ken

you groaned. “i got a terrible grade on my exam, which basically means i need a perfect score on the next one if i don't want to fail the whole course. and you know what's even worse? she tells us our grades one week before the final exam.”

your forehead found its familiar place against his chest.

“it's not fair.”

ryland wrapped his arms around you automatically.

“okay,” he said. “we can make you a study program.” his fingers combed gently through your hair.

you froze. slowly, you lifted a hand and pushed against his chest until you could look at him.

“a study program?” you repeated.

ryland blinked.

“yeah?”

“ryland, what?”

“if you struggled on the last exam, we can prepare you better for—”

“‘we’?” you interrupted. “ryland, don't use your teacher voice with me.”

his expression immediately tightened.

“what?”

“you know exactly what i mean.”

you bent down to grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder as you headed towards the bedroom.

“a study schedule? seriously? i'm not twelve, ryland.”

“that's not what i meant.”

“you always do this.” you dumped your things beside the bed and started straightening the blanket just to give your hands something to do. “i swear, you always do this.”

“do what?”

"talk to me like i'm a kid."

ryland rubbed the back of his neck.

"i don't do it on purpose. you know my job. i spend most of my day with kids."

you laughed, short and humorless.

"and i spend most of my day with diplomats and international policy analysts. funny how i don't come home and talk to you like you're a fucking ambassador."

"that's not the same."

"why not?"

"because teaching is a profession—"

"oh, wow,” you stared at him. “oh, wow!”

the realization seemed to hit him half a second too late.

"no, that's not what i—"

"and mine is what?" you snapped. "watching the news and talking about how it makes me feel?"

his mouth opened, then closed.

"you're really on a streak today, honey."

ryland exhaled sharply, “i didn't mean that your degree isn't important."

“but that's what you said.”

“that's not what i meant.”

“but that's exactly what you said.”

"you're twisting my words."

you laughed again, bitterly. “am i?”

ryland crossed his arms. “you know what? you're the one that told me before that you weren't even sure your major was going to get you a job,” he mumbled under his breath, bitterly.

the second the words left his mouth, his eyes widened. you felt something in your chest crack, you'd told him that on one of your worst nights. curled up beside him at two in the morning.

terrified about your future, terrified that everyone around you seemed smarter and more prepared than you. you'd trusted him with that fear.

and now he was throwing it back at you.

“alright,” you said, dryly.

ryland's face immediately fell.

“no, no. that's not—”

“go fuck yourself, ryland.”

“i didn't mean it like that.”

“no, really.” you shook your head. “go fuck yourself.”

you walked past him.

“sweetheart—”

“don't even.”

he stopped. you reached the bedroom door, hand hovering over the knock.

“seriously,” you said, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. “just leave me alone.”

the door slammed behind you. you let out the longest sigh you could manage before collapsing onto the bed. and outside the bedroom door, you could hear ryland pacing.

——

twelve hours later, you were still angry.

the two of you spent most of saturday moving around each other like strangers sharing the same apartment. every interaction was reduced to the minimum.

he drank his coffee standing by the counter instead of sitting beside you, and by dinner, the silence had become exhausting.

you picked at your food while ryland washed dishes afterward. the only sounds in the apartment were the running water and the occasional clink of ceramic plates.

you hated how empty the apartment felt. dropping heavily onto the couch, you grabbed the controller and turned on the tv. anything to stop thinking about the fight.

behind you, ryland continued washing dishes.

a few minutes passed, the sound of running water stopped. he lingered in the kitchen.

you could practically hear him thinking. the floor creaked beneath his steps. suddenly, there was a familiar weight sinking into the opposite end of the couch. you didn't even glance at him.

ryland sat there quietly, pretending to watch whatever random show was playing. testing the waters. you refused to acknowledge his existence.

then you heard him sigh, loudly. your eye twitched.

another dramatic sigh.

without a word, you stood up. the movement immediately caught his attention. you grabbed the remote, clicking the television off and heading towards the bedroom.

behind you, ryland groaned. “oh, come on.”

the bedroom door wasn't even halfway closed before he appeared behind you. you could feel his eyes on you. the guilt was practically radiating off him.

he cleared his throat, you started scrolling through your phone, videos at full volume.

he sighed again. “are we really doing this?”

“doing what?” you asked, finally looking up.

“the silent treatment.”

you stared at him, mouth shut. ryland stared back.

“you know,” he said carefully, “for someone studying diplomacy, you're surprisingly bad at conflict resolution.”

the glare you sent him could have vaporized steel. ryland immediately raised his hands in peace.

“okay. see? that was a joke. that was a joke.”

you grabbed a pillow and pointed it at him. “i’m going to count to three,” you warned. “one. two—”

“okay! i'm sorry! i'm really sorry!”

the pillow still flew across the room, hitting him square in the face. his glasses tumbled off and landed on the carpet.

ryland gasped. “you— you knocked my glasses off!”

“you don't even wear them properly!”

he pointed at himself, still in disbelief. “you just threw a pillow at me.”

“and you deserved it.”

ryland stood up. “you are impossible.”

you scoffed. “then don't date someone younger!”

the words slipped out before you could stop them. ryland's expression tightened. you hated how quickly the hurt flashed across his face.

your fingers curled into fists.

“apologize.”

“i just did.”

“no.” you shook your head. “that was a pity apology.” you sat back against the headboard. “i want a real apology.”

“i’m sorry, sweetheart—”

you immediately held up a hand. “nope.”

his mouth fell open. “what do you mean, ‘nope’?”

“start over.”

“what?”

“i didn't like it.” you pointed at him. “start over.”

“i can't believe you.”

“you can't believe me?” you shot back. “you spent twelve hours hovering around me like a weirdo instead of apologizing like a normal person.”

“you are the pettiest person i have ever met.”

you looked towards the mirror hanging on the wall. “look in there before making accusations,” then you pointed at the bedroom door. “now get out, or apologize”

ryland didn't move.

“seriously?”

“seriously.”

he folded his arms; you folded yours harder.

“what do you want me to do, huh?” he gestured wildly. “beg? get down on my knees? ‘cause at this point, i'll do it.”

you blinked, and the annoyance in your expression slowly disappeared. a small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

“actually, yes.” you said, smugly. pointing towards the floor. “kneel.”

“you can't be serious.”

“you didn't understand me the first time? i said kneel. k-n-e—”

“okay, okay, i got it,” he interrupted. “i can't believe this is my life.”

“still not kneeling.”

with another groan, ryland slowly lowered himself onto his knees. “there. happy?”

“no.”

he stared at you. “no?”

“no.” you crossed your arms. “apologize properly.”

“i’m sorry for talking down to you.”

you didn't correct him this time, so he continued.

“i know that's what i did, even if i didn't mean to.” his voice had lost its usual defensiveness. “i heard you were stressed, and instead of listening, i immediately tried to solve the problem.”

you shifted slightly, closer to him.

“i do that a lot.”

“yeah,” you muttered.

“yeah.” he nodded. “i know your degree matters to you. i know you've worked hard for it.” his expression tightened. “and bringing up what you told me about being worried about your future was a terrible thing to say.”

the fight suddenly didn't feel quite as funny anymore.

“i shouldn't have thrown that back at you.”

you looked down at your hands. “i told you that because i trusted you.”

“i know, i'm sorry,” he muttered, impossibly soft. he looked genuinely miserable while saying it. “i was frustrated, and i said something cruel. you didn't deserve that.”

the silence stretched between you.

“you're still a bad boyfriend.”

ryland let out a laugh. “that's fair.”

“and annoying.”

“also fair.”

“and kind of an idiot.”

“definitely fair.”

you felt a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. ryland immediately spotted it, eyes lit up.

“don't look so proud of yourself.” you squinted your eyes at him again.

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

“i’m just relieved you're smiling again.” ryland looked down at himself, still kneeling. “can i get up now?”

“hmm. you haven't really made it up for me yet,” you said, tilting your head with a teasing smile.

he exhaled sharply through his nose as he slid both hands under your thighs. in one swift motion, he yanked you forward and off the edge of the bed.

The lights have begun to hurt your eyes—the ones that are a little watery from trying super hard not to cry. Your friends probably have a valid reason for leaving you here. That's what you try to tell yourself. But you’re a little panicked because you’re too far from your apartment to walk there, especially with sore feet, and you don’t have money for an uber. The situation would feel less world ending if you weren’t so drunk, at one in the morning, standing outside in the cold.

When you press the call button next to his contact, it happens purely on instinct. You always go to Professor Grace when you’ve had problems. It started out as simply wanting some extra help on the school work before it slid into something a little more friendly. You began coming to him with other things like gossip he pretended not to be invested in and the details of your day-to-day life. When you showed up to his office, stressed out of your mind, it led to his desk being cleared off so he could fuck you on it, mumbling something about how sex is an efficient form of stress relief.

The sex became something of a routine that neither of you wanted to put an end to. You both liked it—loved it, even. It started to feel natural despite how it very much wasn’t. A grad student fucking their professor. You’re sure he would lose his job if anyone ever connected the dots.

That thought lingers in your head for a few seconds too long before the quiet sound of your call being answered followed by an exhausted hello pulls you from.

Suddenly your eyes are watering again. First you put his career in danger and now you’re waking him up at this hour on a Saturday.

“M’sorry Ryland,” the words tumble out far slurred than you intend them to. You can feel the embarrassment flooding through your system when you hear it. God you’re so stupid. Stupid stupid stupid.

You can hear the sound of rustling from his side of the phone, and his voice sounds a little clearer. More attentive than earlier. “What’s wrong?” He says it in this concerned voice that finally brings on the waterworks.

“My friends are gone. They left and m’not sure if they’re coming—comin back f’me. And this club is suuuper loud an’ there’s this, uhm, this guy who looks freakishly like that guy from that movie we watched.” You’re blabbering through the tears, words occasionally interrupted by a sniffle or broken off so you can repeat yourself. “The one with the rings. He looks like that actor. Elijah . . . Elijah something. He looked like him but way scarier and I really don’t wanna go back inside, too bright. But—but I'm not sure how m’supposed to get home and I forgot to water my plants and—“

“Calm down, angel, it’s okay.” There’s more shuffling on his end as you nod your head despite how he can’t see it.. You sniffle again, slightly swaying where you stand outside the club entrance that’s lit up by neon blue and purple. “Where are you?”

His question leaves you stumped for a second. What club is this again? There’s so many in the city and you vaguely remember being at a different one before this. Your friends were probably scampering off to another one when they ditched you here. You’d gone to get another drink and got a little too distracted talking to the bartender. You recognized her from one of your classes. By the time you went back to where your friends were, they had completely vanished.

“Hello? You still there?” Ryland had this little spike in his voice that you barely manage to catch.

“Mhm. Yep. Lemme—lemme check. I don’t remember.” You mumble the last part as you twist around to look for some kind of sign. It takes a second but you eventually see one and read it out loud, trying a little too hard to keep your words perfectly pronounced.

There’s a quiet jingle that comes through the phone speaker followed by what you assume is his front door shutting. “Okay, I’m on my way. Why don’t you stay on the phone with me until I get there.”

You mumble something in response as you move back towards the building, overwhelmed by this sudden need to sit down. When you meet the wall with a little less grace than you wanted, you slide down it until your butt meets the cold concrete.

You’re not sure how long you’re sitting there for. The entire time Ryland kept trying to pull you into a conversation—talk to me goose—which you met with short slurred sentences. You’re resting your head against your knees when you hear the beep of the call hanging up.

You almost start crying again until you hear the quiet call of your name. You blink blearily as you look up from your phone, seeing Rylands familiar figure getting closer and closer until he’s crouching right in front of you. “Hi, sweetheart.”

“You hung up.” Your voice comes out a little strained. You’re trying really hard not to start crying again.

“I know, I’m sorry.” His hands are pulling you up from the ground. When he has you on both feet, he makes sure to keep one arm wrapped around your waist as you lean into him. “I had just pulled up when I hung up.”

“You didn’t say goodbye.” You’re actually crying now, chest shaking with little sobs. No one ever wants to say goodbye to you tonight. Not your friends, not the bartender when she had to go help another customer, and now not even Ryland.

He coos at you, his other hand reaching up to wipe the tears from your cheeks. “No, don’t cry! I’m so sorry, please don’t cry.” He shuffles a little, moving your body with one arm so you’re standing directly in front of him, allowing him to try and make eye contact with you. Your eyes barely meet his—bloodshot and glistening. You must look like a mess if the tender look he gives you says anything. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I was just worried and I hung up when I saw you sitting all lonely and sad on the ground. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

His words calm the quiet storm that has been brewing in your eyes. “Promise?”

“Of course, sweetheart. I pinky promise.” Ryland pulls his hand from your face so he can hold his pinky out for you. You link yours to his without hesitation. “Now get in the car so I can take you home. It’s cold out here and you can barely stand.”

Always a gentleman, Ryland opens the car door for you—the same car he picked you up in last week to take you to an entirely too fancy dinner. Turns out he hadn’t rented it, he’s always had a car, he just lived so close to campus that biking back and forth was cheaper. He also just really enjoyed the exercise. His hand presses to your back as he helps you into the seat, taking extra time to buckle you in.

You take that moment to take him in. His hair is roused in a way you’ve only ever seen after sex, his glasses have slid down the attractive slope of his nose, and he’s wearing one of those stupid science t-shirts you’ve become begrudgingly fond of paired with grey sweats. Even in this casual state Ryland looks unbelievably attractive. It’s unfair.

The drive to your apartment is quiet, albeit the soft hum of his radio. You can tell it’s System Of A Down but you’re having a hard time putting a finger on which song it is. Each time you try to focus on the lyrics you get distracted by the occasional swirl of nausea in your stomach.

“Hey, we’re here.” He offers a gentle smile before climbing out of the car and coming round to your side. He’s speaking sweetly when he helps you out of your seat and up the stairs to your door. “C’mere, Angel. Let’s get you inside. That’s it, you’re almost up the stairs. Where are your keys, let me get the door.”

You shake your head a little too quickly. The previous nausea gets stronger. “No, s’okay. The lock doesn’t work, you can just open it.”

“The lock doesn’t work?” You wince at the sudden raise in his voice and lift your hand to cover his mouth.

“Shhhhh, you’re too loud.” You whine, not bothering to fight him when he pulls your hand away. “I had to pretend it worked whenever you dropped me off because I was worried you’d think I'm a broke loser. S’really not that bad! I have a lock on the, uh, the inside that works. One of those chain slidey ones.”

You don’t get a verbal response from him, just a strong squeeze from the arm he has wrapped around your middle as he ushers you inside the door.

You’re extremely grateful that you decided to clean before you left. The only thing out of place is the glass on your counter from before you left and your school supplies sprawled across it—open notebooks, a textbook, your closed laptop, and the pouches you keep your pens and highlighters in.

“I think I’m gonna throw up.” Ryland is quick to figure out where your bathroom is, his hands never leaving you even when you drop to your knees as you empty the contents of your stomach. Your throat burns by the time you're done. You don’t have a moment to process before a wet rag is being gently dragged over your lips.

“There you go, sweetheart. All better. Now let’s get you to bed.”

He’s carefully pulling you up from the floor so he can take you to your room. “I wanna brush my teeth.”

“You can’t, it’s not good after you just threw up. It’ll damage your teeth. You can brush them in the morning, I promise. I’ll get you some water instead.”

Ryland barely navigates his way to your bedroom in the barely lit hall while also trying to keep you steady. You would feel guiltier if you weren’t so drunk and relishing in the warmth of his body pressed to yours. Professor Ryland Grace, despite what others might think, is incredibly sturdy. You can feel his biceps and the muscle beneath his shirt. His figure is only visible if he wears the right clothes, and the typical suits he wears in the lecture halls and lab rooms do a decent job at covering it up.

When he pushes open your bedroom door, you’re reminded of the fact you forgot to unplug your fairy lights. Another thing you’re grateful for. If Ryland had to turn in the big light, you’re pretty sure you’ve thrown up again. You hate that light.

“Let’s sit you down. Is it okay if I find you something more comfortable to wear?” When you nod your head, almost moaning at the softness of your mattress when you clumsily stumble into sitting on it, he tutts at you. “Words, I need you to use your words.”

“Yes, s’okay. I don’t mind. My pajamas are in the bottom drawer. I think. I dunno.”

Your body falls back into the mattress the second he steps away from you, arms stretched out as you sigh in content. You almost fall asleep like that before you feel Ryland pulling the shoes off your feet. “Sit up for me.”

Annoyance hits quick and disappears quicker. You don’t have a chance to whine before your clothes are being pulled off your body. The feeling of his hands against your bare skin makes you melt into him. You’re almost leaning forward to rest your head against his shoulders before he stops you, guiding your head through the hole of your hoodie and then repeating it with your arms in the sleeves. It doesn’t take him long to help shimmy some shorts up over your hips. “That’s better, yeah?”

“You lied.” You watch his brows furrow as he thinks.

“About what?”

“You said you’d get me water. First you didn’t say goodbye and—and now you’re lying to me.”

If you weren’t drunk you would notice the way he’s trying and failing to hide the humor on his face. “I’m just so awful, aren’t I. Why don’t you get under the covers while I go get you a glass of water. Can you do that for me?”

You hum a yes as you shuffle up towards your pillows. You listen to him quietly move out of the room, the distant sound of your cupboards being open and closed as he searches for where your cups are. You manage to pull the blankets up just enough to slide your legs under them when he returns, glass half full of water as promised. You murmur a thank you before you greedily take it from his hands.

“Slow down, don’t drink it so fast.” His hand steadies the glass when you tip it towards your lips. When it’s empty he takes it from you completely. “Lie down. Is it okay if I stay for a little while to keep an eye on you? I don’t want you throwing up in your sleep.”

When you nod you’re reminded of just how sweet he’s being towards you. This man came to a club at one in the morning to pick you up and drive you home. He walked you into your apartment and remained even when you threw up. He helped you change out of your clothes and is now tucking you into bed. You’re crying again.

“What’s with all the crying? You’re okay, everything’s fine.” He coos, reaching out to wipe away your tears for the second time tonight. His expression shifts when your breathing hitches from a soft sob. “Talk to me goose. Why’re you crying?”

You would typically laugh at his stupid, old man sayings. He’s not even that old. But you’re just so consumed by this festering guilt and bubbling appreciation. “You’re too nice to me. You need to be less nice.”

His expression shifts into something tender when he smiles at you, his thumb brushing away more of your tears. “But I like being nice to you.”

“You’re stupid.”

He laughs at that—warm and a little too endearing. “I don’t disagree with you. We can talk more about that in the morning. I’m gonna unplug your lights so you can sleep, okay? I’ll stay on your couch if you need me.”

When he stands you don’t hesitate to reach out and grab his hand. The alcohol combined with the sleepiness you’re starting to feel leaves you a little unfiltered. “Stay with me. Pretty please?”

Henry Letham had always been good at disappearing, and school was no exception. In the back row of his Artists of the European 20th Century class— a compulsory course that he did not especially enjoy, given it meant less time devoted to actually making art— Henry was just another art major with charcoal-smudged fingers.

No one paid anyone else much attention, too involved with their own lives. This is where Henry stood out from the crowd, because he paid you more attention than he had ever paid to anything. From what Henry knew (and he had done his due diligence by stealing a copy of your transcript from the receptionist's computer when she headed off for coffee), you were only in the class as an elective, majoring in something else but still hoping to appear well-rounded on your transcript. Twice a week, every week, you sat a few rows ahead of him, usually sporting the same coat (that was more often than not rain-soaked) and always unaware that the boy behind you had memorised your silhouette; in fact, Henry had found your hair's corresponding Pantone colour, and bought a tube of oil paint in that exact shade.

It started innocently enough— a schoolboy crush, Henry had told himself. Not only were you great motivation to actually go to this particular class, but you were also a great model. And so, he told himself that it was ok to sketch you during lectures: it beat listening to the Professor droning on and on, anyhow. But by second semester, Henry was infatuated. He fixated on the way you chewed your pen, the way you cringed a little at the lecturer's lame jokes. You became an addiction rivalling his smoking habit.

There was no seating plan in the lecture hall, so Henry made a bad habit of smoking outside until he saw you go in, then finding a seat three rows behind wherever you had sat. Once he felt braver, he'd find a seat two rows behind you, then one— but never directly behind you: that was his golden rule. He'd sit slightly to your left or slightly to your right so that, should you swivel your head round, he'd be unnoticeable. You'd never see his sketchbook, full of drawings of you from different angles, one for each lecture he'd ever been to. He thought of them as a sort of personal calendar; he had pages and pages of you hidden under his bed, in his closet, inside books. Your name was written on the margins so many times the ink had started to bleed through the paper.

A few weeks and thirty-odd sketches later, Henry grew sick of seeing you under the same harsh, fluorescent lights every day (he felt it was a disservice to your looks), and so took to following you home after class— to see how you looked in a new environment, he reasoned; to see that you got home safely in this mean, mean city. It was the least he could do for you. Henry knew your schedule better than his own, by this point: he knew how you took your coffee; he knew where you liked sitting in the library; he knew which bus you took home. Your routine, your habits, offered Henry a consistency that he had lacked immensely in his previous years: you were the rock in his life, and, God, was he grateful for you. He idolised you for this act of service, whispering praises under his lips when he masturbated over the sketches about how humble you were for not even knowing that you'd saved him. You were his hero, and you didn't have a clue. Henry knew that it was easy to say that you would die for someone— that was his inclination, after all— but Henry was willing to go beyond that: to live for you; to see that you never came into harm's way; to ensure that you were immortalised in his sketchbook. You were his legacy.

You, on the other hand, noticed something off when was a single red rose was left on your doorstep with no note; you assumed it was for a neighbour. Then, your favourite pencil went missing, only to reappear two days later with a new set of expensive leads inside it. Little things; things you brushed off as coincidences.

Little did you know, these were signs that Henry was getting bolder. He revelled in your confused expression after you found the improved pencil: he'd pinched the pen from your bag, strung over the back of your seat during a lecture, and gone to the art supply store after class (and after 'dropping' you home) to pick up some better leads. This wasn't enough, though: he was indebted to you. So, he started leaving drawings of you at the doorstep of your student accommodation, willing the wind to blow them away as a sign that you weren't meant to receive them. But you did: beautiful, haunting sketches of you, so detailed they felt invasive. In one, you were sleeping; in another, you were crying. You didn't know what to make of it. You didn't feel like they were malicious, meant to scare you, but your stomach twisted every time a new one turned up— with excitement or fear, you weren't sure.

Until, finally you caught him. One evening, you’d gone downstairs to take the bin out, sighing when you remembered that it was raining and you were wearing slippers. As you resigned yourself to your fate, pulling the front door open with one hand and gripping the binbag in the other, you froze at the sight before you: Henry was crouched at your doorstep, gently tracing his index finger over the edge of a piece of sketchbook paper. You caught a glimpse of the drawing: it was you. The binbag fell from your hand, and his head shot up at the unexpected interruption.