ՙ ♱ ֹ rai.

"Hank, I'm home," you call out into your apartment as you kick the door closed behind you, unceremoniously dropping your backpack against the wall and toeing your shoes off. Your fat grey tabby, Hank, is already waiting at the end of the hallway. He wastes no time in attempting to lead you to his pitifully empty food bowl, screaming the whole way.

"It's not dinner time yet," you inform him, which earns you another raspy scream. "Sorry buddy, you gotta wait a little longer." Your feline companion musters one more attempt at convincing you, but when you head for your couch instead of his precious food bowl, he seemingly gives up. You're left to check your phone in pointed silence while Hank glares at the back of your head from where he's sat next to his bowl.

You flop on your back onto your beat-up thrift store couch, grunting when the timeworn cushions fail to properly catch your landing. The stiff wooden frame digs into your middle back as you shift around in a futile attempt at comfort.

As you pull out your phone you shoot a glare at the armrest your feet are now propped up on, as if your couch might somehow understand the depths of your loathing. Honestly, you had never hated an inanimate object more than you hated this couch, but it was cheap and it was small enough to fit your cramped aparetment and it was what you could afford on your shoestring budget. You tried very hard not to think about the mystery stain that you had tried - and failed - to remove from the (what was now the) bottom of the left cushion.

You unlock your phone and see you have one missed call and one text from Ryland, both from a half hour ago. It's Friday, so you figure he's calling to make sure you're still on for your weekly movie night tomorrow. He's called or texted you nearly every Friday afternoon for the past three and a half years to ask the same question, and you've given him the same answer nearly every time. This semester you've been particularly looking forward to these weekly get-togethers after spending all week listening to Professor Maynard deliver the driest lectures on Biochemistry you've ever heard.

"Pick up, nerd," the voicemail starts, Ryland's tone somehow firm and teasing at the same time. You snort and roll your eyes, but the amused quirk of your mouth belies the exasperation in your expression. A brief pause, then Ryland's voice resumes: "Ugh, fine, I'll text you instead."

You press the home button on your phone, the voicemail screen banished to the background as you pull up your texts. Sure enough, there's one from Ryland: still on for tonight? There's no need for him to ask your place or mine because you both know you'll end up at your place - it's nicer than Ryland's, if only by the most minuscule of margins, and has the added benefit of being home to Hank. Hank and Ryland shared what you could only describe as an interspecies bromance. You tried not to be jealous of Ryland. Or Hank.

You tap out a quick yep, see you at 7 and send the text on its way. You glance at the clock - Ryland's always early, so you estimate you have about fifteen minutes till he comes knocking.

You're going to check your email when you realize you're still connected to your call. Huh. A quick swipe pulls the voicemail window back up. It's still playing, but there's been nothing but 30 seconds of silence. Curious, you listen for a little longer. Thirty more seconds pass with nothing but Hank's heavy breathing filling your ears. Then, a noise from your phone's speaker: a sigh, a metallic clink, and the rustle of what you think might be fabric.

There's a beat of silence. Then, a breathy "fu-uck."

You freeze.

What. The hell. Was that?

You clutch your phone tightly in your hand as you stare at the screen, watching the seconds on the voicemail tick by. One, two, three… another breathy noise meets your ears. A sigh, you think, that seems to take the shape of your name. Your fingers tighten around the edges of your phone, your mind spinning. Was Ryland-? Was he really-? No, he couldn't be. But then: another bitten-out a curse, followed by your name - for real this time, there's no mistaking it - that tapers off into an airy moan.

Oh. He definitely was.

You're still immobilized, stuck between throwing your phone clear across the room or bringing it closer to your face. Your fingers begin to ache with how hard you're gripping it, fingertips turning red under the pressure. No doubt matching the blush that has stained your cheeks and crept its way up to the tips of your ears. You should hang up. Yes, that would be the correct thing to do. A good friend would respect the privacy of their peers, even if that privacy apparently included fantasizing about you. Especially if that privacy included fantasizing about you.

Besides, this was Ryland. Ryland. The person you'd met at freshman orientation and forged a bond with over late nights at the library and shitty cafeteria coffee before a 7am class. He was your go-to lab partner, your Friday night movie buddy, your shoulder to lean on when things got rough. He was your best friend. And for as special as he was to you, he'd never been more than that: a friend. And that was great, you recognized how blessed you were to have someone like Grace in your life. You were happy, thrilled even, with just being friends.

Still, you'd be a liar if you didn't admit you'd had less-than-platonic thoughts about him. He was attractive, you were grown enough to admit that to yourself. He had beautiful blond hair and striking blue eyes and the pinkest lips you'd ever seen and so what if you had, on occasion, thought to yourself, 'I wonder if his hair is as soft as it looks' or 'I bet his lips would feel good on my-'

Nope. Nope. Nuh-uh. You stop yourself there, determined not to board that particular train of thought. You realize, belatedly, that the salacious voicemail is still playing. The timestamp indicates you've been listening to Ryland get himself off to you for the past three minutes. Another moan, louder than the others, makes its way from your phone to your burning ears. If you listen very closely (which you totally aren't), you think you can hear the slick sounds of his hand on himself, the tempo increasing at the same steady pace as the cries of pleasure that are flowing freely from him now.

Mindlessly, you rub your thighs together. You're wet - you can feel it soaking the gusset of your panties, the slide of fabric against your clit sending a shiver sliding up your spine. 'Hang up, hang up,' you think to yourself, but you can't bring yourself to. Ryland's moans and pants and sighs are growing in frequency and he's begun to babble on, his voice pitched down the most delicious way.

'Fuck, you feel so good,' you hear him groan to fantasy-you. A whimper bubbles from your throat and gets caught behind your lips. You can picture him there, his hand wrapped tight around his cock, his head thrown back and his pretty pink lips parted around a deep moan. A frisson of excitement crawls along your skin. You shudder and clench your legs together in search of friction.

The timestamp reads five minutes and seventeen seconds. You're seriously considering riding this out and seeing how long it takes Ryland to finish. And maybe how long it takes you to finish as well. You're just giving in to temptation, your free hand sliding down your stomach and slipping towards your waistband, when a knock at your door interrupts you.

With an undignified squeal you smash the end call button and throw your phone to the opposite end of the couch. Then you pick it up again and check the time. 6:47pm.

Fuck. Ryland is at your door. The same Ryland who just unknowingly left you the most delicious, debilitatingly erotic voicemail you've ever gotten in your entire life (not that there have been others). A voicemail that could have the power to ruin the friendship you two had treasured with one another for years. A voicemail you could never, ever unhear. And now you had to look him in the eye and sit through two and a half hours of a movie about some guy stuck on Mars, and somehow act normal about it.

there are very few times when you’ve seen driver be anything but soft around you or in front of you. he’s extremely good at controlling his emotions, keeping calm in tense moments and not letting people know how he’s feeling.

but some days, he loses that. you can tell from the minute he walks in the door whether it’s been a good day or a bad one, but it usually takes a little longer to decipher how you’ll need to go about it.

it had already been a long day for him: shannon had got him on set early that morning (meaning he had to skip your usual morning routine together); then there were a few dickheads at the garage demanding for their cars to be fixed faster; and to top it all off, his car broke down just as he was leaving, meaning he had to stay later to fix it.

he had called you around lunch, explaining that he he might late home, but not realising how late it would actually be. he just needed to hear your voice in that moment, letting you talk about your morning and your plans for dinner. driver so desperately wanted to be at home with you, but he knew in his gut that he would be missing dinner.

still, he kept going, controlling himself in front of others as they shouted at him and shannon, continuing his work on the cars already in the garage as opposed to those who had just rocked up. driver was well and truly ready to go home to you, and that’s when his car broke down and he had to spend another two hours fixing it.

he dropped you a short text, letting you know what had happened. at that, you realised he had been having a truly horrible day, you just didn’t know how to make it better.

it was late when he finally got home. you could sense the tiredness coating his bones as he unlocked the door and pushed it open. he was surprised to see you still awake, all ready for bed in your matching sleep set that he had bought for you the other week.

the colour matched you perfectly, bringing out your eyes and complimenting your skin. in that moment, he knew what he needed. he knew what he had been craving all day, and it wasn’t until he saw you that he realised it.

his touch was rough as you felt your back meet the wall beside the front door within seconds of it closing. driver was pressed up against you soon after that, one hand grabbing your waist while the other came up to cup your jaw tightly. his palm was warm on your skin, his fingertips squeezed you slightly.

you were balanced on your toes to maintain some height against him. his bad day had gotten to the point of needing to be slightly rougher, but you weren’t complaining. usually he’s soft, so soft with you, and sometimes you wished he would let go a little. but when he was like this, it wasn’t just for his benefit. he wanted this to be good for you too.

a gasp escaped you as the hand on your jaw pressed harder, your head falling back onto the wall as your hands reached out for purchase on his denim jacket. driver’s usual baby blues had turned a dark, hazy colour, lust already covering his vision as he looked down at you. he titled his head to the side, a silent question that you knew all too well.

“yes,” you tried to nod, your movements obstructed by his proximity. “please, baby.”

at your consent, he pushed a leg between your thighs, widening your stance and pushing you slightly off balance. his hands help to keep you up right, the one on your waist squeezing tighter as he pushed you down and began to grind your crotch along his jean-clad thigh.

your moan was instant; the pressure and warmth from his muscle hitting you exactly where you needed it, and along with the hand on your jaw, it felt like heaven.

you let driver take control completely, only moving when and how he wanted you to. the hand on your jaw kept you facing him, his eyes boring into yours possessively as you whimpered at your pussy gliding along his thigh. he kept a steady pace, pushing your hips down harder to achieve a moan that slipped out easily.

he could feel you were drenched. it had begun soaking through your sleep shorts and onto his jeans, but he didn’t care. after the day he had had, all he wanted was to see you fall apart on top of him, exactly like this.

the hands that had been bundled up in his jacket were now scratching for purchase on his arms. his constant push and pull of your hips and the flexing of his thigh had built up your orgasm quickly, but you needed just a little bit more to get there. you hoped that driver would realise what you needed as you grabbed onto his biceps and squeezed slightly.

your pathetic whines were enough for him just then. he knew what you wanted. the hand on your jaw loosened slightly as he pulled away from you, taking away his thigh and the build up of your first orgasm of the night. you whined even more when you lost his warmth, your legs shaking as you grabbed onto him harder.

driver just kept his gaze on you, moving his hand from your hip to bring it up to your face. his fingers were still on your jaw as his other hand lightly slapped your cheek.

“you’re going to behave,” he started, a finger pointed in your face with his voice turned low as he looked at you. your eyes were blown wide with lust and complete safety as you listened to him. “you’re going to do as i tell you, or else i won’t let you come. got it?”

“yes,” you nodded immediately, grabbing his wrist. “yes, i promise, i’ll be good.”

“good.” he nodded back to you, happy with the knowledge that you would be good. he knew you knew how to behave, and he was going to let you prove it.

the fingers on your jaw squeezed you once more before his hand started to push you down. he stepped back, giving you space between him and the wall to slowly kneel down. you kept your eyes on him, your head leaning up to look at him as he stared down at you.

cautiously, you brought your hands up to his waist line, ghosting over the leather of his belt and waited for his nod. once you saw the subtle movement, you were quick to unbuckle it, your hands moving quickly to unzip his jeans and pull out his cock from his now stained underwear.

he was thick and heavy, the tip red and already spilling out pre-come. you gave him a few strokes, your hand gentle as it moved up and down his shaft, your other hand resting on his thigh for support. as you squeeze him suddenly, driver jumped forward, his hands falling onto the wall in front of him as he quietly groaned.

“you know what to do.” he muttered after a moment, looking back down at you as you just nodded.

your hand twisted once more before you brought your lips towards the tip of his cock. it was heavy on your tongue and you enjoyed the taste of his come already. the hand on his thigh kept you steady as you moved forward, breathing through your nose as you took in half of his length before pulling back off.

before you could move too far away, you licked the underside of him, tracing the outline of the vein all the way back to his tip. driver’s breathing shuddered above you. his hands clenched against the wall and it took everything in him to not touch you. he enjoyed giving you freedom to taste him however you wanted, but if he didn’t get what he wanted, he wasn’t scared to speak up.

“tastes so good.” you comment shyly, glancing up through your eyelashes to see how fucked out he was already. before driver could say or do anything, you took him in your mouth once more, this time going further down his cock to take him fully.

as he sat heavy in your mouth, you enjoyed the stretch of him, feeling him pulse on your tongue as driver groaned quietly. you swallowed around him before pulling off, setting a steady rhythm of bobbing up and down. when you needed a second, you would press a kiss to his tip, licking off the come that kept dripping out before taking him again.

you were enjoying this, enjoying pleasing him. as soon as you realised what mood he was in, this was all you had wanted to do. but driver? driver was falling apart above you. you were so distracted by his cock to realise how difficult he was finding it to hold in his whimpers, wanting to stay in control, but losing his will with each glide of your tongue on him.

when he finally moaned out loud, you knew that he was close. his thighs began to shake under your hand. one of his came down from the wall behind you to keep guiding your head back and forth. every ounce of his self control was withering away, and it was all because of you.

he tapped your cheek twice just before he came, managing to pull back slightly to come in your mouth rather than your throat. but you sat there and let him pump himself empty, your mouth hanging open as you watched him close his eyes and bite back a moan.

he’s silent for a moment after that. his cock was in his hand, starting to soften as you watch from where you’re still knelt down. his eyes opened to meet yours immediately, tucking himself back into his boxers, the zipper of his jeans still down, before he reached down to help you up.

“such a good girl, hum?” he praised, one hand cupping your jaw again as the other stroked the back of your head. “so good for me. knew you would be.” you just nodded at his words, your hands grasping at his denim jacket once more.

after a moment, he turned you both so that you were walking backwards towards your shared bed. your steps were hesitant, but driver kept both his hands on you to make sure you didn’t fall.

it didn’t take long for the back of your knees to hit the edge of the bed, your balance wobbly as you kept your grip on his clothes. he didn’t flinch, keeping both of you upright as he leaned over you more. the hand on your jaw tightened again, his face coming down so close that you would feel his hot breath on your skin.

“i’m going to let go of you, and you’re going to strip and get on the bed.” he said in a low whisper, his eyes boring into your own with a hazy look.

you nodded your head once more, “okay.” you felt him step back slightly before letting go of you. your legs were shaky as you pulled off your sleep shorts, feeling driver’s eyes on you with every movement you took. his attention turned to your chest as you pulled your shirt up and off your body, and you saw him slyly lick his lips before you moved onto the bed.

not wanting to disobey him while he was like this, you did as he asked. you were stripped and sat on the bed, knees bent as you sat back onto your feet. the soft sheets surrounded you and you were reminded then that you only changed them that morning. that thought left your head as driver began to crawl on the bed closer to you.

“so pretty,” he praised once again, towering over you on his knees as a gentle hand began to trace up your right side. you shivered slightly, keeping your gaze on him as his own eyes followed the curves of your body. “all mine.”

as soon as he said those words, his head bobbed down towards your chest, his mouth enveloping your nipple as his hand came up to squeeze the other one. you couldn’t help but moan, your hands reaching up to thread themselves through his hair as you tugged harshly at the blond strands. he groaned into your skin, flicking your nipple with his tongue as his fingers pinched the other.

“oh, fuck.” you exhaled, looking down to watch as he pulled away from your breast, a string of spit still connecting him and your nipple. you moaned so loudly that you knew your neighbours would hear. you didn’t care.

no one would ever be lucky enough to see what you were seeing right now; driver’s eyes were blown wide with lust, his hands were still kneading your breasts as he licked his lips and shifted his focus onto your other nipple. he repeated his actions, sucking and biting as he held in his groans.

you closed your eyes and threw your head back, hands still tugging on his hair. he pulled away from your nipple after a moment, moving to your skin to mark you with his teeth before kissing the area softly. he reached over and made a matching mark on your other breast.

“my good girl.” he muttered into your skin, licking over the growing red marks before pressing a hot kiss onto your lips. his hands gripped your waist tightly to pull you flush against his chest, his tongue pushing forward into your mouth to taste as much of you as possible.

“please.” you started to beg into his mouth, moving your own tongue against his just to tease him slightly.

“please, what?” he asking condescendingly after he pulled away. he was towering over you again, his face so close to yours it would be intimidating to anyone else, but you couldn’t help but feel more turned on. he tilted his head to the side when you took too long to answer him.

“please, need to feel you.” your hands started to grab at his denim jacket again, fingers fumbling over the buttons.

“i’m touching you, aren’t i?” he mocked, reaching out to stop your hands from moving before tugging them down to your sides.

“need more, baby.” you kept begging, your voice coming out in a whine as driver began to guide you to lay down. your head hit his pillow, the faint smell of him mixed with fresh laundry filled your senses as he moved himself on top of you.

he was still fully clothed, you could feel the scratch of his denim everywhere. it was overwhelming and not enough all at once. you kept your hands at your sides, letting driver shift inbetween your legs as you opened your thighs and he hovered above you, held up only by his strong arms.

you could feel his now hard cock against your bare pussy, imagining the material becoming soaked from his pre-cum, your saliva from earlier and how wet you already were for him. he was ignoring your pleas, letting you whine and restlessly shuffle underneath him whilst he traced along your neck with his nose. he stopped every so often to press a gently kiss onto your skin, but it wasn’t enough.

“ugnnh, please!” you squealed as he kissed your ear, your hands flying to cup his cheeks as you pulled him to face you. “need your cock, baby. need to feel you inside me, please. been wanting you all day.”

“yeh?” he asked, his eyes lighting up at your last words. of course, he had been thinking about you, too. every time your face or bare pussy begging for him popped into his mind, he gripped his steering wheel tighter and felt his cock twitch. but hearing you say that made him harder than he thought was possible.

he ground his hips against yours, pushing his clothed tip between your folds as they separated and let the rest of his cock glide through. you moaned loudly again, throwing your head back into the pillows as he repeated his actions. his gaze was still on you, hard and heavy.

“been thinking about my cock?” he asked, pulling his hips back again before pushing forward. he could feel how wet his boxers had gotten from you alone. “been thinking about me inside of you?”

“yes,” you gasped out, eyes opening to look at him again as he kept dry humping you. “always thinking about you. always want you.”

your words hit deep inside of him causing an animalistic growl to escape him. you’d never heard that from him before and it distracted you enough to not realise that he had pulled back from you, pushing down his boxers and jeans just enough to free his cock and run his tip up and down your folds.

only when you felt the slight pressure of him pushing into you did you realise what was happening. one of his hands were still next to your head as his other guided his red and dripping tip into your pussy. his breathing was shaky, both of you looking down to where your bodies met as you held your breath.

when he was fully seated inside of you, you finally took a breath. your body fully relaxed into the sheets as you finally felt the fullness you had been craving all day. driver rocked his hips forward, his pubic hair rubbing over your clit as his cock shifted against your walls. you felt hot all over, so blissed out that he could do anything to you right now and you’d let him.

while still moving his hips slightly, he leant down to press soft kisses across your chest once more. his tongue dragged over the blossoming marks as he made his way up your neck and over your chin. you could feel a slight trial of spit following his movements, but you couldn’t care less. he was inside of you, he was all around you and it was the best you’d felt all day.

“happy now?” he teased, whispering the words into your ear which made you shiver.

“yes, so good.” you praised in reply, one hand gripping the bedsheets as the other reached around to his back. the only grip you could get was on his denim jacket, but you didn’t care. his hips started to pick up pace, his face was squashed in the crook of your neck and you’d never felt more at peace.

at your words, driver shifted more. his hips started to move at a bruising pace as his cock dragged against your walls. you lifted your hips slightly and wrapped your legs around his hips, shifting his position and making him hit even harder and deeper inside of you.

as his tip started to hit your g-spot, both of you moaned in harmony. his was muffled by your skin, but yours was music to his ears. his hips snapped forward even faster than you thought possible, one of his hands creeping down your body to start rubbing your clit.

“fuck, right there.” you whimpered into his ear. the arm around his back tightened, holding onto him even more as he keep pounding into you. you could feel yourself dripping onto the clean sheets, driver’s fingers gliding over your clit expertly as he applied just the right amount of pressure.

the heels of your feet pressed harder into his lower back as your hand once wrapped in the sheets pulled his hair to get him to look at you.

“feels so good, baby,” you gazed into his eyes, your vision blurry. “fucking me so good, like always. always need you. only need you.”

at your words, driver growled once again. his hands moved to grip your thighs, pulling your legs from around his waist to push your knees up to your shoulders. his cock never left you, his hips still moving as he shifted you how he wanted and made you feel him even deeper.

“shit.” he groaned, his head now looking down between your legs as he watched his cock disappeared and reappear, completely covered and slick with your juices. the only sounds that could be heard were the slapping of skin, your laboured breathing and the squelching of your pussy.

driver was hitting so good and so deep inside of you, it didn’t take much longer for your orgasm to start to build in your stomach. he could feel you squeeze around him, hear your pathetic moans as he keep pounding into you.

“going to come f’me?” he asked sweetly, so innocently as if he hadn’t made a mess of you.

“yea,” you agreed, nodding your head as he looked at you. “yes, want to come for you. want you to come, too. need to feel you.” you tried to bargain with him, wanting him to fill you up as much as you wanted to come, maybe even more so.

“yeh? want me to fill you up? want my come inside of you?” he teased, looking up at you to see how fucked out you were. he had done that to you. “ask nicely.”

“yes, please,” you whimpered. “please, please come inside of me. fill me up.”

it didn’t take much longer of him rutting against you for you to come first. his fingers found your clit again and moved rapidly, white hot pleasure filling your fuzzy brain as you came hard on his cock. you squeezed him tightly, moans falling from your lips like a prayer as he kept his promise. ropes of warm come filled you as driver’s hips stuttered and they pressed into you one last time.

he dropped his head into your neck again, both of your chests heaving as you tried to catch your breath. his weight on you felt like a blanket, keeping you safe as you came back down while shifting your legs and hips to a more comfortable position. you wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed a kiss into his hairline.

after a few moments, driver pulled away from you. a hand gripped the base of his cock as he pulled out, watching his come slide out of you slowly. as he sat back on his feet, he traced a single finger around your pussy, collecting his come and yours before leaning towards you. your mouth opened instantly, welcoming his finger as you sucked off your mixed come, keeping eye contact the whole time.

when he was satisfied, driver climbed off the bed, heading towards the bathroom opposite you. you heard him shuffling about for a moment before the tap ran shortly and then turned off. he walked back out in nothing but his stained boxers, a wet towel in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

he placed the glass on your side of the bed before sitting in between your legs once more. you nodded as he held the towel up to show you, trusting him to be gentle as he wiped your thighs and sensitive pussy. when he was done, he threw the towel on his bedside table before leaning down to kiss you softly, a silent question of how you were that you knew all to well by now.

you just nodded as he merely pulled away, your noses still touching as you whispered, “i’m okay. you were so good.” he smiled at you shyly before pulling away fully, holding his hand out for you to take. he helped you off the bed and carefully guided you towards the bathroom, making sure that you didn’t even wobble as you walked across the room.

as you used the toilet and freshened up, you heard him stripping the bed, riffling through the clean bed sheets to find a matching set before remaking what you had already done that morning.

the sight before you as you walked out was something you would always be grateful for. the old bedsheets and towel were in the laundry basket, ready to throw on tomorrow when either of you woke up. driver was laid on his side of the bed, the glass of water in hand as he waited for you, the sheets pulled back inviting you in.

you walked over and sat on the bed facing him, never once taking your eyes off his own. he handed you the glass and you drank the whole thing, knowing he wouldn’t let you sleep without it. you placed the glass down exactly where he had earlier before shifting to lay down next to him and curl up into his side.

he wrapped a strong arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest as you got yourself comfortable and basked in his warmth.

“did so good for me.” he praised one last time, placing delicate kisses along your hairline and across your nose as he tangled your fingers together over his chest. “such a good girl.”

“jus’ wanted to look after you,” you replied sweetly, your voice quiet as you tried not to fall asleep. “wanted to make you feel better.”

“you did,” he promised, kissing you once more. “you always do.”

you hummed once more before letting sleep take you. you had driver in your arms and that’s all you needed. he laid awake a little while longer, listening to your relaxed breaths as you fell into a deep sleep. his thoughts were filled with you, of how you made him feel, of your future together. he never thought he’d be lucky enough to find someone like you, so he held you a little tighter as he fell asleep himself.

masterlist!

Noah Calhoun (386 words):

You’re not leaving your bed. He makes sure of it. Anything you need, he’s getting it for you. Really, he kicks himself a little because he doesn’t already have everything ready, but you know without him telling you that come next month, it will all be in place. For now, though, food? He’ll cook for you. Drink? He’ll get it for you. Water, tea, beer, anything. He’d give you his blood if you wanted it, but you seem like you’ve got enough of your own. Heating pad? Medicine? Well that’s what he’s for, he tells you, slipping into bed beside you with a contented hum. He holds you, hand splayed over your belly protectively, and kisses all over your face, your neck and shoulder, down your body and up your legs. You only get what he’s getting at when he starts laying slow, gentle kisses at the waistband of your underwear, looking up at you with eyes full of suggestion.

“Don’t be gross,” you groan, flushing at the thought, tangling your hand in his hair to pull him away, but he resists the pull with a frown.

“It’s not gross,” he insists. “It’s you.” He outlines his full case between kisses. Mostly, it’s that he loves you, but also that orgasms have got to help, since they’re supposed to make you feel good, right? And, well, you can only resist logic like that for so long. 

You do swat him when he suggests a baby as a solution. “What?” he says indignantly, rubbing at his shoulder. “You wouldn’t get another one for nine months.”

The only thing he struggles to give you is alone time, but if you push it enough, he will leave you for a while, though he makes his reluctance abundantly clear. He goes into the barn and tries to work on things, but he gravitates back to you in under half an hour. You’re what he wants to focus on at the best of times, and when you’re not feeling well, neither is he. Luckily, since you’re not feeling well, he lets you be as grouchy as you want without complaint. Ordinarily, you know he would never shy away from an argument, but for about a week every month, you get your way, and he’s very happy to give it to you.

Ken (411 words):

He’s devastated. Genuinely devastated. Well, at first he doesn’t really understand what’s happening to you, but after a quick anatomy lesson, he is so upset that you wonder if maybe you’re underreacting to the whole thing. 

“Don’t women have to go through enough!?” he cries to the heavens, tearing at his shirt to bare his chest to the world. Ken has no shortage of shirts and jackets that open down the middle, since he’s prone to this sort of thing. It was a lesson you’d had to learn when you taught him about the feminist movement. 

“Not just women,” you remind him with a little false cheer, just to hear the aughuagh pulled from his throat as he falls to his knees in the middle of the living room. You’re on the couch with a heating pad on your belly–the thing that had prompted his questioning–and you find that his performance is actually helping with your cramps, pain shared being pain halved and all. He shuffles towards you on his knees, big watery eyes staring into yours as he far too gently places his hands on your knees, seemingly afraid to use any force lest he hurt you more. A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, and one of your hands finds his bleach blond hair to pet him soothingly. Him and his theatrics.

Except, you remind yourself, his hair just grows out of his head like that. And it’s not theatrics–he really feels this strongly about your period, and about pretty much everything. It was one of the things you liked most about him. Because you were, despite yourself, very charmed by a human-sized doll who knew nothing about female anatomy or the world at large. You were so charmed, in fact, that having him on his knees between your legs was doing a pretty good job of distracting you from how miserable your period was making you. Ken adored you right back, though, leaning into your hand and sighing as he settled from just a simple touch. Kind of like a horse, ironically. Well, you think as you stroke his unfairly soft hair, human guys don’t know about female anatomy either, anyway. 

After a few moments, Ken opens his eyes and furrows his brow as if struck by a concerning thought. It was so wonderful to watch him think. He locks eyes with you and says, with complete seriousness, “Is that going to happen to me too?”

Lars Lindstrom (630 words):

You two had just gotten back to his place from a date where you traipsed around the woods and sat by the lake together. You had been heavily relying on coffee and infatuation to carry you because your body was protesting. It wasn’t that you were in that much pain, but your limbs felt heavy and you were slow to respond, not that it made much of a difference to Lars. You still wanted things to be perfect despite your fatigue, since you don’t want to scare Lars off so early, but you can admit to yourself that you’re flagging a little as you lean back against his kitchen counter.

You allow yourself a moment to squeeze your eyes shut and breathe as a lazy curl of pain crests in your gut. Lars is in the bathroom, so you don’t have to hide so much, not that it really makes a difference to the cramps whether you feel them out loud or not.

“Are you okay?” You hear a soft voice ask, and you open your eyes to find Lars, pretty in the afternoon light from his window, but wearing a fretful expression as he looks at you. You twist your grimace into a smile, helped along by the image of Lars lit up like an angel, but it’s a bit too late. “You’re a little…” he trails off, tentatively waving a hand around his face. Pale? Sweaty? The gesture is too vague to say, but you have your ideas. 

“I’m fine.” You’re quick to reassure him, but his brow furrows. Darn. “I’m just…it’s that time of the month, you know?” You let out a little nervous laugh. It’s uncomfortable at the best of times to tell others about this, but it’s undoubtedly worse to talk about it with Lars. His face lights up in understanding.

“Oh, okay.” He nods and, a second later, smiles at you and shifts on his feet.

Lars is a grown man. He knows, conceptually, what periods are. The thing is, you know he grew up without a mother, and the only woman he’s really close with is pregnant, so it’s not like he has a lot of practical knowledge on the matter. Plus, he’s very religious and very reserved, so how could he really get a thorough education? He knows about the blood, but he’s not quite prepared for the pain. You realize this when another cramp hits you, harder this time, and you curl into yourself, breaking eye contact and gripping his counter tighter with a hiss. You hear him take a few quick steps towards you, but he doesn’t touch you.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, sing-songy as if more cheerfulness makes it more true. “It’s just a cramp, I’m fine.” “A cramp?” he asks, and you lift your head to watch him watch you with concern, hands twitching at his sides. “Do you need the doctor? Are you gonna be okay?” he asks, and if he wasn’t so genuinely concerned for you, you would laugh. But his concern is genuine, so you pull yourself back together with a sharp inhale, and you lay a hand over his clothed bicep, feeling the muscle jump under your touch. His head snaps to look at your hand, and you almost move away, but he only seems surprised, not upset.

“I’m okay. I promise,” you soothe, rubbing your thumb back and forth against his arm. He continues to watch your hand, and at the sound of your voice, his cheeks go pink. Suddenly, he gets an idea.

“You can watch me chop wood,” he says, finally turning back to you. “I’ll get you a chair so you can rest.” He smiles at you again and blinks hard, but he doesn’t move until you release his arm.

Driver (639 words):

He stands in the doorway of your bedroom, staring at you. This isn’t entirely unusual–you two didn’t live together, but he had gotten into the habit of quietly letting himself into your apartment to invite you out, and you had gotten into the habit of agreeing.

Today was a different story. You could tell that he had come to do just that, invite you out to grocery shop or take a drive with a casualness that suggested he’d been practicing his lines. Upon seeing you, however, his words died on his lips. You’re still in bed despite it being nearly two in the afternoon, and you know you look terrible. Your hair and skin feel greasy; you’re probably grimacing in pain because you were too exhausted to get up and take medicine, hands pressing on your uterus over the blankets; your sheets are rumpled because of all your tossing and turning, trying to find a comfortable position; and you’re still in your pajamas, which consist of a very large, very ugly shirt you’re too embarrassed to wear in public and some period underwear. You thank all that is holy for your foresight–you decided on period underwear after you had cried about The Very Hungry Caterpillar last night, which was something no one else ever needed to know about.

“Sorry,” you begin before he’s even had the chance to speak. Actually, he did have his chance. You’d been staring at each other for the past fifteen seconds. “I started my period and I just haven’t felt good.” You’re sort of embarrassed to say it, especially under his intense gaze, but you’ve learned it’s best to just tell him the truth. He takes in this information, eyes scanning you with singleminded focus. You watch him come to a decision, the barest hint of stoniness entering his expression as his gaze flits back to your eyes.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says with frankly unwarranted gravitas, like you’d just put a hit out on someone. Before you can ask what that even means, he turns around and leaves your apartment, leaving you feeling confused but…kind of taken care of.

He returns 15 minutes later with a small bag and a softer expression, which warms you up. He hands the paper bag to you without a word and cards his fingers through your hair almost unthinkingly, which of course makes you feel like a thousand butterflies are trapped in your abdomen, fluttery and light. It makes your next emotion all the more jarring, a cold drop in your stomach when you look in the bag. 

It makes no sense for you to feel that way, really. It’s all of your favorite things. The right brand of pads, your favorite chocolate, and even some other snacks that bring you comfort. It’s just–how did he know that? You’ve never spent a period with him before. You look up at him, confused and pleased and unsettled and grateful all at once, and he smiles down at you, just one of his little ones, but still genuine, still sweet.

“You’ve got Midol in your cabinet,” he tells you in his low, soft voice, like it’s only natural he knows the ins and outs of your medicine cabinet. You’re still a little uncertain how to feel, but then he leans down and kisses your temple, and you feel like you can taste sugar in the back of your mouth. “I’ll run you a bath,” he says into your ear, hushed, but his voice is dripping with such fondness and care that you can’t help but preen under it. Then, he pulls back and he is gone again. You hear your bathtub faucet turn on a few seconds later, and you look into the bag again, unable to keep the incredulous laugh from bubbling up out of you.

Ryland Grace (664 words):

You’re sitting on Grace’s couch when you feel the Gush of doom and despair. Hypothesis: if you go to the bathroom and investigate, then there will be blood. Grace is sitting at his kitchen table grading a stack of papers, mumbling to himself and generally looking domestic and adorable, so you sneak off to his bathroom to test your hypothesis. What you find therein supports your hypothesis. Shit.

“Ryland,” you call softly from the doorway between the living room/kitchen and the bedroom/bathroom hallway situation. Your boyfriend looks up from his work, peeking at you from over his glasses. Then, he pushes his glasses up and properly looks at you, half hidden behind the doorframe.

“...Yes?” he responds with an edge of suspicion. “You look like a ghost right now. Hiding in my hallway. In the shadows. What’s going on?” He’s being semi-playful, but you can tell from the focus in his expression that he knows something’s amiss. You kind of want to stand there and watch him figure it out, brilliant scientist that he is, but the situation is unfortunately time sensitive.

“Um. So,” you start, cringing a little. You’re a fully grown adult with a job and an apartment, but sometimes Grace fixes you with a look that reminds you that he teaches middle schoolers, and it makes you a little shy. “It’s no big deal, but I just started my period literally right now, and I figured I should bring it up.” You try to force casualness, but it doesn’t fit right in your mouth, so it comes out a little sideways. 

“Oh.” he says. Awesome. “Do you need a pad?” he asks. What? 

“What?” you ask. You were planning to stuff toilet paper in your underwear.

“A pad. It’s a weird coincidence, but, uh, I actually have some in my bag that I keep forgetting to put in my desk at school.” he explains with helpful hand gestures to boot. You wait a beat for him to tell you he’s joking, but he does not.

“Why do you need pads at your school desk?” you ask slowly. Grace makes a face at your tone.

“Well,” he starts, clearly trying to be delicate. “I teach the age group where.” He stops, apparently realizing that he’s talking to you and not the school board. “Sometimes kids start their period in my class.” he says quicker. “Actually it’s happened multiple times. And I’m talking first period ever. So I keep pads in my desk. Also for the kids who randomly start in the middle of the day, or they can’t get them at home, or they’re embarrassed to ask the office, or–” He takes a sharp breath. “They’re needed.”

You can’t argue with that, so you concede with a slight head tilt. It probably would’ve been nice to have a teacher like that when you were in school. “Do you have any tampons, by chance?” 

“I’m not giving a 12 year old a tampon,” Grace says, deadpan. Right. Duh.

“Fair. I’ll take the pad, please,” you say. Grace immediately starts rooting around in his school bag, and after a few moments, he emerges with a slightly dented box of pads. He takes one out of the box and holds it out to you, whistling like someone luring a wild beast, since you’re still lurking in the hallway. You laugh softly and cross to him, planting a kiss on his cheek as you take the pad from him, your nose bumping the edge of his frames. His cheeks are pink when you pull back with a cheeky smile. 

“Thank you, Mr. Grace!” you singsong, and he groans and shakes his head, unsuccessfully fighting a laugh.

“Please, Mr. Grace was my father,” he says as you retreat to the bathroom. “Call me Dr. Grace.” He smiles at your back when he hears you cackle. Once you’re gone, he notes the day in his calendar. It’s good to collect data on these kinds of things.

Colt Seavers (736 words):

With the casual way he reacted–just a quick downturn of his lips, a tilt of his head, “Sorry, baby”–when you told him you were on your period, you figured that your evening with Colt would be peaceful. It was your mistake to think that any evening with Colt would ever be peaceful. Well, that wasn’t quite fair–things had started out like normal, with you curled into his side on the couch, head resting on his shoulder, reveling in his warmth. He had let you pick the show for tonight, even though it was technically his turn, and you figured that would be the extent of his chivalry. That is, until you grunted softly in pain, your hand coming to rest over your traitorous uterus. Ow. Your medicine had run its course. Wonderful. It wasn’t really that big of a deal, though, because Colt would be here tonight to do triple duty as a heating pad, a weighted blanket, and a boyfriend. You would be fine.

“You alright?” Colt murmurs, tilting his head to rest on yours so that he can look down your body. “You in pain?” he asks even softer, one of his hands coming to cover yours, warming you inside and out.

“Yeah, but it’s no biggie.” You shrug one shoulder, nuzzling further into him. You were way too comfy to move.

“Au contraire,” Colt says, turning his body to face you, dislodging you from his shoulder and forcing you to lean your side on the back of the couch instead. He smiles at your irritated groan, which gives you the impression that he doesn’t know you’re not joking. “It’s a biggie.”

“You’re in pain,” you counter. It’s a safe bet, anyway, given what he does for a living.

“I am in pain,” Colt says, “because you’re in pain.” He places a hand over his heart and gives you his most soulful eyes, but if you look closely, you can see one side of his mouth twitching, suppressing a smile. Good, you think. He knows he’s being stupid.

“Oh my God,” you say, fighting your own smile, “I literally don’t wanna hear it unless you plan on feeling my cramps for me.”

“I would if I could, baby,” he sighs, sliding his hands under your thighs and folding himself in half to lay his head in your lap. You sigh too, long-suffering while you rub a hand over his back. Not to be outdone, he sighs even louder, longingly. “I would if I could.”

“Shut the fuck–” you begin, covering your amusement, but you cut yourself off with a yelp when he lifts you by the back of your thighs, unfolding himself to hook his chin over your shoulder. He carries you to the bedroom, unbothered by your kicking legs and your protests that it’s not even 10 pm, and he hasn’t paused the show. In no time, he gently sets you on the edge of the bed and settles himself on his knees on the floor in front of you, big hands holding your hips.

“What are you doing,” you ask flatly, rolling your eyes when he shushes you, eyes fixed on your lower belly. Despite being a stuntman, he could be very dramatic when he chose to be.

“I have a message for the motherfucker named period cramps.” Colt says in some kind of deep, action hero type voice, and you have a sneaking suspicion he’s making a joke at the expense of Tom Ryder. “You better stop hurting innocents before I get involved.” He leans closer and closer as he speaks until his nose is against your stomach, and you feel weirdly self conscious about him possibly smelling your blood.

“You are so dumb,” you tell him, and he leans back with an easy smile. His cocky expression makes him look extra dumb, but unfortunately also really handsome. You roll your eyes again playfully.

“You’re smiling though,” he tells you with increasing smugness. You’d want to hit him if you didn’t want to kiss him. 

“I am n–” You are. Son of a bitch. “You’re ridiculous,” you mumble as you grab him by the shirt collar with both hands and pull him up to you. He follows you easily, letting go of your hips to plant his hands on the mattress.

"Not with Mark," she says. "No, no, you cannot be having a baby with Mark. I leave you alone for a week and you decide to have baby with—”

"No.” You shake your head emphatically, as though this will somehow erase the way you conducted yourself over the course of your most recent breakup (during which Olya was on the receiving end of many a late-night drunken wallowing session), and try to free yourself from the six inches of cushion you’ve sunken into. It’s at least better than the reclaimed-driftwood-hightop-stools at the last trendy brunch popup she chose. “Not Mark. Not anyone. I’m done with men."

"Thank God. You have terrible taste. Better to give up entirely." You let this slide, though it feels a bit rich coming from someone who has been going steady with her direct supervisor for the past six months (after six months of a generationally messy on-again-off-again thing). “If you schedule appointment for Tuesday or Friday, I can drive.”

“Appointment?”

“Yeah, appointment. Baby appointment. This week, next week. Unless you just want to try DIY first?” She holds up her mimosa flute, hands it to you, pours a little, takes it back, takes a sip, considers. “Mm. Not so strong.” She hands it back to you and fills it so much that a little hill of liquid rises above the lip. “Double dose. For safety."

You bring your mouth to the glass and de-meniscus the mimosa—which, for the record, is very strong—and shake your head. “I’m not pregnant right now,” you clarify. “I’ve decided I’m going to get pregnant. On purpose.”

She squints at you. “Why would you do that.”

“I want a baby.” You hate adages about biological clocks. That said, yours is currently ticking like a bomb. “And I think I’ve reached the age where all of the men available in the dating pool are…” You shudder.

You have dated and dated and dated, and at thirty-four you’re pretty certain you’ve seen all the kinds of men the Bay Area has to offer. Divorced men. Unemployed men. Silicon Valley wunderkinds who look at you and your non-STEM degree (and your very successful private law practice, thank you very much) with poorly veiled disdain. Tall, plain men with an abundance of options and a deficit of personality; short, beautiful men who compensate for the personality with a lack of empathy that borders on psychopathy. You have dated nice men and cruel men and boring men and self-interested men, and, at the end of the day, not one none of them ever had enough redeeming qualities to make you want to stay.

“I just can’t do it anymore,” you settle for saying. “There’s only so many times I can get ready for a first date, redoing my lipstick a dozen times, listening to the same Olivia Dean song on loop, trying to talk myself out of flaking last-minute because I know the sex is going to be bad. I’m too much of an adult to be acting like that.”

“No.” She shakes her head emphatically, pouring you both more booze. You have yet to even look at a menu, and somehow the pitcher is half empty. “You go about this all wrong. You go on dates from internet, from apps. App is for fling, fun, hookups. You refuse to try and date friend, date coworker, date neighbor—“

You shake your head. You have tried dating all of the above. You have weathered several rock bottoms in the aftermath. “I’m not trying to blow up my life, thanks. I like my life as is.”

“Yes, I know,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You like your life, you love your life. This is why you want to add a tiny person with no sleep schedule who spends all your money.”

“I already have you for that.” She blows you a kiss, unrepentant. “But yes, a baby would be nice, too. I’ve thought about it. I’ve saved up. I bought, like, three bottles of prenatal gummies. Now I just need to, you know. Get some sperm.”

“Easy. Sperm is cheap.” She claps. “Tonight! I set you up with someone at trivia. Bang, boom, baby in nine months.”

“No, no, because we’ve been over this: trivia is a social circle I am a part of. Half the people at trivia are people I knew in high school, and the other half are people I’ve worked with—” You hold up a hand before she can protest. “—and I know, you are a beautiful anomaly, you and Eva, but most people aren’t so lucky. You know the rules.”

She tips her head back and groans. “You and your rules.” When she brings her head back up, it’s with a pout. “You ignore so many of my perfect, beautiful matches for your stupid rules.”

“My rules exist for a reason.”

“Yes, to keep you unhappy.” She shakes her head, waving a hand. “Fine, whatever—I match you with someone from my work.”

“I’ve worked with people from your work,” you remind her. The entire reason you met was because her engineering firm (because Eva specifically) hired you during a patent dispute. They ask you back from time to time.

“Someone new! Maybe he stays in town, maybe not. Low risk!”

“Too much risk.”

She scowls. “All risk is too much for you. Life is all risk. Baby is all risk. Anya is risking her life every five seconds.” She looks off in the distance—thinking about her niece, presumably, who is two years old and getting cuter by the day. She shrugs. “You know, maybe baby will be good for you.”

“Thanks.”

“You’ll come to trivia. New guy will be there, I will be there—“

“Great. Want to give me some sperm?”

“Ha. Eva will be there. Grace will be there.”

Something in your head pauses. “Ryland's back?"

She points at you. “Ah!”

“What? No.” Your attempt at a casual laugh sounds unconvincing even to your ears. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just thought he wasn’t—Olya, that’s not what I meant, I thought he was still in L.A.—”

“He is back and he will be there and he will make puppy dog eyes at you like always, and you will ignore him because you are cruel.”

“I'm not—he won't—” You let out an exhale. Then you begin to tick off items on your fingers. “One, Ryland has a very nice girlfriend. And two, he does not make puppy dog eyes at me. That’s just how he looks.”

“Yes, how he looks at you.”

“Because he’s never stopped seeing me as his best friend’s annoying little sister,” you correct her. “It’s nostalgia. I told you, he took me to prom and he—I mean. You know, nothing happened.”

“Because he was stupid teenager. Now he is a stupid man, and you are a stupid woman—perfect. I’m a genius.”

“Did you miss the part where he has a girlfriend? I thought you liked Linda.”

“Eva likes Linda, and this is only because they know the same boring history facts.”

You snort in spite of yourself. “That’s terrible.”

“It’s true! And besides, you are just asking for sperm for baby, yes? Such an old friend, such a tiny favor, Linda can’t be mad about—”

“Olesya.” You give her a stern look. She looks back with the practiced innocence of a cat who’s already swallowed the canary and hasn't yet noticed the feathers stuck in its teeth. “No.”

“No trivia or no baby?”

“Yes trivia, no to whatever you're plotting.”

She sighs. “Fine, no to Grace. He can make puppy dog eyes at you across the bar while you talk to new work friend—”

“No setting me up with anyone.” You snap your menu shut, and flag a waiter. You can't continue this conversation—or, ideally, escape this conversation—without copious amounts of French toast. “It’s the twenty-first century, you know? They have websites now. Catalogs. Safe, discreet, easy. Like you said, sperm is cheap.”

-

As it turns out, sperm is really fucking expensive.

You scowl at the laptop, willing it to give you a different answer, but the calculations come out the same the fiftieth time as they did the fifth. A couple thousand dollars, minimum, and that’s if you use an anonymous donor. For someone vetted—God forbid, someone you might get to talk to—it can go up into five figures.

You put down your notebook and plant your head in your hands. 

You are, by many metrics, a successful woman. You live in a one-bedroom apartment, in San Francisco, alone. Many of your clients see you over video, so you can more or less set your day. You have no student loans, and enough savings set aside to pay for childcare, doctor’s visits, diapers, a nice stroller.

You do not have enough to cover all of that and a round of in vitro fertilization that might not even work.

You lift your head up. You’ve been buried in your laptop for so long, the sun has set, leaving the apartment almost entirely dark, save for your screen and for the kitchen clock blaring bright green above the stove. It’s seven forty-five.

Trivia starts at eight.

You sigh. You stand up and grab your keys.

-

Trivia night is the same as always, which is to say it’s at the same dingy bar, with the same sticky black floors and pockmarked dart boards and outdated drink menu as always. You’re pretty sure the bartenders have worked here since you were too young to set foot inside.

“You came!” Olya crows, slinging an arm around your neck as soon as the door shuts behind you. “Here. Two for one.”

You gently bat away the bottle she waves in your face. "I drove.”

“Fine.” She winds her arm through yours, walking you across the bar. “I’m setting up carpool home. You and Eva can be boring designated drivers together.”

“Ha, ha.” Your eyes scan the room. You tell yourself this isn’t on purpose, which is probably true, it’s normal to take stock of a room—but you’ve taken stock of this particular room almost weekly for the past year and a half, which means there really isn’t anything in it you haven’t seen, until your eyes reach a table in the back and see Eva Stratt talking to—

“See?" Olesya pinches your waist. You jump. "I told you he is back."

“Ow."

“Come talk. We’re running late, nothing to do but drink and talk, and you don’t even drink tonight.” She bumps her hip into yours. “Maybe not for nine months, if everything goes good, eh?”

You hip check her back. “Yeah. Maybe. It’s not looking too—"

You hear your name, and you look up.

The voice is familiar. The face is familiar, if slightly more tanned from a few weeks out of the San Francisco fog; the hair a little longer. The lopsided glasses, though—and the bright blue eyes behind them, and the mouth and the smile and the dimples that go with it—are the same as they were twenty years ago. 

“Ryland.” Your face is warm, which is definitely because you just walked through a crowded bar, and for no other reason. “Hi.”

“Hey.” He stands up, so quickly he almost knocks over his bottle on the table, and catches you in a warm, friendly hug that you survive mainly on autopilot.

“Hi. Hi.” The hug ends, and you wave at Eva, who waves back, and then look back up at him. “Hi. I, um, I thought you were still in L.A.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Colt got a last-minute gig this weekend, so. I came back a week early. But it was good. He’s good. Said to send you his best.”

Colt has always been sweet. Of the two, you’d have thought he’d be the one to ask you on a family-friend-pity-date to prom. Ryland was always stuck in his books, his scholarships, too convinced of his own genius to see you as anything but silly and young, and the arrogance only got worse with each subsequent visit home from college. It was almost jarring to meet him again, two years ago, when he moved back home to teach. Somehow the intervening decade had rendered him easygoing, and softer-spoken, and humble.

Mostly humble. Trivia night almost invariably makes teenage Ryland rear his ugly head.

“That’s good," you say. "I remember the accident was…you know. Good to hear he’s getting back into things.”

“Yeah.” His eyes dart from you, to Olya and Eva behind you, to the bar, then back to you. “Do you want a drink? I’m going for a refill.”

“Oh, I’m not—”

“Virgin drink for her,” Olesya shouts from where she is now seated, which is more on Eva’s lap than in the booth. You force your face to remain neutral, as opposed to the expression it wants to arrange itself into at hearing the word virgin used in reference to you around the man who notably did not take your actual virginity at your high school prom. “Real drink for me. Double vodka Redbull. And espresso for Eva.”

“Right. Just espresso, no martini,” he says, with an automaticness that suggests he’s had the same thing repeated at him ad nauseam for the better part of an hour. “Okay. You?”

You blink up at him. Then at Olya. She mouths GO at you, accompanied with some rather violent hand gestures, and just as Ryland is about to turn and see this you grab his arm and tug. “I’ll come with you!”

When you get to the bar, you glance back to furrow your brows at Olesya, who has switched to double thumbs up and a shit-eating grin.

You roll your eyes at her, then turn to Ryland, who’s somehow managed to flag down the bartender and order three drinks in the span of fifteen seconds. “I ordered for you.”

“Thanks.” You get comfortable on a barstool, and look up at him. “So. You’ve been back—”

“A few hours.”

“A few hours? And you still rallied for Saturday night dive bar trivia? We should be honored.”

“Couldn't miss it. Everyone in L.A. kept trying to talk to me about crystals and vibes and, like artisan surfboards. I need this.”

You widen your eyes. “Oh, you didn’t hear? It’s artisan surfboard night."

He plays along. "Really?" He gets an elbow up on the bar, resting his cheek on one hand.

"Wood grain patterns, wave height stats, foam density.”

“That is…even better. I’m well-versed now.”

“An expert, I’m sure.” Your eyes map out the geography of his face. You have seen dozens and dozens of versions of this face over the past thirty years or so. This version has a few new freckles, dusted across his nose. You know, from long summers spent hiking and cycling and calling first dibs on the rec center diving board, that those freckles sometimes reach down to his shoulders, his arms, his back. "Was the sun gorgeous?"

“Maybe." His eyes don't leave yours. You wonder if he's running the same mental math, the same diagrams, the same map. It's a rare thing, to know someone your whole life. "You know I’m a sucker for the fog.”

“Ugh. L.A. is wasted on you." Once you're finished scrunching up your nose in disapproval, you sigh. "I bet it was gorgeous. I should move there.”

“You shouldn't.”

“Why? Because I’m the last person in San Francisco who remembers your landline number by heart?" Drinks arrive, and he slides one over to you. It’s red, and fizzy, and has not one but two maraschino cherries. You point at it. “Is this a fucking Shirley Temple?”

“Hey," he says, sounding unbelievably sincere in his disappointment for a man who, between the ages of eight and eighteen, taught you every four-letter word you know. "Language.”

“I’m not one of your students, and did you order me a fucking Shirley Temple?”

He shrugs, and takes a sip of his beer. “It’s the most virgin drink there is.”

You squint at him. Then you reach forward and press a palm to his cheek—not slapping him, just smushing his face away from you (and probably smudging his glasses in the process). “I should throw this at you.”

“Hey, hey!” He catches your wrist. Your pulse does something funny. Your breath is not where its supposed to be. He doesn’t notice. “That's the thanks I get? You used to love those.”

“When I was twelve," you say, tugging your wrist away, "at my mom’s third wedding.” You don't remember a lot from middle school, but you remember that wedding.

He danced with you at that wedding.

The Cotton-Eye Joe, or something stupid like that—but then also a slow dance. Half of one. He’d seen you and Colt dancing and felt left out. You’d let him lead you across the floor, in your sparkly teal junior bridesmaid dress and patent leather shoes, and that might be the first time you remember having that twinkle in your chest, that glow. 

Thinking, so this is what a crush feels like.

He clinks his bottle against your glass, shaking you out of the memory. “Good news, I’m pretty sure they haven’t changed the recipe since then.” He lifts his bottle. "To things that last."

Something tugs at your chest. “To things that last.”

You put the drink down once you’re positive that your face isn’t doing anything unhinged, which is to say after you’ve downed at least a quarter of it. When you look up again, you find he’s already looking at you, with an expression you are momentarily unable to place. It's not expectant, really. Not teasing. Just warm. Watching.

If he were aiming it at anyone else, you might even label it puppy dog eyes.

But it's Ryland, and you know Ryland. You know old Ryland, and you know this Ryland, and you know that this particular look on both of them is one of the kindest possible condescension. It means I met this girl when she was seven and I was eight, and I will see her that way forever. It means friendly, and nostalgic. It means nothing at all like what you wish it did.

You clear your throat and raise your glass. "Looks like twelve-year-old me had good taste after all.”

-

Trivia night ends the same as always, which is to say that Olya gets drunk enough to start heckling the opposition, Ryland nearly knocks over several chairs in his fervor to win, and Eva quietly leads the team to a sweeping victory. By the end of the night, the chaos has settled into a quiet hum, the room buzzing and buzzed off success and adrenaline and cheap beer.

You have not had anything to drink at all, and even you feel a little bit dizzy with the night. This could plausibly be explained by the rush of winning forty consecutive weeks in a row. It could be plausibly explained by any number of things aside from the actual cause.

You are trying very hard not to name the actual cause.

You do allow yourself to name several things around it, like: a high-five that turned into a hand squeeze that you felt long after he’d let your hand go; a smile, long and lopsided and devastating, every time a category came up he knew you’d be good at; a second Shirley Temple, ordered for you and handed to you seconds before he stood up to answer a question (at Trivia Night. Where all the questions are written down on paper. He is hopeless, and you are worse for liking it).

You are mid-naming-things-around-it, and midway to the door, when Olesya calls your name. You turn with a sigh. “Yes,” you say, with no small amount of reluctance, “I can help carpool.”

“Perfect. Every other car, full, you just need to take one person.” She calls back over her shoulder. “Grace!” She regards to you with a twinkle in her eye that you are all too familiar with. 

Your eyes widen. “Olya,” you hiss. “Olya, no—”

“All the other cars are full,” she says, pouting. “And he is on the way to your house.”

“That’s fine, I have no actual objections to that, I’m just objecting to the implication.”

“What implication?” she asks, and you don’t have time to answer because he is here and he has on a yellow raincoat and a beanie, and you hate how hard you are smiling.

“Hey,” he says. His cheeks are still a little pink from the thrill of beating another team at Who Knows The Most Useless Niche Fun Facts. His hair is a disaster. He looks between you and Olesya. “Everything’s good?”

“I found you a ride!” Olesya beams.

“Oh, I can bike home.”

“You biked?” you ask.

“It’s raining,” she points out.

“I have a raincoat.”

“He has a raincoat,” you say to Olya.

“I’m too drunk for this,” she says, before kissing you on the cheek and absconding with Eva.

You look at Ryland. He looks at you. “I really can bike home.”

The thunder is so sudden and so loud, you practically jump into him. When it’s passed, your shoulder is against his chest, and his arm is around your waist, and you blink and you breathe and then you, both of you, take a step back.

You clear your throat and pull your car keys out of your pocket. “Same address?”

-

You shouldn’t have been worried. Driving with Ryland is never bad, even if you haven’t done it in a few months. You amicably bicker about the music for a bit, and then talk about Colt (healed from his accident, back out on his first stunt gig since, apparently plotting to win back The One Who Got Away), and about your brother (teaching law on the East Coast), and your mother (flirting with golf caddies in Orlando), and about Los Angeles. You talk about your job, and his. Students. Books. Friends. The weather. And when the conversation fizzles out, it’s into a comfortable silence. 

The comfortable silence lasts approximately a minute and a half before he says, “I have to confess something.”

Your brows lift. “Oh?”

“This isn’t just a carpool. It’s a carpool with ulterior motives.”

“Thrilling start. Go on.”

"Olesya asked me to talk you out of having a baby?”

You slam on the break. You’re at a stop sign, but still. “Oh my God.”

He has his hand up on the ceiling, looking at you with—alarm, maybe? It’s difficult to tell, because the car is dark, and also because you’re trying very hard only to look at him through your peripheral vision. On account of the fact that you’re driving. Obviously. “She was pretty drunk, so, uh, maybe I misheard?” He pauses. You say nothing. He rushes to continue, “I said it was an overstep."

"Yeah."

"But she insisted."

"Okay."

"So if she asks, can you please tell her I tried? Before she sics her scary girlfriend on me?”

You snort out a laugh at that. “Yep,” you say. Then, quietly, through your teeth, “I will definitely tell her.”

Two more stop signs pass in silence before he speaks again. “Congratulations, by the way." You look over just long enough to make eye contact, or at least make contact with the glimmer of streetlight against his glasses. His face is unreadable behind them. "About the baby. Or condolences if it’s, uh, if it’s complicated.”

You hum. “It's complicated.”

“Ah.”

You realize how that sounds, and rush to continue, “Not complicated like that. There’s no father.” Does that sound worse? You think that sounds worse. “I’m not currently pregnant. Actually, I’ve sworn off men.”

He laughs. It’s brief. “Entirely?”

“Yes. Thank God.”

“Oh.”

“Except it turns out I do need one last thing from them in order to even do the single mom thing.” You roll to a stop in front of a red light, and lift one hand off the wheel to run back through your hair. “Who knew sperm could be so expensive?”

"Makes sense. They pay a lot."

You give him a look, half-delighted, half-inquisitive, and he sighs. "Ryland,” you say.

“I thought about it.”

“Ryland.”

In grad school. For the money."

"Ryland Grace."

"I didn't go through with it!” he protests. “I chickened out. I didn't like the idea of having a kid out there somewhere that I didn't know anything about. No way of knowing the parents, if they were any good or not."

"I get that." You purse your lips. "I also don't really love the idea of combining my DNA with a stranger's. I think if I was adopting it would be different, because that's a whole, real person who exists already. But that's expensive. And then sperm is also expensive, and IVF, and just, you know. Everything. I'm starting to think it'd be easier to just walk up to someone in real life and ask if they'd be willing to contribute."

“Contribute?” He snickers. “What, with a turkey baster?"

"At this point? Sure.” You flip the blinker, check your blind spot. “It's either that or the old fashioned way. You know, traditional."

He chokes.

You sightlessly grab your water bottle out of the cup holder, and pass it to him. He takes a long, long swig. The next time you pass by a street lamp, his face reappears redder than usual. "Right,” he says, then clears his throat. “Right, no, yeah, turkey baster's so—impersonal. Traditional's probably better. I'm a big fan of tradition."

“Would you have gone through with it, do you think? In grad school. If it was more like that."

"Maybe?” He considers it. “I don't know. I don't know if I was ready conceptually back then, for the idea of a kid. Too immature."

"Yeah," you agree. "You were kind of a dick."

"Hey." You give him just enough eye contact for him to think it over. "Yeah," he admits with a chuckle. "Yeah, I was."

"What about now? At the very mature, entirely un-dick-ish age you are now?”

A pause. “It would depend on who was asking."

Your eyebrows lift. “Really?” You keep your eyes very much on the road. “And how does Linda feel about that?"

“We broke up."

"Oh. I'm sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

You let the sound of the blinker fill the car for a few seconds before you speak again. “If you ever need to talk about it…"

"Not much to talk about,” he says. “She said she felt like I was only ever half-in the relationship. Like I was, uh, 'always looking for something better.'"

"Were you?"

"Yeah. I think so."

You whistle. “Ouch."

"It's fine. It was right before I went to L.A., so it gave me some distance. Time to process, figure out what matters to me."

“Figure out what ‘better’ you were looking for?”

He smiles at the next streetlight. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Right before he went to L.A. Two months, then, give or take—right after you ended things with Mark—which means they were together for three. You dislike that the calculation comes so easily. You dislike having to acknowledge, even to yourself, that this is something you have tracked.

"Gotcha." You try to keep your tone light. "I get it. I had a similar…I, uh, went through a breakup around then, too."

"I know.”

It’s the last thing either of you says for a bit.

Before you know it, you’re pulling in front of his house—his childhood house, the one he and Colt inherited. The one he lives in alone, now, since Colt settled in L.A.. It looks the same as it did when you were a kid. Same driveway, same bushes. Same bike out front. Same blue paint (peeling in the back, you assume, because they’d run out of sealant three-quarters of the way through and never got around to visiting Home Depot for more).

“Well,” he says, “this is me.” He turns, and you’re expecting a goodbye, maybe an awkward cross-cupholder-hug, but instead he just says, “You know, the landline number is actually the same.”

“555-7827.” You tip your head forward, resting it on the wheel. “God, there’s so much important shit I could be using that brain space for.”

“You can always call. If you ever need.” He gestures vaguely. “Anything."

"Anything?” You tilt your head. “Dangerous offer."

"Yeah, well. It's you.” With that, he unbuckles, and opens the door. “Goodnight.”

“I—goodnight,” you say, a little flummoxed, and a little flummoxed as to why you feel flummoxed.

He shuts the door. You watch him walk, to be polite, because you watch all of your friends to make sure they get into the door safely—but then he pauses halfway up and shouts something. Your name. You lower the window.

“Anything at all,” he calls. “You just. You just have to ask."

“Great!” You give him a thumbs up. “Thanks! Goodnight!”

He waves, and reaches the door, and he’s gone. You sit and look at the house. Then you sit and look at your hands. Then you shake your head at yourself, and you put the car back into drive, and you pull away.

-

It isn’t until several minutes into the drive home that you understand the implication.

This inspires a thorough self-inventory that probably would be better off done in the quiet of your home, rather than half-assed while driving; but alas, you are single-minded. And impatient.

There's the part of you that thinks this man is tall, and brilliant, and funny, and sweet, and has a great head of hair, and all of those sound like pretty good odds to gamble with on your future child.

There's the part of you that has wanted him, for years, for reasons that have nothing to do with wanting a kid.

Finally—and, though you hate to admit it to yourself, maybe most importantly—there's the part of you that hopes that maybe, if you were to sleep with him, just once, the wanting would leave and burn up and be gone, and you'd finally, finally be able to get Ryland Grace out of your system once and for all, the way you've been able to get every other man out of your system. Also, the excuse of the pregnancy might make it so that you could do this without entirely blowing up your friendship, the way you've done so many times before.

You go through this cycle of thoughts several times. You go through it on the drive; as you park; up the stairs, up the elevator, through fumbling with your keys and shutting the door behind you.

Ultimately, you decide to sleep on it. This isn’t the kind of thing you rush into. You could be misreading his offer. You could be misreading your own emotional capacity for doing this. You could wake up tomorrow and stumble upon the one sperm donation catalog in the history of humankind that would cost you less than two thousand dollars. You are very sensible and very logical about all of these possibilities, and several others, as you cross your apartment and sit down on the couch and pull your phone out of your bag and dial. 

He picks up after two rings.

"It's me,” you say, before he even greets you. “I'm asking.”

"You're asking me to—"

"Help me have a baby. With or without a turkey baster.”

He pauses for five seconds.

Your brain stretches this out to five years, give or take. Long enough that you barrel forward with the rest of the points you’ve come up with in response to any questions he might have.

“I know it's a big ask. You can totally say no. But you should know that I would never ask for money or anything, I can draw up a contract, it really is just a question of sperm. I mean, you wouldn't have to be involved at all post, um, post-conception. Unless you wanted to be an uncle, or a godparent—if you wanted to be a godparent, I guess you could duke it out with Olya—or, well, you can have multiple godparents, right? But also you wouldn't even have to see the baby if you didn't want to, and we wouldn't have to tell anyone, and—”

"I'll do it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah." He says it so casually. Like it's easy. No big deal, just a little sperm between friends. "Just letting you know, though, I have a very strict BYOB policy."

You puzzle over that for a half-second before your face splits in a grin. “Bring your own baster.”

"Bring your own baster,” he repeats, sounding like he’s smiling just as wide.

"Okay. I'll add it to my records.”

“Records?”

"Yeah, I have all kinds of lists and—less for you. More for me. You don't really have to do anything, except. Um. Donate.”

“Donate.”

“That. Oh, and get tested. I did last week, it’s easy—”

“Okay."

"It's not that I don't trust you, or anything, it's just, like, protocol—"

"That makes sense. I can do that tomorrow.”

“I can pay for it.”

“Don’t worry about it. I was due for a test, anyway. Good to go regularly, it’s been—um. Anyway. It’ll come back clean.”

“Great. Well. If you go tomorrow, that should be back in a few days, and then. Are you free Friday?”

“Friday…” There’s a pause, and some frantic shuffling. Pages being flipped through. “Friday I'm on detention duty, so I get off around four. Three forty five.” Another rustle of paper. “And then parent teacher conferences at eight. But I have to stop home in between anyway, so. I’ll be around.”

"Could I come meet you at four? Four thirty? At your house? I'll be s—”

"Yes,” he says, quickly. “Yes, I can do four thirty. Yes."

You pause. “Great. Okay, uh, pencil me in for four thirty to four forty-five.”

“Fifteen minutes?”

“I mean, really, it doesn't even have to be that long,” you joke. “If you get yourself close enough, by the time I get there, you can basically come in me and then I'll just be on my way."

There’s a long, long silence. Finally, he says, “If that's how you want to do it, yeah. Great."

"Great."

"Great."

“Great.” You swallow. “So. I’ll see you Friday. At four thirty.”

“Four thirty,” he says. “I’ll be ready.”

-

You pull up on his street at four twenty.

You park down the block. You sit there for exactly five minutes, in spite of the fact that you see a light in the windows, his bike sitting out front. You feel like a stalker.

At four twenty-five, you pull down the sun visor and stare at yourself. You put on a fresh coat of lipstick, which then immediately makes you feel very silly, so you wipe it all off. Then you dab it back on. You pinch at your cheeks. You look down at the dress you decided to wear. It was an entirely work-from-home day, mostly paperwork, so you wore a blazer over a dress and now you’re just wearing the dress, and it’s really the kind of dress you’d wear to, like, a date, which means it is lower cut up top and shorter at the hem than most dresses you’d be wearing on a work day. It’s more of a sun dress, really. So a picnic date dress. You feel both over and underdressed. 

And also you’re wet. On purpose. As much as anyone can be wet on purpose—you’d gotten a package from Olya yesterday, with the note attached, in lieu of sperm, and opened it to find some kind of fertility-promoting lube. Which, sure, it was a joke. And yeah, sure, you used some before you left home. 

You think about what you’d said on the phone. If you get yourself close enough, by the time I get there, you can basically come in me and then I'll just be on my way. You’d meant it only half as a joke. You’ve dated enough men to keep your expectations low. You’re not going to assume he’d waste a ton of time on foreplay. He’s doing you a favor, and he has work tonight, and if he’s in a rush then at least you’ll be more ready than with just a little spit and some half-hearted fingering.

You’re wearing stockings, too, nude pantyhose which seems…you don’t, know, silly? Try-hard? One layer too many? You glance at the clock—four twenty-seven—and look out both windows, reach under your skirt, and begin pulling them off, kicking off your shoes with a muffled curse under your breath. Your underwear starts coming off with them, which you fight and then go along with and then decide to commit to. Your skirt is long enough. You’d promised him this would be quick and easy, right?

You regret it immediately. But it’s four twenty-eight on the dot, and you are allergic to being late, so you shove tights and underwear alike into your glove compartment and drive the twenty feet to his house and pull over and get out.

Up the sidewalk. Up to the porch. You knock.

You wait.

It's colder than it was when you left work. You're really feeling the absence of your stockings right about now, not to mention your underwear, and you're approximately two seconds away from going back to the car to get both when the door swings open. 

"Hey.” 

"Hi," you say.

"Hi."

He's still in his work clothes. You’ve never seen him in his work clothes, actually, and it’s doing wild things to the this man is gainfully employed and good with kids, must procreate part of your brain. It doesn’t help that he looks significantly more disheveled than you would expect after a day of teaching sound waves. He’s breathing faster than usual, chest rising and falling against the blue linen shirt, which is only half-tucked at the bottom, at which point your gaze reaches his pants and you suddenly understand all of the above.

“Hi.” You nod in his general direction. "You, um. You got ready."

“I.” His face is flushed behind his glasses, which are maybe the most properly horizontal you’ve ever seen them. You expect that to last all of five minutes. “You…sorry.” He shakes his head suddenly, as if trying to shake something loose, and the things he shakes loose are his glasses. Five seconds, then. “Come in.” You follow him through the door, shutting it quietly behind you, your focus split fifty-fifty between trying not to imagine him getting himself ready and trying to keep yourself from leaking. You are failing miserably at both.

He’s ahead of you, back turned to you, re-rolling up his sleeves. They were already unbuttoned, but shoved up rather than rolled, messy, like he’d gotten home later than planned and immediately got to work doing—whatever it is he did that you are strictly forbidding yourself from imagining.

“Chinese,” he says, nodding at a bag on the kitchen counter. His hands move over his sleeves, four neat folds on each side, and his forearms are flexing and he’s still visibly straining against the zipper of his pants. “I ordered extra. In case you didn't get a chance to eat. And then the contract you sent over, and the test results, too. I printed them out, in case you want a copy. For your records. I went to the library, though, so it switches from colored ink to black and white halfway through. Didn’t seem like the kind of thing I should be printing out at school, ha.”

Two things hit you at once: the first, that you are not going to get him out of your system with one fuck. If anything, one fuck might make things worse. The second is that you absolutely cannot, under any circumstances, kiss him, because if you kiss him you’ll almost certainly fall in love with him and if you fall in love with him your life will be ruined.

"Right. Thank you. Right.” You are looking all around the living room—there’s the couch you used to build pillow forts next to, there’s the carpet the two of you melted crayons into, there’s the dining room, opening into the kitchen, where you helped his mom bake cookies, inevitably ending up with more flour on your head than in the bowl—in a bid to avoid looking at him, because you have a hunch that if you look at him and/or stop talking he is going to try to kiss you (because that would be the normal way to start this interaction, versus the objectively insane way you've decided to go about it) and if he doesn't kiss you you suspect one look at the bemused brows-above-the-glasses expression on his face will make you kiss him, which you are not allowed to do.

“So how was—”

“I left my underwear in the car. Long story.” The story being that you decided on a whim to leave your underwear in the car and now are regretting it immensely. “And I already got myself ready, and I don't want anything to—so we should probably just, um, take care of business first, if you're all good to go—is here okay?”

Here being his dining room table, which you approach and then smooth your hands across and then bend over, pressing your cheek to the wood in order to have a more concrete reason not to be able to look at him.

He laughs. “You don’t want the bed?”

“Nope, this works.”

“Oh.” He pauses a second, like he’s waiting for you to move. When you keep your face resolutely smushed against the table, he seems to get the memo. “I—alright.”

You feel, more than hear, his footsteps, soft across the floor.

“You said you’re—that you got yourself ready,” he finally says. He sounds close enough to touch. You don’t move a muscle. “How ready?”

“Ready enough.” You twitch a finger, gesturing. “I, um, I used this thing Olya gave me, this pre-seed thing.”

“Pre-seed.”

“It’s just fancy lube, I think.” You bite your bottom lip to try and stop rambling. You cannot stop rambling. “But it's supposed to be good for, like, sperm motility, or something, and I figured if I inserted it ahead of time then you wouldn’t be late for your next thing. Four thirty to four forty-five, remember.”

It’s a weak attempt at a joke. You’re not sure it lands. “I’m not in a rush," he says.

“Your Chinese food will get cold.”

He pauses. “I might be in a little bit of a rush.” You laugh, surprised. His voice is warm when he continues, “Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m not worrying about you. I’m worrying about your food.”

“You don’t have to worry about me or the food. I can worry enough for the both of us. Okay?”

You inhale, you count to four, you exhale. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He claps. It’s not a very loud clap, but it still takes you by surprise. “So, um, on that note—not that it’s a worry, it’s not a worry, not worried at all, just noting—if that’s all you. If you just used the lube and didn’t.” The pause that follows lasts about twelve seconds, which you know because you’re still box breathing in order to not hyperventilate. “You might need to, um, warm up. A little. For it to be comfortable.”

"Oh. Cool.” You think about ring fingers, and shoes, and height, and all kinds of things that don’t actually have any proven causative correlation with dick size, and then you think about the tent in his pants when he was half-hard just inside the door, and you conclude that of course, of course this is the way this is shaking out, because you have the worst good luck of anyone on the planet. “Cool, cool, cool. That’s fine. I can warm myself up more. Let me just.”

“I could. I could do that for you.”

You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it. You open it again. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” he says. “Can I anyway?”

“Sure.” Your brain is producing approximately three thousand thoughts per second, none of them cohesive. “If that’s okay with you. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. Here?”

You nod. The table is cool and smooth beneath your cheek.

There is stillness and stillness and stillness and then, there—his fingers, gentle, just the tips on the back of your thigh. He starts halfway up, just kissing the hem of your dress, and then his fingers travel up and under, and they trace over where your underwear would be, and you know when he reaches the slickness that’s reached your inner thighs because he pauses.

One agonizing moment passes before his fingers continue their upward path, dipping slightly in at your entrance. You make a concentrated effort to exhale silently. You’d estimate that you succeed about sixty percent.

“You’re so…” He takes a deep breath. When he speaks again, it’s very carefully casual. “You’re wet already. That’s good. That’s great.”

You blink. “Did you just.”

“What?”

“You just used the encouraging-middle-school-teacher voice. To tell me good job for being wet. During a sexual encounter."

“Sexual encounter? I thought this was strictly business.” That gets a laugh out of you. A quiet one. You can hear him smiling, not unkindly, when he continues, “You seemed like you could use the encouragement. You’re a little nervous."

"I'm very nervous."

"I know. That’s okay.” He finds your clit. You lose the battle to keep silent. Your face flushes immediately, which he can't see, but maybe he can sense it somehow, because he murmurs, “I’ve got you." 

That just makes things worse, actually, because you feel his voice, low and sincere, run down your spine like a hand. And then he actually does stroke a hand down your back, and you wonder if maybe this is some great cosmic punishment for a past life. He’s not even doing it to turn you on, you don’t think, just to comfort you—but when his hand brushes your neck it does something to you that isn't comfort, and you clench down and whimper for lack of anything to clench down onto. “Sorry,” you mumble into the table.

“Sorry for what?”

“I don’t know. This is just—I’m being so embarrassing.”

 “It’s just me,” he says (which is, of course, part of the problem). “I’ve seen you embarrass yourself plenty of times.”

You snicker. “Hey.”

“Besides. Uh.” He swallows. “Trust me. If you could see yourself from here, you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t be embarrassed.”

Before you have a chance to process that, his hand slides back to where you’re wettest.

“I’m going to—” He runs one finger over your entrance, then pauses. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” 

It’s more breath than sound. But he hears it, and, sure enough, he slips one finger into you. It’s an easy slide, wet as you are, but he’s still careful about it. Slow. 

“You’re—” His voice is different. Strained. “I think you can take two. If that’s—”

“Yes. Yeah, that’s—ah.” Two fingers fit, but it’s—a lot. Snug. 

“Relax for me?” He angles his wrist to get a thumb back on your clit, and you flutter around him before relaxing enough for him to let him work the two fingers in and out of you. “There you go. Good job.”

“You’re—”

“That wasn’t the teacher voice, that was the I-have-two-fingers-inside-you-and-you-feel—you feel—” He breathes out, and it sounds unsteady as you feel. “That was, that’s what that voice was. Can I—” He curls his fingers inside you, and you let out a broken moan. “God. Can I. Can I use my mouth.”

You’ve never wanted anything more in your life. “You don’t have to.”

“You keep saying that. Can I please, can I please use my mouth.”

“Yes,” you say, and he gets on his knees so quickly you’re shocked he doesn’t bruise them in the process.

The hand on your lower back runs down, crossing the border from skirt to skin, smoothing up the fabric to reveal you more fully. He keeps his fingers in you for a few seconds more, slow, lazy, dragging them in and out, in and out. Like he’s watching them. He curls them again, deliberately, and when he pulls them back out fully you barely hold back a sob.

There’s a long moment of stillness.

His one hand is still on your ass. His other hand is nowhere at all, and he’s gone silent, which is terrifying.

You use a finger to brush a strand of hair out of your eyes. “Everything good back there?”

“Mmph.” It sounds like his mouth is full, and then, with a quiet pop, not, and your brain shorts out because you realize that’s the sound of him sucking you off his fingers. “Yeah. Yeah. I just.” He presses a kiss to the back of your leg, to the crease where your ass meets your thigh, then pulls back again, and he’s gotten both hands on you, now, and he does what you can only describe as spreading you. 

Another silence. If it were anyone else, you would feel more exposed than you’ve ever been in your life. It’s him, though, which simultaneously makes it better and much, much worse. 

“You,” he finally says, which sounds like the beginning of a sentence until it becomes clear there’s nothing to follow. He kisses your other thigh, open-mouthed, slow, then rests his forehead against it, and breathes. “Fuck.” He says it quietly. Soft. Like it’s just for him.

“Language,” you say.

You mean it as a joke. You mean it as a reference. You mean it in a way that’s meant to break some of the tension and elicit a snarky response, so you are definitely not expecting the next thing he does with his mouth to be pressing his tongue flat against you.

He licks you from your clit to your entrance. The unexpectedness of it, the warmth and wetness and the intensity of it, has your knees buckling so much that you grab the table. You make some kind of sound that you cannot allow yourself to reflect too much upon without feeling intense embarrassment. You make an even more embarrassing sound when he does it again. 

He pulls back, and you put a lot of effort into not protesting. The effort is in vain.

“What was that?” You can hear the unbearably smug grin. “I thought you were telling me to watch my tongue.”

“I wasn’t. I.” You breathe slowly, trying to collect your thoughts.

You get about fifteen percent of the way there before he tightens his grip on your hips, pulling you back to meet his mouth so that he can rub his tongue back and forth against you. You let him press you up onto your toes. Your hips tilt further, allowing him closer, and you can feel the tip of his nose nudge against your entrance at the same time his mouth properly closes around your clit.

You have multiple degrees. You pay taxes, you run a business, you live alone in a one-bedroom in San Fran-fucking-cisco, and you have enough in savings that you can decide to get pregnant, on purpose, without considering yourself financially irresponsible. You are a very respectable person. None of that is reflected in the wail you let out as he sucks harder.

His hands are tight around your legs. His face is so firmly pressed into you, you would wonder if he needs to breathe, if you had any fireable neurons left to spend wondering things like that. You are beginning to have trouble breathing. The air keeps catching in your chest, in a building rhythm, and your knuckles are beginning to go white from how tightly you are gripping the table. 

“Ry—” You can’t even get out his full name.

He doesn’t stop. He doubles down.

You don’t know how long you spend there, bent over, unable to do anything but tremble as he sucks at your clit. Just as you’re close, he pulls away—but before you can say anything about it, his tongue is inside you, and he’s reached a hand around your thighs to get at your clit from the other side, and you think you might be making sounds in tandem with the thrust of his tongue, but your blood is rushing in your ears a bit, and your toes are curling against the floor, and everything narrows and narrows and narrows until—

He says something, you think. Tries to, but you can’t understand it, because his tongue is inside you and also because you’re coming so hard that you’re probably going to get a cramp in your right foot.

He doesn’t give you any relief. He lets you clench around his tongue, for a while, then pulls out while you’re still going to get his mouth on your clit again, relentless, arms wrapping around you tight to keep you from squirming away, as though you have anywhere to go, as though you aren’t trapped, totally and entirely, between the table and him. 

You come back to yourself in pieces.

You’re aware of your breath, audible, ragged; your hands, tingling; your right foot, uncurling just in time to avoid a cramp. You’re aware of his arms, steady; his mouth, gentling on you, pulling away entirely. You make a broken sound into the table. 

Something nudges at your entrance, and it’s his fingers, three of them, and they slide into you like its nothing, setting off another wave of aftershocks, and he’s slower than ever as he fucks you open on them. “Look at that,” he says, satisfied. 

Your face is warm. The mahogany is cool against it as you press your forehead back into the table. “You’re evil.”

“You’re perfect,” he replies, and you have absolutely nothing to say to that.

He pulls his fingers out as the aftershocks ebb. You don’t have any time to respond in any direction before he replaces them again with his tongue. 

Your hips buck against the table. Your knees genuinely threaten to give out; you’re not entirely sure they don’t, you can’t tell, because his hands are back on your legs more firmly than ever.

“Ryland,” you choke out.

“Mmph.”

“Ryland,” you repeat, more desperately, reaching back with one hand to push against the top of his head. “I’m good. I’m—I’m ready, I’m ready.”

He shakes his head, pulling back only to kiss your leg again. “Just a little longer.” He’s scattering kisses up and down your thighs, now, across the crease, fingers coming back to press against your clit. “Just a little longer, you taste so good, a little more—I bet I could make you come again like this—”

“Are you going to put a baby in me or not?” You’re still a little breathless, but you get enough of a challenge into it that he pauses. “I thought this was strictly business.”

He huffs out a laugh against you. “Right.” Because he’s the worst, he licks you again, circles at your clit, laughs at the way your hips jerk from the overstimulation, before grabbing the edge of the table and pulling himself up to standing.

You hear a buckle, a belt, a zipper. A pause.

You think about how long it’s been since you met him at the door. How everything that’s happened so far has been pretty much exclusively for you. “Is there anything I can do to help?” you ask, lowering your voice.

You know what his answer will be. You’ve never once had a man turn down a blowjob, which is fine, because you don’t really mind blowjobs, most of the time, and for some reason there is a part of you that’s actually incredibly eager to get this specific man’s cock in your mouth, all of which is why you are entirely unprepared to hear him say, “No.”

You pause. “Oh?”

“I’m good.” He steps forward, the length of him brushing against your ass, and you understand just how good.

“Just from—”

“Yeah.” He uses his hand to line himself up, and you feel him at your entrance, the promise of him. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” You press your face more firmly into the table, arch your back slightly. You breathe. “Ready.”

He presses in.

You are not ready.

You are ready in that you are wet; in that it fits; in that it feels good, properly good, good enough that you let out a long, quiet moan at the same time he does. But it’s still a lot. It’s still a slight stretch, even after three fingers, even after coming on his tongue. 

It’s still him.

There’s no helping it. All of the preparation in the world could not have kept you from feeling slightly overwhelmed by the heat and the weight and the understanding that Ryland Grace is inside you. It’s making you do stupid things, like get a little choked up. You bite back a sound that you fear might come out less sexy than emotional, but you don’t bite it back entirely, and he stops, still inside you. “Too much?”

Yes. “No,” you say, and swallow, because what do you possibly have to cry about? “I’m good. It’s good, you feel—good.”

“Good.” He pulls out, then pushes back in, slowly, and the sound he makes is—God. This was the worst idea you’ve ever had. This was the best idea you’ve ever had. “You too. I’m going to—” His hands press into your waist through the fabric of your dress. “Is this okay?”

“Mmhm.” You're both still basically fully clothed, which means you're barely touching, which just narrows your focus to the one specific place where you are touching, and its making the whole thing feel dirtier than if you'd just been naked. 

You clench around him, and he makes another sound and begins fucking you in earnest.

He’s still slow. He’s being careful, you suspect, which you appreciate because he is thick and he is long and your legs are barely functional as is. But the rhythm is steady. He drives into you with slow, deep thrusts, and already you are struggling not to make a whole host of embarrassing noises. You suspect he is also struggling with this because he is losing, badly—maybe he’s stifling them from his normal volume (whatever that may be), but he is close enough that you feel his breath on the back of your neck, and every single choked-off moan and whimper and grunt might as well be piped directly into your brainstem. When you give up on trying to mute yourself, and let out a quiet, “You can—harder,” he groans, long and low, and obliges, picking up the pace enough that you can hear the slap of his hips against yours.

You reach back, at one point. You’re not exactly sure why. To grab at him, maybe—to pull at his hips, urge him deeper, faster—but he catches your hand in his, threading his fingers through yours.

“You’re so.” He manages to get his other hand under your waist, arm across, lifting, helping you stand up a little so that his chest is pressed against your back, his voice in your ear. “I knew you’d feel good, but I didn’t—you’re so—”

“I know,” you say, without really knowing what you’re saying. “Me too.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, where the neckline of your dress ends, and then further in, further up. You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back, thumb running back and forth across the edge of yours. When he kisses the top of your neck, wet and hot and open-mouthed just below your ear, you let out a desperate sound, not quiet at all, and you clench around him and you feel him smile and you want to strangle him almost as much as you want to kiss him. You want so badly to kiss him. You almost try to crane your head around to allow for it, except you remember dimly that you’re not supposed to, and you can’t for the life of you remember why.

When he slows down, you whine. It’s entirely undignified. You don’t really have it in you to care. “What are you doing?”

“I just. I just.” He rests his forehead against the back of your head, and through the fog you swear you feel him press his lips to your hair. “I need a second.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He swallows, and turns his head to press his cheek to your hair instead. “I don’t want to finish too fast,” he admits. You know what that voice looks like on him—it looks like beet red and mortified. “And I will. If we keep going. Right now.”

You burst out laughing. You can’t help it. “What?” You let your head hang, still shaking with laughter you don’t really have the breath to afford. “Ryland. That’s, like. The opposite of a problem. That’s the whole point.”

“That’s not the whole point.” He sounds insulted, which for some reason is even funnier, and makes you laugh even harder. He makes a vaguely pained sound, and you realize retroactively that laughing makes you squeeze which makes you squeeze around him. “You—stop doing that.”

“Then stop being funny!” You wipe a tear away, and turn just enough to make a sliver of eye contact. “You know, I would have planned a lot differently if I knew I had to factor in time to explain how babies are made.”

“I—” He goes through amused and annoyed and endeared in a comically short amount of time (and you manage to contain your reaction to light smirking, this time, because you are nothing if not good at taking feedback), and lands on an expression that is a combination of all of those things and leaves you convinced, in an even shorter amount of time, that you are in danger. “Did you really think you’d be out of here in fifteen minutes?”

“No.” You look at his lips again, and then face forward to cut yourself off. “Maybe.” You squeeze your eyes shut. “It would have been fine if you ohfuck—”

This last because he presses back into you, all the way, at the same time his hand finds your clit. “Do you still think that?”

“No.” Your voice is quiet, shaky.

“No?”

Louder now, “No, nope, not even a little—”

“Glad to hear it.” He starts moving again. It’s slow, and his voice is strained, but he’s moving and his fingers are on you at the same time he’s inside you, and he’s taking advantage of the pace to really focus on what spots he’s angling himself against. “Otherwise I might have gotten offended.”

“Didn’t mean to—okay.” Your elbows are beginning to go the way of your knees, which is to say you lower yourself back down to the table while you are still capable of doing so in a safe and controlled manner. His hand is still wrapped around yours. “Oh God. You can—faster. Faster, please.”

“I will. I just want to get you a little closer.”

“I already—”

“No, that didn’t count.” He is going faster, whether he realizes it or not; and it is getting you closer, which was maybe part of the point. “That didn’t count. I want you to come for me.”

“I did come for you.”

“On me. Around me. That’s what—that’s all I’m waiting for, you just have to—”

It’s working. What he did with his tongue, what he started and finished and started again—you feel it, feel the threads of it, lengthening, growing, sparking again each time he thrusts inside you. 

“Yeah,” you say, because what else can you say. “Yeah. Can you just—” You bite your lip. 

“What?” He’s breathing faster, again, almost panting.

“Your hand,” you manage. “On—on my neck.”

“Your neck?”

You nod against the table.

“Okay.” He doesn’t stop. “Okay. Can you—with your hand—can you keep rubbing yourself? Can you do that for me?”

You are flat against the table. The hand around yours doesn’t loosen at all. With some effort, you move your other hand down, under you, and it brushes his for a moment before he makes way for you, and uses his newly freed hand to reach up and wrap around the back of your neck.

“Like this?’’ he asks. He sounds almost hoarse, though nothing compared to the sound you let out as you nod, clenching around him even tighter than before. “Okay. And don’t stop—your clit—good, that’s good, just—”

His hand tightens around your neck slightly, just on the sides, as he starts fucking you hard, harder than before, hard and fast in a way that is forcing sounds out of you that you cannot control. You try to rub your clit in some approximation of what he was doing, and it’s more slippery than you could have anticipated and your fingers keep grazing his cock as he thrusts into you, and you’re close, you’re close again.

“I—” You make a sound into the table. “I’m.”

“I know.” He doesn’t stop. “I know, I know, I’m here—” 

He squeezes your hand again, and for some reason this is the thing that undoes you.

This orgasm is a different kind of good from the first. That was a sharp, hot, precise flash of pleasure; this time is broader, gentler, warmer. True to his word, he follows almost immediately after, shooting hot inside you, and you are full as you squeeze around him and pant into the table.

You can hear his breathing, too, behind you. You listen to it slow in time with yours.

He squeezes your hand again, this time as a precursor to letting go, and it almost hurts as much as the loss of him pulling out of you. He runs the other hand, the neck one, down your back, smoothing your skirt back down as he goes. There are shuffling sounds—boxers, zipper, belt. You don’t move.

“Hey.” His hand is on your hip again—lighter. Tentative, like he wasn’t just digging into it ninety seconds ago. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” You are still face planted into the table for the same reason as before: if you stand up, you will have to look at him, and why you ever thought that would be easier after he fucked you than before is one of the great mysteries of the universe. “Yeah. That was—I’m just—.” You stand up very abruptly. “Oh my god.”

“What?” He sounds alarmed. 

“I need to lie down.”

“Are you dizzy?” He sounds even more alarmed. “Are you—the couch, is the couch okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine, the couch is fine but, do you have a towel, it’s just—I need to lie down for twenty minutes,” you say, apologetically as you can muster. He crosses a step to the kitchen, and grabs a towel, and tosses it to you. You catch it without looking at him, and you waddle over to the couch in the unsexiest manner possible, where you proceed to put the towel on top of a pillow and lie down with the pillow under your hips. Your skirt flips back up. You cross your legs as though it will help. It really doesn’t. “I completely forgot. Just so it doesn’t—you know.”

A pause. “So it doesn’t what?”

You look at him. In very short order he has gone from sounding alarmed to wearing a poorly-hidden smirk.

You narrow your eyes at him. “You know.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I do. I think. But I kind of want to hear you say it.”

You purse your lips. You stare at the ceiling, then look back at him, then back at the ceiling, then at the insides of your hands. “So it doesn’t leak out,” you say, muffled against your palms. “There. I said it.”

“You did,” he says, sounding annoyingly pleased.

“Are you happy now?”

“Very.” His voice is getting closer.

When you open your eyes again, he’s standing over you. You frown, and push his face away with both hands. “I hate you.”

“I know.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I know.”

“I can’t believe I left my underwear in the car.”

“Why did you do that?” he says, sounding equal parts delighted and bewildered.

“I don’t know,” you wail, except you can’t help but laugh with him. “It just seemed like something people do!”

“What people?” His voice is further away now, like he’s leaving the room, and there’s a vague sound of drawers being open and shut. “Internet people? Is this a porn thing I don’t know about? Because porn is not supposed to be a good representation of real life, you know, that’s a specific thing I have to say in the sex ed unit. I have to say that. To a room full of eighth graders.” A drawer shuts. “Is porn where you got the table idea from?”

“No,” you say miserably, back into your hands. You aren’t sure if he can hear you, and you don’t care. “That was all me.”

A piece of fabric hits the back of your hands. You pick it up, to look at it. Boxers. White. Black text on the band. 

“For you,” he says. “They’re clean.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You look at them a moment more, then pull them on. “You know, I really wasn’t expecting this from you.”

“Okay,” he says, leaving to the kitchen. “So what I’m hearing is that first, you thought I’d be the guy who would finish having sex and kick you out within fifteen minutes—still not over that, by the way—and then you also thought I’d let you leak in misery on the couch? For another twenty minutes? And I was still your first choice of sperm donor? Because if that’s the case, we need to have a serious chat about your taste in sexual partners.”

“You can connect with Olya about that. I think she already had an intervention planned.” You pull the waistband of the underwear out, then release, letting it snap against your waist. “But I was talking about the Calvins. I kind of assumed there’d be, like, little Bunsen burners around the band. Or some kind of day-of-the-week situation.”

“The Bunsen burners are my Thursday pair,” he says, emerging from the kitchen with a glass of water. He passes it to you before plopping down on the floor next to the couch.

You take a sip. “What are you doing?”

“Sitting. Next to you.”

“It looks like you’re lying down.”

He is, in fact, flat on the carpet without so much as a pillow. “Yeah. Next to you. Is that allowed?”

“Of course it’s allowed, it’s your house. I just don’t want to stop you from doing the things you need to do.”

“What do I need to do?”

“I don’t know. Put your cold Chinese food in the fridge?”

“I did that already.”

“Oh.” You take another sip. “Prepare for parent teacher conferences?”

“I did that already. At school. It’s mostly the same every time. Parents agree. Parents disagree.”

“Parents hit on you,” you continue for him.

His face turns a little pink. “Sometimes, yeah.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course they do.”

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“I literally said of course they do. Because of course they do.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re. You know.” You look at him—messy hair, messy glasses, messy smile—and then determinedly back at the ceiling. “You’re not completely horrible to look at.”

“Wow. And this is you after two orgasms.”

“That was a nice thing! I said a nice thing!”

“You’re in my house, wearing my boxers—”

“Yes, your Bunsen-burner-less boxers. I’ll have to plan around Thursdays, going forward.”

“Going forward?” he says.

You freeze. You do not look at him. “If it’s not too much of an imposition,” you say carefully—and then you are immediately cut off by his hand smushing your face.

“It’s not an imposition,” he says. “It is absolutely not an imposition. We can do this as much as you want.”

“Mmph,” you say.

He pulls his hand back. You look at him. “I just didn’t want to assume,” he says.

You stare. Messy glasses, hair, smile—you look back at the glass. “Like you said, this is me after two orgasms.” You are very interested in the glass and, furthermore, the water inside it. “Which was, for the record, not the point.”

“Of course it’s the point.”

“But like, okay, if we were doing this with a turkey baster, that wouldn’t even be a concern—”

“Well, we aren’t doing this with a turkey baster. I made it very clear that it was on you to provide the turkey baster, and you didn’t, so—”

You shove the water at him, if only to shut him up, but you’re grinning. He’s also grinning. You take the water back, and struggle to take a sip, because it is significantly emptier and you are still flat on your back.

He stands up. “C’mere,” he says. He helps you sit up, and then sits down where your head was, letting you lay back in his lap. “Is this okay? If I sit here?”

“It’s your house, Ryland, you can sit wherever you want—” He pinches your nose. You glare up at him. He smiles pleasantly down at you. “Yes. Idds fide,” you say. “Awesobe. Really.”

He releases your nose, and runs a hand back through your hair. Your eyes shut automatically.

“But seriously,” he says. “Was that—was there anything bad? Anything you didn’t like? I’m very open to notes. For next time. Since there’s going to be a next time.”

“It was all good,” you say. You think it might be the first time you’ve said that to a guy and honestly meant it. “The whole thing.”

“That can’t be true.”

You open one eye. “Are you calling me a liar?” The other eye opens. “Or, wait, was it bad for you?”

“What? No.”

“I mean it. I am also open to feedback, and I know I was being super weird at the beginning, I was just, like you said, I was nervous, but I can be so much more normal next time—”

“You were perfect,” he says, at the same time he runs a hand back over your head. “And, sure, I’d prefer if you weren’t that nervous all the time, but that’s because I don’t want to be doing things that make you nervous. So if I am—”

“You weren’t. It’s just you.”

As in, there’s nothing you could have done better. As in, you make me nervous just existing. As in, I’ve thought you were perfect since we were in elementary school, and I know you don’t mean it back the same way but if you were going to say it at all I wish it had been sooner than this.

He smiles. “Yeah,” he says softly. “It’s just me. And it’s just you. So there’s nothing to be nervous about, yeah?”

“Mm.” You let your eyes close back shut as you turn your head, snuggling more firmly into his lap. He makes a noise that sounds like a wince, and shifts beneath you, and you look back up at him. “Sorry. Did I—”

“Nope,” he says. His voice is definitely strained. “No. You’re fine. I just. Has it been twenty minutes yet?”

You look at him. Then you look at his lap. Then you look back at him. “Already?”

“Yeah, I think. I think it’s been about twenty minutes.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s been less.”

“Has it been an amount of time that would qualify as going forward?” he asks. Then: “We don’t have to, if you’re not up to it.”

You make a show of genuinely considering. “I am a little sore.”

“Right. That, that makes sense.”

“But not that sore.” You meet his gaze. “And probably going again is good. Statistically.”

He nods as you sit up and put the water down on the coffee table. He keeps nodding as you begin to shimmy off his underwear, his own hands going back to deal with his belt and his zipper and all. “Yeah. Better odds, definitely better. The numbers alone. If you’re sore, do you want to be on top this time? So you can have more control over how—”

"Right. I just feel like, is that counterproductive? Like, I spent all that time on my back, just to let gravity..."

“I’ll—” His mouth clamps shut. “Nope.”

You stare at him. In years and years, in decades, you’ve never known any version of Ryland Grace to do anything but say exactly what he thinks, exactly at the speed he thinks it. “What was that.”

“I was just about to say the worst thing I've ever thought."

"What."

"You'll leave if I tell you."

"What?"

"I was going to say, I'll plug you up."

You’re not smiling. Really, you’re not. It’s just that the corners of your mouth are pulling so far up and out that it’s hurting your cheeks. “Oh my god."

"I know."

"That's terrible.”

"I told you!"

“Like I’m, what, a sink? A power socket?” His face is too buried in his hands to allow anything but a muffled groan in response. You grin. He is somehow, in spite of all of this, still hard. “If you wanted me to leave you could have just said so."

“I don’t—”

"Hey, signal received, loud and clear. I’ll just—” You stand, and turn to the door. You mean it as a joke. It doesn’t matter, though, because you don’t get that far before he catches your wrist and tugs you back.

It only takes two or three movements for you to straddle him.

All at once your field of vision is very full of nothing but messy hair, and eyes bright behind his glasses, and his stupid perfect nose, and his mouth—

"We can't kiss," you blurt out.

He blinks. His face stays still otherwise. “Okay.”

"It's a rule I have. For hookups. No kissing on the mouth.” At the word mouth, his eyes drop to yours, which is fine, that’s normal, you can’t just tell someone not to think of an elephant. But the thought of him thinking about kissing you makes you dizzy enough that you rush to continue, “Everywhere else is fine, though."

You are not a good liar. He is an even worse liar, which might be the only way you get away with this. He also might be justifiably distracted by the fact that the entire naked length of him is pressed up against the entire naked length of you, and you are wetter than before from his mouth and from two orgasms and from him leaking out of you.

"Everywhere else?" he asks.

You nod. 

“Here?” His hand is warm against the back of your neck as he drags his thumb back and forth across your neck, just below your ear. 

When you nod, he follows with his mouth.

He continues lower, fingers and then lips, to your shoulder—“Here?”—your sternum—“Here?”—and then his hand is cupping your breast over your dress—“Here?”—at which point your nodding becomes frantic. You dip your shoulder, helping him push down the strap and the neckline until he’s able to dip into your bra and free you and drag a tongue across the curve, closing his mouth around your nipple as you wrap an arm around his head and press him to you and wind your fingers into his hair. 

He sucks harder, harder, until the pleasure has a sting to it. You tug at his hair. He relents, pulling away only to replace his mouth with his hand, his thumb, back and forth as he laughs into your neck.

“You’re so,” he starts, then pauses to press his hips more firmly into you, then huffs out another laugh, low and disbelieving. “The sounds you make.”

Your face heats up. “Sorry,” you mumble into the side of his head.

“No. Don’t you dare. They’re great sounds. Excellent sounds. Very helpful.” You throb against him at that, and he must feel it, because his next laugh chokes off. “Can I—are you—inside?”

“Inside,” you agree, a little breathlessly. You lift your hips just enough to line him up to you, and there’s a genuine pang in your chest from how badly you want to kiss him—

—but then he’s inside you, and inside you and inside you and inside you, taking up so much space that you don’t have any left for silly things like regret.

His mouth is back on your chest, your collar, pushing down your dress on the other side. You’re struck with—something. Jealousy, maybe. Your hands loosen from their death grip on his shoulders to grab at his shirt, the buttons, greedy, frantic. “Can I—”

You’re clumsy with the buttons, so he comes to your rescue. He’s somehow even worse. Between the two of you, you manage to fumble a few open, and having those few inches of chest-to-chest contact when you bury your head back in his neck feels nothing short of religious. 

Aside from minute adjustments of the hips, and a twitch inside you, he’s trying very hard to be still. You can tell its an effort because, when you finally move, lifting up slowly on shaky legs, his fingers tighten on your hips. You sink back onto him with a slow, intentional breath.

“Good?” he asks into your jugular. “It doesn’t hurt?”

“No.”

It does. But it’s a low, quiet ache, a base note of soreness that only intensifies the pleasure, until your thighs give out and you lower yourself back down more quickly than planned, and the hit of him against your cervix makes you yelp. “A little,” you amend.

“Sorry!” He sounds panicked, which is so endearing it almost makes you forget about the pain. His hands visit lower on your hips, cupping your ass, helping you lift up a little as he presses his hips down and away from you, and a sound escapes you that has nothing to do with pain or soreness and everything to do with the drag of him inside you. “Sorry, sorry. Is that—we should stop. Let’s stop.”

Now it’s your turn to panic. “No. No stopping.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. It’s all right if you do.”

“It is absolutely not all right, that’s—”

“I like it,” you admit, and when he looks up you force yourself not to close your eyes or look away. Whatever sentence he was in the middle of dies on his lips. You need to stop looking at his lips.

“Oh,” he says.

“It feels good.” You watch him watching you. “I want to be a little sore. I want to be able to remember you were inside me.”

That last part slips out on accident, and you have a front row seat to watch it land.

His eyes are bright behind the glasses (crooked, smudged, a little foggy), but there’s a stillness to his expression overall, like he’s trying very carefully not to scare off an endangered animal, except for a tiny little twitch at the corner of his mouth, and you want to kiss the corner of his mouth so now you do have to close your eyes.

The next two seconds feel like they last about an hour.

“Okay,” he says, like he’s still thinking it over as he says it, and then, more resolutely: “Okay.”

Something unties in your chest. You open your eyes, and see him looking at you like—like—you can’t examine that expression too closely, actually. If you think about that expression too much you are going to start having all kinds of other thoughts you aren’t allowed to have. “Okay?”

“But we go slow.”

“Slow is good.”

“And if it starts to—if it hurts in a way that doesn’t feel good, we stop. Tell me right away, and we’ll stop.”

“I will,” you agree, already shifting your hips a bit in his hands to press back against him. You don’t take him all the way down to the hilt. Almost, but not quite. You feel him press against the back of you, and you let yourself sink down just a millimeter more, earning that bit of pain, the sweet ache, before nodding. “There.” Your eyes flutter shut, your head tipping down. “Until there is good.”

He nods. His forehead is pressed to yours—not on purpose, you think, that’s just how your head fell, that’s out of your control—and you’re breathing the same air, and you honestly deserve a Nobel for not closing those last few centimeters.

“Good.” His voice has dropped about an octave.

You clench around him, and you feel his thighs flex, under yours, through his pants, as he presumably fights the urge to thrust up into you.

“Sorry,” he says, which confirms it. You feel the tip of his nose travel up across your forehead, followed by his lips, ending at your hairline. “We’re going slow. I want to go slow. It’s good that we’re going slow. I can kiss you here?”

“Yes.” He presses his mouth more firmly against your head, and you angle your face into his neck. “We don’t actually have to go that slow.”

“It’s good,” he repeats, like he’s trying to convince himself, “that we’re going slow.”

“But your food. It’ll get cold. It’s probably already cold.”

“I have a microwave. A great one.”

“Mmhm.”

“Actually it’s just okay, you remember, it’s the same one, I think it’s probably been here since the Cold War—” You laugh again, which makes you pulse around him again, and he lets out a shaky exhale. “Have I mentioned how glad I am that we’re going slow.”

“Once or twice.”

“Great, great. Good. Just wanted to make sure you got that. On the record. In your records. One of them. Both. Either. And it doesn’t hurt.”

“Not in any way I don’t like.”

He makes a sound into your hair that could best be described as tortured. His fingers are tight on your hips, digging. You know that it’s just practical, that he’s mostly doing it to help support your weight so that you don’t move too fast, don’t hurt yourself again. You are still hopeful of bruises tomorrow. You are also hopeful that he’ll fuck you properly sometime in the next ten seconds, because if he doesn’t you might die.

“You don’t have to hold back” you say. “I mean it. As fast as you need. As hard as you need.”

A pause. Then he guides your hips forward—not deeper, but closer, flush against him, and the pressure takes you by surprise, and you whimper.

“You get to feel good too,” he says. “You said whatever I need, right? Anything I want?”

“Mmhm.” He moves you, and you let him. “Mmhm.”

“Right. Not too deep,” His mouth finds its way back to your neck, just below your ear, and you keep rocking against him in that heavy, unrushed rhythm, your clit pressed back and forth against his stomach where his shirt has ridden up. “Not running anywhere, just this, just—” You pulse around him, and his voice breaks. “— just like that. Need to hear you make those pretty noises while you squeeze down on me.”

“Ry—”

“You want me to fill you up, right, you want me to put a baby in you, that’s the whole point, and I want to, I’m going to, I just—then I need to feel you—need you to feel good. Need you to come again.”

“Ryland.”

“You can do that for me, right, you can, you can, it’s only fair.”

You don’t know how long you stay like this. It’s slower than you wanted, but exactly as fast as you need, and he is patient, steady, even as the monologue runs away from him and he begins babbling nonsense into your ear. Or maybe he’s making perfect sense. You think you hear your name a few times, but who even knows anymore. You’re pretty sure you’ve lost the ability to process language.

He lets go of your hips on one side to get a hand back on your chest, gentle, rolling your nipple between forefinger and thumb. You bury your face in his neck, and then make some effort to lift it back up, until you are practically cheek to cheek.

“It’s only fair, you have your rule, I have mine,” he says. You don’t even know what he’s talking about. You’re not sure he does, either. His mouth is next to your mouth, level, along the same plane, and it would be so easy, nothing at all, to turn your head and—

And then his mouth moves higher, to your eyes, next to your eyes, and he’s saying, “Here, is here okay, can I kiss you here, can I please kiss you here.”

You make some sort of noise of agreement, so far past words you don’t know if you could produce a full sentence if you tried.

The moment he has your permission, he turns his head just the slightest bit to properly press his mouth against your temple, and he keeps it there while he crushes you to his chest with one arm around your waist, keeping the pressure of his pelvis against your clit,  and every sound he makes vibrates through your skull as he finishes inside you.

Neither of you moves for a long, long time. Your chest is pressed to his. You could almost swear you feel his heart beat through it, a little faster than yours, a little out of rhythm. 

“Your food is definitely cold,” is the first thing you manage.

“It is,” he agrees. “Because I put it in the fridge.”

“Oh.” The freckles do go down to his shoulders, you see now. You run your finger between them, tracing constellations, up until the place where they disappear under his shirt where you pushed it back. “Wow. When did you do that?”

“Before. After. Between. I told you that. I said it out loud.”

“I forgot.” The comfortable silence returns. You feel his hand, slow up and down your back, and the other in your hair, still, his thumb against your temple. “I probably need to lay down again,” you finally say. “For twenty minutes. I think that’s the rule.”

“Sure. Just one more second.”

“Okay.”

You let several minutes pass.

“I don’t even know why twenty minutes. It seems like an arbitrary amount of time”

“Yeah?” He kisses your temple again—slow, like he’s committing it to memory—and then your jaw, and then your collarbone, and then your neck again, and it tickles and you giggle and while you giggle he finally turns, careful, and lowers you back down to the couch. He pulls out of you, soft, and you’d protest but you are honestly too satisfied down to your bones to do anything but let him. “I thought you did all that research.”

“I did. Nobody on Reddit could agree on a number.”

“You did not just use research and Reddit in the same sentence,” he says, walking back to the kitchen. The sink goes, and then stops. The fridge opens. A bag crinkles on the counter. The chiming of silverware in a drawer, the one to the right of the sink, next to the junk drawer. Your heart feels so full it could burst. Here’s to the things that last.

“Cool it, doc. We can’t all have a fancy degree.”

“You want fried rice, or white?”

“Both.”

“On it. And you literally have a J.D. Juris doctor.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t make me a researcher, it just means I get paid twice as much to do half the work of one.”

“Mean,” he says. You stick a tongue out at him, even though you know he can’t see it. “But fair.”

The microwave goes. You lie back, having pulled his boxers back on, and you update your mental profile of him, this man you’ve known for the better part of thirty-four years.

Ryland Grace is not the kind of guy who has sex and then kicks you out within fifteen minutes.

Ryland Grace is also not the kind of guy who lets you leak in misery on the couch.

Ryland Grace is smart but not obnoxious about it.

“You want something other than water? I guess it’s late for coffee. Or is that one of those things you can’t have? Like alcohol? I did—I haven’t done, like, research, that’s a completely different thing, but I was reading about…”

Ryland Grace is smart but mostly not obnoxious about it.

Ryland Grace prints things out at the library if he’s afraid they’re inappropriate for the school printer

Ryland Grace is the kind of guy who agrees to donate sperm to an old friend without question.

He is tall, and brilliant, and sweet, and funny, and has a great head of hair, and is also built to a crazy degree for someone whose primary form of exercise seems to be biking places.

He’s farsighted, but that means he keeps the glasses on during sex and that honestly has to count as a pro.

He is good in bed, and you get to keep on sleeping with him for as long as it takes for you to get pregnant.

That last part makes you pause.

The as long as it takes part. The part where there’s a guaranteed end date.

Which is your fault, of course, and also entirely by design. Help me have a baby is a very different context than help me have a baby and also we should date. It’s completely different than help me have a baby and also remember that time sixteen years ago when I poured my heart out to you and you—

“There.” He places a coaster on the coffee table, and a steaming plate on top of it. “You don’t have to sit up yet, it’s pretty hot. I just put a little of everything. And it’s definitely a no on the coffee, unless you want decaf, but then I remembered you hate coffee so I just brought more water.”

You take the fork he offers you. “Thanks, Ryland,” you say.

It comes out softer than you meant for it to. He doesn’t notice. He just smiles, and goes back to the kitchen to make himself a plate. You watch him go, and you think:

Ryland Grace is the perfect person for you to have fun with, have a baby with, and then forget about completely.

You can do that. You can totally do that. You just don’t know how you’re going to do that.

But then he comes back with a steaming plate of food of his own, and jokes about burning his tongue, and then immediately burns his tongue, and you laugh at it like a friend would. And, once you’re satisfied that you’ve been on your back enough to be relatively leak-proof, you sit up and race him to see who can finish their noodles the fastest (he lets you win, like he used to when you were kids), and every time you offer to leave he finds some excuse or some question that requires you to stay, until he actually has to leave to avoid being late for work, and you drive home and you shower and you go to sleep in your own bed. And you wake up only thinking about him a little.

‘Mmh- I uh- I’ll be right back,’ Holland mumbled against your kiss-swollen lips, ‘wait there- don’t move-’

His body clumsily moved off the bed until he was stood, stooped over you with lips still attached to yours until you dropped back onto the bed and finally freed him.

‘Don’t be too long, sexy,’ you winked at him as he slinked off toward his adjoining bathroom, and he huffed a faux coy laugh.

What the fuck did he need to go to the bathroom for at this late stage? Maybe it’s where he keeps the condoms, you thought, relaxing against his luxuriously soft pillows. Makes sense, he probably hasn’t used one for a while, what would be the use of keeping them by the bed?

Meanwhile, Holland let out a long, steadying exhale. You hadn’t noticed. Jesus. How he’d got this far without you trying to grope him and realising what was going on (or not going on), he’d no idea, but he’d managed to distract you long enough by pressing his thigh between your legs while kissing you sloppily and needily, and you seemed to drink it up, moaning into his mouth and writhing against him.

Hell, he could feel your heat through his trousers and wondered with a smirk whether he’d need to get this suit dry cleaned and make up an excuse about the mysterious wet patch just above the knee.

Your fingers in his hair were sending shivers down his spine, and heat was pooling in his lower belly, and you kept breathing his name, and it was all so incredibly fucking hot, but for reasons he didn’t want to acknowledge, his dick just wouldn’t respond.

He slipped into the bathroom and clicked the door shut behind him, collapsing against it and closing his eyes. He didn’t bother to switch on the light; he could feel the room spinning, he didn’t need to see it too.

His hand slid down over his flaccid cock, and for a moment, he thought, Pathetic, but then he tried to focus his thoughts back to you. Back to the way your body felt pressed against his, the way you uttered his name like a desperate, horny prayer, how good you’d feel when he finally managed to get it up and bury himself inside you.

He palmed himself over his trousers halfheartedly, knowing deep down it was a lost cause, and with his voice lower than a whisper, he uttered a shaky, ‘March, March, he’s our man! If he can’t do it, no one can. Maaaarch!’

Not even a twitch.

He slid down to the floor and sobbed, banging his head back against the door, and the darkened room turned suddenly darker.

Until the morning, when he found you asleep on the bed, clutching his pillow in lieu of the man himself.

****

‘Wanna taste you-’ Holland slurred against your throat. He wished he could smell you, smell the perfume he could taste, bitter against his tongue, but at least he could bury his face between your thighs and intoxicate himself in you that way.

There was also the small problem of his cock not playing ball again, despite tearing your clothes off, his hands exploring every inch of you, despite you telling him you needed him in that sultry, seductive voice that drove him wild.

He wasn’t going to leave you dissatisfied and alone again, no matter how far gone he was. Not this time. Come on, March.

He felt you nod, heard the desperation in your whine of agreement, and slipped lower, realising as he gripped your thighs to spread them apart that he still had an unlit cigarette propped between his fingers from when you’d kissed him while trying to light said cigarette. Who could blame you for getting distracted by those gorgeous, sparklingly sad eyes and pressing your lips to his instead?

‘Oh shit- give me a second-’ he mumbled, more to himself than to you, but as he moved to drop the cigarette, you grabbed and held his hands firmly against your thighs to stop him moving it away. When he looked up at you, questioning, you reached for the lighter on the nightstand and lit it for him.

‘Carry on,’ you smirked.

Holland swallowed hard. That was the hottest thing you’d ever done. Well, the second hottest, besides actually letting him eat you out whilst smoking, which was about to take first place.

‘Jesus…’

He took a long drag, partly a need, since he hadn’t smoked in a hot fifteen minutes, partly a show for you. He relished in the way you bit your lip as you watched his eyes sliding shut at the brief satisfaction at the nicotine hit. He exhaled slowly too, relishing in it as though it were giving him the pleasure he should be feeling from you.

Fuck. He shouldn't be focusing on that right now. He dragged a soft fingertip through your slick folds and felt you shudder. Taking another drag, he exhaled right at the moment he dove down to wrap his lips around your swollen clit, smoke spreading a tingling warmth around your exposed core.

Somewhere between lapping at your folds and devouring your clit, Holland realised he’d neglected his cigarette and the consequences could be… fuck, stop thinking- just-

Feeling your thighs clench around him, he half-reluctantly pulled back for another drag, and to flick some loose ash into the ashtray by the bed, and you whined in protest, already so close you could feel your bundle of nerves throbbing in the absence of his tongue. Holland sure worked fast, but he was easily distracted, too, and you couldn’t even blame him for this since this was technically your idea.

This time, as he exhaled, his tongue dipped inside, the smoke hot against your cooling slick as it swirled back out of your entrance and up around your folds, and, admiring the combination for moment, Holland licked a stripe right up to your clit to start right back where he’d left off.

He carefully slid a finger inside this time, too, surprisingly delicate in his movements as he beckoned, stroking that spot inside you that made your toes curl so precisely as his mouth took care of the rest.

Jesus, he sure knows his way around down there- 

‘Fuck- f-fuck- Holland-!’

Your climax was so close you could practically taste it, and so could he, but there was the small complication of his cigarette still burning by your thigh.

Hips rolling to rut against his tongue as he lapped eagerly, fingerfucking you with enthusiastic vigour, your back arched off the bed and your fingers found their way into his messy sun-kissed hair, and just as your breath turned ragged, he pulled away again for another nicotine hit.

Not only did he leave you exposed to the cold air without his mouth covering you, but his finger apparently couldn’t continue to fuck into you while he was focussing on the cigarette, either. He’d never been great at multitasking and obviously the Camel was just too delicious to try. Fucking hell.

‘Tease,’ you groaned weakly, and Holland, sobering slightly (only very slightly, and very, very briefly) finally realised what this was doing to you and shoved the end of the cigarette into the ashtray, diving back down to finish the job properly, almost choking on the combination of smoke and pussy in the process. God, it tasted incredible together and he was so into it that it took no time at all for you to get that simmering feeling right back.

He felt your orgasm approach, and then shake through your body, felt you turn limp after the high subsided, and carried on for a while, softer and slower, until your thighs were clamping around his head again with oversensitivity and he ate you like a man possessed once again.

Just as your second orgasm approached, Holland seemed to slow, so you jerked your hips to spur him on, but suddenly he felt heavier too, and when you called his name in frustration, he didn’t answer.

You guessed he’d finally passed out, and propped yourself up on your elbows. You inadvertently slid your folds over his handsome nose as you manoeuvred, gasping at the sensation which, although subtle, tipped you over the edge. Your breath caught and your blood boiled and every fibre of you trembled with pleasure you hadn’t expected. 

His finger, although still, was still firmly thrust inside you and your walls clenched hard around it as you slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from yelling out and waking him.

Jesus… I’m gonna have to ride that nose for real, you mused when your thoughts turned coherent again, and then you began the process of sliding out from beneath him and dragging his messy, half-dressed form further up the bed and onto his pillow for some rest.

You cleaned yourself up before sinking into bed beside him to sleep, but you left his moustache soaked with your essence. You knew it would drive him wild in the morning, and maybe it would be the push he needed to finally chase his own pleasure.

****

It wasn’t.

He woke to you suckling at his neck, your arm thrown around his waist from behind, fingers toying with the waistband of his trousers.

His head was pounding when he woke, and with just one eye half open, he turned into you, a big dumb smile pulling at his lips.

His lips felt dry so without even thinking he licked them, tasting you immediately and groaning.

‘You taste incredible, you know that?’ he croaked, your fingers now working on the button of his fly.

Holland had absolutely no recollection of how last night ended. He could taste you, sure, but he barely remembered how he’d ended up in bed with you this time. He was a detective after all, though, and what kind of lousy detective would wake up with their lover wrapped around them, fingers teasing at their belly, their taste fresh on his lips, and not put together that he must have spent some time downtown? 

And you did taste delicious. Fuck, he really wished he could smell you.

He wanted you. He needed you. Since the moment you’d laid eyes on one another. And right now, he was so thankful to wake up with you already trying to satisfy him despite what a mess he probably looked. And yet, as usual, he couldn’t perform. 

‘Wait-’ he breathed, hand flying down to wrap around your wrist and gently ease you out of his trousers before you actually felt how soft he was.

‘What’s wrong, baby?’

Holland’s eyes snapped shut, his hand dropping yours to press his fingers into his eyelids instead.

He knew this would be it. 

‘I- I can’t-’ he tried, gesturing vaguely to his cock. ‘It’s not your fault. I just- I can’t-’

He cut himself off with a dramatic, choked out sob, and scrambled for a cigarette on the nightstand. There was only an empty packet and he dropped himself back onto the bed, whimpering, shoulders shaking as tears began to roll down his cheeks.

‘Fuck! I’m pathetic, I’m-’

He felt the mattress bounce as you moved away and whimpered, knowing he’d likely never see you again.

He did, though. A split second later when you sat cross legged beside him and popped a cigarette between his lips, offering a light, which he gratefully accepted.

The first inhale relaxed him more than he could comprehend, and he shuffled up to sit against the headboard, trying to steady his breathing.

‘Thank you,’ he said huskily. He meant it as gratitude for not leaving, but you handing him a cigarette masked thay enough for him not to feel more pathetic than he already did.

You placed a hand on his thigh. It wasn’t suggestive of anything other than comfort, and he appreciated that.

‘Take your time, ok?’

His brow furrowed, but he nodded anyway. Why would you wait for him?

‘Besides, when you eat me out like that, I’m hardly in a rush,’ you smiled, playfully.

Holland managed a small smile at that too.

‘That’s the March Magic,’ he muttered.

‘Oh, so that’s what you call it?’

‘Call what?’

‘Shotgun kissing my-’ you pointed between your legs.

‘I did what?!’

‘You don’t remember? Jesus. It was good, anyway. You’re good, March. And I’m sure when you’re ready, your cock will be just as delicious.’ 

He turned weak at your choice of words, turning temporarily dizzy as you absentmindedly licked your lips.

‘Wanna kiss me? Just kissing. Nothing else this time, ok?’

He whined and nodded again, leaning forward to enjoy the most tender kiss he could remember since- well. For a while.

You could taste yourself on him, but not for long as your mouth filled with his second hand smoke and you choked a little. You kept your lips pressed to his, though, tongues sliding together sweetly, with no expectations beyond this simple affection.

You felt your own cheeks grow damp and knew he was crying again. But you didn’t stop. He needed this, you realised, and you were more than willing to give him whatever he needed right now.

‘March,’ you whispered when you eventually pulled back for breath.

‘Mmh?’

‘How about you get yourself cleaned up while I run out to grab us some lunch? I can run you a bath?’

‘Yeah,’ he sighed, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Yeah that would be really fucking good actually.’

****

‘That one’s a keeper.’

‘Huh?’ March was trying to get to sleep, but his mind was whirring with thoughts of how you’d cared for him today.

How you’d washed his hair after he sunk into the warm water, covered by bubbles, laid him some fresh clothes out for him, shared a nice lunch together, and spent the afternoon watching a movie and laughing and kissing. 

He hadn’t thought about his little problem all night, and you were to thank for that. 

He was pretty sure he was falling in love actually, and his thoughts were so occupied with the joy and despair that came along with that old, familiar feeling reigniting inside him, that he couldn’t fall asleep. The fact that he’d barely drank a thing today probably contributed to that too.

Maybe he should-

‘Don’t even think about it.’

That voice again. Who the fuck-

Holland turned, frowning to find his old pal, Bumble wedged right between you and him, hogging the covers.

‘Bumble. What do you want?’

Bumble took a long drag of his cigarette. 

‘Listen, I’m telling you — that one’s a keeper.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I’ve been stuck on. You really think so?’

‘You can’t even fuck and you’ve got room service and cigarettes being lit for you and kisses on tap. Yeah I think so.’

‘That’s not why I lov- I mean-’

Bumble chuckled. Holland frowned.

‘You worked the March Magic, huh?’

‘How do you know about- what? No. I mean. I- yeah but that’s not-’

‘Look, March, when killer bees fuck, the bee with the dick usually dies. You get to cum and live to tell the tale! You’ll be fine. You just gotta relax.’

Holland felt hazy. This was almost too much information to take in. But he remembered the relaxing part. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Just take it easy. Your dick’ll be hard in no time. Night.’ 

‘Night, Bumble. Thanks for the pep talk.’

Holland yawned, and Bumble was gone.

****

Holland shifted in the warmth of the morning light. Something was off.

He stretched his legs and rolled onto his back to look at you, see if you were awake yet, see if he could figure out why he felt kind of… weird.

You were sleeping soundly beside him, your arm still draped over his middle beneath the sheets. Nothing unusual there, over the last couple of months you’d come to stay over with him more nights than not when he wasn’t working a case, and even then he’d sometimes find you in his bed when he returned home, and thanks to this he’d actually slept in his bed instead of finding a spot somewhere he felt safe. You’d made bed safe. You’d made him feel safe.

He smiled at the thought, and tried to shift his focus onto this feeling he was trying to place. It must be early – he’d not woken up before 10am for as long as he could remember and the clock on the dresser said 08:07.

He propped himself up to take a look around the room and actually screamed when he saw the huge tent formed in the sheets between his legs.

Jaw dropping, Holland fell back onto his pillow, muttering wildly, ‘Am I dreaming? Jesus, am I actually hard? Is this real?!’ 

He poised his thumb and forefinger over his other forearm and laughed, loudly and heartily, pinching his arm so hard he hurt himself and let out a little yelp mid giggle. It was real! He was awake, and he was hard.

Head spinning, Holland called your name in an excited whisper at first, turning himself to lay face to face with you and careful not to accidentally prod you with his raging hard on. What a nice problem to have to worry about! He let out a little, ‘Ha!’ at the thought.

He called your name again, louder this time, gently gripping your shoulder in sheer excitement. He hadn’t even considered yet that you’d want to actually do anything with his boner. He was just so thrilled that his dick still worked, he wanted to share it with the whole world. There was even a fleeting moment that he considered calling Healy, but he shook the thought from his head and tried to focus.

When your eyes blinked open, although taken aback that he was awake before you, you automatically smiled at his gleeful face and leant forward to kiss him, but in the buzz of excitement, he completely missed his cue and rolled away to demonstrate the tent in the sheets once again.

‘Look! It works! Ha! It really works!’

‘Jesus…’ you breathed, propping yourself up to get a good look at the size of him. ‘Holland… that’s so great, baby, I knew you could do it!’

‘It’s all thanks to Bumble!’ he smiled like an idiot. You didn’t ask.

Giddy, you sang out his little mantra; ‘March, March, he’s our man! If he can’t do it no one can! Maaaarch-mmh!’

His lips joined with yours then, cutting you off until he pulled back to get another look at the magnificent sight of his dick in full working order.

‘Holland…’ you started, and he hummed in your direction. ‘May I… touch you?’

All of the breath seemed to exit his body like a juice box being crushed underfoot. He wheezed out a, ‘Yes- please!’ followed by a slightly more coherent, ‘Touch- lick- anything. Go nuts!’

You slipped your hand back to his stomach, gradually pushing lower until you reached the waistband of his pyjamas (another new development; he wasn’t sleeping in his suits nearly as much these days).

‘Holland, are you sure you’re ready?’

‘I’ve been ready for months,’ he sighed, ‘it’s just a shame my schwanz has taken this long to catch up. Listen, I-’

‘It’s alright,’ you stopped him, feeling his body tense up, knowing where his thoughts were going. ‘I know it might be… quick. I don’t mind. Actually it’s kind of hot…’

Holland relaxed. Jesus, why did you have to be so understanding – and in such a sexy way? It was jarring. It felt nice. It made him fall for you all the more, and knew then that Bumble had been right about you. Holland had no intention of losing you.

Your fingers ghosted over his tip, and your palm slid down to feel out the length of him before you wrapped your fingers carefully around the base and pumped slowly. You planned to learn his body like he was learning yours, to memorise every response your touch elicited, know every trick in the book to drive him wild.

You glanced up from the hypnotising view of your hand stroking him beneath the sheets to see his face already slack with pleasure, mouth agape and eyes shut in bliss. Jesus, he was receptive. Delicious.

You moved your hand up to swipe your thumb over the tip, and discovered that not only did it cause his hips to buck, but there was already a thick bead of precum waiting for you there. 

He was moaning almost nonstop at this point. Your fist moved faster and Holland began to writhe. Actually writhe beneath you – legs trembling, toes curling, didn’t have a clue what to do with his limbs, or his hands; other than try and grasp at the bedding.

‘Jesus! F-fuck! Oh!’ he cried, loud and desperate, and you were so tempted to bring him off like this, to pump him furiously until he stained the sheets, but equally you craved more.

You wouldn’t ever say this to him, but the thought wouldn’t leave you alone; what if he couldn’t get it up again for a good couple of months and you’d passed up the chance to taste him when it was given so beautifully to you? No. You had to grasp this opportunity with both hands. Or, as the case may be, with one hand and your mouth.

Keeping your movements steady, you shuffled down, pushing the covers lower, too, and got your first proper look at his hard cock. It was quite the sight; as long and thick as it felt, handsome, steadily leaking – fit to burst actually. 

You wasted no more time, carefully kissing his tip first, slowing your hand a little to test the waters without overwhelming him, and he whimpered so prettily you almost lost composure.

As your lips wrapped around his tip and you sank down lower, sucking, swirling your tongue, keeping your hand pumping fast where he wouldn’t fit, you suddenly felt bitter heat coating your tongue.

Not just coating your tongue, filling your mouth. You did your best to keep going, to suck and lap and massage him through his peak, but it wasn’t just his drawn out screech of pleasure that was distracting you, it was the amount of cum he was still spilling all the while. Despite swallowing down what you could of the never ending hot rope, choking a little on the sheer volume, it still dribbled out past your lips, dripping onto his legs and stomach and the surrounding sheets that he was balling into tight fists.

When you emerged from the mess to crawl up over him and check he was doing ok, you were faced with the most blissed out, fucked out, sated, dumb smile you’d ever seen on his handsome face. He’s never looked more peaceful, and, as much as your core was throbbing after what you’d just done, you wanted more than anything to let him rest.

So you did. You settled on his chest, not caring about the stickiness drying between your flush bodies or around your lips, and listened to his heart, steady in his chest.

‘Fuck,’ he whispered after a long pause. ‘That was- fuck…’

You smiled to yourself, sure that after so long, anything he could get would have felt incredible, but you still took a little pride in the fact that you were the one to experience it with him.

‘You want me to make breakfast?’ you offered gently.

‘I want you to be my breakfast, does that count?’ he smirked.

‘No, Holland, I just want you to enjoy the moment. Don’t worry about me.’

‘Oh, I’m not worried.’

Holland shifted beneath you and you felt the beginnings of another erection stiffening his cock.

Your eyes widened as his opened, and your gazes locked.

‘You fixed it.’

‘Holland, please,’ you laughed. ‘I did not fix your dick.’

‘Of course you did, it’s the only explanation! Anyway, look, do you want to fix its current problem?’ His hips thrust upwards to nudge his now rock hard cock against your thigh to make sure you felt it.

‘Holland, if you’re not fucking me the March way within the next minute, I’m out of here.’

He laughed again and it occurred to you that you’d never spoken to him this early, or heard him laugh so much in a morning.

‘The March way?’ he raised an amused eyebrow at you.

‘Yeah.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’m hoping you’re about to show me.’

to be fair, he had warned you and rocky beforehand that he might get emotional, but you hadn’t expected full-on waterworks.

“wait, wait— this bit,” he whispered urgently, grabbing your arm while pointing at the projector, his temple touching yours. “this is one of the best scenes in cinema.”

“ryland, we're still on the opening credits.”

then, the second julia roberts appeared on screen, he went still. like completely frozen you weren't sure if he was even breathing. then he made a sound. something between a gasp and a sob that tried and failed to stay inside his body.

“oh my god,” he whispered. “that’s her. that’s her.”

you blinked, eyebrows meeting in a knot. “you mean julia roberts?”

he didn’t even look at you. “she’s incredible. do you— do you see her? she’s perfect. julia roberts is objectively—”

by the time ryland moved his eyes from the screen and saw you raising your eyebrows, he stammered. “i— i mean— look, i’m just saying science should study her face.”

you chuckled, more entertained watching ryland's reaction than the film itself. you have always thought of him as the 2001, singin' in the rain type of guy. not notting hill. but you were not complaining.

that was one among many things. the other was when ryland hit pause approximately every six minutes to provide unsolicited facts about the film.

“that’s the real travel bookshop in london.”

pause.

“that line was improvised.”

pause.

“fun fact: hugh grant stammered because—”

pause.

“did you know—”

pause.

“ryland,” you said, nails digging into the outer layer of the popcorn bowl.

“yes?”

“if you pause the film one more time i’m ejecting you into space.”

he actually looked genuinely offended.

by the time julia roberts delivered the iconic line “i'm also just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her”, ryland was openly crying. not just quiet sniffles but full, shoulder-shaking, nose-running tears. he kept wiping his face with the back of his hand, muttering “it's just allergies” while you handed him another tissue and rubbed his back.

in the meantime, rocky watched the whole meltdown with polite confusion, he made some noises that you have rendered as thoughtful hums.

the movie ended. credits played. ryland blew his nose one last time and sighed, all watery and content. "best rom-com ever made. nothing can beat it."

rocky was still seemingly staring toward the screen, then toward ryland, then toward you before his voice came through the translator.

“why male human make many mistakes, question?”

“because he’s british,” ryland muttered quickly.

you laughed.

rocky however, had accepted this as a scientific fact.

the lights had come back, fully lit. the ship humming around you. and rocky was in full interrogation mode.

"why grace face leak water during movie, question? is broken, question? or is this the love thing, question?"

ryland laughed wetly. "it's emotion, rock. humans cry when stuff hits hard. happy cry, sad cry, whatever. that ending…. gets me every time."

"rocky amaze," rocky said, though he sounded more puzzled. “rocky have many question. is okay, question?”

“yeah, buddy. sure, what are they?” you answered.

“why human female cry at end, question? she get male. happy ending. no death. why tears, question?”

ryland laughed again, still dabbing at his eyes. “because it’s beautiful, rocky. it’s about love winning against all odds. the vulnerability, the grand gesture—”

“grand gesture inefficient,” rocky interrupted. “human male could state intention clearly at beginning. save many minute of film. also, why all humans speak so fast, question? rocky understand only sixty-three percent of dialogue.”

you bit your lip to keep from laughing. ryland shot you a mock-offended look, but his puffy eyes ruined the effect.

he looked adorable like this, you thought.

rocky wasn’t done. “conclusion: human love is voluntary madness, question?”

“that is honestly one of the best definitions i’ve heard,” you said, nodding to no one in particular.

“thank.” rocky clicked happily. you grinned.

ryland leaned forward, still emotional. “human love is…. it’s…. it’s everything, rocky. it’s wanting to be with someone, protect them, make them laugh, share your life. it’s scary and messy and the best thing in the universe.”

rocky’s claws tapped thoughtfully against his carapace. “rocky understand. similar to eridian bonding. rocky miss adrian. adrian very good mate. strong claws. excellent at solving differential equations under pressure. adrian once fix life support during solar flare with only three limbs. very impressive.”

ryland nodded solemnly, still wiping his nose. “sounds like a keeper.”

“yes,” rocky agreed. “adrian best. rocky and adrian mate for life. very efficient. just chemical compatibility test and immediate lifelong commitment. much better than human method.”

you chuckled. the contrast between the romantic movie and rocky’s brutal take on human relationships was incredible.

“human female chose grace-movie-human because emotional resonance stronger than status hierarchy, statement.” rocky added.

“hugh grant,” ryland corrected.

“yes. grace-movie-human hugh grant.”

“that's not even—”

rocky went on, ignoring him, “humans perform strange mating rituals. walking in park. staring at each other during rain.”

“it’s a romance film, rocky. it exaggerates.” you said.

“incorrect.”

you frowned. “what?"

“i observe same behavior between you and grace.”

silence.

you blinked. ryland froze. you and ryland glanced toward each other, purely instincts, before quickly turning your heads away.

ryland opened his mouth, then closed it again. “what— what are you talking about, bud?"

rocky turned his head fully toward you and ryland. “rocky observe! both you and grace single. no mate. no offspring planned. wasteful. better to have partner for support.”

your throat suddenly went dry. “uh, rocky—”

“logical solution obvious,” rocky continued, completely serious. “you and grace should mate. immediate. grace cry at romantic film, has strong reproductive drive and emotional capacity. you laugh at grace crying, shows good humor compatibility. both breathe same air, tolerate same gravity. perfect match. rocky approve.”

your face went hot. ryland’s mouth opened and closed like a fish.

“rocky, buddy, that’s not how it works—” ryland started, voice cracking with leftover tears and sudden panic.

“why not, question?” rocky asked, genuinely confused. “human film show this. two lonely human. one grand gesture. mating happen. happy ending. rocky can help with grand gesture. rocky very good at engineering. can build large sign. or small explosive for dramatic effect.”

before you could say anything more, rocky lifted one claw.

“rocky have evidence for human love. evidence one: you save last black human drink for grace.”

“you meant coffee—?”

rocky interrupted you by lifting another claw.

“evidence two: grace give you extra dessert ration pretending accidental.”

“i mean— she loves pudding—”

third claw.

“evidence three: you touch each other many unnecessary times.”

your face went warm. ryland choked.

“we do not—”

rocky cut you off yet again. “correction. grace touch shoulder. arm. back. hair always.”

ryland made a strangled sound. “you remember that?”

“i remember everything, statement.”

“it wasn't even—”

rocky kept going.

“evidence four: when you sleep in command module during bad radiation storm, grace watch you breathe for thirty-seven minutes.”

ryland whipped around. “rocky!”

you turned to ryland almost immediately, faster than the speed of light.

“you watched me sleep?!”

his ears turned pink.

“i— i was checking if you were dead!”

your mouth fell open for a minute. “honestly i don't know if that's sweet or borderline edward cullen-type of creepy.”

“who is edward cullen, question?”

"nobody!” you and ryland answered at the same time.

“romantic,” rocky said as another part of his observation.

“that is not romantic!” you and ryland countered back together again.

“very romantic.” rocky said calmly. “why you two not mate, question?”

“rocky,” ryland sighed, head bobbing down while his hand rubbed the back of his neck, trying to find the right word to explain.

“you can’t just…. suggest that, buddy.” he said carefully, voice cracking just a little.

“why not, question?”

“because that’s not how humans—” he stopped, rubbed his face, then muttered, “oh my god, i’m being out-argued by a space spider.”

rocky, completely serious: “i am not spider. i am rocky.”

then rocky made delighted clicking noises. "you two are alone. no mate. you watch movie together. you make grace leak water. you bring grace extra blanket when he complain about cold. you tease grace when he talk too much about science. this is like movie. you should mate."

ryland looked like he wanted to crawl into the air vent. "rocky—"

"is good plan," rocky continued cheerfully. "you do the hug thing often. you say 'good job' to each other even when not necessary. on erid this means mating time soon. very obvious. why wait, question? humans like waiting too much. inefficient."

your face burned. you tried to laugh it off but this time it came out strangled. the little alien was absolutely not going to let this go. you never seen this kind of determination from rocky before, unless it was about the mission.

"rocky, buddy," ryland managed, voice cracking with a mix of horror and laughter, "that's not— i mean, we're friends. crewmates. get it? CREWMATES. CREW. not…. not mates. not romantic mates. "

"friends who leak water together over love movie," rocky countered, sounding proud of his logic. "friends who fix each other mistakes in calculations. friends who stay up late talking about home. this is romantic in movie. why not in real, question? you both single. no mark to hate here."

ryland groaned and buried his face in his hands. "oh god, not the mark thing again."

“who's mark?”you asked.

“nobody!” ryland answered, a little too fast.

“humans in film.” rocky continued. “they do bonding rituals. this is mating behavior, question?”

ryland choked. “what— no— rocky, no, that’s not—”

but rocky was already continuing, tone unchanged.

“male human watches female human. expression changes. heart rate likely increased. behavior similar to when you observe her.”

there was a pause.

you blinked. “m-me?”

“yes, yes, yes,” rocky repeated simply. “correct classification: bonded partner.”

"oh my god…. oh my god…. oh my god. rocky, i don’t have—”

“incorrect,” rocky interrupted. “you do. you observe her frequently. pupil dilation increases. voice pattern softens. you perform assistance behavior not required for survival.”

you slowly turned your head toward ryland.

he was now the color of a man who had just been scientifically outed for having feelings. he buried his face into his palms. you were willing to bet that his face was just as red as his ears right now. you felt your own heating up as well.

“i do not— i mean— those are just normal— i am a professional!” rylan tried to counter back again. so far you have nothing else to contribute but letting ryland to represent both your sides in this debate.

rocky continued, relentless in his analysis.

“you also share food. sit close. laugh at small noises she makes. this is mating-adjacent behavior.”

"we were trying to ration food—"

“and she reciprocates,” rocky added, now shifting attention to you. “you also exhibit proximity preference toward ryland grace.”

“you do?” ryland suddenly asked, sounded a little too enthusiastic. not at all what you expected.

both of their attention now were on you, and you stammered looking for the right thing to say in order to not make this worse.

“i— i mean—”

“conclusion updated,” rocky interrupted. “you should mate.”

“i haven't even said anything yet!” you countered back.

“rocky have seen enough.”

“rocky,” ryland said weakly. “my guy, please stop doing science at me. i mean us.”

“science is observation.”

“i am being observed incorrectly. i meant we."

rocky continued, undeterred. “also: grace cry when female human appears on screen. this indicate strong attachment response.”

“that was character appreciation!”

“you said ‘she is perfect’ twenty-seven times.”

“that was.… artistic commentary.”

“i mean rocky's right.” you added, shrugging. to be fair, julia roberts was an incredibly charming woman.

“you're making this worse!”

you held up both hands in surrender. “sorry.”

then you made the mistake of looking at him.

he looked back.

and immediately looked away again like he had been caught committing a crime.

“eye contact.” rocky said in a sing-song.

“please stop.”

you glanced at ryland. “he’s not wrong about that one. you do look at me a lot and i don't know why.”

that made him go very still.

the air between you shifted. like something that had always been sitting quietly in the room had finally been named.

ryland swallowed. “yeah,” he said, voice lower. “well. i mean. you’re easy to look at.”

you blinked before letting out a scoff. “huh. wow. okay.”

he immediately panicked. “that came out wrong. not like— scientific observation. not like rocky observation. just— human observation. normal human—”

“ryland.”

he stopped again.

“is this mating behavi—”

“no!” you and ryland said simultaneously.

———————

much later, rocky was curled up in his little ball, lights dimmed for ship-night, his breathing low and rhythmic.

asleep.

you and ryland sat nearby, watching rocky as both of you had promised to him since the first time you met. to be left alone with ryland after what went down in the projector room was as awkward as you had imagined without rocky's usual quips. neither of you had moved for ten minutes, pretending not to replay the entire conversation in your heads.

pretending like your minds were not going back and forth between two "what if he's right" and "what if he's wrong" questions.

what if rocky was right and maybe there was perhaps a little spark there between you and ryland grace? hidden to the two of you but undeniable to the alien?

what if this was just the result of being the only two people from the same species being 11 light years away from home?

perhaps it was the latter. perhaps it was nothing. like who cares if ryland watched you sleep during the radiation storm? you were the pilot, he was the scientist. you two needed one another for this mission, to survive. the coffee/dessert part? just the two of you being polite. the blanket? he was cold. watching movies together? well, who else were you supposed to see them with? and thank goodness rocky wasn't around yet to see you cry against ryland's neck while watching casablanca together. if notting hill was his undoing, yours would be that.

it was probably 10 minutes later when ryland finally muttered a simple “well.”

“well.” you repeated.

and more silence.

“that was…. something. earlier, you know?” he laughed nervously. "crazy."

“did not have a rock alien setting me up on my bingo card this year.” you said.

"i didn't even have "meeting an alien" on my bingo card at all.”

you snorted.

ryland smiled too before looking down. “but do you…. do you think.…”

“think what?”

he rubbed his neck, hesitating. he went quiet for a while before shaking his head. “nothing.”

you watch him momentarily. “ryland.”

he looked up at you, glasses low. his eyes uncertained, more vulnerable than you’d ever seen him.

“did you watch me sleep during the radiation storm?”

a beat.

“a little.”

“a little? for thirty-seven minutes?”

“that number is way too specific.”

you laughed. “maybe rocky exaggerated that part.”

he smiled, then exhaled. “yeah, maybe.”

“but the rest of them are true.” you added.

the ship was quiet again. you looked at him. really looked at him this time. and suddenly he was no longer the awkward, rambling scientist who couldn’t sit through a movie without turning it into a commentary track. not the guy who got emotional over rom-coms and denied it. but the person who had been there through everything. who made you laugh when things got too heavy. who noticed when you were off before you even said anything.

“which part?” he asked, quieter now.

you hesitated, then forced yourself to meet his eyes. “the…. stuff about us. spending time together. looking out for each other. all that.”

he swallowed.

“that’s just…. normal, right?” he said, but there was uncertainty in it now. he didn't even believe what he said.

“is it?” you asked gently. “but it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

he didn’t answer, so you kept going.

“you stay up with me when i can’t sleep,” you said. “even when you’re exhausted. you remember the smallest things about me. stuff i don’t even remember telling you. you—” you stopped yourself, then shook your head a little, smiling faintly. “you always make sure i eat before you do.”

he let out a quiet breath, eyes flicking down.

“you do things too,” he said quickly, almost like he needed to even the scale. “you— you check on me when i get too caught up in work. you bring me those stupid snacks i like even though they’re objectively terrible. you—” he huffed a small, nervous laugh. “you laugh at my jokes. that alone is, like, a huge indicator of something.”

you snorted. “your jokes are funny.”

“they are not funny.”

“they are to me.”

when your eyes meet again, something in his expression shifted. softened. the same way like it had earlier during the movie, but this time it wasn’t directed at a screen.

it was at you.

“….that’s the thing,” he said quietly. “it’s…. different with you.”

your heart skipped.

“different how?” you asked, just as quietly.

he hesitated, like he was choosing his words carefully, or maybe just trying to find them at all.

“i don’t—” he stopped, exhaling. “i don’t feel like i have to be ‘on’ around you. you know? like…. i’m not performing or over-explaining or trying to prove anything. i can just…. be.”

you didn’t realize how much you needed to hear that until he said it.

your voice came out softer than you expected. “you don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“i know,” he said. “that’s…. kind of the point.”

a beat again.

he shifted closer. so close your shoulders touched. your breath hitched, stomach doing that stupid thing again. but neither of you moved away.

“can i ask something stupid?”

you didn't trust yourself to speak so you just nodded.

“if i kissed you right now….” he swallowed. “.…would that ruin everything?”

silence.

your lips parted but not words came out, eyes already flickering to his mouth.

“i guess there’s one way to test that hypothesis.”

he was the one who leaned first, crashing his lips against yours carefully, like one wrong move and everything would be ruined. then he stilled. his lips were softer than you imagine. you felt his hesitations, felt his contemplation, if he should pull away or keep going.

but then he finally moved. slow, testing the waters. you kissed him back, sighing into his mouth a little like you've been waiting months for him to do it. perhaps you had but haven't admitted it to yourself until now.

you felt his hand hover near your face before finally settling to cup your jaw, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you at all, while having his lips on you. like you were the most sacred things in the universe that he wanted to protect.

“excellent.”

“ARGH!!!!”

you flinched at the sudden interruption. ryland automatically jumped from his seat, holding your shoulder and hid behind you.

it was rocky.

and rocky was very much awake.

upright. watching. jazz hands wiggling.

“rocky!” ryland screamed.

“you were not asleep?!” you asked, voice high.

“correct.”

ryland yelped. “were you spying on us?!”

“no.”

pause.

“listening.”

“that IS spying, rocky!" you groaned.

“successful mating initiation.” rocky sounded smug, which should have been impossible for an alien spider.

“oh, jesus.” you hid your face in your palm while ryland slowly sat back down.

“adrian would be pleased.” rocky clicked proudly. “when is the wedding, question?”

"nope! no more questions from you! that’s it. movie nights are cancelled forever,” ryland said, pointing accusingly. “done. over.”

“incorrect,” rocky replied. “more mating films required for further study.”

“conclusion,” rocky continued, completely ignoring him, “mutual romantic interest confirmed. physical interaction increases bonding.”

“stop analyzing us like we're lab experiments!” you said.

“it is a lab experiment,” rocky countered calmly. "rocky will need to see the mating process now.”

“no!”

ryland looked like he was this close from ejecting rocky to outer space. pissed but in an adorable way.

"ryland, ryland. calm down. it's okay." you giggled, hand caressing his chest and kissing his cheek while he was still mock glaring at rocky, just to see something. he went red all over again.

rocky made delighted clicking noises.