h★nted house

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Within the past 10 minutes, Ryland Grace has walked by your desk four times. You counted. He goes to the bathroom the first time—you heard the bathroom door slam close a minute after he passed. The second time, he goes to the break room and returned with a mug in his hand. The third time, he asked you for something to write with. The fourth time, he slipped a folded piece of paper on your desk.

What did you pack for lunch? — Ryland :)

He’s scribbled a wonky smiley face with glasses right next to his name, as if it wasn’t obvious enough who had written the note. His handwriting is, surprisingly, not bad and, miraculously, readable.

You turn from the desktop monitor in front of you, cluttered with tabs of 3D models and paint swatches, to find another pen to write with. You’ve been dutifully hacking away at a steady stream of work as you settle into the second month of your summer internship. Unlike Ryland, it seems.

Being a fine arts undergrad, it’s natural that you’d be drawn to work at a museum. Specifically, it’s your university’s on-campus museum—a modernist building comprised of distinct, geometric shapes stacked and squished together like a panicked game of Tetris. The exterior is quite fitting anyhow, because the museum showcases a hodgepodge of subjects; it’s a lovechild of art, science, and history.

Pasta. Aren’t you supposed to be working

Right as you finish writing and refold the note, Ryland returns and scoops up the note inconspicuously. You train your attention back to the exhibition project you’re trying to choose colors for—How many different shades of blue could there possibly be? Your vision is swimming with computerized shades of navy, but your head is clouded with a certain fellow intern. He’d be yellow if he was a color—a perfect contrast of blue.

On cue, he delivers you another note while making another lap. I have no idea where Jake is and he is NOT answering any of my emails or texts. — Ryland :(

Ah, Jake, Ryland’s arch nemesis who also happens to be the person who hired him. Jake is the head of the science cutorial team, from which Ryland does research and writing with. Even though he's on a completely different team as you, you both are on the same project. It’s fortunate, because you're finding him a fun guy to work with, but also unfortunate, because he can be…distracting.

Ryland’s back again before you got the chance to write a response. As he slips the piece of paper into his pocket, a “HEY!” stunts his movement. You both turn around.

“Why aren't you ask your desk?” Speaking of the devil (literally), it’s Jake.

“Well— I— I don't have anything assigned to do right now,” Ryland stutters meekly.

“Get back to work and stop messing around.”

“I’m not—” Ryland cuts himself off, he knows there’s no point in arguing with someone like Jake—Jake who would leave crumbs all over the break room table and never admit it's him. So, Ryland drags his feet back to his desk like a beaten puppy. He manages one last glance back over his shoulder to look at you. You smile apologetically.

When next Tuesday rolls around, you head to the monthly exhibition and curatorial cross departmental meeting. These meetings are designed to keep everyone up-to-date with all happenings about upcoming exhibitions and to allow people to ask questions. They, regrettably, are not designed to keep anyone awake at 9:30 in the morning.

You should not have stayed up sketching last night. Caffeine is helping, but the even droning of the museum director lulls you to sleep. Before your eyelids even fully close, they snap back up at a jerk of knees colliding.

Without even looking under the table, you know it's Ryland who knocked his knee against yours. He’s looking straight ahead, but the growing smirk on his face gives away his faux concentration. He revels in your embarrassment.

The meeting lasted almost an hour. Talking points jumped from an art exhibition reinstallation to retouching wall paints to the upcoming astrobiology installation—the project you and Ryland are on. Most topics discussed were either irrelevant to your position or something you'd already known. You were waging a battle against your drowsiness all meeting, to say the least.

When you return to your desk, Ryland pays you a visit with a mug in his hands.

“Hey, what's up now, Mr. Mailman?” You greet him groggily.

Ryland chuckles. “This mailman is delivering you a fresh cup of coffee. No notes this time. Very disappointing, I know”

“Mmm, thank you so much, mailman.” You had finished your cup of coffee halfway through the meeting, and he noticed. The mug he used is his own, and based on the shade of light brown alone, you can tell he made the coffee just the way you like it: a hefty ton of creamer. The implications of drinking coffee that Ryland made for you, made just the way you like it, using his cup, because he’s looking out for you isn't lost on you.

—

As the internship passes its halfway point and approaches its last weeks, the temperature becomes more and more humid. The summer sun was never forgiving, and the California sun even more so. And like the relentless weather, the friendship between you and Ryland grows warmer.

If all things had a gravitational field, Ryland is particularly pulled in by yours. He leaves you sticky notes of scientific fun facts each morning (your favorite is about a pink planet called  GJ 504 b), he coincides his break room visits with yours, he looks for you once it's twelve on the dot for lunch, and he walks you out to your car. He's attached to your hip.

It’s a commensalism relationship, he’d say. A symbiotic relationship where he benefits from having a friend at work that listens to all his ramblings, and you kind of just let it happen to you with no mind. From an outside perspective and his perspective, it does seem that way—he literally follows you around like a lapdog.

You should find it annoying, even unprofessional. You probably would, if you didn’t find certain blondes with the personality of an anxious dog charming. Maybe you’re secretly grateful that he’s the clingy type, because if he wasn’t, you’d be a nervous train wreck trying to find excuses to be around him. But you did find an excuse one Monday afternoon, and you’re proud of yourself for being unexpectedly bold about it.

It’s half past three, and a blanket of calm has settled over the office as everyone is subdued by their post-lunch food coma. You approach Ryland’s desk from behind on tippy toes, keeping as quiet as possible. He’s typing up a storm on his laptop, eyes trained to the screen.

“Ryland.”

He yelps and jumps nearly an inch off of his seat. He stops typing and turns to look at you vexingly with a Twizzler in his mouth.

“Mmphfff, mhhh mffhh mm.” Ryland talks while refusing to stop chewing on the Twizzler.

“What?”

He swallows. “I almost had a heart attack!”

“Pffttt, stop acting like an old man. I need you to do me a favor.”

Ryland tilts his head slightly left, quizzical.

“I may or may not have ordered a mountain of blue paint swatches and I need someone to come look at them with me in the galleries downstairs. Please. I’m indecisive.”

“Okay, not for long or Jake’s gonna come get me.” He warily scans around the office, as if he was already in trouble for just agreeing. Ryland is usually a stickler for the rules, and if he does plan to be a little rebellious, he tries to be as sneaky as possible. Technically, in your opinion, he’s helping you and, in turn, he’s still working. And maybe he’s feigning ignorance, but you’re surprised he’s not questioning why you asked him over your boss. Hell, why would you ever ask him over literally anyone else for artistic advice? But you don’t question why he isn’t questioning you, because getting to stroll around the museum with Ryland is the only thing at the forefront of your mind.

The science wing is peacefully quiet this afternoon. Unnaturally quiet, because you usually could hear the shuffling of feet from the visitors and the occasional laughter from children visiting with their family. The museum always closes early after 3 PM on Mondays like today, but you already knew that. There’s no one downstairs besides the occasional security personnel and Ryland walking beside you.

You lead Ryland deeper in, past the pinned insect displays, the kinetic sand box, and the scaled solar system model. Spotting a pair of black double doors, you push one with considerable force and walk in with Ryland on your heels.

Once you’re inside, you’re greeted with—nothing. It’s pitch black, almost, save for the cosmos of glittering stars high above you. Once in a while, a white line appears and connects a series of stars to create a constellation before it fades out again. It’s what the night sky should look like, except you’ve never really seen it due to the city’s light pollution. So, instead, the folks here at the museum has opted for projecting it onto the ceiling of a room.

The room is in the shape of a circle, with a round empty space at the front and rows of recliner seats lined around it—akin to an amphitheater without ascending steps. The empty space feels like a stage, which understandably so since museum guides would stand here and lecture to visitors as new constellations appear in the sky. Today, the stage has a different use as you make your way to the center and lay down.

Ryland follows you hesitantly, looking around as he did in the office before. “…What are we doing here? You can’t even see those paint swatches in here.”

You haphazardly discard cards of blue to your left, which now just looks like varying shades of black in the room. “Of course we’re not here to look at paint swatches, Ryland. I came here to cross off something off of my bucket list.”

“Which is…?”

“To enjoy this room without anyone here.”

”But, I’m here.” Ryland squats by your head, blocking your view of the sky with his face. He’s tilting head to the left again.

“Can you please just lay down with me.”

Ryland reluctantly finds his place on the floor next to you with a hmph. You offer him one of the buds of your wired headphones, the other one already plugged into your ear. Ryland takes it, brushing fingers, and scoots closer to accommodate the length of the wire. With sweaty hands, you hit play on your 80s mix. Ryland snorts as he recognizes the first few twangy notes of Take My Breath Away.

"What's funny?" Your mouth is tugging up at the corners, eager to be in on Ryland's secret joke.

“I’d tell you,” he pauses dramatically, “but I’d have to kill you.”

“Oh god, was that a Top Gun reference?”

"Yeah, I was just reminded of how many times they played this song over and over in Top Gun." Snapshots flashes through your mind then: Ryland as Charlie, the quick witted astrophysicist teacher, and you as Maverick, the suave fighter pilot student. You imagine trying to impress Ryland at a bar by singing to him with a chorus of fellow fighter pilots—how amusing that would be.

"You know, the romance in that movie made no sense," Ryland starts gesturing with his hands in the way he does when he's about to go on a winded tangent, "You seriously cannot convince me that Charlie fell in love with Mav just because he's some hot-shot pilot dude. Like, there was no buildup!"

"Maybe people who are good at their job are attractive." You make a point to turn your head and make eye contact with Ryland. He's already looking back at you, blue eyes searching your face for meaning. Was that just a general statement? Or were you talking about someone specific? And is that someone...

Ryland opens his mouth as if to respond, then closes it again. He continues gazing at you wordlessly—whatever motor that keeps Ryland's mouth endlessly running at all times is buffering. You wonder if his heart is beating just a little faster the same way yours is right now, and it’s not from the adrenaline of being afraid of getting caught.

"Um, well," Ryland finally breaks the silence, "Then that would mean Jake is extremely ugly." He's deflecting, but the grin fighting its way to his face is undeniable: he's reached a conclusion to what you meant. And this particular conclusion is visibly making him flustered. He averts his gaze towards the ceiling and starts fidgeting with one of the buttons on his shirt. You wonder if he's the type to blush when he's nervous.

"Yeah," you're talking between chuckles, "He should've been fired, like, yesterday." Ryland hums in agreement. Gradients and light skips across your vision as constellations continues gliding above you. The frigid cold air of the room has seeped into your body by now, yet your face still feels strangely hot. Take My Breath Away closes out, and Angel by Madonna starts playing.

This next song is unlike the last: it's got a groovier sound to it with chipper synth melodies and a jumpy rhythm. The last song was more suitable for a waltz, and this one is more suitable for a disco boogie. Ryland gets it, because he's seesawing his shoulders up and down incredibly offbeat. Then, apparently, he decides his shoulders aren't enough to express his enjoyment, because he starts wriggling his hips. And of course, he's closing his eyes as if he's fully immersed in the song. He’s is really getting into it despite the carpeted floor restricting his movements—he looks like a writhing caterpillar.

Gosh, he's so damn dorky. Now it's your turn to fight back the smile making its way on your face. He's being goofy as ever, but there's something intimate in it. The usual Ryland would be embarrassed to dance in front of anyone, but this Ryland—the Ryland that's only with you here in the projector room—feels unabashed to embarrass himself for your amusement.

"Hey" Ryland starts.

In your musings, he has turned his attention to you. You realized then: Ryland is way too close, way closer than before. You're almost shoulder to shoulder; your skin tingles with anticipation. During all his wriggling, he found the opportunity to close the distance between you. With every sway of his body, he inched closer and closer. You don't know if you should be impressed or laugh at him.

"Hmm?" you hum, not trusting yourself to form coherent words.

"Can I," Ryland drops his voice—both in octave and decibel, "see you after this?"

"Yeah? We still have, like, an hour left of work."

"I— I mean after all of this—after the internship."

"Oh— Right. Sure, of course, what are you thinking?" Your stomach feels warm. Your face feels warm. The tingling is spreading all the way down to the tip of your fingers: you want your hands in his hair, on his jaw to pull him closer—

"I'm thinking—I can pick you up at your place one night, maybe we go see a movie, and pretentiously debrief over a nice dinner afterwards. That's all."

"And," he picks up again before you could answer, "I'd like to do it over and over again, if that's okay with you."

"Why over and over again?" you whisper, afraid to break the air delicate yet heavy air that is forming between the two of you. Maybe if Ryland does blush, which is still a hypothesis you're working on, he should be right now.

"Because you're my best friend."

"And you're my best friend, too."

"But... It's more than that. You're my best friend because you make this stale job fun, and you keep me motivated to clock in every week,” Ryland pauses, “But, I don't think people usually make excuses to walk by their best friend's desk because they like the way their heart races when they see them, or imagine what it'd feel like to hold hands under the table during boring meetings."

You huff breathlessly. "No, I don’t think so,” you pause, “And, I don't think people usually imagine what kissing their best friend would feel like, either."

Being so close, you can hear Ryland’s breathes coming out shorter. His eyes are mapping your face for confirmation—full of wonder and surprise. Whether he found what he was looking for or not, Ryland gives in anyway. His eyelids flutter close, and his golden lashes fan across his upper cheek. He leans in. So close, yet still so far. The distance isn’t hesitation, but consideration.

The ball is in your court, so you take it.

Your lips meet gently. Ryland feels soft, lovely, and tastes like hasty glances across countless meetings, hallways, lunch breaks. Glances that felt suspended in the air, waiting for something to drop, and Ryland kisses you like he’s laying out a cushion for them to land on. He kisses you with the carefulness of someone getting used to the feel of another for the first time, yet also with the tenderness of someone who's longed for this moment for a while. He pulls you closer with a hand on your upper arm. You think the “angel” Madonna sings about must be Ryland Grace.

—

You and Ryland left the projection room 5 minutes ago, racing your way back to the office upstairs before anyone realizes you were gone. Thirty minutes had flown by, but who can blame the two of you? After realizing your feelings for each other were mutual all along, you and Ryland continued lying on the floor in the constellation simulation exhibition, fingers intertwined as you chatted in easy conversation.

When you both stepped into the elevator, Ryland turns to you with a cheesy grin on his face. “Just to be clear, that was a yes to me asking you out, right?”

You roll your eyes playfully, “thought I made that pretty clear, Ryland.”

“Okay, just didn’t want to assume.” Ryland smiles, bumping his shoulder against yours. Outside the dark projector room, the illuminated elevator cab feels more exposed and more grounded. But, the change of scenery doesn’t mean a change in the giddiness you feel in your chest.