that snuck across the invisible line on the table).

For the most part, neither of you acknowledged each other during your joint study sessions- any conversation was clipped and tense. You didn’t try to learn anything about him and he made no effort to learn anything about you. In fact, you weren’t sure he even knew your name which was fine by you.

While you rarely conversed, there were small things you began learning about Ryland just by observation alone. 

Number one, while he was studying molecular biology, he seemed to have a specific interest in the stars; life in regards to space and the possibility of life outside of our planet. You knew as much because he had this annoying habit of grumbling while he worked- speaking out loud and working through his thoughts verbally.

He also had a smorgasbord of space and science related stickers on the back of his laptop you occasionally stared at when you were trying to think. NASA, planets, beakers, science puns and the occasional fox sticker stared at you every day. You weren’t sure why the foxes were thrown into the mix but you weren’t about to ask. 

Ryland couldn’t ever seem to sit still. He was always bouncing a leg or tapping a pen. The one time you got after him for it, he only did it more so you never brought it up again.

You also noticed something that Ryland didn’t seem to even know about himself. It took a couple of days to work up the willpower to actually ask about it.

“Do you have contacts?”

It was rare that you spoke to him, so Ryland looked up from the notebook he was writing in with a blink of surprise. “Huh?”

“Contacts. Y’know, the things in your eyes that help you see? Or glasses?”

“No?” He seemed truly flabbergasted.

You hummed and sat back in your seat. “Looks like you need them.”

“Wh-”

“You’re always squinting at your laptop so I was wondering if you have some but are so stubborn that you refuse to wear them. If you don’t, it might be worth getting your vision checked. I can’t imagine your eyes and brain appreciate the strain you put on them every day.”

Ryland didn’t speak to you the rest of the evening, which wasn’t too odd, but then didn’t show up in the library for a week. You wanted to say you loved the extra space, but you begrudgingly realized the table felt too big with him gone. You didn’t want to say you missed him, per se, but maybe somewhere adjacent.

When you saw Ryland after a week of absence- outside of the library for the first time- you had to do a double take. 

It was early in the morning- so early you could barely stand on your own two feet, which was why you were standing in the ever growing line at one of the cafes on campus for a cup of brain fuel.

You weren’t paying attention to who you stood behind in line, absentmindedly blinking at the slew of texts you received from a friend about a huge frat party happening that weekend that you weren’t planning on attending. A familiar notification sound jolted you out of your tired stupor.

Ryland had a unique chime that played any time he got a notification. It was the satellite phone jingle from the 3rd Jurassic Park movie. You suspected Ryland was a huge nerd about science fiction media but he’d probably rather die than admit that to you. In and of itself, the sound wasn’t that annoying but you’d heard it so often that it had seared itself into your brain and Pavloved you into feeling annoyed when you heard it.

Sure enough, a familiar set of shoulders stood in front of you, all covered by a cream sweater.

“Ryland?”

The science student turned on his heel. He seemed just as surprised to see you as you were him. It felt like seeing a wild animal, seeing Ryland outside of the library. You were surprised in turn, to find a new addition to the man’s outfit. Gold rimmed glasses sat on his nose. 

Ryland’s ears quickly became tipped in red.

“Oh. Hey.”

He seemed embarrassed, like he’d been caught red-handed. 

“Nice glasses.”

“Thanks…”

Your interactions were always awkward but this felt different. “Farsighted?”

“Yep.”

“Knew it. They fit you though, if that’s any consolation.”

“Thank you.”

Coffee suddenly didn’t sound appealing any more- not if you had to endure one more second of this horribly uncomfortable encounter. Your regular chats together weren’t always pleasant but they weren’t this odd. What changed? Was he angry that you’d been right and pointed out something he himself hadn’t noticed? Was he embarrassed that you’d proved him wrong? Was he that egotistical?

You stomped off without another word.

-

There was a hot, steaming cup of coffee with your name on it sitting in front of Ryland the next Monday. 

You hadn’t expected to see him at all in the library anymore, not after your last altercation, so you didn’t get a chance to turn and flee before he spotted you standing a couple of paces away, giving you a crooked smile.

You were too proud to run away now. You feared you’d look weak if you did. And Ryland Grace was the last person you wanted to look weak in front of.

So you pressed on, pointedly not looking at the scientist and pretending he didn’t exist. Ryland watched you the whole time, You could feel his stare and you wanted to slap yourself silly when you felt your cheeks heat up.

When you made no move to talk to him after you settled, Ryland nudged the coffee closer to you with an uncomfortable clearing of his throat. 

You pursed your lips and kept your eyes on your notes.

“I feel like we started off on the wrong foot.” His voice was cautious, like he was talking to a cornered animal. “I’m sorry for being an ass when we first met. I’d had a rough day and I know that’s no excuse but it’s the truth. I was feeling stubborn.”

This was the most he’d ever said to you in one go. You peeked a glance.

God did those glasses suit him. They made him look softer, somehow. Maybe they made his eyes bigger? Yeah that was probably it. Big eyes, like an alien. 

“Can we start over?”

He stuck a hand over his laptop and held it out to you. A handshake. His fingers were trembling. Did you make him nervous? Your confidence took a nice little boost from the thought alone.

You didn’t hate Ryland. Not really. As much as it pained you to admit, you enjoyed his company and had missed it while he was hiding from you. He just annoyed you sometimes with his snarky comments. But even those weren’t that bad. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to give him a chance?

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you carefully clasped a hand in his and gave him one firm shake. 

His ears bloomed red again and he held onto your hand a little longer than you thought he would.

“Yeah, ok cool! Didn’t think you… would actually accept my offer so this is awesome. Your coffee order, I think I got it right? I’ve been peaking at your coffee cups for a little while to read the labels. Is that creepy? I didn’t mean it in a creepy way, I just wanted to make sure I knew what you liked if I ever got you anything.”

This was a new side of Ryland- unsure, stammering and sweet? Maybe he’d always been this way and you just hadn’t seen it.

You didn’t know how to feel about it.

-

Being ‘friends’ with Ryland lasted about a week.

All too quickly did you regularly find yourself hidden in a far corner of the library between the endless shelves of academic literature, kissing each other senseless. Or making out in a quiet study room. Or whispering weak protests against his shoulder when he laid you back in your shared nook to suck a mark on your neck.

Turns out, Ryland didn’t hate you. Never did. Except maybe for a second the first time you got after him for sitting in your spot but other than that, he was just smitten (and terrified) of you which was why he kept coming back. He was still arrogant and a smart ass, usually when you asked him a question related to his field- like you were supposed to know what the boiling point of liquid helium was- but you found yourself enjoying his quips.

It was just another Wednesday when your relationship shifted.

You had Ryland pressed up against a line of shelves, cradling his head in your palms and soaking up the feeling of his glasses brushing over your cheeks while your lips slowly worked against his. 

The library was silent at this time of day, especially being in such a far off corner of it, so the only sounds you could hear were the creak of the shelves when Ryland pressed too far back into them, your mouths, and your breath. It was your favorite pastime when you were tired of writing essays.

When Ryland pressed his thumbs into your hip bones, you pulled away an inch to give him space. His glasses were smudged from your skin and barely hanging onto his nose. His stupid t-shirt (a navy blue top with a ringed planet graphic and the words “Jupiter? I hardly know her.” stamped below it) was rumpled and riding up on his navel, allowing you a glimpse of his happy trail.

“I start a new job on Monday.” He breathed, eyes jumping between yours.

You pulled back even more in surprise. Ryland kept his hands on your waist so you didn’t go too far.

“Really?”

“Mhm. It’s a part-time lab technician job. The pay isn’t great but it’ll help boost my resume once I get my doctorate and I need the extra income anyway.”

You beamed. “That’s great! Are you going to be able to juggle school and work, though? Will it be too much?”

Ryland’s eyes fluttered when you ran a thumb over his cheek. “I should be ok. But…” He hesitated. “I won’t have time to come here anymore.”

Oh.

Neither of you put a label on… whatever it was the two of you had together, so you never had a reason to meet up outside of your unspoken joint study hours. Ryland stopping his visits here meant you wouldn’t get to see him.

Your hands slid from his face to his shoulders as you tried to put on a nonchalant face. This was just a hookup- a little fling that probably never would’ve worked anyway. Ryland would continue his life and you would continue yours. It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did to find out you would rarely, if ever, see the prospective scientist after Friday.

“I’ll miss my desk partner,” you smiled, hoping it wasn’t obvious how sad his words made you.

One side of Ryland’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “Yeah, me too.” He seemed awfully nonchalant about the whole thing. You kicked yourself for being so blinded by the handsome ass that weaseled his way into your life. Ryland fiddled with the hem of your shirt and straightened it out a bit, tilting his head to gesture down the aisle.

“So… should we go back to our spot and hash out our schedules, then?”

Now you are confused. “Our schedules?”

“Yes? To find times that work for both of us to meet up? Like… between labs and such. Or in the late evenings. Or weekends. Or you could stay the night at my place- uh, unless I read this thing wrong?” He let go of you to gesture between your bodies, beginning to fidget on his feet. “Did I read this wrong? If I did, forget everything I said because it was all just a funny joke-”

You flew onto your tiptoes and flung your arms around his neck, only slightly shoving him into the shelves behind him to claim his mouth. Ryland made a noise of approval and wound his arms around your torso to lift you into him. 

Schedule swapping would have to wait a little longer and you offhandedly hoped that there were no security cameras this deep between the stacks of books because if someone was watching them, they wouldn’t enjoy what they were about to see.

“Baby, baby, baby—” Holland hangs his head as you grind it against the ashtray on the kitchen counter. He eases up his grip on you as you go to throw the cigarette butt straight into the trash bin. You win. Holland throws his head back with a sigh; you’ve been doing this more, lately, trying to get him off smoking. He lets you, aiming to please. The only caveat, really, is when you use it against him as punishment for when you’re mad.

And now, you’re mad. “You’re pissing me off, March.” You’re not trying to be too loud about it, not wanting to rouse too great of a suspicion from Holly or Healy. But Holland can see the way that you’re glaring at him. It isn’t an over-exaggeration.

“Honey, I’m just trying to give you options.” Holland frowns, “Maybe, you don’t want to go and you’re just too polite to say so. I don’t know many hot, twenty-somethings who’re opting to spend their Friday night attending middle-school productions of The Sound of Music.”

“I’m trying to be supportive!” You hiss, “Now, stop being a wuss and let me attend Holly’s show.” You can see the hair hanging over Holland’s forehead swaying as he looks you up and down. He’s getting distracted. Clearly, he’s enjoying the sight of you pissy a little bit too much. So not the time. You’re inclined to snap your fingers at him; the sound jolts his attention back up to your face.

“Okay. Fine,” Holland yields. He’s trying to run through the night in his head. The two of you in the car, enjoying each other’s company up until the top-of-show, where you’re watching those stupid, little middle-schoolers perform and suddenly find yourself wanting to break up with him. Holland, the perpetual single father. He grits his teeth, “If you want to go, then we can go. I’ll pick you up after I drop her off, and we’ll watch it front-row.” 

“Good.” You stand up straighter, expression much brighter than before. Even if he’s so terrified by the thought of you coming to Holly’s play, Holland can only really aim to please you. If this is what he has to do, then so be it.

“Happy?” Holland asks cautiously, glancing over your features with a tilt of his head. You’re much more touchy now, a good sign, hands coming up to fix his collar.

“You’re in the safe-zone for now,” you tell Holland. Without further delay, he’s bending down to give you a sloppy kiss—pointer-fingers pulling you by the belt loops. You’re grinning wide as he moves upwards, laying a kiss on your nose, and then your forehead. All is right in the world.

Healy’s muttering carries over into the kitchen. “Jesus. It’s like they can’t go a minute without touchin’ each other.” His acute observation causes Holly to begin twisting her head with naive curiosity—but he stops her with a tap to the shoulder and a shake of his head. “Don’t look, kid. S’gross.”

—

On Friday night, Holland’s five minutes early—double-parked on the street of your apartment with the convertible roof down. The two of you are already well-agreed on the attire for tonight. Not too casual, not too formal, just charming enough to impress. As soon as you’re outside and locking the door behind you, Holland is beaming. “Hon, you look perfect.” But, as soon as you turn around, he’s dead quiet. Holland’s very caught off-guard, you think, by the large bunch of carnations cradled in your arms, all wrapped up in cellophane and ribbon. Holland gawks as you approach the car, open the side-door, and plop yourself onto the seat behind him. “Is that a bouquet?”

You shut the door and adjust the carnations carefully above your lap. It’s difficult to navigate where to put them exactly; the petals are rising out of the plastic film in generous bunches of off-white and fuschia. The bouquet’s big; you don’t know where to put it. “It’s for Holly. Opening night’s always a big deal, and I’m sure that all the parents are gonna have these kinds of things, too.”

Holland’s looking down at your lap like you’re carrying some kind of contraband. “Did you buy it? When?” He’s acting absolutely clueless, as if he’s never even seen a flower before in his life.

“There’s a florist a few blocks down,” you explain to Holland, half-distracted. “Would you hold it for me?”

He ushers the bouquet towards him with his hands. “Of course, baby. Give it here.” As soon as Holland takes the bouquet off your hands, he’s glancing down at your hands. You’re pulling a 35mm Canon from your side, pulling the thin leather strap over your head and placing it gently for a moment on the dash. “And you brought a camera. Of course.” Once the camera’s secure enough, you’re taking the bouquet out of Holland’s hands and putting it gently in the backseat. You can feel Holland watching you—particularly, the backside of you—as you make an exerted effort to secure them with a seatbelt. His entertainment is cut short as you sit back down in the shotgun with him. He’s restless, hand coming down to adjust his pant leg.

“You really need to keep up, March. Momentous occasion calls for momentous effort. Once I get them developed, they can go up on your fridge or something.”

Holland revs his car up a little bit, before rolling the car slowly down the block. “You’re running laps around me. I’m being… bested,” he says, palm hitting the steering wheel softly. As stumped as he sounds, you can see right through the facade.

You lean over for a quick second to kiss Holland soft on the cheek. “That’s how you like me, right?” And, unfazed, you slide back to plug your seatbelt in. Though Holland’s making a grand show of checking both sides of the street before he turns, you can see the way his lips twitch up into a smile.

—

This middle-school performance of The Sound of Music, though prepubescent in nature, has its charm. During the intermission, you spend a resolute amount of time conversing with Holland about Holly’s lighting prowess. He can only listen and nod, seeing as he doesn’t understand anything about the technical. But he is happy to be there—has a little bit of a frame of reference with the Christmas show—and just knows that his daughter’s somewhere in this auditorium, behind the handlebars of a giant spotlight, buzzing with excitement.

After the bows, it’s very easy to find Holly. She’s all the way up in the lighting booth, first. Then, skipping down the stairs, she’s running her way down to the two of you. Dressed in all show-blacks, Holly’s light blonde hair pops. She sticks out like a sore thumb amidst all the other families, bouncing around, hand shot straight in the air to flag you. She’s practically hopping up and down at the sight of you and her dad, shoulder-to-shoulder. “You came!” Holly exclaims, hand reaching to squeeze yours.

“Of course I came. I said I would come, didn’t I?” you tell her. Then, you’re tugging soft on Holland’s sleeve. “Flowers, baby.” Holland pulls the bouquet out from behind his back with a soft “ta-da,” holding them right in front of Holly’s face. She takes them heartily, looking straight down into the carnelians with a giddy look on her face.

“That’s for being the best kid offstage tonight.” Holly won’t stop saying ‘thank you’ over and over, and so, you’ve got to wave your hand and nudge her towards Holland. “Go stand next to your dad with those. I wanna shoot a picture of the both of you.”

The sight before you in the viewfinder is lovely. Holland is standing just behind Holly with both his hands on his shoulders; she’s holding the bouquet up for you to get a clearer shot. There’s the same wide grin shared between the two of them, and you can feel your heart just swelling at the sight. As soon as the camera clicks, Holly’s peeling off of Holland in an instant. “I’m supposed to go help put the spotlights back in the storage, and I’ve got to say bye to Jess. Can I meet you outside?” she asks you, bright-blue eyes blinking rapidly.

Holland decides, maybe too eagerly, to respond on behalf of both of you. “We’ll go warm up the car. You take your time.” You cast him a sidelong glance—the tone alone telling you that he’s too excited to rush out of the auditorium.

Upon further inspection, Holland is jumpy. He’s checking for his keys in his trouser pockets, fixing his already-straight tie. It’s like watching an old German Shepherd wag its tail. His daughter can only narrow her eyes with a scrunch of her nose. “Gross,” Holly says. “Meet me in twenty minutes near the flagpole.” Holly’s always getting dropped off there in the mornings; it’s a solid landmark. The two of you watch as she skitters away from the both of you to go close up for the night. Holland is turning to face you, hand finding the small of your back with a feathery, brush of your spine. It’s going to be a very short walk to the car.

—

Holland insists on bringing the roof up on his convertible for the sake of privacy, though his windows are fish-bowled and you’re sure that anyone within a couple of yards can see you both. Still, he seems very urgent about ushering you into the shotgun and the both of you sitting there for a moment before swinging the car around to grab Holly. Once he’s able to toss the bouquet in the back, he’s taking your hand up; his mustache brushes against your knuckles as he kisses them. “You’re getting sappy on me.”

“I’m not used to bringing anyone to these things,” Holland tells you, “Besides Healy, maybe.” Not the time. He shakes his head and tries again, placing your hand back down onto your lap. “It’s pretty nice having you come and support Holly. You, uh… make great backup.”

You’re turning to face him. In the dimly-lit lot of the middle school, you can only barely see the antsy look on his face. Softly, you chuckle, “It isn’t a case, Holland.” He nods. You’re right, as per usual.

“Right.” He finally cracks. “I’m not used to this. And I love it, baby, I do. It’s more than I could possibly ask for.” Holland had only been burning through the occasional one-night stand before he met you. And before that, there’d only been his wife. You’re steady, and it’s not what he’s used to. It’s really all as new to you as it is to him. That last thing you want is to impose on the March’s home life—but the closer you get to Holland… It's starting to resemble a family.

“I just want to make sure that you know that you’re not running it alone. It takes a village, or whatever.” Warily, you confess to him, “And I wanna be good for you and Holly.”

“Oh, honey.” He’s giving that same old look that he always does, pupils blown, lips parted. He just can’t help it. “You’re perfect,” Holland assures you earnestly. There’s an irresistible urge for you to plant a tender kiss on his jaw. As soon as you do, he doesn’t let you get much further away from him. Holland tilts your chin up with his thumb, leaving a gentle peck on your lips. He’s always impatient when it comes to you, never able to keep it short and sweet. Quickly, Holland is bringing his hand up to your neck, calloused fingers pushing against your pulse point. He’s following the trace of his fingers with hard kisses, then capturing your lips again with a fluttery groan.

“Holland,” you whisper. You have to pull back from him, though you’d really kill to carry on. He’s muttering “already?” under his breath and you have to insist with a squeeze of his knee. “She’s going to be out any minute now.” Holland drops his head onto your shoulder, taking in a deep breath. Then, he grabs for your seatbelt, clicks it into the lock, and gives you one last smooch on the cheek.

“Okay. I’m gonna treat the kid and you out to a nice dinner tonight. Ice cream after. She can’t go without ,” Holland nods. He sits up straight, raising his arm over the back of your seat to pull out of his parking space. “And next weekend, we’re gonna go take a drive, you and me—find a hotel room and make good use of that film camera of yours.”

With a swift swat to the arm, you mutter, “You’re such a perv. Go pull up to the flagpole.”

Sebastian was busy and you understood that. Sometimes too well. That had become your role, somehow. To understand. To be patient. Even when it hurt a little more every time.

It was well past midnight when the apartment door finally opened. Sebastian spotted you immediately. Curled up on the couch in an oversized T-shirt and shorts, waiting. Like you almost always were. But it was your eyes that made him pause.

"Hey." He tossed his jacket over the back of a chair.

His sleeves were rolled up, his tie long gone. He looked exhausted, but there was still a trace of satisfaction lingering from the night.

Until he looked at you. When you didn't answer right away, he knew. He sighed heavily. "Don't." Your eyebrows drew together. "Don't start, okay? I've had a hell of a day."

Something inside you cracked. Not because you wanted to fight. You hadn't. You just wanted him to see you. For once.

"I wasn't going to start anything." Your voice sounded distant. Hollow.

"Good." He dropped his keys onto the counter. The sharp clatter echoed through the apartment. "Because I really don't have the energy tonight."

You watched him for a moment before speaking again. "And when will you?"

His jaw tightened. "What?"

"When will you have the energy?" You stood slowly. 

Sebastian suddenly became aware of how tired you looked. How small. How far away. The adrenaline from the club was still racing through his veins, while you stood there carrying the weight of countless lonely nights.

"Tomorrow?" you asked. He didn't answer. "Next week? Next month? When?" Your voice trembled. "Or maybe when your club finally matters more than everything else in your life?"

Sebastian's head snapped up. Immediately, you wished you could take it back. Not because it wasn't true. Because it was cruel. You weren't usually cruel, but tonight felt different. Tonight you felt cornered.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he asked.

"You know exactly what it means."

"No." His voice sharpened. "Explain it to me."

And there it was. The anger. Neither of you stopped it so you let it happen. You folded your arms across your chest.

"It means I'm tired of being the thing you squeeze in between everything else."

The words hung between you. For a brief second, Sebastian looked hurt. Then defensive.

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" You raised an eyebrow.

"No." His voice rose. "You knew who I was when we got together."

A short laugh escaped you. "Wow. That's your excuse?"

Sebastian ran a hand through his hair.  Frustrated. He hated fighting with you and tonight it felt like you'd walked into the apartment looking for a war. But if that was what you wanted…

"You think I don't do all of this for a reason?" he asked.

"There it is." You shook your head. A bitter smile pulling at your lips. "Everything always comes back to the club."

Because it did, and you both knew it. Silence stretched between you. Then Sebastian said the thing he shouldn't have. The thing he'd regret the second it left his mouth.

"If you don't understand why this matters to me by now..."

He didn't finish and he didn't need to. The damage was already there. He could see it in your eyes. You stared at him as if he'd slapped you. Because the sentence beneath the sentence was obvious.

If you don't understand me. If you don't support me. If you really loved me.

Sebastian saw it too late. The exact moment your expression changed. The exact moment something shut behind your eyes.

"That's not what I meant."

But you were already stepping away. Physically, emotionally. Both.

"No." Your voice became dangerously quiet. "Maybe it is."

"Come on, baby."

He stepped forward but you stepped back. Somehow that hurt more than the argument itself.

"You know what the problem is, Sebastian?"

His face hardened. "What?"

"You always ask me to wait." You laughed softly, without humor. "You ask me to wait until things calm down. Until the club succeeds. Until you're less busy." Your eyes filled with tears. "And somehow that day never comes."

The apartment fell silent. Neither of you moved and neither of you looked away. Your words echoed through the room long after you'd spoken them. Then Sebastian said something terrible. Not because it was cruel. Because it was honest.

"I don't know what you want from me."

The words landed like a punch. Because you realized he meant them. He genuinely didn't know anymore. Your eyes burned. Your throat tightened. Without realizing it, you dug your fingernails into your own arms.

"I want you to choose me sometimes." The whisper was barely audible. But Sebastian heard every word.

And for the first time that night he didn't have an answer. That was what frightened you. Not the anger and not the fight. The silence. The fact that the man who always had something to say suddenly had nothing at all, and somehow that felt an awful lot like the beginning of the end.

The moment the apartment door closed behind you, the argument was over. Not resolved, just over. Because there was nothing left to say.

Sebastian stood frozen in the living room and watched as you walked past him, grabbed your coat and your bag, and left exactly as you were.

"Wait."

You heard him behind you. The word followed you into the hallway, but you didn't stop. For the first time in a very long time, you didn't stop for him. By the time the elevator doors slid shut, your hands were shaking. Not from anger, not from fear. But from the horrible feeling that something inside you had finally broken.

Like someone had reached into your chest and torn away a piece of your heart. And somehow that hurt far more than screaming ever could.

𝄢 and sebastian, who usually has opinions about every musician he meets, just stares at you for a second too long before remembering how words work. that’s the replacement singer?

𝄢 “you know jazz?” he asks cautiously, still halfway expecting disappointment because he’s spent years dealing with people who say they understand jazz and then proceed to butcher it. you just smile softly. “i know good jazz.” that should annoy him but instead, it completely derails him.

𝄢 rehearsal is supposed to be quick. just one song, maybe two or three. just enough to survive the evening. but then you step up beside the piano and ask: “what do you want to hear?” sebastian studies you carefully before playing a few opening notes from “is it a crime?” almost experimentally. because how can you fuck that up? it’s a classic.

𝄢 most singers oversing it. push too hard and mistake restraint for lack of emotion. but you don’t. you sink into the song slowly like smoke filling a room. low velvet voice and perfect timing. no unnecessary dramatics. and sebastian— for the first time in his life, sebastian completely misses his next chord because he’s too busy staring at you.

𝄢 because suddenly the club sounds exactly like the version he’s carried around in his head for years. it’s intimate, it’s warm. late-night golden. it’s alive.

𝄢 when the song ends, there’s silence for a second. you glance over at him curiously. “well?” sebastian just blinks, then: “where the hell have you been?”

𝄢 the first performance is supposed to be forgettable. background music while people drink overpriced whiskey and pretend to understand coltrane. then you start singing and the entire room changes. not dramatically at first. quietly. all conversations slowing. glasses lowering. people turning in their seats without realising they’re doing it. because your voice doesn’t sound forced or theatrical. it slips through the room slow and warm and intimate, like smoke curling through dim light. smooth in that impossible sade kind of way. effortless. sensual without trying to be.

𝄢 sebastian’s standing by the bar when he realises he’s completely stopped moving. he’s just staring because suddenly the club sounds like the version he’s had in his head for years. not polished. not commercial. not obnoxiously drunk and loud. it’s full of soul.

𝄢 and the worst part is that you catch him watching halfway through the set. your eyes meet across the club while he’s frozen beside the piano and you smile slightly into the microphone.

𝄢 sebastian almost misses his cue entirely. after the performance the crowd applauds harder than they ever have before in that club. and sebastian, who normally acts deeply emotionally constipated about praise, immediately corners you backstage. “you free tomorrow night?” you raise an eyebrow. “for another emergency?”

“for employment.”

𝄢 from that point onwards, the club changes completely. because people become obsessed with the two of you. not just the music. you and sebastian. the chemistry is visible from the stage immediately and neither of you are subtle enough to hide it properly. sebastian watching you while he plays piano like he’s witnessing divine intervention.

𝄢 you leaning against the mic stand smiling at him knowingly during solos. the quiet little conversations between songs that feel far too intimate for an audience to be witnessing. people start coming back specifically to watch the dynamic unfold. entire tables placing bets on whether you’re secretly together.

𝄢 sebastian doesn’t call it “being attracted to you” at first, he calls it as “professional curiosity” which is his favourite lie to himself. he tells himself he’s just fascinated by how you bend timing, how you sit behind the beat like you’re refusing to be chased by it

𝄢 you notice him noticing you before he ever speaks properly. it’s not obvious attention, it’s worse: quiet attention. the kind that lingers too long on your phrasing after you’ve finished a line, like he’s trying to reverse-engineer you

𝄢 the first real shift happens when you start changing small things just to see if he reacts. a held note slightly longer. a lyric twisted into something more playful. he reacts every time, even if it’s just a micro-expression in his jaw. you start playing to him specifically without meaning to. not in a performative way, more like your instincts adapt. you lean into certain phrases because you know he’ll recognise them as a challenge

𝄢 there’s a night where you hold eye contact during a long instrumental break and neither of you looks away first. after that, everything changes slightly. not dramatically, just enough that it can’t be undone

𝄢 sebastian starts doing small, unnecessary acts of care that he immediately tries to rationalise: saving you a seat near his piano during your breaks without acknowledging it. adjusting the stage light so it doesn’t hit your eyes directly. rewriting the set order so your hardest song isn’t first

𝄢 he watches you more than he means to. not in a staring way at first, more like his attention just keeps drifting there. when he catches himself, he looks away too quickly and pretends he was listening to the band. you start catching him at it. sometimes you pause mid-sentence just to see if he’s paying attention. he always is. he just looks like he isn’t.

𝄢 he starts walking you out without announcing it, like it’s obvious. he takes your coat off the back of a chair without asking and holds it out. when you look at him, he says: “you’re slow when you’re cold.” and refuses to elaborate. you begin timing your exits so you meet him in the same corridor after shows. neither of you admit this is planned.

𝄢 sebastian starts getting protective in very quiet, socially unacceptable ways. if someone interrupts your set, they mysteriously don’t get booked again. if someone talks over you, the sound balance “accidentally” shifts so they can’t hear themselves properly. if someone flirts with you after a show, sebastian suddenly appears beside you with a question about “logistics”

𝄢 he never acknowledges jealousy. he reframes it as professionalism. “they’re distracting the room.” “they’re not respecting the music.” “they don’t understand timing.” you call him out once: “you don’t like people talking to me.” and he replies, without looking at you: “i don’t like people wasting your time.” that lands harder than he intends. he goes quiet for the rest of the night.

𝄢 he begins adjusting the club’s rhythm around you. not in big changes. just tiny edits that make your presence feel inevitable rather than scheduled. you start leaning into him emotionally in small ways without naming it: “was that set alright?” “you’d tell me if it wasn’t, wouldn’t you?” and he always answers honestly, which surprises both of you.

𝄢 sebastian becomes slightly worse at pretending he doesn’t care. people notice before he does. someone says: “you’ve got favourites now.” and he replies: “i’ve got standards.”

𝄢 you start noticing he only fully relaxes when you’re still in the building after your set. not speaking, just present. one night, you ask: “do you ever go home?”and he says: “eventually, but not when you’re still here.” he immediately regrets it. you don’t let him retract it. you just nod like it makes perfect sense.

𝄢 sebastian is falling in love and he feels like control he regained after mia is slowly failing in very precise ways. he starts waiting for you to arrive because it’s the best part of his day. he begins smiling slightly when he hears your voice before he sees you. and your falling in love looks like familiarity turning into dependency. you look for him first in any room. you sing differently when you know he’s listening. you start staying longer just to see what he’ll say when the crowd leaves

𝄢 neither of you define it, because if you do, it stops being something you can hide behind work. and right now, the work is the excuse that lets him stand close enough to you without falling apart.

𝄢 bar goers openly complaining about the way sebastian looks at you. band members hanging around after hours just to witness whatever strange romantic tension keeps happening onstage.

𝄢 because sebastian wilder, chronic snob and professional emotional avoider, becomes ridiculously obvious about you. he’s impossible. introducing you every night with increasingly lovestruck descriptions disguised as professionalism. “and now, the reason any of you people actually showed up tonight…” or: “if you talk during her solos i’ll have you removed physically.”

𝄢 meanwhile you stand beside the piano trying not to laugh while the audience loses their minds over him. he starts dressing even better than he already does too. not intentionally at first. but suddenly his nice button ups are nicer. his shoes extra polished. his hair actually brushed perfectly instead of loosely.

𝄢 because you complimented one outfit once and sebastian has apparently decided to build his entire self-esteem around that interaction forever.

𝄢 the rehearsals become unbearably intimate. all dim lighting and old records and lingering eye contact. sometimes you stay after closing while sebastian plays piano softly just for you, tie loosened, whiskey abandoned somewhere nearby while the city glows outside the windows. and he talks more around you. that’s what surprises everybody most. because sebastian usually keeps people at arm’s length emotionally. he hides behind jazz trivia and pretentiousness and sarcasm. but around you? he softens completely.

𝄢 suddenly he’s telling stories about childhood records he used to play. talking about music like it still hurts him a little. looking at you after songs with this open vulnerable expression like he forgot how to hide for a second. and you always notice.

𝄢 one night during rehearsal you quietly tell him; “you only tap your fingers like that when you’re nervous.” sebastian looks genuinely alarmed. “you can tell?” you smile, “i can tell everything with you.” he spends the next hour completely unable to make eye contact.

𝄢 the audience notices that shift too, because your chemistry evolves from flirtation into something softer and infinitely more dangerous. suddenly there are moments onstage where you look at each other too long after songs end. little smiles meant only for each other. sebastian adjusting the microphone for you with absurd tenderness before performances start. and the crowd eats it alive every single night.

𝄢 articles start appearing about the club. “the jazz revival hidden in downtown la” “the impossible chemistry keeping audiences returning weekly” sebastian pretends to hate the attention. meanwhile he keeps every article folded carefully beneath the counter in his office.

𝄢 after shows the two of you always end up sitting together in the empty club long after everyone leaves. exhausted. half-drunk on whiskey and adrenaline. music still humming softly through the speakers. sometimes you sit on top of the piano while sebastian talks nonsense beside you at three in the morning. sometimes he plays quietly while you sing only for him. those are his favourite moments. no audience, no applause. just you in the dim golden light sounding like true love and velvet.

𝄢 sebastian falls first obviously, catastrophically too. because you understand music the way he does. you make jazz sound intimate again, human again.

𝄢 and sebastian looks at you like you saved something inside him he thought had died years ago. one night after a packed show, you find him alone at the piano after closing, absentmindedly replaying one of your songs. he doesn’t notice you immediately but he feels you there. he’s smiling to himself softly while playing. completely gone. “you know people think we’re sleeping together,” you tease lightly from the doorway.

𝄢 sebastian glances up. and the look on his face is so fond it almost catches you off guard. “yeah?” he says quietly. “they’d probably lose their minds if they knew i’m actually worse than that.” you lean against the piano curiously. “worse how?”

Sebastian was busy and you understood that. Sometimes too well. That had become your role, somehow. To understand. To be patient. Even when it hurt a little more every time.

It was well past midnight when the apartment door finally opened. Sebastian spotted you immediately. Curled up on the couch in an oversized T-shirt and shorts, waiting. Like you almost always were. But it was your eyes that made him pause.

"Hey." He tossed his jacket over the back of a chair.

His sleeves were rolled up, his tie long gone. He looked exhausted, but there was still a trace of satisfaction lingering from the night.

Until he looked at you. When you didn't answer right away, he knew. He sighed heavily. "Don't." Your eyebrows drew together. "Don't start, okay? I've had a hell of a day."

Something inside you cracked. Not because you wanted to fight. You hadn't. You just wanted him to see you. For once.

"I wasn't going to start anything." Your voice sounded distant. Hollow.

"Good." He dropped his keys onto the counter. The sharp clatter echoed through the apartment. "Because I really don't have the energy tonight."

You watched him for a moment before speaking again. "And when will you?"

His jaw tightened. "What?"

"When will you have the energy?" You stood slowly. 

Sebastian suddenly became aware of how tired you looked. How small. How far away. The adrenaline from the club was still racing through his veins, while you stood there carrying the weight of countless lonely nights.

"Tomorrow?" you asked. He didn't answer. "Next week? Next month? When?" Your voice trembled. "Or maybe when your club finally matters more than everything else in your life?"

Sebastian's head snapped up. Immediately, you wished you could take it back. Not because it wasn't true. Because it was cruel. You weren't usually cruel, but tonight felt different. Tonight you felt cornered.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he asked.

"You know exactly what it means."

"No." His voice sharpened. "Explain it to me."

And there it was. The anger. Neither of you stopped it so you let it happen. You folded your arms across your chest.

"It means I'm tired of being the thing you squeeze in between everything else."

The words hung between you. For a brief second, Sebastian looked hurt. Then defensive.

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" You raised an eyebrow.

"No." His voice rose. "You knew who I was when we got together."

A short laugh escaped you. "Wow. That's your excuse?"

Sebastian ran a hand through his hair.  Frustrated. He hated fighting with you and tonight it felt like you'd walked into the apartment looking for a war. But if that was what you wanted…

"You think I don't do all of this for a reason?" he asked.

"There it is." You shook your head. A bitter smile pulling at your lips. "Everything always comes back to the club."

Because it did, and you both knew it. Silence stretched between you. Then Sebastian said the thing he shouldn't have. The thing he'd regret the second it left his mouth.

"If you don't understand why this matters to me by now..."

He didn't finish and he didn't need to. The damage was already there. He could see it in your eyes. You stared at him as if he'd slapped you. Because the sentence beneath the sentence was obvious.

If you don't understand me. If you don't support me. If you really loved me.

Sebastian saw it too late. The exact moment your expression changed. The exact moment something shut behind your eyes.

"That's not what I meant."

But you were already stepping away. Physically, emotionally. Both.

"No." Your voice became dangerously quiet. "Maybe it is."

"Come on, baby."

He stepped forward but you stepped back. Somehow that hurt more than the argument itself.

"You know what the problem is, Sebastian?"

His face hardened. "What?"

"You always ask me to wait." You laughed softly, without humor. "You ask me to wait until things calm down. Until the club succeeds. Until you're less busy." Your eyes filled with tears. "And somehow that day never comes."

The apartment fell silent. Neither of you moved and neither of you looked away. Your words echoed through the room long after you'd spoken them. Then Sebastian said something terrible. Not because it was cruel. Because it was honest.

"I don't know what you want from me."

The words landed like a punch. Because you realized he meant them. He genuinely didn't know anymore. Your eyes burned. Your throat tightened. Without realizing it, you dug your fingernails into your own arms.

"I want you to choose me sometimes." The whisper was barely audible. But Sebastian heard every word.

And for the first time that night he didn't have an answer. That was what frightened you. Not the anger and not the fight. The silence. The fact that the man who always had something to say suddenly had nothing at all, and somehow that felt an awful lot like the beginning of the end.

The moment the apartment door closed behind you, the argument was over. Not resolved, just over. Because there was nothing left to say.

Sebastian stood frozen in the living room and watched as you walked past him, grabbed your coat and your bag, and left exactly as you were.

"Wait."

You heard him behind you. The word followed you into the hallway, but you didn't stop. For the first time in a very long time, you didn't stop for him. By the time the elevator doors slid shut, your hands were shaking. Not from anger, not from fear. But from the horrible feeling that something inside you had finally broken.

Like someone had reached into your chest and torn away a piece of your heart. And somehow that hurt far more than screaming ever could.