Last minute science

Ryland, however, doesn’t account for the unpredictability of Tom Ryder, the same man who had acted up and chanced an opportunity for Colt to visit his brother that one fateful day he’d finally confessed to you.

Tom Ryder, who he’s about to find out, has once again struck. Because of course he would. Of course, the world would transpire against him to accidentally summon a disaster that is patiently waiting for him.

He finally steps in, taking your coat from you and setting it beside his. He’s blinded for a second that another coat seems to be hanging innocently by their door. He’s just thinking about how your future apartment would look with your smaller coat beside his bigger one.

Perhaps, he was at fault for not noticing the signs of another person in the apartment.

“I’ll just reheat these, okay? Don’t miss me too much.” Ryland is looking at you, lifting the containers of takeout he’s balancing in his arms. And you roll your eyes fondly at your boyfriend, nodding your head.

“And please, sit. Feel at home, baby.”

Ryland is invincible. He’s having his moment with his girlfriend sitting on his couch, and—

A voice drifts from somewhere deeper in the apartment.

"Hey Ry? Did you eat the leftovers from…"

That voice is not supposed to be there.

The man that has emerged from his room and is now standing in the hallway is also not supposed to be there.

But there he is, anyway. Tall, broad-shouldered, and identically handsome to your boyfriend.

Though, he’s a little more rough around the edges. There are bruises and cuts to him that are indicative of another life. Far from your boyfriend’s life that is tucked in the safety of the four corners of a classroom (aside from the very threatening children he deals with).

Everyone in the room freezes.

It’s comical the way all of you stand within a distance from each other, eyes darting back and forth like watching a table-tennis match.

Ryland. You. Colt. Back and forth and back and forth.

It’s like the whole apartment decides to collectively stop functioning at such unpredictability, at the unexpectedness of suddenly meeting the only other person of importance in Ryland’s life.

(All thanks to Tom Ryder, who has sent the entire crew home early because he couldn’t find his phone.)

And then, after a comedic minute of complete and utter silence, Colt finally cuts through the deafening air.

His hand has lifted from where they were running through his hair earlier. Now, it’s pointing directly at you. “You.”

“Me.”

Ryland cannot stop the situation. Cannot do anything to break against the chains of what his brother is about to do.

He is no longer invincible. He is standing in between his twin brother and his girlfriend, and he knows there is no outcome of this meeting where he isn’t at a loss. Colt knows too much. Too much information you’re not aware of.

“You’re the girlfriend.” He’s still stunned, which is a surprising emotion to ever bewitch him knowing that he does stuntwork for a living. Nothing surprises him anymore, but apparently you, sitting on their apartment’s couch, really does the work.

Then, he looks at Ryland, outstretching his arm further to really point at you now. “That’s her.”

There is a particular ecstatic tone when he says the first word.

“Colt, let’s think about this for a moment.” A plea is escaping Ryland’s mouth that is going ignored because Colt is immediately talking over him.

"Oh my god.” His voice is an octave higher. He’s clearly excited. ”I’m finally meeting your girlfriend after you’ve denied me so many times."

"What are you even doing here?! You’re supposed to be at work!”

Ryland is still ignored. Colt is too fascinated by you.

"So, you’re the one who takes her coffee with too much creamer."

You stare, dumbfounded at the situation that you’re subjected to. And how odd it was that your boyfriend’s lookalike is reciting your coffee order to you.

"You know how I take my coffee?"

“Of course I do!”

Colt says it like it’s the most obvious thing.

Of course he knows. How could he not when Ryland never shuts up about you? And he knows so much more that he absolutely can’t wait to tell you because what is a brother’s life for if not to embarrass his sibling?

“Ry, I didn’t know you talked about me this much.”

“He really does.” Colt replies off-handedly.

“I’m kind of flattered.”

Color drains from where they were on Ryland’s face.

His head is working hard, trying to extract himself and you away from this very moment. He’s jumping through hoops and fences, because it was already bad that his twin brother was meeting you. It’s even worse that he’s immediately revealing sensitive information said in confidentiality.

"Okay." Ryland says carefully, after a few seconds of racking his brain for a solution. He decides against a term of endearment for now because it is a weapon that Colt knows to use when you’re gone from the apartment, and there is infinite time to tease the man.

"(Name), maybe we should just go to a cafe nearby—“

“No!” Colt immediately interjects. “You are not taking this moment away from me. Ry, I deserve to meet her. For Christ’s sake, I know her favorite tea, too."

"Oh my god, stop talking."

"You told me. You spent three years telling me everything."

"Please spare me, somebody. Please. World, you can end now. I’ve lived my life.” Ryland doesn’t know who he’s begging at this point because he has reached a point of no return.

He had failed to predict Tom Ryder’s behavior, failed to keep his twin brother from you who is now sitting on the couch next to you with a shit-eating grin on his face.

There is a pointed glare directed at Colt that he ignores as he obstinately stares at you.

"You actually exist. I mean, I’ve seen you very briefly. But wow, my brother didn’t make you up.”

You’re laughing now, in contrast from the way you’d blinked up at the boy earlier. It’s the worst possible outcome because however insufferable Colt is, he’s actually really good with people.

Ryland feels a headache forming.

“I always thought Ryland was exaggerating about you. He’s always telling me how pretty you are, how blinding your smile is, and every possible compliment on this planet. And yet, he wasn’t exaggerating at all.”

"Oh my god. Dude, are you flirting with my girlfriend?" Ryland groans loudly, glaring daggers at the audacity of his brother.

He’s still standing in the kitchen, like keeping his distance could magically keep this moment from happening. From unraveling right in front of his eyes.

“I’m not!” And then, he extends a hand. "I’m Colt."

This is the moment Colt has been waiting for. He has waited three years for his character introduction. Waited even longer to meet absolutely any girlfriend of Ryland’s.

You shake it. "(Name)."

"I already know your name actually, but it’s nice to meet you. Just wanted to be formal."

You’re shaking your head in disbelief and there is a smile on your lips that is more amused than anything else—at how blunt the man is, at how he says every single thought that is forming in his head, at how easy his smile is, and now at how he’s looking at Ryland and then back at you with a sort of mischief in his eyes.

Absolutely not.

Ryland knows that look.

That is the look of another problem about to unfold.

"Sooooo." Colt says, drawling out the ‘o’s before finally twisting the knife he had stabbed Ryland with from this unexpected meeting. "You kissed him yet?"

Ryland twitches at the question, and immediately has flashbacks of the same very question one of his students had asked him during his lava segment.

What is it with people and kissing?

"Colt!”

There is something like suppressed laughter on your face, and Ryland officially decides to never grant Colt fucking Seavers another favor ever again, no matter how desperately he begs.

Colt, however, seems delighted and unaware of the ultimatum in Ryland’s head.

“I have, actually. Ten out of ten experience.”

“(Name)?!” He doesn’t expect you to bite, but you did. You’re actually enjoying yourself, too.

“Woah, buddy, I didn’t think you had it in you.” Colt is clapping his hands, immensely proud of his brother before his attention is back on you. "Because I did mention I’ve seen you briefly before, right? It was that day when he confessed to you. Oh, you should've seen him before confessing. And now he’s kissing you?”

Ryland is now behind the both of you on the couch, and his hand is on his brother’s shoulder, and he’s shaking him a little in a last desperate attempt for him to shut up, but Colt has no social cues and he intends to continue what he has started.

"He nearly threw up, did you know? He stared through your classroom window for ten minutes."

"Hey, okay, okay. Now I have to defend myself. It was not ten minutes."

"It was absolutely ten minutes. But I get why he was so nervous. How the hell did he even pull you? It must be that nerd charm, huh?”

“I am standing right here, by the way.”

“I know.”

You are laughing so hard you're nearly bent over.

While Ryland would’ve preferred for this moment to not have happened yet, he can’t even truly be upset. Because here you were, laughing so hard, and looking so happy. Here you were reaching a hand up at him every time Colt said something remotely embarrassing. Here you were looking at him with that softness in your eyes that’s reserved only for him.

"You're enjoying this too much.”

Ryland is reduced to a pouting mess, cheeks painted in red as he is finally seated on the couch next to you. And he’s embarrassed, but also strangely touched that Colt remembers all of this.

Your head is on his shoulder instantly, looking up at him. "Immensely."

"See?" Colt says. "She gets me. Isn’t it so much fun to tease him? It’s so easy."

“It is.” You giggle in agreement, and Ryland is looking at you with mock treachery.

“You’re supposed to be on my side. Do boyfriend privileges not mean anything anymore?”

“I am! But I’m also just being honest. You are kind of easy to tease, baby.”

"She’s my new best friend." Colt is saying, excited at the prospect of teaming up with you, and Ryland is quick to shut it down.

“Nope. Absolutely not. You’ve only known her for ten minutes.”

“And yet it feels like I’ve known her for… three years.” Colt is grinning. “Which, technically, I have.”

You and Colt fall into easy conversation next to him, and it feels like the first of many meetings.

Your common topic is, of course, the other man on the couch with you, but sometimes he’d ask about your work and you’d ask about his. You’d bond over movie quotes and recommendations.

And while Ryland had expected to come home to a quiet apartment, maybe drink a bit of wine and makeout with you for a little bit, he finds he doesn’t actually mind the sudden change in plans. He doesn’t mind just watching you laugh with his brother, all happy and comfortable, and fitting right into the only family he has left.

Something warm settles in his chest.

Because he has always known he was in love with you, but it has reached new extents seeing you interact with family. He didn’t know just how much he really loves you.

Because love has never been found outside of his classroom, and outside of this apartment. Outside of both were things that were unfamiliar and out of his control. There was no safety net of his knowledge, or his brother. There was only a lack of understanding outside.

But then he’d met you, and love had learned to bloom outside of his comforts.

And now, two of the most important people in his life are finally in the same room. Even if he knows you’re obviously conspiring against him, and even though there are multiple things that will come out of Colt’s mouth that he wished just stayed inside his head.

“So.” You suddenly question, in such an innocent tone, and the two of you glance at each other before looking at Colt. “Anything else I need to know about my boyfriend?”

“You’re going to be here all night if I tell you everything.”

“I’m not in a hurry.”

"You told him that?"

You stare at Ryland after yet another secret exposed by his twin brother.

Wow, having you and his twin brother in the same conversation really is the equivalent of two against one. Because apparently, it has become bonding to laugh at his misery.

Ryland stares at the ceiling, trying to think of an answer, but Colt is already doing it for him.

"Oh, sweetheart, that's not even in the Top Ten"

“Please, stop this. I have a mysterious image to uphold.” Ryland’s pleas are yet again, ignored completely. It seems to be a common thing.

"Yeah, not mysterious at all. You know how some people keep journals?" Colt continues, still engaged in conversation with you. "Well, my brother uses me as a journal."

“No, no no. Journals don’t talk back and make fun of you. Journals are safe, you are evil.”

You burst out laughing, nipped in a crimson red from the cold air and from laughing too much. Your eyes are a little watery, remnants of the pure, unadulterated happiness emanating from you.

“Now it’s time to shut up. Go to bed. Come on. You have told her everything.” Ryland is banging the back of his head against the couch.

“I haven’t even told her half of everything.”

“You told her about the tea.”

"Because it was weird. Come on, you kept talking to me about coffee, and then suddenly it was tea? And you expected me to just know?"

"It wasn't weird. That’s normal information to know.”

"I mean, I guess it’s not as weird as that step-by-step rejection plan."

Your mouth drops open. "Step-by-step rejection plan?"

Ryland covers his face, all but buries the entirety of his face in the palm of his hands because there really was no getting out of this, and no predicting the words that comes out of Colt’s mouth, his twin brother who just can’t shut up.

"It was just a few steps."

"Yeah, more like over ten steps. It was written on a whiteboard in his room, too.”

“Okay, maybe more than a few steps. That’s still not weird! That’s just being prepared.”

“Awww, Ry.” You look at your boyfriend, suddenly so endeared by everything you’re learning. “You’re so cute.”

While distracted, Colt tries to reach for the reheated takeout food that’s on the table in front of you, but Ryland is quick to slap his hand away. "Absolutely not."

"I live here."

“You don’t deserve it after everything you’ve said today.”

It really is so silly, the same identical brothers almost in a copy-paste fashion, but with such opposite personalities. Entirely on two different spectrums of one another.

"Don’t you think I deserve it after having to listen to you for three years?" Colt is moaning and groaning and moping before shifting his attention to you.

"There wasn't a single week."

"No, stop. Wait, you can get the food. You can get the food!”

"Not one that went by without your name being mentioned."

You blink, then slowly turn toward Ryland who is still so flustered.

You swear you'd never seen his features this red before, but it wasn't like you were any different. Knowing that he had been talking about you for that long has you matching his shade of red.

Colt throws both hands into the air. "Now I’m finally free!"

And Ryland immediately spots the way your smile softens, and the way your eyes grow incredibly fond. It’s a sight that still has him feeling like somebody reached inside and squeezed his heart.

“Did you really like me that much?”

Ryland laughs nervously, a hand scratching the back of his head. In a whisper, he responds, “Of course I did. I still do. I really really like you.”

You’re leaning closer to him now, bottom lip jutted out in pure endearment at your boyfriend, and the things you continue to know.

"I can't believe you." You sound so fond. "You should've told me sooner."

"Oh trust me, I tried to get him to.” Colt butts in, suspiciously sounding like his mouth is full of the food that was previously on your table.

Ryland immediately points at him. “This isn’t about you.”

“But it is a little bit about me.” Colt looks between the two of you, completely ignoring him. “I’m just saying. I made this happen. I got you to confess.”

Ryland opens his mouth and immediately closes it.

“I hate that you’re right.”

Colt says something else, but Ryland barely hears him anymore, because his attention is back on you and on the way you’re looking at him, and the way you whisper his name at him.

You’re reaching out for his tie now, pulling him even closer to you, and whispering. “Haven’t I been obvious?”

And Ryland is shaking his head because he couldn’t even possibly think you could ever like him. He didn’t think it possible because you were you and he was him.

And then, just as unpredictable as fuckass Tom Ryder, you kiss him.

Right there, just because your heart is warm and filled with so much fondness at finding out just how much your boyfriend really liked you for three years that he had brought his twin brother down with him and treated him like his own personal diary. That Colt knows so much about you because Ryland talks about you with so much love.

Ryland would’ve deepened his kiss, had Colt not suddenly screeched an awfully loud, “Awwwww!”

You pull away just in time to see Colt press both hands over his heart. "My brother. All grown up."

"Leave. Please."

"Falling in love."

“Take the food. Go to your room.”

"Kissing girls."

"Colt."

"Okay, okay." He throws his hands up, but he’s still grinning. "Oh, by the way, (Name), we're definitely hanging out again."

“Yup.”

"What?" Ryland’s head whips embarrassingly fast at hearing your response. “Nope. Whatever is happening here right now.”

He’s gesturing wildly with his hands, pointing back and forth between you and his twin brother. “Whatever this is stops here.”

“But baby, I wanna know more about you and your life. And that includes your twin brother.”

"You heard her. Listen to your girlfriend, buddy.”

Ryland looks between the two of you, a long, deep, defeated sigh leaving him.

Because this is his life now, he realizes. His girlfriend and his twin brother have officially met, and it seems that they are going to meet even more. An alliance was forming, and you were going to hear so much more from Colt than he wanted you to, yet.

Yet, as Colt retreats in his room, and as you stay cuddled up on his couch, Ryland can’t help the happiness that swells in his heart.

This wouldn’t have caused alarm to his students in normal circumstances, because their teacher has always been a little cheerful. Even more when he’s talking about topics that interest him, topics in his field of specialty. But the way he was smiling recently? It was different.

They would know. They’ve observed numerous victims with the same stupid lovesick smile—their classmates, kids from the lower grade, even their parents. It has been the subject in conversation a few times, used as evidence against kids who swore they didn’t have a crush on that person.

And their dear Science teacher? He had that stupid lovesick smile on his face if they’ve ever seen one.

Whispers immediately erupt mid-activity.

"Holy crap."

"What?"

Kevin lowers his voice. "Look at Mr. Grace."

The few rows of students behind him immediately turned their attention to their teacher, who was innocently sitting at the desk in front of them, staring at his phone while waiting for them to turn in their activities.

Oh, and he was smiling, alright. Grinning. Like a total idiot.

"Is he texting someone?"

"He has to be. It’s a girlfriend. Trust me, I know these things."

This prompts a few more students to maneuver their attention from the worksheet on their table to Ryland, who still remains unaware, thumbs moving across the screen of his phone.

And, if it wasn’t already obvious, his smile stretches a little more. Until, he abruptly locks his phone and places it in his jean pocket. “Alright, let’s—”

His hands are in the air, mid-action of a clap, but he freezes in place when he catches almost the entire class staring at him.

“Why are we staring?” Ryland turns around to check if there’s something behind him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion before he looks back at his class. They all have the same knowing grins on their faces, but they choose to say nothing.

For now, at least.

Ryland really doesn’t know what’s in store for him.

“Alright, that’s time. Hand over your papers, and don’t forget about the quiz tomorrow about photosynthesis and the components of the plant cell.”

Ryland really doesn’t know what’s in store for him.

Since then, his students have taken to spying.

Their loser of a teacher couldn't possibly have met someone outside of school. Sure, Mr. Grace wasn't ugly. Some of the girls in class even had harmless little crushes on him. He was smart, too. Funny in a dorky sort of way. He had enough charm that, theoretically, dating shouldn't be impossible.

The problem was that he was still, in his entirety, Ryland Grace.

He wasn't exactly the type to walk up to a stranger and start a conversation. So if there was suddenly someone in his life? It had to be someone from school.

A breakthrough seems to happen in their research right before their eyes when lunch period rolls along a few days later, in the form of the teachers’ lounge that was a little visible from a certain part of the courtyard.

Fortunately for Olivia, she had been walking past when a certain Science teacher caught her eyes. She immediately summons her co-authors to sit at the table with a direct view of the window peering into the space their teachers lounge in during lunch break.

“Look, look! Don’t be obvious.”

Half the people at the table turn.

Olivia hisses. “I said don’t be obvious!”

But low and behold, there it was. Mr. Grace and you. Sitting together, and talking, and laughing, and sharing the same takeout food.

“Holy shit.”

“Dude!”

As if the evidence wasn’t incriminating enough, Ryland has the audacity to steal one of your potato wedges which earns him a smack in his hand by you. And the smile that follows. Oh, that stupid lovesick smile they had seen from a few days ago.

Everyone at the courtyard is losing their minds. “That was flirting!”

“That was absolutely flirting. Did you see the way he smiled at her?”

“Ms. (Name) is the one he was texting!”

“And the way she laughed at him, too?”

“We’ve cracked the case.”

Olivia shakes her head. “We need more evidence.”

You and Ryland having lunch together, like you always do even before he had confessed, had unknowingly catapulted their investigation.

Their next piece of evidence would go down in history as The Cardigan Incident.

Almost cemented in Grover Cleveland Middle School as a school legend.

It had been a quiet evening in your classroom.

Most of the students had already gone home, leaving the halls unusually peaceful. Outside the windows, the sky had faded from gold to navy blue, the last traces of sunlight disappearing behind distant buildings.

Inside, you and Ryland sat across from each other, grading papers.

It was almost routine by now.

Every few days, one of you would wander into the other's classroom after the final bell with an armful of assignments and a complaint about how middle schoolers somehow managed to invent entirely new ways to get questions wrong.

Tonight was no different.

Ryland was flipping through a stack of science quizzes while you worked through essays.

The silence between the two of you was comfortable. Always easy.

Unknown to the both of you, just a few doors down, a group of students had stayed late to prepare for an upcoming mathematics competition. They were just finishing up when they headed down the hallway to meet their waiting parents outside.

And they would've walked right past your classroom. Really would’ve, had someone not noticed movement through the window.

"Why is there somebody still in there?"

Everyone freezes at the question.

The classroom lights are on, but the hallway is dark enough that all they can see are vague silhouettes moving inside.

For one horrifying second, somebody whispers, "Is that the ghost everyone keeps talking about?"

They immediately start to back away from the door. “Oh, no no no no. I am not about to become school history.”

But of course, in a group, there is always one brave soul. One kid who volunteers to check again, rushing past his peers valiantly and squinting through the small glass panel to hopefully catch a glance of Grover’s Ghost.

He doesn’t expect what he sees. It’s the last thing he expects.

"...Wait, that's Mr. Grace. He’s with…"

Everybody crowds forward. "What?"

"Move."

"Let me see."

"Get your big head out of the way. Some of us want to see!"

Meanwhile, entirely unaware of the surveillance operation unfolding outside your classroom, you rub your hands over your arms.

The school's heating system had apparently given up hours ago, so it felt like winter had come early in the four corners of your classroom. With teeth clattering, you try to power through. Though, not without making an offhanded comment to your boyfriend. "It's freezing in here."

Ryland glances up from his papers, red pen mid-air as he immediately shifts his attention to you.

He always does that. Always invests all his attention when you say something.

"Huh? Did you say something, honey?"

You tug your sleeves down over your hands. "I think the school’s trying to save money again. It’s like, really cold. Freezing cold. Deadly cold."

Ryland laughs at your accusations.

“I mean, freezing the teachers is definitely cheaper than fixing the school’s heaters.”

"Of course we’re the sacrifice."

Another laugh bubbles up from his throat, shaking his head as he pushes his glasses further up his nose with one finger. He only turns his attention away when you return to grading your essays.

Or, at least he tries to turn his attention away, but he can see you rubbing your arms again through his peripheral vision and it just won’t do.

Without looking up for more than a second, he reaches for the cardigan hanging over the back of his chair.

Outside the room, several students stop breathing.

Inside the room, however, Ryland simply stands. And before you can understand what he’s doing, he drapes the cardigan over your shoulders, helping your arms catch the sleeves.

The gesture is so casual it almost seems like it’s been done so many times before. A hundred times even.

"Ryland."

"What?"

"You're gonna be cold."

He shrugs, smiling at you so softly that you feel something squeeze your heart, sit on your sternum, constrict your diaphragm. "I'll survive."

You pull the cardigan tighter around yourself.

It's warm, and it smells like him. Coffee and dry-erase markers and the soap you bought him for his birthday last year.

"Thanks."

Ryland offers a distracted smile as he returns to grading. "Don't mention it."

Outside the classroom, absolute chaos erupts.

"He did the movie thing."

"What movie thing?"

"The jacket thing! The thing where the guy gives his jacket to the girl he likes!"

A collective gasp sweeps through the group.

"Oh my God."

"Someone take a picture."

"I'm trying."

"Hurry up!"

"Zoom it in!"

“My camera won’t focus!”

Inside the classroom, Ryland circles a wrong answer in red pen.

Outside the classroom, an entire investigation gains enough evidence to sustain itself for a decade.

Ryland Grace starts to notice his students acting odd on an unassuming Tuesday.

He's halfway through collecting the day's activity sheets when he spots a cluster of students gathered around Rekha in the back of the classroom, whispering with the kind of intensity usually reserved for scientific breakthroughs.

Now, Ryland isn't one to stick his nose into other people's business. Still, the final bell rang five minutes ago, and if they don't start heading home soon, their parents are going to start wondering where they are.

"Okay," he says, making his way toward the group, "what's got you guys so busy back here?"

A chorus of startled yelps erupts.

Someone immediately tries to snatch the paper away.

Unfortunately for them, Ryland catches it in his hand, and takes quite a long glimpse before it disappears from him.

He was, however, able to read:

Evidence:

(1) Smiling like an idiot.

(2) Shared an umbrella once.

(3) Eating lunch together.

(4) He carries her bag.

(5) The cardigan incident.

(6) Kevin swears he saw her fixing his tie last week.

(7) Said "good morning" to Ms. (Name) three times.

The students scatter, and someone throws the piece of paper in the trash. And within seconds, they're grabbing backpacks, muttering excuses, and practically sprinting out of the classroom.

Ryland blinks after them.

"What was that about?” He mutters more to himself than to anyone.

He assumes it's harmless gossip. Some kid probably has a crush, and the rest of them are playing detective.

Then a single word catches in his mind.

Tie.

No one wears a tie to school.

Ryland is already dismissing the whole thing when he passes the narrow glass panel in the classroom door and catches his reflection.

His hand instinctively rises to the tie around his neck.

The tie.

The one you'd absentmindedly straightened for him last week before a faculty meeting.

Ryland freezes.

"...Oh."

A beat passes.

"...Oh, no."

Ryland Grace is afraid.

Well, he’s afraid of a lot of things—heights, conflicts, public speaking, anything that could cause a physical injury. And above all, thirteen-year-olds. Specifically, his thirteen-year-olds.

Because they definitely know something, and it’s definitely (ninety-nine percent sure) your relationship.

He’s started to notice it. The staring, the whispering, the suspiciously innocent smiles, and that damn piece of paper with their own list of evidence against him.

Unfortunately, today's schedule is doing him absolutely no favors. You and Ryland had been paired up to accompany your students to the planetary exhibition in your school’s hall. Which means that’s several hours of supervision, and several hours of being under their observation, their lingering stares, their whispers.

Kids are menacing, even more teens. And it seems he had been the chosen victim to their gossip.

“(Name), honey?” He asks. He’s still trying to find ease in calling you a petname, because he honestly still can’t believe you’ve reciprocated his feelings. That you’re actually his girlfriend. It’s so new on his tongue, but it’s a welcomed change.

“Yeah?”

The pressing matter returns to him, and he has to stay on topic. It’s only been a few weeks since you’d answered his confession. How does his students already know?

Ryland lowers his voice. "I think the kids know about us."

You blink, looking up from the stack of papers with attendance sheets you’d printed out.

"Really? How’d you come to that conclusion?”

“They stare.”

You laugh.

"No, seriously. They stare like they know something. Trust me, I know that look.”

Your smile widens, and Ryland immediately loses his train of thought.

(Which happens a lot these days. A lot more than he'd ever admit. It’s definitely because of you.)

"You know.” You say, leaning forward slightly. “If they do know, it's probably because you're terrible at hiding how much you like me."

His eyebrows shoot upward. "I am not. I think I’ve been pretty slick, actually."

"You carried my coffee, my papers, my bag, and my projector all on the same day."

"Those were all separate situations."

“All on the same day though.” You repeat.

"That's still not enough evidence." A stubborn look settles onto his face as he shakes his head in denial. “For a research to be substantial, you have to—”

You lean forward and press a quick kiss to his lips.

His argument dies instantly. His words are forgotten, and he doesn’t know what point he’s trying to prove anymore.

"...Okay."

Your smile turns fond. "Okay?"

"I don't remember what we were talking about."

A laugh escapes you. “Want another one?”

Ryland’s face brightens up at the suggestion, but before you can kiss him again, another teacher pokes their head into the room.

"Grace? We need help finishing the setup downstairs."

Ryland sighs dramatically, and then he whispers—not very quietly—"I'm... cashing my kiss in later."

You snort. "You make it sound like a coupon."

"It is a coupon. I worked hard to get it.”

Thirty minutes later, after he’d gotten the kiss you’d promised him, you and Ryland are leading your class downstairs toward the exhibition hall, and the whispers begin almost immediately.

You understand Ryland’s sudden hypothesis now, and when you turn to your boyfriend, he looks like he’s really trying to ignore them. Mostly because you know he wouldn’t know what he'd do if he acknowledged them.

And before you can offer him any form of support, the same teacher calls you for a favor. You quietly excuse yourself as Ryland stops the group just outside the entrance.

“Okay, rules.”

Collective groans erupt the hallway.

"First rule, no running. Second, no talking loudly. Third rule, no eating inside the exhibit area.”

A hand shoots up.

"What if I'm hungry?"

"You should've eaten lunch by now. It’s…3pm."

"What if I'm hungry now?"

“You can eat after the exhibition.”

The student mutters something about oppression. Ryland ignores that too.

"Alright. Fourth rule—"

His voice cuts off as his gaze trails off in the distance. Across the hall, you've just emerged from a storage room carrying a large box filled with 3D glasses for the exhibition.

The box isn't enormous. But it looks heavy.

Ryland watches you adjust your grip.

"Fourth rule..." He repeats absentmindedly, still watching the way you struggle with the box, still seeing the way you refuse to bother anyone else to ask for help.

The students watch him expectantly.

Finally, he closes his mouth. “Just, wait one moment.”

He turns around, walking away after telling them to stay in place. And the entire class watches as their teacher crosses the room and reaches you.

"You should've asked for help."

"I can carry it."

"I know you can."

Still, despite his response, the box is already in his hands.

You roll your eyes affectionately, and Ryland can only smile at you. That stupid lovesick smile.

"The kids are staring." You whisper, and his shoulder bumps yours. A small gesture, playful and instinctive. The kind of habit that’s between two people who have gotten used to being near each other.

"They are not."

The students are collectively staring, mouths agape as they slowly start to turn towards one another.

Several silent nods are exchanged.

A few fingers point.

Someone mouths “I told you” to someone.

Olivia can’t believe their hypothesis is correct.

Meanwhile, Ryland continues carrying the box as if he hasn't just abandoned an entire class.

Tomorrow, they decide, will be the day. Tomorrow they'll get answers. And they know exactly how to extract that information from their beloved Science teacher.

“Lava, lava, lava, lava.”

Fists are bumping their tables in a coordinated rhythm as Ryland takes out the small, round Earth plush from the corner of his classroom. And then it’s tossed in the air, and immediately it lands on Olivia’s hands.

“Which two organelles are found in plant cells but not in animal cells?”

“Uh, uh.” She juggles the knitted ball in her hands.

“It’s melting your hands, Olivia!”

She suddenly sits a little straighter, voice significantly louder as she says, “The rigid cell wall and chloroplasts for photosynthesis.”

“Oh! Give her a round of applause. That’s awesome.” He smiles, catching the ball in his hand as Olivia throws it back at him.

And as he does, he fails to see the knowing smirk on her face.

“Mr. Grace?” She clears her throat, and Ryland gives her his attention, thinking it’s a follow-up question of what he’d just asked.

"Are you and Ms. (Name) really together?"

Absolute silence greets the room, lingering in the air and expanding as all his students lean forward from their desks.

Their brilliant plan was commencing, and Ryland can only stare with dawning horror. And then he’s scratching the back of his head. “That’s… not a lava question.”

“You said you have to answer all the questions!”

“Well, then I pass.”

“You can’t pass!”

“I just did.”

“Lava, lava, lava, lava.” Everyone starts chanting again, and Ryland is already running a palm down his face exasperatedly. This cannot be happening to him. There is no way that this is currently happening in real time.

He drops his head back dramatically, stares at the ceiling for a moment the way all students do when confronted with a difficult question. And like he had told them several times, there really were no answers there, nothing of help.

“Why do you guys care so much?”

"Because you're our favorite teacher. And she's our favorite teacher too. And if you guys are together then it's like one of those crazy crossover episodes."

A girl near the front chimes in. “Soooo, are you guys together?”

They really have him cornered this time, and they know it. They had perfectly thought this plan through, because lava rules existed, and Ryland could never break one of his own rules. It’d set a bad example to the kids.

"Alright, fine."

The room becomes so quiet that you could almost hear swallowing.

Ryland sighs, thinking his life decisions through, thinks of a way out, and when no opportunity presents itself, he finally nods. Once.

"Yes."

The reaction is immediate, and the entire classroom detonates in comments, one over the other and some people have gotten out of their seats, one kid nearly topples over a desk, and Ryland can’t hear everything at once, but he can hear:

“I knew it!”

“Let’s goooooooo.”

“That’s what I said!”

“Dude, I told you.”

“Five dollars! Pay up!”

Oh, what would their parents say about betting on their teacher’s love life?

Ryland points at them. “Alright, calm down. Everyone back to your seats.”

And then his hand is up. “My hand is up.”

Kevin immediately sits, and the others slowly follow suit. But not without a few more whispers cleared out.

"We're happy for you!" Olivia suddenly says, and everyone is smiling and nodding their heads.

“Jesus Christ.” Ryland mutters under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Another hand rises.

It’s Rekha.

Absolutely not.

"No."

"You didn't even hear the question yet."

"I don't need to."

"But—"

"No."

"Have you kissed?"

The room erupts in screams, and Ryland is starting to get dizzy, and just when he thinks his whole life is about to crumble in front of him… the bell rings. And Ryland can see salvation. Beautiful, wonderful salvation, and he swears he has never loved a sound more in his life.

His students groan. For the first time in their lives, they groan at the sound of the bell.

“Class dismissed!”

"We were just getting somewhere." Rekha whines, but still, backpacks are gathered and chairs are scraped back to their spot, and his thirteen-year-olds start filing out of the room. And finally, the door closes and Ryland can finally breathe. He has been saved.

He really needs to modify the rules of the lava game.

A knock immediately sounds from the classroom door, breaking him out of his trance.

Ryland already knows who it is. And he needs you now more than ever, especially after the most stressful moment of his life.

You slip inside, balancing your bag and a stack of papers against your hip. “Hey.”

His arms are immediately peeling away everything you’re holding, and in record time, he has his arms wrapped around you. Ryland’s head is buried in your hair, glasses askew and all over the places, and his hands are linked around your waist.

“You okay there, Ry?”

“You have no idea what I just went through.”

A laugh slips out of you. “Aw. Were they bad today?”

“They contrived against me.”

Your expression immediately shifts into sympathy. “Oh, no. What happened?”

Your hands are running down his back, following a trail up his hair before settling back on his hunched over back. Rubbing evolves into light pats as you wait for him to tell you about his day, and you can feel the tension in his shoulders start to undo.

The late afternoon sun filters through the classroom windows. The building is quieter now that most of the students have gone home, distant voices and slamming lockers echoing faintly through the halls.

And then he finally pulls away, and you reach over and smooth down the collar of his shirt absentmindedly. And Ryland can only remember that damn piece of paper and the evidence against him.

He should’ve seen this coming.

“Can’t tell you yet. It’s a long story.”

"It's that bad, huh?"

"I got through it."

You grin. "Good. Because I was wondering if you'd want to grab dinner later. We could still go home and freshen up a bit, rest if you need. I’m sure Colt would like to know what the kids did to you today.”

The answer is immediate. "Yes. Let’s get dinner."

Everything else is ignored.

You laugh again, and Ryland thinks he would gladly survive ten more student interrogations if it meant ending his day like this.

A sudden blur appears outside the classroom door.

Neither of you notices. Then another. And another. And now a cluster of students who definitely should have already gone home crouches beneath the little window in the door.

Inside the classroom, you continue talking.

Outside, Olivia is standing on tiptoe.

"I can't see anything."

"Move over."

"You move over."

"Shhh!"

Inside, you turn your head curiously after hearing what seems to be whispers. "Did you hear something?"

Ryland freezes. A horrible realization slowly dawns on him. It’s never over. And as Ryland looks over at the door, it suddenly starts to empty as his students dive for cover.

A loud thunk follows and a few muffled "ow”s.

Ryland closes his eyes. "Let's get dinner."

"Okay? I thought we already established that.”

"Right now."

"Right now?"

"Immediately."

You laugh as he takes your hand and starts steering you toward the door.

The second it opens, six students scatter down the hallway like they weren’t just eavesdropping. And this time, they’re not slick at all. There’s tripping, and pushing over, and running as they try to escape.

And as Ryland buries his face in his hands, you stand there completely bewildered.

"...What was that about?"

Ryland looks at the ceiling. Wow! Still no answers up there.

"I have absolutely no idea, honey. I seriously have no idea."

And Ryland eventually tells you everything over dinner, and you can’t help but laugh.

You laughed at that, stretching just a little farther to reach the corner of the poster and to get it properly taped up. That, objectively speaking, was your mistake. Something about the motion of your laughter caused the tape to slip from your fingers. The poster as a result began to sag, and you overbalanced on the stool for half a second trying to save it from falling to the ground. 

“Shit!”

The word toppled out of your mouth before you had time to stop it. And for one awful, weightless second, the entire room tilted onto its side. The step-stool wobbled beneath your feet, one leg scraping loudly against the floor and echoing in the otherwise quiet room as the poster slipped from your grasp completely, landing into the floor with a small, crinkly sounding ‘swoosh’.

The blonde behind you was moving before your brain had time to register what was happening, much to his own surprise. This was the man who constantly tripped over his own feet, after all. Ryland’s large, warm hand caught you firmly at the waist, steadying you against him as your feet managed to find solid ground again in the form of the step-stool's bottom step. 

“Woah, woah, I got you…” His voice came out breathless near your hear, his hot breath escaping down the skin of your neck, his grip on you instinctively tightening onto you as you grasped one of his shoulders for support, your heart dropping to the floor before subsequently rising back into your throat at the unadulterated feeling of falling. Physically, oh yeah. Metaphorically… Also yes. emotionally? You weren't ready to fess up to that one but deep down it was a big fat yes.

Your heart was hammering against your ribs as you peered down at Ryland, his blue eyes wide behind his glasses, the gold in his frames twinkling ever so slightly as he looked up at you, his pink lips parted in exclamation, almost like your name was right at the tip and it was all he wanted to say. Swallowing softly, you dragged a hand down his chest and rested it firmly against him, his own heart mimicking yours, whether out of excitement of being close in an otherwise off-limits place, or out of adrenaline from saving you, you weren’t sure but it was reassuring as you flattened out his collar out of the sudden on-slaught of nerves that decided now was the time to shine. 

For a long moment as the two of you looked at each other, neither of you had it in you to move. There was something there, something more pivotal than gravity itself, holding onto the situation like it was caught in some type of event horizon. Then, as if replaying it in his mind, Ryland blinked. And then blinked again as his mouth fell open further, his eyebrows lifting almost comically, and you swore they were almost to his hairline as his brain finally caught up to what had happened. Not just what happened, but what was said. 

“You curse?” The question was so genuinely full of astonishment that you couldn’t stop yourself from bursting into a fit of laughter, whatever hold of adrenaline and possible romantic intentions that lingered long gone and replaced by an embarrassing warmth. It was like out of all things to be amazed by, Ryland decided this was it and it was worth making a big deal over. Heat eradicated your entire chest and face as you turned your head just enough to stare down at him, his pretty eyes gazing right back at you. 

“I almost fell!” You defended with a wheezing laugh as a smile hit Ryland’s face, encapsulating his eyes and crinkling them around the edges as a breathy chuckle left his plump lips. The temptation to close what little distance between you heightened as you watched his mouth pull back from his teeth, showing off his white, straight teeth in an incredibly goofy smile.

“That--- I know! I saw.” He nodded quickly, pushing up his glasses with his free hand. “I even caught you, you’re welcome.” He squeezed your side before bringing his firm grip down to your hip and tangling his pointer finger into the belt loop of your jeans, teasingly so to the point where he was only a centimeter or so away from touching your bare skin. You chomped onto your bottom lip and looked down at him, eyes taking in refuge the way he gazed back at you. Like you had hung all of the stars just for him.  

Ryland shifted and cleared his throat at the realization of where you were and how the situation must have looked to anyone passing the rather large windows of his classroom. “It’s just I… I’ve literally never heard you say anything like that other than a very, very, verrryyyyy strong ‘Dang’.”

Huffing a bit, you crossed your arms, skin shuffling against the back of Ryland’s hand where he had a grip and tried to look offended despite the smile on your lips and the blush that was refusing to back down. “Well, apparently near-death experiences bring it out of me.”

Ryland snorted softly, “Near-death?” He brought his other hand up and lightly trailed it against your elbow causing a shiver of goosebumps to explode against your skin. You weren’t sure how, but something about that motion made you uncross your arms and gave Ryland freedom to get you off the step completely with his assistance, your head tilting back a bit so you could look back up at him as you came to rest on the ground. “You were six inches off the ground. Based on my calculations and your trajectory, you maybe, maybe would have had a sprained wrist or ankle.”

You furrowed your eyebrows and poked his chest, “Tell that to my survival instincts.”

Ryland’s chest rumbled with a low laugh, something that captivated all of your senses as he let his hand slide from your hip to the small of your back, tantalizingly letting his thumb stroke a slow, deliberate circle against the fabric of your t-shirt. The sheer heat of his palm felt like it was branding you in some strange way, searing through the thin material and straight into your skin. The science teacher’s pretty blue eyes were amused, you could tell from the crinkling at the corners as he was trying his best to keep the laughter in. 

You pouted. And he conceded in response. “Alright, alrighhhttttt.” His voice dropped into that intimate register that always made your stomach flutter, and that coupled with the proximity made something stir in other parts of your body and mind. “Your survival instincts are uh… I guess formidable… Let me make a note of that in my official log.”

The tall man seemed to punctuate this with a playful squeeze, his finger still hooked deliciously in your belt loop, some type of anchor point in the space between you that was keeping Ryland from floating away. The silent air in the classroom which was usually filled with the mundane hustle and bustle of school life, scented with markers and old paper now felt too thick, charged with an unspoken energy that always crackled when you got near one another. It was something terrifying, something exciting and something too scientifically significant for Ryland to simply ignore and that in itself was how you two ended up dating. The fallen poster, a casualty of your near-death experience lay forgotten on the linoleum floor, now a silent passenger to the moment. 

Ryland… Didn't seem to care about the stack of quizzes to grade anymore. He could care less that Jessica thought that the ‘mitochondria is the powerhouse of the vibes’. That was a tomorrow issue because right now, the brilliant man was focused on you. The way that your cheeks were warm, he could almost see the rapid, little pulse beating in your throat, right in the hollow and he thought of the times that he wanted to press his mouth there.

There was a time and a place for that.  And unfortunately, it was not after class on Friday, in his classroom.

“Though…” Ryland continued, his voice now a husky murmur as he leaned in just a fraction more. Testing the waters if you will. “If we’re being scientific, the adrenaline spike from the perceived threat is what facilitated the… Vocalization.” He tilted his head and pursed his lips, your eyes eating up that action as you dragged a hand from his chest to his shoulder, pressing into the muscles firmly there in a bid to get him to close the gap. 

“It’s… A-actually a fight-or-flight response. The brain you see, it uhm…” Why were you looking at him like that? Ryland was having a hard time putting together a cohesive thought and the words that tumbled from him next felt like they were a strangers, but the candance was Ryland, through and through. Over-explaining because he was nervous. Classic. 

“The brain--- brain bypasses the prefrontal cortex---!" Well, that was a way to put it, Ryland. C'mon! "The social filter, if you want to call it that.” Ryland felt like he had no social filter. “It goes straight into the primitive lizard brain mode.” Pretty accurate. His gaze dropped from your eyes to your mouth in one slow motion, lingering there for a few seconds too long. “It’s really… Fascinating… Really…”

And it was! Why was he making it sound so lame? He shut his eyes for a moment and drew a deep breath in to recollect himself.

The teacher was so close now that you could feel the warmth radiating from his much bigger body, cascading against you in a waves that even the ancient AC of the school couldn’t keep at bay, the faint, clean scent of his laundry detergent mixing with the cologne he had gotten at your discretion - having heard you mention that it was a scent that reminded you of him, and something even deeper there. Body chemistry, Ryland would most likely say, you could almost hear it in your head. The body’s way of telling a potential mate just how much they’re attracted to the other. 

You swallowed softly, the hand on your back finally putting forth a motion to urge you closer, to eliminate that last sliver of space that was hanging. The step-stool, the source of all this drama, pressed against the back of your calves, nothing more than a flimsy tangle of metal and plastic, a reminder of how easily you’d end up in Ryland’s arms one way or another. 

“It sounds…” You whispered, breathless around the edges as you looked at his mouth, at the peeking white of his teeth that were singing from his parted lips. “Very… fascinating… I-Is that all this is, Ryland? A… scientific observation?”

His smile faltered. The playful teasing in Ryland’s eyes gave way into something deeper, something more powerful and… You furrowed your eyebrows and felt a wash of something unfamiliar tug in the back of your mind. He looked almost hungry as a soft snort left his nose. Ryland swallowed, and you watched the motion in his throat, bobbing his Adam’s apple and convulsing the muscles. His free hand came up, his fingers gentle as they traced the line of your jaw, touch impossibly light as if he were putting too much thought behind it.

And knowing Ryland and the way that his face was contorted in acute concentration, you knew that was true. 

“No,” He confessed almost shamefully, the word barely audible over the rush of the AC kicking on. You could see the faint rustle of his blonde hair as the chill ran across the room but you were still overheating from how Ryland was holding you. “This is… Me… Wanting to kiss you. Right here. In my classroom. Where I’m definitely not supposed to and it’s probably going to break like… at least thirty rules.”

The confession hung dead in the air, bold and too undeniable that Ryland had no way of backing out of it. It was the same unspoken desire you both danced around, the line you never crossed in this very specific, professional space. But… Ryland was laying it out now, risking… Well… Something he thought was worth risking as his gaze searched yours, looking for permission, for a sign that this was what you wanted. His thumb on your back ceased movement and instead pressed firmly, holding you steady as if the world were going to tilt on its axis again like it had when you almost tumbled off the step-stool. 

“And what if I want you to?” You confessed back, your own hand coming down to rest on his chest again, directly over his heart which was rhythmically slamming against his ribs just as aggressively as yours. 

Ryland thrived on encouragement. It was one of those things about his personality he was aware of, but never really put too much thought into it until this moment. Because your words… The way that they hit his ears? That was all the encouragement he needed. 

Ryland craned his head down and closed the remaining distance, his lips crashing against yours with a desperate, pent-up intensity that stole the air straight from your lungs to be taken into his mouth. It wasn’t intentional, you could feel him shift back a bit as he exploded his hand against your cheek, but nothing about it was a gentle, questioning kiss as you scooped up a bit of his shirt fabric to keep Ryland from pulling back any further.

It was that sort of kiss that spoke weeks, heck… Months of stolen glances in the Teacher’s Lounge, the casual touches when you were on student pick-up duty together, the small dates on Saturday afternoons disgused as just two teachers hanging out, the Friday nights that slowly became more than grading papers together, a few intellectual arguments that ended in a breathless, angry silence before Ryland admitted that your ideas, your theories were just as good as his own. All of the frustration and longing, the affection you’d both been holding back, finally breaking free. 

You fluttered your eyes shut at the sensation of his hand sliding from your jaw to tangle in your hair, angling your head to deepen the kiss, tongue daring to trace the seam of his lips before delivering inside to explore. Ryland took a moment to process that, the pink muscle in his mouth floating aimlessly before he kicked it into gear and met you with equal fervor, your fingers clutching the front of his shirt to the point where you wondered vaguely if the buttons were able to withstand you pulling so hard. The world, though, had other thoughts.

It narrowed to this single point of contact, the firm collapsing of Ryland against you, the taste of him and the minorly low, guttural sound he made in the back of his throat when he backed you up slowly, lips never daring to leave yours, until your back hit the solid, cool surface of the whiteboard behind you. Markets clattered softly to the ground at the momentum you had, the only sound in the room now beside your mingling breaths between kisses.

Ryland had you pinned to the whiteboard, the metal marker holder digging into your back, his body hard in front of you as he raised the hand from your back to brace in the board beside your head, the other still tangled deeply in your hair, holding you captive in the best way possible. 

His hand, which had been braced against the board beside your head, didn't move with hungry intent, but with a sort of reverent wonder, sliding down to cup the back of your neck. His fingers didn't tangle and pull, but simply stroked the fine hairs at your nape, sending shivers of pure, unadulterated delight skittering down your spine.

The hand against the board loosened but didn't move with hungry intent anymore, now it was capsized with a sort of reverent wonder, sliding down to cup the back of your neck, his fingers stroking the fine hairs at your nape which subsequently sent a shiver of pure, unadulterated delight down your spine.

Ryland was met with a soft sigh from you, your hands abandoning their own desperate clutch on his shirt in favor of wrapping around his shoulder, hiking yourself up slightly and pulling Ryland down even more. Ryland shifted with you and his leg slotted between yours, not a motion of dominance but more clumsy and more earnestly Ryland that you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling into the kiss.

He broke the kiss just long enough to rest his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed as if he were committing the feeling to memory. "I've been wanting to do this for so long…" he whispered, his voice a shaky, breathless thing that was nothing like his usual measured tone. "Right here. Against this darn whiteboard."

A breathy, hysterical laugh escaped your lips, bubbling from the dizzying overexposure of adrenaline and desire running through you. Tilting your head back, the cool surface of the whiteboard was a stark contrast to the heat blooming across your skin as you looked at Ryland through your eyelashes. 

“Against this darn whiteboard?” You teased playfully against his lips, threatening another kiss that he was almost begging for with how he had your head in his hands. “Is that really the word we’re going with? After all that talk about lizard brains and fight-or-flight responses?”

You pulled back just enough to see Ryland’s face. To watch his eyes flutter open, a dazed, hazy blue behind the smudged lenses of his askew glasses. He looked utterly lost in it, uncomprehensive and something akin to pride hit you that you managed to get the brilliant man in this state in the first place. 

“W-Well…” He finally managed, his voice still rough but gaining a slice of its usual cadence. “I was trying t-to be romantic… My… Higher cognitive functions are currently… occupied…” Ryland drew a deep breath in as you pressed your lips to the corner of his, “Diverted…” He kissed you slowly, letting himself seep into the affection, not a care in the world as you skirted against the whiteboard again, the back of your head colliding with it with a small ‘thump’. “Resources, you understand…” He nibbled his reddened bottom lip upon pulling away.

"I'd say your higher cognitive functions are performing exceptionally well right now." You murmured flirtatiously.

A deep blush of pink, the one that you adored, spread from under his shirt, up his collarbones and swept across the tips of his ears. Ryland looked so flustered it was hard to stop your heart from nearly jumping at the sight. “I-I… Whe… When the stimulus is… is you, it’s… Difficult to maintain… That professional detachment.”

“Ryland….” You licked your bottom lip and brought a hand to his chin, urging him to focus on you. “You have me pinned against a whiteboard. I think we’ve officially departed from professional detachment.”

He blinked, as if it finally hit him the full picture and intentions put behind your position. His eyes widened and for a moment, you were worried the flushing moment was over and he was going to pull away. But, instead a slow, sheepish smile spread across his face. “So we have….” Ryland’s breath puffed against your cheeks as you smiled softly with a mod. “I think my… hypothesis… is correct then.”

“Care to share with the class?” You asked, your own grin widening as you tilted your head curiously, giving him better access in response as Ryland leaned in to press a soft, open mouthed kiss to your lips. His glasses poked you before he re-adjusted and you felt his lips curl along yours. 

“That…” He murmured without pulling away, and in a way, you were almost eating the words as they vibrated through you. “That this… us… W-would be… Statistically significant…” He punctuated his findings with another kiss, this one off to the side between your cheek and jaw, “That the… chemical reactions… The attraction… would be… favorable…”

You couldn’t help but laugh again. A genuine, happy sound that filled the otherwise quiet classroom and Ryland found himself captivated in it. “Only you, Ryland Grace, would describe a kiss with statistical significance and favorable reactions.”

He pulled back to look at you, his eyes soft and full of an emotion that made your breath catch in the hollow of your throat. “Is it… This is okay, right?” Ryland sounded minutely panicked, “Here…? Like this? You didn't want our first kiss some… where more romantic? I’m sorry, I hadn’t thought of that when I---”

“It’s more than okay.” Ryland was cut off, his mouth still slightly agape. You reached up, your fingers gently tracing the curve of his bottom lip before sweeping along the line of his stubbly jaw before moving to straight his glasses once more, the golden light of the sunset bouncing off the frames. “I can’t… imagine it any other way now… It was perfect.” “I think,” He whispered, slightly deflated as his shoulders slumped in, his lips seeking your fingers and kissing the tips slowly, “I’m going to fail at grading those quizzes tonight.” You smiled, your touch lightly moving along his lips before grasping his chin and bringing him in for another soft kiss, “I failed at putting up a poster, so who's really winning here?"

Taglist:

Whining lowly, Ryland rolls over onto his tummy, mindlessly reaching over to pull himself closer to you so he could leech from your heat— but all he palms are the empty blankets, devoid of both your body and your warmth.

He's not sure which he mourns more.

"[Name]…" He grumbles, his voice muffled from his pillow, but it becomes clearer and normal as he flips himself over onto his back. For a minute, all he does is lay there, stretching widely and groaning at the pleasant ache.

He disliked when you'd get out of bed before or without him. It felt alike a betrayal— moreso the fact that he couldn't cuddle up to you and attempt to convince you to stay in bed a little longer with him, than anything you'd actually done.

Calling your name again, he lets his arms fall onto the bed beside him as he yawns, letting the silence of the lack of response blanket the room. He can't hear the shower on, either, so he sluggishly lifts his head up, squinting slightly as he glances around the room.

What he notices first are your dresser drawers are still open — you had a habit of not closing them to avoid making more noise when he was sleeping — so you must've at least already showered… or changed.

Were you going out to do something? He can't recall you saying anything about doing so.

Kicking his blankets off, he climbs out of bed, stumbling as the comforter stays coiled around his leg— It takes a second, but he gets it off before tiredly snagging his glasses off of his bed-side table, finally making it over to the door without any further troubles.

Sliding them on to rest along the bridge of his nose, he pulls the door open, blinking slowly and letting his vision clear as he walks down the hall; he can hear music playing, so he follows that rather than just meandering destination-less.

So you hadn't gone anywhere.

At the thought, something in his chest eases, unfurling what he hadn't even realized was tense.

Jeez.

Maybe the "Always within close proximity of you for over a handful of years," truly did do more to him than he'd realized… aside from not being able to sleep unless he was near you, anyway, but he knew that was a normal side-effect of being in close quarters to someone, alone (mostly), for years. It was natural, but he held only a little shame over it.

Over how needy it made him feel.

Rounding the end of the hall, he peers around the wall and into the kitchen; and upon finally spotting you, his body stops him in his tracks without his permission, keeping him near the wall just beyond the threshold of the kitchen.

You've got your spine to him, blissfully unaware of his staring as you mess with something in a "pan," on the "burner." An organized mess lays spread out on the counter— the tub of butter with a butter-knife (not really, but it's one of the ones Adrian and Rocky created as a substitute) stuck in it, a cutting-board slick with cut "strawberries," (again, an Eridian substitute) and their juices…

"Are you making breakfast?" He blurts, feeling the words tumble tiredly out of his mouth before his brain even registered the fact he was talking.

Your shoulders lift just faintly.

When you quickly turn around at the sound of his voice, he's graced with your surprised but stupidly pretty face— his heart jumps in his chest as his gaze flits between you, a random object, and back to you, stuttering in its usual rhythm as he fights the urge to stare.

Just… you look great. Annoyingly great for the time of the morning; you look as if you could've been an ageless, celestial being, while he's just… him. Messy, exhausted, with a likely chance of sleep-lines still indented into the fat of his cheeks.

Just Ryland.

Just yours.

It takes him a minute to get out of his head so he can focus on the face you're talking.

"Mmn. Rocky 'n his cluster dropped some stuff off pretty early," You respond, and he watches the way your head tilts just slightly, then the way your eyebrows draw together in subtle concern. "I told them to come back later, so you could sleep. Did I wake you up?"

He swallows, breathing in slowly through his parted lips.

Does he look as ruffled as he feels? He can't tell.

"No— no, you didn't, so… don't worry." He fumbles, shaking his head as he adjusts on his feet, then he reaches up, running his hand through his sleep-tussled hair to try to straighten it out some. "What'd you get up so early for?"

As his voice cracks from left-over sleep, he winces.

After a second, he finally urges his feet forward and steps into the kitchen, lifting himself up onto his toes so he can see what you're making— and within the pan looks like a stranger version of pancakes… if they were dark, blue, and a lot thicker.

He continues. "Are those pancakes?"

My god, I haven't had any of those in forever.

Between Me-burgers and Rocky's Erid version of vaguely shaped coma-sludge, he'd almost bid anything that didn't taste slightly metallic good-bye.

"Maaaybe," You drawl, and his gaze flits quickly between your face and the pan— though it slows its switch when a smug smile pulls upon your mouth. "Robert, Balboa, Junior, and Rocky were knockin' on the door pretty hard this morning. Woke me up,"

"I'm going to take a guess and say this was why?" He pipes up, raising an eyebrow curiously as he shifts on his feet. "Seriously, this is amazing stuff— smells good, too, surprisingly."

You laugh as you turn back to what you're cooking, and he watches over your shoulder as you flip the make-shift pancake, feeling curiousity nag in his brain rather incessantly; he was eager, sue him.

"Bingo," You muse, "They were pretty excited to show me. They wanted to wake you up so you could see it too, but… I figured you could use the sleep."

"Yeah," He murmurs, stepping back to lean against the counter— the edge is cold against his back, so he pulls away pretty quickly and with a shudder. "You're probably right."

It's true; getting used to and settled into Erid has definitely taken some tolls on his general function. The gravity, the "food," the new-found space, the bio-dome (he always got jittery with excitement when he'd look at it, and their creations)…

He hasn't slept that well anymore lately, unless you'd…

Actually, he probably shouldn't think about that now. It was way too early.

Nonetheless, he did last night, and he feels pretty good— or maybe that's just the idea of trying this new formula of food.

Okay, listen…

He was going to try to wait, but he can't anymore.

The idea is too appealing.

Pushing away from the counter, he slips behind you and over to the plate of already-done pancakes, ignoring your snicker and the side-look you give him.

"What?" He questions (rather cheekily), before tearing a piece of one off, then tearing that into two, "Are you trying to say you're not just as excited to try this as me? I mean, come on, it's space pancakes! Who doesn't want to try space pancakes?"

"No, no," You laugh, shaking your head with a smile he catches even through the corner of his eye, "I didn't say anything. Continue, please."

"Uh-huh, that's what I thought."

Humming a low, confident noise, he hands you your piece before shoving his own into his mouth, falling quiet and trying to desipher the taste the moment he does so. You do the same, and for a moment, only the music you're playing keeps the room from true silence.

Until he breaks it.

"It's kind of sweet," He announces, his eyebrows furrowing curiously as he swallows, "In a weird, almost tangy way. It's also very thick. Do you know what they made it out of? Did they say?"

Lifting his gaze, he looks over to you, his focus roaming over your expression to see what you're thinking— of it, of the experience, of his opinion.

You nod slowly, swallowing. "Some group of stuff, but I don't know of what. They didn't have a word for it." You pause, running your tongue along the front of your teeth. "I agree, though. It's pleasantly odd."

"It's better than coma-sludge," He muses, snickering to himself. "Anything is better than coma-sludge."

Tearing another piece off, he tries it again, attempting to find anything he didn't the first time about it— whilst he does so, you turn the "burner," off, pulling the last pancake from the pan and setting it atop the others on the plate.

It's tasty, again, in a weird, unfamiliar way. It's enjoyable— he could get used to this pretty quickly.

You, breakfast every morning, trying new things…

"Coffee's back in stock, by the way," You pipe up, breaking the short bout of quiet between the song changing. "They dropped more off for you."

His eyebrows twitch upward, and he follows the rough gesture of your hand to the tub of the aforementioned Coffee, sat over in the corner counter-top. It wasn't quite like earth Coffee— in the way that he could only have very, very little. Any more than that, and he'd be up for two straight days.

He's speaking from experience here.

He'd rather avoid a repeat offense.

"Thanks," He murmurs, shoving another piece of pancake into his mouth as he moves across the kitchen, quickly getting himself some— at the sight of the leaves being radiation green instead of yellow, he pauses. "Why is this one green? I don't remember the last one being this vibrant. Or green."

"Different plant subspecies, I guess," You shrug, moving within the kitchen to get yourself your own drink. "You can ask 'em when they come back— they said they were supposed to, anyway. Robert really didn't want to leave the first time."

"Really? It's usually Junior that hates to leave."

"Mhm," Your voice softens just faintly, and a breath of a laugh tumbles from your mouth right after— his brain latches on to the noise, and he suddenly wishes you weren't playing any music so he could've heard it better. "Heard some notes from him I hadn't ever heard before when Adrian was nudging him away from the door. It was kind-of cute."

Picturing the image in his head, he nods slowly, feeling a small smile pull the corner of his mouth upward. "…Yeah, that does sound cute. Wish I could've seen it."

He moves on with a curious sound, pushing the little container a bit more back and away from the edge — he'd knocked it over twice just like this before — before he reaches upward, pulling the cabinet above him open and snagging a cup from inside.

And for a moment, neither of you say anything; the only reason he's not rambling and asking you all sorts of questions about what notes Robert made and what they could've meant was because he knew you liked the song playing; Lorraine, by The Excellents.

It was a good song. He liked it too.

Closing the cabinet, he exhales slowly, getting his coffee made as you hummed lowly to the song behind him— the sound kept him from getting too far within his thoughts, from soiling his own mood dwelling on things he knew he couldn't fix.

He had quite the habit of that.

Characteristically, he can't hold his tongue for long, even with his hands busy. "Did they say when they were coming?"

"Mm-mm."

Grunting a lazy form of acknowledgement, he closes the container of coffee, nudging it back into its typical spot before he grabs a spoon and his cup, moving over to the island counter beside you. You're idly eating one of the pancakes, fiddling on the laptop— as it was your day to have it. It got passed between the two of you and Rocky like a tennis-ball; you'd have it for a few days, then Rocky would come to the door and demand it was, quote, Rocky's day for the human technology again.

It usually wasn't.

He stirs his drink in a lazy, broken rhythm before lifting it to his lips, more caught up on staring at your hands as you type than anything else.

What you'd done with those exact hands; from fixing the Hail Mary on the trip here, to logging all of the little Pebbles' questions so he'd remember them for their next class, to sinking your fingers in his side while he'd—

He chokes on his sip, quickly pulling the cup away from his mouth like it burned. He covers his mouth with his other hand, coughing into his fist before bringing his arm up and continuing to into his elbow, turning away from you both to hide the heat in his cheeks, and protect you from his germs.

"Wha— Are you okay?"

Your voice, as concerned and gentle it is, helps nothing good at the moment.

All is does is remind him of how it sounds similar whilst doing other things, just more broken and out-of-breath— how he affected you then, that he could make you sound like that, how good you made him feel during…

Yeah? You're sure?

"Yes!" He blurts, voice raised and a lot louder than he meant it to be— he clears his throat, shaking his head rapidly. "I— I mean, yes. I'm okay. It was just… a lot, uh, warmer than I expected it to be. Sorry, hah."

He laughs awkwardly, keeping his gaze focused on anything but you, even when the heat of your hand seeps into his shoulder as you place it there. He has to wrestle the instinct to not sink into your touch, to lean back and stop pretending he didn't want to be all over you, all the time.

His cheeks have never felt hotter.

"Ryland," You call, the underbelly of your voice easing just slightly around the syllables.

His name sounds almost holy when you say it like that.

"W— What is it?"

Rocky and Adrian are coming later, he reminds himself, there's no time for anything. Focus on… quite literally anything else, for the love of science.

"You're sure? It didn't burn you or anything, did it?" You pull on his shoulder just slightly, and his brain crumbles almost instantly— finally letting you turn him to face you, even when he feels ashamed about the fact he's getting worked up over you just existing around him.

That's embarrassing— that's what teenagers do. He's passed that age twice over.

"…Yes," He mumbles, "I'm sure. It was just a common, humanly mishap. Everyone makes those… on Earth."

In his peripheral, he can see your eyes as they flit around his face, as if checking for any damage anyway. After your shoulders ease, your hand slips from his shoulder and to his bicep, making warmth bloom all the way down everywhere you touch and his breathing kick up a notch.

Now he's getting really distracted.

"See?" He continues, clearing his throat softly as he looks away, back to you, away again, then back to you. "Just clumsy, like always."

I want to kiss you so bad.

He wants to kiss you so badly.

Humiliatingly badly.

You seem to notice it, too— the inferno and the embarrassment in his stomach twist and tangle strangely as he glances up, catching the way your expression changes from worried to… something else. He feels like he needs to talk about something, anything, to distract himself from his own emotions; his want to touch you, his need for you to kiss him at least once right now, just to stave it off for a little while.

"You know, um, we— we should probably eat," He laughs, but it's strained and airy, almost shy. "You know, before Rock and his family get here?"

Attempting to force his brain to want you to let go, he steps back, and when your hand falls and the bottom of his spine bumps into the edge of the cold counter-top, he swallows. Loudly.

He misses your touch almost instantly, and he's the one who made you stop.

He was a coward.

You say nothing, but the amusement on your face is leaving enough hints that he can put together.

Your silence makes it all the worse; you're just staring, letting himself run around in circles like a dog chasing their tail. It makes him feel exposed, bare— though you make that feel good. Weirdly good.

Before the Hail Mary, when someone made him feel this way, he'd just shut down and run away screaming internally. But he doesn't want to do that with you, no. Instead, all he wants is for you to draw him closer, warm him up with yourself, make his brain turn off for a little while.

You don't make it feel like a bad thing.

"You, uh, you know how Rocky gets," He continues, each of his open-mouthed breaths coming in quicker and quicker the longer you stare— his heart is beating so fast, he can hear it in his own ears. "All annoyed and grouchy for how— how long we take to finish."

Again, you just raise an eyebrow, just slightly, and say nothing. Not even a single one of your typical hums, or casual grunts of acknowledgement.

He gives up.

Hanging his head, he presses the heels of his palms into the cool edge of the counter, aiming for a physical distraction from his own slew of embarrassment and shame; but his body feels so hot he barely registers it, his focus being yanked towards you and your presence no matter how hard he tries to pull it away.

You were like his North Star, constantly drawing him towards you no matter where he was or what he'd try.

"I give up," He announces lamely, picking his head back up and licking his lips. "I give up. Just—"

He doesn't even know what he wants to say; what he was going to say. Instead, he finally shuts up, looking at anything that isn't you. The wall, the cabinets, his shoes, your throa— the flooring, the pancakes sitting on the counter that are probably cold by now.

Sucking in a long, steady breath through his mouth, he glances back to you, staring at the expression on your face as you just stand there, fingers curled into your palm like you were waiting for permission to do something.

"Just…"

He still doesn't know— but something in his chest claws at the cage of his ribs, just waiting for him to figure it out, to say it.

You weren't the teasing type; playful, yes, but not in moments like these, where he was fumbling over himself. He's not sure if your silence or the teasing would be better now.

"Just…?" You question, giving him time to figure it out, but also trying to help him along to whatever that truly was.

He shakes his head, letting his gaze drop back to the floor. "I don't know what I was going to say."

He can hear your clothes ruffle when you reach up, but what you do is out of his peripheral. "Do you know what you want?"

Does he?

Does he really?

He thinks he does. He just never had the chance to really think about it— on Earth, he didn't want to. On the Hail Mary, he never had time, never thought he'd live long enough to ever figure it out. But here, with you, he's got plenty, and he still… has no clue. He was emotionally aimless.

He knew what he loved doing. Teaching his students, talking with them, helping them learn and figure things out. He knew he liked it when you'd lay in bed together and he'd just ramble his brains out. He knew he always felt the most confident about himself when he was around you, that you soothed his random bubbles of insecurity and failure. He knew being around you felt good, an instant gratification for whatever stress he was having then.

He knew that…

He's found it.

You.

He wants you.

"You," He says finally. "I— I know I want you."

In a bout of strange self-assuredness, he tilts his head back up and fixes his gaze to your face, bouncing between making very intimate eye-contact and staring off somewhere at your collarbone so he doesn't have to watch your expression shift in the ways he knows it will.

It's almost odd; you've been together (At least technically, saying so felt nearly awkward) for a good while already. You've gone through the hoops, the near-deaths of finally getting here, all of the scary parts, but… saying a complexly simple I want you felt more big a jump than anything else.

Maybe it's how plain and sure it is. I want you. It's blunt; it doesn't need to be pulled apart for him or you to know exactly what it means at its core, as it's just as deep at its surface.

"O… Kay," Your voice sounds almost unsure for a second, but he's not sure if that's of yourself or him. Either way, it doesn't feel pleasant, unlike what tumbles from your mouth right after. "You've got me. All the way. I'm yours."

Your response repeats in his head once, twice, trying and failing to catch and sink in multiple times— he can feel his heart beat in his throat, in his fingertips, in his tense stomach.

I'm yours.

Your words finally register completely, making the tangle in his chest ease as his shoulder droop.

"Okay," He repeats, nodding once, then twice, like he was trying to convince himself of something. Of what, he's not one hundred percent in the know of. "Okay, okay, okay. Cool. Yeah, this is great, um… I should probably stop talking now— and preferably before I say something else really embarrassing… again. Sorry. I'm done now."

Instead of brushing him off, all you do is smile and step closer; steadily and slowly enough to give him ample time to decide what he wanted.

But he knows it now.

Standing up a little taller, he inhales shakily, looking down at your lips multiple times in the few seconds it takes you to be standing right in front of him. You're close enough he can feel your warmth, imagine the way you'll touch him next.

Should he be doing that? Probably not, but you don't look like you mind all that much.

You don't touch him like you do, either.

Your hand curls loosely, gently around his left wrist— he stares at you face, but you're staring at where you're touching, slowly dragging your fingers upward and ghosting your touch over the burn scars there. Your fingers press lightly into his underarm as you keep going, your thumb taking in a careful, rhythmic back-and-forth motion over the worst part of the scars.

He swallows.

"They, uh, they don't hurt anymore," He says, staring at your face, then watching the motion of your thumb. "If you were wondering."

You hum a low, affirmative sound, though your focus is clearly not pulled away from what you're doing with your hands. It feels strange— he couldn't sense the heat of your hand, or the feather-like pattern of your thumb, but his brain still acted like he could. It was more alike a phantom sensation, knowing he couldn't feel it, but his mind behaved otherwise.

What he feels almost completely is how intimate the moment is.

"I can't really feel anything there, either," He admits, voice lowered. "It's kind of weird."

"Should I stop?"

God, please, no.

He stops himself a split-second before those exact thoughts tumble from his brain and out of his mouth; a rare event for someone like himself. He's not sure if he should be grateful for this being the first time, but it takes the title nonetheless.

"No, you're, um, you're alright."

What's not alright is how badly he still wants you to kiss him— it's like it's all he can think about. Most days, the interest came sporadically, rather than any certain time (outside of the obvious), and rarely this intense. His brain tacked it as a physical need; like breathing, it physically ached that you weren't as close as he wanted.

It's half his fault, though. He knows it. He could man up, tell you himself, but he doesn't.

The feeling of your hand drifting upward pulls him from his thoughts, forcing him back into the present and to look at you. You look as focused as ever, but where a blank slate of an expression would typically lay, an intense, concentrated one takes its place this time.

"You look focused," He murmurs, a small, amused grin forming along the curves of his mouth. "Really focused. More than normal, you know."

Is he talking just to distract himself?

Maybe.

Can you tell?

Also maybe.

"Yeah?" You muse, gaze downcast and following the trail of goosebumps your hand carves into his skin— you slowly go up his arm, to his shoulder, then back down. Were you teasing him? He was unsure if you were doing it on purpose or not, but that mattered not to the slew of butterflies in his stomach.

"…Yeah," He agrees, swallowing quietly. "You do."

As your hand pulls from his wrist and slips over to the low of his hips, his breathing jumps almost instantly as your touch truly registers, making his stomach twitch and his mouth part. You caress him like he's something worthy, someone you're reverent of— at the thought, an unidentifiable emotion coils in his chest, suffocating his lungs like a disease.

"You, uh— You don't have to take your time or anything," He stutters, "You're not gonna break me… I think."

The jest comes out strained and slightly stiff, and the same goes for the shy, awkward laugh that trails it; he wasn't used to someone taking this much time just to touch him. It creates a strange but also pleasant concoction of emotions in his stomach.

Nerves, warmth, comfort, shyness, attraction…

You make him feel all sorts of funny ways, and most he's never felt before. At least not all at once.

"Mmn, I know," You mutter, your hands pulling his sleep shirt up as you splay them out over his ribs, "But rushing isn't any fun. Doesn't feel as good, either."

The cool air of the room laps at the bare parts of his stomach, a violent opposite to the blatant heat of your fingers as they curl around the curve of his side. You finally flit your gaze away from his stomach and up to his face, making him all of a sudden be aware of how hot his cheeks feel.

Is he blushing?

He's probably blushing.

You tilt your head. "All good?"

"Yes," He blurts, nodding almost immediately. "Yes. Absolutely."

"Can I kiss you?"

"Dumb question."

The kiss that comes after is heated.

He leans into it instantly, hands reaching out for your waist, his fingers tangling in the fabric of your shirt as he gasps into your mouth, letting his eyes close. You're so warm. And everywhere. His brain faintly registers the feeling of your hands tightening around the meat of the low of his hips, but what is accepted in full clarity is the groan that falls from your mouth and into his.

Tilting his head, he chases after your lips— getting what he's wanted has never felt so good. It's nearly euphoric, the need for more and more and more swallowing his shame and absorbing it whole. Even whilst he's losing oxygen and needs more, he doesn't want to move away.

And in doing that, you're forced to.

The second he senses you're about to pull back, his hold on your shirt tightens, wanting you close even as the burn of him losing his breath aches into his lungs, shooting warning signals to his brain he ignores until what feels like the last minute.

This time, he lets you move back without complaint, gasping for air the second your mouths disconnect— his brain feels almost fuzzy, like it's stuffed with cotton as you pant against him, your desperate breaths syncing for a split second before they fall out of rhythm again.

You nudge your forehead against his, the cold of the counter pressing into his back as you press against his front; he tilts his head back as you dip your head down, groaning as you mouth at his throat and press the tips of your teeth where you lick.

Your hands slide up his spine underneath his shirt, making a shudder drip down the notches of his spine as he leans into you more, wanting to tuck his nose into your pulse point and never move again.

"I love you," He breathes, resting his head against yours as he attempts to catch his breath. He only opens his eyes when he feels you plant kisses upwards, along his jawline and dotted around the corners of mouth— the way you do so, the way you kiss in general, is enthralling.

"I love you," You murmur, pressing your lips to the underside of his jaw as you catch your breath, too. "So much."

Before he gets to say anything else, the doorbell rings once, twice, three times…

He loses count after the tenth time.

Well, this was a predicament.

It was the end of the day for the students and teachers of Grover Cleveland Middle. The kids had long since filed out, leaving the teachers to their own devices—grading papers, updating grades, tidying up the classroom, working on assignment plans, and so on.

Grace had locked up his classroom for the afternoon, a helmet on his head as he wandered down the hall. He struggled to buckle it with one hand, the other barely managing to shove a pile of papers into his bag.

There was quite a few assignments left for him to grade, so he figured he could do the rest at his apartment while ordering something for dinner. The thought of having the same lousy ramen for the fifth night in a row was making him sick. He desperately needed to go grocery shopping soon.

But that'd have to be for another day, seeing as he had to get these papers graded for tomorrow. So that was all he had in his plans for tonight. Not like he ever had any plans anyways, save for the occasional night out for the school faculty.

At least, that would've been his only plans, had he not been met with a small problem—a fuzzy, black and white problem.

Grace stared down at the kitten on his bike, curled up on the seat and peering up at him with wide, hazel eyes. He blinked a couple of times, as if to ensure he was actually seeing the small feline and it wasn't his sleep deprivation playing tricks on his brain.

Nope, still there. Still staring at him with those big, curious eyes.

"Hey there, little guy. Or girl, guess I don't know which you are." He mumbled, scratching the back of his head from beneath the lopsided helmet he wore. "Can you move please? I need to get home, and that bike is, unfortunately, my only form of transportation. Unless I want to sprint several blocks, which I don't."

The kitten blinked up at him slowly, a quiet mew leaving its mouth.

Right. He was talking to a cat.

He ran a hand along his face, pushing his glasses upwards as he rubbed his eyes. Moving a kitten seemed simple enough, though he didn't want to run the risk of getting his arm clawed to shreds and ending up with an infection.

While he stood there contemplating how to handle the situation, a figure approached from the sidewalk. The sound of heels clicking against the cement barely caught his attention, his gaze zeroed in on the cat in concentration, as if that'd somehow get it to move.

"Dr. Grace."

He nearly jumped out of his own skin, an involuntary yelp escaping as he whipped around to face the source. There stood the English teacher, Margaret Haynes, an older woman in her mid-sixties with brown hair that was starting to gray.

Her eyes crinkled at the edges, offering an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I forgot to ask if you'd like to chaperone this upcoming field trip the eighth graders have. One of the teachers dropped out, so we need a new volunteer."

His head bobbed up and down, already agreeing before the words even left his mouth. "Sure. Yeah, that's perfectly fine with me. I can do that." He paused, eyeing the kitten on his seat once more, then turning to her with a sheepish smile. "Uhm, you wouldn't happen to have a solution for this, would you?"

Margaret followed his line of sight in confusion. Once her gaze landed on the black and white feline, it softened. "Well, what a cutie. Are you going to take it home?"

The blonde scratched at the back of his neck, his face scrunching up with uncertainty. "I don't exactly have the free time to take care of a cat. Not to mention I ride a bike, so I couldn't take it home either way." He reasoned, though his reply sounded more like an excuse to avoid the possibility. "But I don't want to accidentally scare it by trying to move it, so I've just been... standing here."

She gave an understanding hum and held out a hand towards him. "May I see your cardigan, Dr. Grace?"

The question took him aback, but he complied, awkwardly shifting his bag so he could slip the knitted material off his frame. He wordlessly handed it to the elderly lady, watching as she used it to step closer and carefully swaddle the stray feline. There was no fuss, the kitten remaining completely relaxed even as she lifted it to check the gender, a few quiet mews escaping now and then.

"She must be used to humans with how calm she is." Margaret noted, holding the balled up cardigan close. The kitten's head peaked out from the layers of fabric, her ears twitching while little noises kept leaving her.

No longer deterred by the possibility of a couple scratches, Grace reached forward to gently rub two fingers over the top of her tiny, fuzzy head. Almost immediately a hushed purr began to emit from her, her third eyelid creeping over her eyes out of relaxation—a little creepy, he'd admit.

"She is pretty cute. I don't think I've ever seen a cat with specks all over their fur like that. Reminds me of space with all its stars." He remarked, observing the various white dots that spread across her dark fur.

Margaret let out a hum, silently debating what to do with the feline now. "I'll move her further from the school, keep her away from all those rowdy kids." She suggested, having already ruled out the possibility of sending her home with him.

At least, that was until she noticed the conflicted expression he wore, his brows furrowed and lips in a subtle, worried frown. He was hesitating, one hand fiddling with the strap of his bag as he stared at the cat in her arms.

"Is that safe? What if she gets attacked by another animal, like a stray dog? Or some person could, for that matter. It's also too close to the streets, I think it's too dangerous for her to—" He began to rattle off his spiraling thoughts, his tone and mannerisms more than telling of where this was heading despite his own denial at first.

She was quick to interject before he could continue any longer. "She's a stray. I'm sure she'll figure it out." Then she paused, taking one last look at those wide, blue eyes brimmed with concern behind a pair of glasses, and rose an eyebrow. "Unless..?"

That's how Grace ended up with a kitten racing around his apartment late in the afternoon. He wasn't even sure if his landlord allowed pets, but it was too late now.

Given his bicycle situation, Margaret was nice enough to offer a ride. He couldn't exactly refuse if he wanted to take the kitten with, nor could he since he'd need to buy supplies for said kitten as well. Plus, she only lived about three blocks away, so that made him feel a little less bad about the whole ordeal.

Fortunately, her car also had a mounting rack for his bike, so he wouldn't have to bug her in the morning for a ride back to the school, either. As kind as the gesture was, he was already ashamed having someone else drive him around, let alone a woman twice his age. He didn't need to deal with that again first thing in the morning.

Grace had taken the time to set everything up. A litter box and small garbage bin was set in the corner of his apartment, while two bowls sat in the kitchen area against the wall, one filled with water and the other kibble. Then lastly a short scratching post sat in the living space, accompanied by a couple of toys that were tossed around for her to go wild with—she seemed to love the tinsel pompom balls the most.

For a minute he watched her play, going over the last part of the conversation he had with Margaret. He'd mentioned his concern with leaving the cat alone tomorrow for work, and in turn she told him she knew just the person to help out.

Apparently she used to have quite a few pets, and therefore had a particular pet sitter she always hired due to her exceptional care. This sitter was always attentive to the specific needs of each one, treating them with utmost love and care like they were one of her own. She primarily worked with cats too, which sounded like an excellent choice for someone as clueless as himself.

Margaret told him she'd give her a call and inform her about the situation. When he tried to bring up that he didn't have the money to pay for a pet sitter, she waved him off before driving away.

Not very reassuring. He wasn't sure whether that meant it'd be handled, or if he was about to lose this weeks paycheck to a small kitten—or rather a second one, after all the cat supplies he bought.

Guess he'd have to find out and deal with that in the morning... and have ramen for dinner again.

For now though, he needed a name.

The blonde's gaze followed the small cat, no longer interested in the toys around as she sniffed at the ground, exploring her new surroundings. He kept being drawn to the tiny specks all over her black fur, along with the short, white mittens she had on her front paws.

Something space related, then?

Luna? No, that was overused and sounded more like a dog name to him.

Star? Wow, Grace. That's very original.

Felis? It was a lost constellation based on a cat, which was cool. Didn't sound like a good name, though.

Félicette? The first and only cat sent to space. But that'd remind him of what happened to her afterwards and make him sad everytime he used it.

Choosing a name was a lot more difficult than he thought it'd be. He wasn't sure how long he sat there pondering on it, all while watching his new companion roam around his apartment.

Grace sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, the action shifting his glasses askew. "What should I name you? Got any ideas?" He asked the little fluffball, who had trotted up to his sitting form. The kitten mewed, rubbing up against his pant leg with an audibly loud purr. "I'm this close to naming you Kitty and calling it a day."

Those big, hazel eyes blinked up at him, pupils nearly swallowing the color whole as she continued to purr and rub her face against his leg. He leaned down to reach her, gently rubbing the top of her head. A smile formed on his lips when she leaned fully into his touch, her body nearly lifting off the ground in order to nuzzle at his palm.

Come on. Coming up with a name for this adorable ball of fuzz shouldn't be that hard. She reminded him of a night sky, where the moon and stars were sprinkled across a black canvas, with hues of violet, blue and red scattered across it—the cosmos, encompassed around the Earth's horizon.

Grace perked up, finally coming to a decision from that thought alone. "I like the name Cosmo." He said aloud, offering it like it was a suggestion the feline could deny or accept. "What do you think?"

A pitched, squeaky meow met his ears. Good enough for him.

Now with that out of the way, he could move onto his original plans while she settled. The grumbling of his stomach insisted food was an order. He could eat while he worked on grading those papers for tomorrow.

But as he stood up, his eyes roved around the apartment. It was in disarray, items scattered in way that was organized and familiar to his own mind. Everything had a place and purpose, and seeing as he hadn't had any company in god knows how long, he never considered it to be an issue.

Except for his bedroom. That was definitely a mess because he didn't have time to do laundry this week.

With a new kitten and a pet sitter expected to arrive tomorrow morning, the embarrassment was creeping in. There was no way he could leave it like this. What an awful first impression that would be.

Guess he had more to do tonight than he initially thought.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Grace got barely any sleep that night. Between grading papers and tidying his apartment, he crashed into his bed at around one in the morning. On top of that, Cosmo's energy was bursting through the roof, so he was constantly startled awake by the fluffball jumping on his stomach or wrestling his outstretched arm.

Eventually the kitten calmed down enough to lay in bed with him, curled up on the warmth of his bare chest while purring away like a little car engine. That lasted about an hour, before his alarm went off to start the day.

Needless to say, he was exhausted and not at all prepared to face a class of twenty rambunctious kids that kept asking him if the Earth was flat.

On top of that, after throwing on his clothes for the day and tidying up his appearance, he was met with the harsh reminder of not having any coffee left. He didn't really have anything in his kitchen aside from ramen packages, some canned and frozen foods, half a loaf of bread, and bunch of condiments.

Toast didn't sound appealing, so he'd wait it out until lunch time. The grumble of his stomach disagreed, but he didn't have much time to dwell on it due to a little gremlin meowing loudly at his feet.

Grace glanced down, a smile forming on his lips as they pawed insistently at his pant leg. "Guess I'm not the only one who's starving." He commented with a chuckle, carefully stepping around the feline who was whining louder by the second. "Alright, alright! I'm working on it, hold on... Climbing over my feet is not helping this move any faster."

It was a struggle – aka Cosmo circling and running over her bowl, preventing him from actually pouring the kibble in – but he managed to appease the demanding kitten. She was chowing down, face buried deep in the food like it'd disappear if she didn't devour it all right that second.

While she ate, Grace turned on the TV and began gathering his belongings, left scattered around the living room table from last night. The hum of the news played on the screen, his brain barely listening as he neatly stacked the graded papers to put in his bag. His laptop slid in beside it, only to pause as there was a slow, irregular knock at the door.

His head perked up, swiveling around to face it with wide eyes. Was the pet sitter here already? A glance at his watch showed he had about an hour before he had to leave, which meant half-an-hour until her scheduled arrival. Earlier than he expected, but he didn't mind.

The blonde was quick to get up and approach the door, scooping up Cosmo in the process when she decided to tag along. Even if he was in an apartment complex, he wasn't risking her bolting out there and making him chase after her. He was too tired for that.

He fiddled with the lock with one hand, cat cradled to his chest with the other. Another awkward knock hit the door – although it sounded lower than usual – before he finally got the thing unlocked and opened.

Immediately he was met with the sight of a woman, with (H/l), (H/c) hair that framed her face, while wide, (E/c) eyes stared back at him. She looked to be around his age, maybe a couple years younger from the youthful glow of her complexion. The surprise on her face quickly melted away into an eager beam, a smile so bright it put the sun to shame.

Grace froze where he stood, his hand resting on the door and a small cat squirming in the other. At first he didn't say anything, his brain short-circuiting and failing to form a proper sentence to greet her with. Instead he stared like the woman in front of him was something otherworldly.

He wasn't the type to believe in love at first sight, as he found it to be cliche and unrealistic whenever he watched any kind of romance movie. But in that moment, when he swore his heart skipped a beat and his breath hitched in his throat, he figured he might have to reconsider his stance on that.

Now it was starting to make sense why Margaret insisted so heavily on getting this specific pet sitter for him.

The woman shifted where she stood, breaking him out of whatever daze he'd fallen into. It was then that he noticed her outstretched foot that was once against the door, along with her arms being occupied with a paper bag and cup holder.

Ah, so that's why each knock sounded so strange and sparse. She couldn't use her hands since they were full.

And here he was, staring like an idiot instead of helping her. What a great first impression.

"O–oh! Let me help you with that, and please, come in." He sputtered out, quickly pinning the door with his hip so he could hold out his free hand. In return she handed over the bag, sending him a grateful look as she slipped past.

Grace followed after her, bumping the door closed behind them. Against his chest Cosmo was flailing around, unable to stay still as she tried to escape towards the new person. He quickly kneeled down before she could fall, letting the energetic fluffball jump from his grasp and rush over to her.

His gaze flickered upwards, watching as the (H/c)-haired woman set the drink carrier on the counter. "You must be, uhm— Actually, Mrs. Haynes never told me your name. But you're the cat sitter, right?" He winced, realizing he should've asked about that beforehand.

Then again, there was a lot of details he should've inquired about. He hadn't given it much thought since he'd been occupied with other tasks and being terrorized by a fluffy gremlin.

"That'd be me! I'm (Y/n)." She confirmed, a polite smile on her lips while she gestured for the bag in his hand. As he gave it to her, she briefly eyed the black and white cat that was circling and sniffing at her feet. "You're Dr. Grace, then? And this little cutie is..?"

He grinned, scooping up said troublemaker before she could try to climb up her pant leg—he caught her right before she was going to leap. She'd done that to him a few times already, and those claws may have been small, but they were sharp. Left behind a few scratches on his legs.

"Her name is Cosmo! And you can call me Ryland. Or Grace, most people call me that. Either is fine." He responded, holding the kitten to his chest as she tried to wiggle free with a whine. "Can I ask why you're here so early? N–not that I mind! It's completely fine, I was just curious."

(Y/n) watched him wrestle with the kitten, laughing under her breath when she broke free of his hold. The surprise on Grace's face was priceless as she clawed her way up to his shoulder, his body tensing inwards as he froze completely. His breaths even paused as if the smallest movement would accidentally knock the small feline off.

"I was hungry and figured you might be too. So I decided to come early so we could both have some breakfast." She explained, starting to open and dig through the paper bag she brought.

Her response was casual, as if it was completely normal that she brought him something. Meanwhile Grace was staring at her like a deer in headlights, still tense as Cosmo tried to chew on the side of his glasses, her fur tickling at his face.

"Oh, that's for... me?" He asked hesitantly, making sure he heard her correctly.

"Mhm! I wasn't sure how you liked your coffee, so I got some creamers and sugars just in case." She gestured towards the two empty cup holder spots filled with said condiments. Then she began to set out the food items from the bag, one-by-one for him to see. "I also got two breakfast sandwiches, one with bacon and one without, a blueberry muffin and a strawberry and cream pastry. So you can pick and choose what you like."

For a minute he could only stare at her beaming face, radiating nothing but warmth and eagerness. He was more than positive his heart was beating far too fast in his chest to be considered normal. Then Cosmo nearly smacked the glasses off his face, causing him to flinch and hurriedly fix them while her soft laughter met his ears.

He'd only known her for a couple minutes, and he was already convinced she was an angel. A beautiful, kind-hearted angel that went out of her way to get breakfast for him and even provide options in case he didn't like something.

He couldn't recall the last time someone had went out of their way for him like that. The fact she'd even considered that before they even met was affecting him more than he'd like to admit.

Oh, this was bad. Wherever his dumb brain was heading to was not good at all.

"You– you didn't have to do that." Finally he found his voice, a noticeable heat rising to his face out of embarrassment. "How much was it? I'll send you some money for it."

It was fruitless for him to try to offer that, as she was already waving him off before he even finished speaking. She retrieved the coffee cups from the carrier, before sending him a look that clearly showed she wasn't going to let him argue with her on this.

"I got us breakfast out of my own volition. You don't have to pay me anything, Grace." She insisted, flashing him a reassuring smile that had the red flush on his face darkening. Then she turned to the kitten who was actively trying to climb onto his head of dirty blonde hair. "Plus, it's my treat for letting me take care of this little cutie!"

Grace's face scrunched up, his brows furrowed and a frown pursing at his lips as he went to gently grab Cosmo. He adjusted the rowdy cat in his hands, staring down at her to avoid any eye contact.

"Uhm, speaking of that..." He started, heaving out a sigh as he reluctantly met her curious gaze. "I don't exactly have the money right now to pay for a sitter. Mrs. Haynes kind of sprung this on me last night. I'm not sure how much you charge, but I can try to—"

"Did she not tell you anything?" She cut him off, sounding amused as he stared back at her, his mouth slightly agape and face pinched in confusion. "You don't have to pay me. I owe her a few favors, and she cashed this in as one of them. So I'll be helping you out, just until you get situated with Cosmo."

His mouth shut, blinking a couple of times as he processed her words. It didn't make sense that Margaret would waste a favor on himself, no matter how kind of a person she was. They weren't that close, aside from their run-ins in the break room—also her constantly asking about when he'd find a lucky woman to have in his life.

His theory from earlier was starting to prove itself as these new details came to light.

He scratched at the back of his neck, letting Cosmo jump from his lowered arm in the process. "Well, uh, that's very nice of her. Though she really didn't have to waste a favor on me. I can still pay you, but it might be delayed until I can get—"

"Nope. It's fine, really." (Y/n) shot him down, not entertaining the thought for even a second. "Please, don't worry about it. All you should be thinking about right now, is having some food and coffee before you get bombarded by children for the rest of the day."

Grace wasn't convinced, his internal conflict evident in his expression and the way he refused to look at her. His eyes flickered back and forth between the food on the counter and Cosmo wandering off, a frown on his lips like the guilt from the two was already eating away at him.

Maybe he could convince Margaret to let him send (Y/n) some money through her? He couldn't in good conscience let her do this and not pay for her time. She was watching a cat from seven in the morning until two in the afternoon—more if he had to spend time after classes with students or for faculty meetings. Favor or not, it felt like he was taking advantage of her generosity.

It was like she could see the gears turning in his head as she sent him a warning stare. "Don't even think about it. This is what Margaret chose as her favor, so you have to deal with it. No buts." Her voice was playful yet stern, allowing no more room arguing as she gestured to the food. "Now, pick what you want before Cosmo eats it, because she looks close to figuring out how to get on the counter."

Grace's attention snapped back to the kitten at that. She was close, scaling up one of the stools in front of the island counter to reach the scent of fresh baked goods. So he'd have to deal with that being a regular occurrence already.

At that point, he had no choice but to comply to her wishes. He had one of the sandwiches – the one with bacon, obviously – along with the strawberry and cream pastry, occasionally sipping on his coffee after he'd adjusted it to his liking. While he munched on his breakfast, he provided what information he could on the kitten—where he found her, why he'd given her the name Cosmo, what her behavior was like so far, and the supplies he got for her.

When he mentioned the first part, (Y/n) rose an eyebrow, swallowing a mouthful of muffin before speaking. "Does she need to go to the vet? She was a stray, so it'd be best to get her checked out."

He let out a sigh, knowing she was right yet not wanting the headache of another bill to take care of. "I know, I will at some point. But I just spent my paycheck on the rest of this stuff, so I can't right now." He laughed, though it was uncomfortable and forced.

It was shameful to him, practically living paycheck to paycheck when he was in his late thirties. He knew how important it was to get a medical check-up for a stray, but he really couldn't afford a vet bill of all things right now.

The entire situation was becoming a glaring problem, one that he was beginning to regret solely from a financial standpoint, because he couldn't feel bad about taking in a stray kitten that likely wouldn't have made it though the night. It was a mess, but he'd just have to work through it whenever he could manage.

As he was taking another bite of his pastry, he saw her face light up. Immediately his stomach dropped, not even needing to hear the words before he knew what she was going to suggest. Unfortunately, the mouthful of food prevented him from interrupting her when she went to blurt out her offer.

"I can take her! One of my friends actually works at a vet clinic nearby. I have two cats of my own, so I visit her for them." She saw the troubled look on his face, quickly adding on more for further convincing. "Cost won't be a big issue for the initial check-up. She also gives me a discount."

His eyebrows scrunched up, confusion momentarily replacing the worry that was there prior. "Is that allowed for a veterinary clinic?"

"Probably not, but I get one from her anyway." She shrugged with a smile. "I'm taking her regardless. So there's no point in trying to talk me out of it."

They'd only just met and this woman was already doing too much for him. He wasn't sure whether to feel frustrated for burdening her with his issues, or absolutely smitten over her gracious nature—probably a mix of both at the moment.

Grace let out a huff, playfully squinting his eyes at her from behind his glasses. "You're being way too nice. I feel like I'm being set up into coming home and my place being robbed, cat and all."

That got a loud laugh out of her, nearly spitting out her coffee in the process. The reaction made him grin, easing a little of his guilt at the warm, fuzzy sensation it spread throughout him.

(Y/n) took a deep breath, trying to recover as the giggling subsided. "I promise I'm not going to steal anything." She teased, her smile widening as she stole a glance at the black and white fluffball rushing around the living room. "Or maybe just the cat, cause she's simply too adorable not to. I think the name you gave her is fitting."

"Yeah, she's definitely something." He agreed softly, though his eyes remained on her. When she glanced back to meet his stare, he offered a sheepish smile and fiddled with his coffee cup. "I would let you steal her, but she's grown on me after using my couch as a scratching post, right beside the one I bought her."

An amused breath left her. "You can expect her to never touch that thing. Everything is a scratching post except the actual scratching post." Her tone was joking, yet he could tell she was speaking from experience.

He almost glossed over that fact, didn't he? She said she had two cats, which he supposed made sense. Though he wondered who was watching them if she was currently here. A friend? A roommate? A partner?

He didn't like the thought of the last one.

"Guess I'll add new furniture onto my costs." He jested back, though he silently hoped that wouldn't be the case. Right as he was going to ask about her pets, he shot a glance down to his watch, only to jolt out of his seat. "Shoot! I have to go. Right now, or else I'll be late."

She watched the blonde rush around to gather his things, a concerned frown on her lips. "Do you need a ride? I can drive you if you want."

It was a tempting and sweet offer, especially with his sleepless night before—his body was not rested enough to ride a bicycle for several blocks. However, he simply couldn't bring himself to accept anymore from her.

"No, it's fine! You've done enough for me already. I'll be alright." He rushed out, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he headed towards the door. The helmet on the coat rack was snatched up before he turned back to her. "Thank you, for all this. I appreciate it more than you know. Not really sure what else I would've done without you."

She smiled, as bright and as radiant as the sun itself—to him, at least. "It's no problem, I'm happy to help. Have a good day, and good luck with those kids."

He buckled the helmet on his head with a laugh under his breath. "I'll need it. I'll see you later, (Y/n). Bye Cosmo." He waved to each of them, the fluffy kitten padding her way over once he opened the door. "Be good for her. No jumping on her or climbing up her pants or scratching the— Why am I talking like you're going to listen to me?"

(Y/n) managed to scoop up Cosmo before she could make an escape. She shook her head with a chuckle, watching the blonde slip out the door with a fond gleam in her eyes. "She's in good hands, I promise. Bye, Grace."

As he took one last glance at the (H/c)-haired woman, cradling the kitten to her chest as she mewed and wiggled around, he grinned. "I don't doubt that."

The door shut behind him, leaving him alone in the middle of the hallway. For a minute he didn't move, his back to the door of his apartment while he stared at the opposite wall, going over everything that just happened in the past hour. So little, yet enough to make his heartbeat erratic while his brain went haywire.

That kitten was definitely the best thing that happened to him in a while... As long as he didn't factor in how expensive she was becoming.

A/N:

Wiping the sweat off of his hands and onto his pants, he exhales shakily, feeling his leg bounce beneath his palm— it feels like his heart is in his throat, and not in a good way. Not exactly in a bad way, either. It was a good-bad-way. That's what he'll settle on.

He doesn't know why he feels so anxious — maybe the three cups of coffee he's had today are to blame, — but he feels it nonetheless, strongly. And everywhere. It was established that this was just a casual, completely normal, platonic dat—- hang-out, between two close friends. That's all. Nothing big, nothing loud, just you, him, dinner, and a Museum.

Just you and him.

He's not quite sure when his heart started kicking up in pace at the thought it— of you, or when he'd day-dream about you, or when he'd play your voicemails on repeat when he couldn't focus just to hear your voice. Really, he's not, but that's not important now as he sits here outside of school, waiting for you to text him when you arrive.

Of course, you picking him up wasn't new— you were a pillar in his life, and he felt you almost everywhere. In his shitty, messy apartment, his brain, when he'd wear the sweaters you got him…

Everywhere.

"Mr. Grace?"

Blinking rapidly, he breaks from his thoughts, humming a low "Hm?" Automatically before he even glances over— and when he does, his gaze lands on Spencer, one of his rather excitable but caring students.

He sits up a little more. "Don't worry about the late work, Spencer. It's alright."

They shake their head. "No, that… Are you okay? You look pale and you've been sitting here and behaving like a crazy person for the past five minutes. Yeah, I've seen you check your phone a million times, too. I won't pretend I didn't."

Crazy person?

Looking away, a breathy, shy laugh falls from his lips as blush crawls across his cheeks, heating his face and making him feel awkward. In front of his own student.

Embarrassing.

"What? Yeah, no, I'm, uh, completely on the OK. Just waiting for a friend," He clears his throat, reaching up to straighten his glasses; just to give his hands something to do once he focuses back onto them. He feels exposed. "Why aren't you at the bus stop? You'll be late."

Spencer's eyes narrow, and he watches the skepticism crash onto their face the moment they register what he'd said.

"Riiiight…." They mutter, slowly stepping back. "You're a really bad liar, but I honestly don't want to know whatever you've got going on— and you're lucky it was me instead of Janet, so you should thank me by giving me a couple more days on my paper. You know, for not spilling your secrets… and keeping your privacy intact."

"Wha— I already gave you, like, three extensions!" He gapes, jaw dropping just slightly as he watches them slowly retreat. "You're still having trouble? Why didn't you tell me earlier when I talked about the work?"

"Bye, Mr. Grace! Have a nice date!" They chirp, walking off, completely ignoring his concerned imploring.

"Date? Who said anything about a date?"

He gets no answer.

Sinking back, he huffs, staring down at the ground between his Converse, embarrassed.

Oh my God, he thinks, running a hand down his face to distract from the heat blooming across his cheeks. What the heck was that?

Adjusting in his spot on the bench, he pulls his glasses from his face, rubbing one of his eyes with the pads of his fingers— embarrassment still lingers, pulling an inner coil in his stomach unpleasantly taut.

That was slightly humiliating; he'll no doubt be kept up by that later tonight— if he's not already hogged by grading papers he thought he'd already graded (but completely forgot about).

His thigh tingles with the absence of the buzzing of his phone, drawing him back to the ever-waiting present. You didn't have a track-record of being late quite like he did — He'd argue he's fashionably late — so you're bound to be here any moment now, and he won't be a waiting duck.

No. Instead, he'll be pretending he isn't caught up on the way your necklace hangs pleasantly from your throat, or the way your voice makes his chest tighten… Or the way you both help him focus on work and distract him completely from it.

Exhaling slowly to steady his heart-rate, he runs his palms up and down the front of his thighs, checking the time again. Four twenty-two. You got off work at three fifty today, and you'd texted that you were coming to pick him up around sixteen minutes after that. He got out of his class at four thirteen.

You made nearly ten minutes feel like an eternity— actually, correction, his nerves made it feel like an eternity.

This was a self-inflicted agony, he'd admit it to himself.

Did you die on the way up here or are you just stopped at a red light? He wonders, fishing his phone from his pocket to check over your texts again— but the screen flashes in his hand a second before he turns it on.

Your name graces the screen.

"I'm in the parking lot. You said by the bus pick up, right?"

He swallows, clicking the notification and unlocking his phone. Chewing on his lip, he looks up, letting his gaze wander over the cars in the lot, and after one moves, he spots your truck in the back near the sidewalk.

He looks back down.

"I see you," He types, sending the message before continuing to write another. "And yes. I almost thought you'd forgotten about me, haha."

Not wanting to see your reply to his own faintly embarrassing text, he turns his phone off, shoving it into his pocket as he stands up from the bench. He grabs his helmet from beside him, looping the chinstrap to hang around the handles of his bike before he nudges its kickstand up with the toe of his shoe.

For the love of everything science, he thinks, walking alongside his bike on the sidewalk, do not embarrass yourself tonight.

You just… do these things to him— make his stomach tie itself into knots, make him feel insane and giddy at the same-time; like he was one of the high schoolers he's teaching. All of a sudden, he regrets feeling any sort of adorable amusement at putting his students next to their crushes in the seating plans and watching them fumble around one-another.

This was kind-of awful, in a weirdly pleasant way.

Is that the definition of insanity? Who knows.

He slows his pace a little once he makes it half-way, glancing up and over to your vehicle only to spot you already out and waiting for him.

He stops.

You look way too darn good for a 4PM on a random Tuesday. Way too good.

"You clean up nice," He jests, clearing his throat softly afterward. "I feel honored. And under-dressed."

The cheesy grin that softens the curve of your lips makes his an inferno out of the hollow of his chest— then the heat drags upward, to the tips of his ears and to his cheeks.

"Yeah? I was kind-of in a rush," You muse, voice light. "But don't worry. I brought you a shirt."

"You did?" He chokes, letting you take his bicycle when you reach for it after he grabs his helmet; then, he watches as you heft it up into the back of your truck. The way you do it looks effortless, where he knows he would come off dorky and clunky.

You look so good.

It's messing with his brain's natural ability to function— the way your hair is a slight mess like you've been running your hands through it, the way the color of your necklace contrasts against the color of your shirt (and how attractive it looks, hanging in the space of the unbuttoned collar)…

Your voice yanks him from his daydreaming.

"'Course I did," You nod, stepping back over to him after you get his bike in the back, "You said you needed one, remember?"

Had he? He can't recall. He can't think.

"Right," He agrees instantly, trying to conceal the fact he completely did not. "Yeah, no I remember now. Thank-you— for the shirt and for… putting my bike up."

He reaches up, running his hand through his hair right as some of his students pass. He glances over to them, realizing his glasses are slightly smudged with his fingerprints once he does.

Whoops.

"Damn, Mr. Grace!" One of them pipes up, and he catches the up-down they give you, then the wolf-whistle they're about to do right before they do it. "How the hell did you bag that?"

If his face was hot before, it's on fire now.

"Jefferson!" He squeaks, turning away from you immediately as he gasps silently, "What the heck, dude? No one's bagging anything— whatever that means!"

"It means to score someone," Another pipes up, rather unhelpfully. "You know, like fuck. Or date."

"Emily, you're not helping— And you guys are supposed to be on the bus already, so what are you doing over here?"

Turning away, he coughs into his elbow — it's more of a nervous tick than any illness or need, — trying to give himself physical stimuli to draw his focus away from his hyper-awareness of you (And the way he heard you laugh) and the flush to his face.

It doesn't work.

"No one's doing any of that," He continues, rambling. "They're a friend. Strictly platonic— so kick your butts into gear and go get on the bus so you can go home."

"Riiiight, right," Jefferson waves his hand carelessly as he walks past the two of you, as if to push away Ryland's argument. "Invite me to the wedding!"

"Me too!" Another joins. "I would pay to see that."

He stares.

His heart is assaulting his rib-cage with its incessant, quick thumps— beating so hard he can feel it in his throat. Once he realizes his mouth is still open, he finally closes it, each of his exhales coming out shakily from his nose.

"They seem like a fun bunch," You hum, and he can hear the smile in your voice. It helps nothing. "Very entertaining."

"They are," He grumbles, embarrassed. "Try dealing with twelve of them at once. I think they shave years off of my life-span when they pull things like… that."

"At least they're comfortable enough to," You add, and he finally glances over to you, catching the way your shoulders drop from the tail end of a shrug. "It's cute."

That's true, he thinks, feeling his heart rate slow— pride and affection fill the space where embarrassment and shame laid, making his shoulders ease. As much as a hassle they were sometimes, he did truly love his kids.

"That's a nice way of looking at it," He agrees, nodding thoughtfully. "I like it. They're still gremlins, though."

Reaching up, he pulls his glasses from his face, tugging the bottom hem of his shirt away from his stomach and using the fabric to clean the lenses— in spite of the nerves you shoveled up within him just by being in proximity, you also soothed the rest; where he'd get caught up in his emotions and the technicalities of things, you had a habit of looking at the broader picture.

It was nice.

"Oh, no doubt." You add, snickering. "I've heard enough about them to know that for certain."

Humming an agreeing sound, he clears his throat, looking up— his eyes naturally squint lightly to see you, trying to catch the details he can't see without his glasses on habit.

"I guess I do tell you a lot about them, huh?" He breathes, smiling faintly. "I forget I tell you half of the things I do."

Releasing the hem of his shirt, he narrows his eyes, lifting his glasses up and peering through the lenses to check for smudges— once he deems them Clean Enough™, he slips them back on to rest atop the bridge of his nose.

"It's mostly in coffee-induced rambles," You shrug, "But yes. You ready to go, Mr. Grace?"

The way your voice lilts upward, almost teasing, has his brain catching.

"Uh, yeah," He coughs, "Absolutely."

The laugh that tumbles from your mouth loops brokenly in his head as he rounds the truck and pries the passenger-side door open, continuing on even as he climbs inside, sets his bike helmet in the back-seat, and closes the door after himself.

He fumbles to buckle up as you slip into the drivers seat, tugging on the belt after the buckle clips just to make sure it's in for good— yours clicks into place right after his. He leans back into the seat, exhaling slowly as he relaxes; it reeks of you in here.

And that's very far from a bad thing. You smell heavenly; it's almost intoxicating.

It makes him imagine how good it'd feel to wake up beside you, toss a leg over your hip, and bury his nose into your throat— the heat of your body, the comfort of your bed, the sleepy noise you'd make.

Oh, God.

He needs to clear his head. Preferably before he gets tangled in his thought and says something embarrassing—

"You look… nice."

Nevermind.