pompon

He grumbles, his eyes finally adjusting a bit more. He’s in a hospital bed, a thin scratchy blanket laid on top of him, tucked carefully into his sides. The beeping to his left is coming from a heart monitor, linked to a little cuff on his finger. Leon smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth a few times, cringing at the dryness.

“... Hospital?” His voice is rough and hoarse.

The person nods, and his vision finally clears fully. You’re standing beside him, a book tucked under one arm and a paper cup in your hand. You lower it to his lips, and he drinks greedily, even if it feels so cold that it shocks him.

“Yep. The doctors said you could be a bit out of it. Do you remember what happened?”

He tries to remember, he really does. Something about a bullet and a monster and some kind of cure? It’s all a blur in his mind.

“Kinda?” He gives a small, weak cough. “Why’d they put me under?”

Your hand reaches down, grazing his cheek. This doesn’t feel real. You’re so pretty it hurts, all soft and sweet and gentle. Who the hell are you?

You tsk, a small smile on your face. “You got shot. Apparently the bullet got lodged near your ribs. Are you feeling okay?”

“Who’re you?” He blinks. “A nurse?”

You giggle again. “No, Leon. I’m not a nurse.”

“An angel?”

The giggle evolves into full blown laughter. “They were real damn generous with those pain meds, weren’t they?”

Now that he thinks about it, yeah, they probably were. He doesn’t feel much pain right now. Mostly just some discomfort. Some tightness around his ribs, probably from some kind of bandaging. Your hand moves down to his chest, pressing against his collarbone. You’re warm, he notes. He wants to curl into that warmth forever if he could.

Wait, why are you touching him?

You’re not a nurse, you said. His eyes flit around the room, landing on the wedding ring on his finger. Oh, fuck. His brain is groggy, and he can’t remember all that much, but he has a wife. He knows that. No matter how pretty and warm you are, he has a wife. 

“My wife-” He sputters, though he doesn’t dare pull away from your touch. “My wife will get mad if she sees you touching me like that. On my chest.”

More laughing. This time, you have to step away clutching your hands to your stomach as you nearly choke on laughter. You wipe a tear from your eye, finally trying to calm down.

“And my husband,” You heave in a breath, giggles still tumbling from your lips. “Would get mad if he saw me touching any other man.”

Leon nods, assured. “Husband?”

“Yes, Leon. Husband.” You lift your hand, showing a ring. It’s similar to his own, he notes. Must have similar taste. “Whom I am very loyal and loving to.”

“He a decent guy?” Leon tries to reach for the water on the bedside table, but his arm falls short. You help him immediately, grabbing the cup and letting him drink again. 

“Yes, he is.” You wipe a dribble of water from his chin. “Treats me perfect and all. Though he can be an idiot sometimes. Always running headfirst into danger.”

He grumbles. “He better be treating you right. You’re too pretty for him not to.”

Another laugh, and this time he joins in, even though he’s not sure what’s so funny. Okay, there it is. The pain. When he laughs, his ribs hurt, a sharp stinging pain that lances up his side. Leon can’t help but hiss in discomfort, body twisting a little to try and get away from the burn.

“Hurts?” Your hand is there immediately, giving the gentlest of soothing pressure. “It’s okay. Just breathe, honey. Do you need me to get the doctor? He can give you some more morphine.”

Even through his agony, Leon’s brow raises. “Don’t call me that. My wife wouldn’t like it.”

“Leon, baby, I am your wife.”

Beside him, the heart rate monitor starts going haywire, beats crescendoing into a rhythm that is definitely too fast. “W-What?”

"I'm your wife." You answer surely, still petting over his side. Your touch almost feels healing, and he doesn’t even try to shy away from it. Instead, he looks at you. Looks at your wedding ring, then his. Looks back at you.

"...No."

An amused huff. "What do you mean, no?"

"I mean..." He gestures vaguely toward your face. "...Look at you."

You frown. "What about me?"

"You're..." His brain searches for the word. "...Beautiful."

You smile, and it does something in his brain that he really can’t explain right now. He still feels all slow and dumb. Morphine, you said? That makes sense then.

"Thank you."

"No, I don't think you understand." Leon shakes his head, and his hand shakily moves up to you, brushing a few strands of hair back from your eyes. He doesn’t miss the way you accept the gesture, even going along with it.

Your wedding ring is still glinting on your finger. It looks like it matches his, actually. Shit, are you telling the truth? How the hell did he get this lucky?

"I probably don't." You giggle.

"You are way too pretty to have married me."

Your eyes soften, almost getting a little teary. It confuses him. Why do you look like that? Like you love him? 

“You say that all the time, baby.” Your hand moves from his ribs, and you lean down to kiss his forehead. It sends him reeling. “You’re always saying how you have no idea how you got so lucky. I think it’s the opposite, but you never let me say that.”

His forehead is still warm where your lips pressed against it. He wants more, truthfully. Instead of prompting for another, words blurt out of him before he can stop it.

“So, do we kiss? Have we kissed?”

Your face twists for a moment, before chuckles escape you anyway. “Yes, baby. We kiss a lot.” As if to prove your point, you give him a quick peck on the lips, your nose crinkling. “Ew, you need a shower. I’ll help you clean up once you wake up more.”

The heart rate monitor has only increased. He can feel a flush come to his cheeks, making his whole damn face red. “So have we…? You know…?” His eyes sheepishly look away.

At this point, you’re wheezing. “Made love? Of course, baby. But please calm down. Before the doctors think you’re having a heart attack, please.”

He sputters. “S-Seriously? We’ve done that?”

At this point, your head falls into your hands, and your giggles don’t stop. “Very serious.”

“More than once?!” He tries to move, and more pain lances through his ribs.

“Yes, baby.” You press a button near his head, and almost immediately, he feels a wave of relief wash over him. The morphine drip, maybe? The call button? He has no idea what you just pressed. You continue, “Honey, we’ve been married for almost six years.”

“Six years?!” Leon coughs again. “Six whole years?!”

Another nod, and this time he’s sure that he died during that damn surgery, and went to heaven. You really must be an angel, he’s decided. There’s no way this is real. 

His eyes are starstruck when you kiss his cheek. His gaze drifts toward the chair beside the bed. Your jacket is thrown over the back. An overnight bag rests beneath it. A dog-eared book sits on the seat beside an empty coffee cup gone cold hours ago. How long had you been here? Waiting for him to wake up? 

He’s speaking again before he can even think.

“... You really are an angel.”

He grumbles, his eyes finally adjusting a bit more. He’s in a hospital bed, a thin scratchy blanket laid on top of him, tucked carefully into his sides. The beeping to his left is coming from a heart monitor, linked to a little cuff on his finger. Leon smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth a few times, cringing at the dryness.

“... Hospital?” His voice is rough and hoarse.

The person nods, and his vision finally clears fully. You’re standing beside him, a book tucked under one arm and a paper cup in your hand. You lower it to his lips, and he drinks greedily, even if it feels so cold that it shocks him.

“Yep. The doctors said you could be a bit out of it. Do you remember what happened?”

He tries to remember, he really does. Something about a bullet and a monster and some kind of cure? It’s all a blur in his mind.

“Kinda?” He gives a small, weak cough. “Why’d they put me under?”

Your hand reaches down, grazing his cheek. This doesn’t feel real. You’re so pretty it hurts, all soft and sweet and gentle. Who the hell are you?

You tsk, a small smile on your face. “You got shot. Apparently the bullet got lodged near your ribs. Are you feeling okay?”

“Who’re you?” He blinks. “A nurse?”

You giggle again. “No, Leon. I’m not a nurse.”

“An angel?”

The giggle evolves into full blown laughter. “They were real damn generous with those pain meds, weren’t they?”

Now that he thinks about it, yeah, they probably were. He doesn’t feel much pain right now. Mostly just some discomfort. Some tightness around his ribs, probably from some kind of bandaging. Your hand moves down to his chest, pressing against his collarbone. You’re warm, he notes. He wants to curl into that warmth forever if he could.

Wait, why are you touching him?

You’re not a nurse, you said. His eyes flit around the room, landing on the wedding ring on his finger. Oh, fuck. His brain is groggy, and he can’t remember all that much, but he has a wife. He knows that. No matter how pretty and warm you are, he has a wife. 

“My wife-” He sputters, though he doesn’t dare pull away from your touch. “My wife will get mad if she sees you touching me like that. On my chest.”

More laughing. This time, you have to step away clutching your hands to your stomach as you nearly choke on laughter. You wipe a tear from your eye, finally trying to calm down.

“And my husband,” You heave in a breath, giggles still tumbling from your lips. “Would get mad if he saw me touching any other man.”

Leon nods, assured. “Husband?”

“Yes, Leon. Husband.” You lift your hand, showing a ring. It’s similar to his own, he notes. Must have similar taste. “Whom I am very loyal and loving to.”

“He a decent guy?” Leon tries to reach for the water on the bedside table, but his arm falls short. You help him immediately, grabbing the cup and letting him drink again. 

“Yes, he is.” You wipe a dribble of water from his chin. “Treats me perfect and all. Though he can be an idiot sometimes. Always running headfirst into danger.”

He grumbles. “He better be treating you right. You’re too pretty for him not to.”

Another laugh, and this time he joins in, even though he’s not sure what’s so funny. Okay, there it is. The pain. When he laughs, his ribs hurt, a sharp stinging pain that lances up his side. Leon can’t help but hiss in discomfort, body twisting a little to try and get away from the burn.

“Hurts?” Your hand is there immediately, giving the gentlest of soothing pressure. “It’s okay. Just breathe, honey. Do you need me to get the doctor? He can give you some more morphine.”

Even through his agony, Leon’s brow raises. “Don’t call me that. My wife wouldn’t like it.”

“Leon, baby, I am your wife.”

Beside him, the heart rate monitor starts going haywire, beats crescendoing into a rhythm that is definitely too fast. “W-What?”

"I'm your wife." You answer surely, still petting over his side. Your touch almost feels healing, and he doesn’t even try to shy away from it. Instead, he looks at you. Looks at your wedding ring, then his. Looks back at you.

"...No."

An amused huff. "What do you mean, no?"

"I mean..." He gestures vaguely toward your face. "...Look at you."

You frown. "What about me?"

"You're..." His brain searches for the word. "...Beautiful."

You smile, and it does something in his brain that he really can’t explain right now. He still feels all slow and dumb. Morphine, you said? That makes sense then.

"Thank you."

"No, I don't think you understand." Leon shakes his head, and his hand shakily moves up to you, brushing a few strands of hair back from your eyes. He doesn’t miss the way you accept the gesture, even going along with it.

Your wedding ring is still glinting on your finger. It looks like it matches his, actually. Shit, are you telling the truth? How the hell did he get this lucky?

"I probably don't." You giggle.

"You are way too pretty to have married me."

Your eyes soften, almost getting a little teary. It confuses him. Why do you look like that? Like you love him? 

“You say that all the time, baby.” Your hand moves from his ribs, and you lean down to kiss his forehead. It sends him reeling. “You’re always saying how you have no idea how you got so lucky. I think it’s the opposite, but you never let me say that.”

His forehead is still warm where your lips pressed against it. He wants more, truthfully. Instead of prompting for another, words blurt out of him before he can stop it.

“So, do we kiss? Have we kissed?”

Your face twists for a moment, before chuckles escape you anyway. “Yes, baby. We kiss a lot.” As if to prove your point, you give him a quick peck on the lips, your nose crinkling. “Ew, you need a shower. I’ll help you clean up once you wake up more.”

The heart rate monitor has only increased. He can feel a flush come to his cheeks, making his whole damn face red. “So have we…? You know…?” His eyes sheepishly look away.

At this point, you’re wheezing. “Made love? Of course, baby. But please calm down. Before the doctors think you’re having a heart attack, please.”

He sputters. “S-Seriously? We’ve done that?”

At this point, your head falls into your hands, and your giggles don’t stop. “Very serious.”

“More than once?!” He tries to move, and more pain lances through his ribs.

“Yes, baby.” You press a button near his head, and almost immediately, he feels a wave of relief wash over him. The morphine drip, maybe? The call button? He has no idea what you just pressed. You continue, “Honey, we’ve been married for almost six years.”

“Six years?!” Leon coughs again. “Six whole years?!”

Another nod, and this time he’s sure that he died during that damn surgery, and went to heaven. You really must be an angel, he’s decided. There’s no way this is real. 

His eyes are starstruck when you kiss his cheek. His gaze drifts toward the chair beside the bed. Your jacket is thrown over the back. An overnight bag rests beneath it. A dog-eared book sits on the seat beside an empty coffee cup gone cold hours ago. How long had you been here? Waiting for him to wake up? 

He’s speaking again before he can even think.

“... You really are an angel.”

If the thud of his body hitting the floorboards wasn't what woke you up, the loud groan that followed definitely was.

The shuffling of fabric made you sit up, attempt to sit up at least. Ryland had you down by your waist, cuddling into you from behind. You look up at Colt, who was now stood up, holding his pillow as his hand was raised, rubbing his shoulder from the impact.

He spots you looking and smiled. "I'm going back to my own bed, it's way too cramped for the three of us," he whispered.

You look around slightly at the twin bed that had now become a floor bed, all four legs had given way during last night's activities

"Maybe I should go with you?" You whisper back, you slowly start to pry Ryland's fingers away.

Colt looks at his brother sleeping peacefully. He was still smiling, even in his sleep. Both his arms were wrapped tightly around you, as if scared you would roll away. A couple strands of hair were sticking up, his face almost pressed against your shoulder blade.

And so Colt holds it in. He shakes his head, 'you stay here, with him,' his gaze says.

You nodded, laying back down as the stuntman made his way to leave.

Phase two of the plan, you're alone with Rylo. He held back a chuckle. His brother owed him big time.

The last thing you hear is the light shut of Colt's door, your eyelids grow heavy again.

Your neck feels cold. Actually, no, it's not cold, its wet

Your eyes snap open, only to be met with the top of a nest of blonde hair.

"Ry, sweetie, what are you doing?"

He pauses, but his breathing is heavy.

"nothing," he spoke before hesitating, "just kissing you."

You pull his head back up to look at him. His pupils are blown and his lips were pink and puffy. You say nothing, only raising your eyebrow at how worked up he seemed to be from just 'kissing'.

"I told you, it's nothing.. I just gave you some hickies." Your eyes widen.

"Ryland Grace, I have work today, I can't show up looking like this." He pouts, his eyebrows furrow as if he's upset. "People are going to talk, you know my department, they'll probably link it to you or something"

At those words, his frown disappeared, replaced by a bright beam. He buries his face back into your neck, letting out a dreamy sigh.

"God, I hope they do." comes his muffled voice.

Rolling your eyes, you pull him closer. Your leg recoils as it touches the bedsheets under him, they're soaked, and sticky.

"Ry, did you —cum?" you ask incredulously.

"mmh yea,” he reels, “I already came twice, can't help it when you're here —so close" He looks at you again, his eyes were more black than blue. "Will you be mine?" he asks after a lingering moment.

He word vomits the rest.

"I promise you won't regret it, I'll do whatever you want me to do, please please just give me a chance to take you out for dinner sometime?"

His eyes looked really alert for someone who slept way past his bedtime, he almost looked manic, but you could see the hope. You catch a slight falter in his gaze after a couple seconds of you not answering.

"Dinner sounds nice Ry." You smile. He smiles back.

You both lie there comfortably enjoying each other's presence.

Your fingertips trace the shell of his ear, hand moving down to cup his face, thumb fanning out over his light stubble, you lean closer, kissing along his jaw before finally making your way to his-

But being on the Hail Mary has gotten a little static. Especially now, when you're a couple months in to the three year journey to Erid and have nothing to do. Your mission has been completed. Ryland and Rocky saved their stars. You course corrected Mary to high-tail it out of Her return to Earth and toward Erid instead.

All you have is time and each other, now.

Entertaining each other isn't hard, but you can only do the same thing in the same bunk so many times before you start itching for a change in the routine.

Plus, it's not easy to talk about doing something new in the "bedroom." When your extraterrestrial guest has the most incredible hearing of any living creature you've ever met, it's borderline impossible to get two minutes into the conversation before it gets shut down.

"What about roleplay? You ever tried it?"

"Ryland Grace!"

"What? It's fun!"

"No, I haven't tried it. Have you ever done anything in public?"

"You had the audacity to freak out over roleplay, but asking if I've had sex in public is totally fine?"

"Just answer the question!"

"No, I haven't done anything in public! Well…in college, I had this girlfriend, and we'd sneak into a section of the library no one ever went to so that we could—"

"Grace and mate discussing mating rituals, question?"

"Nope! No, we're not! When did you even get here?!"

"Ry, it's not like we actually were having—"

"We aren't doing or talking about anything!"

"Grace is bad liar."

Grace, indeed, is bad liar.

He got so flustered that you thought he'd never return to normal—which is weird, because Ryland's usually an open book with him. But, for some reason, he could hardly look at Rocky for the rest of the day after that one. From that point on, discussions surrounding anything intimate were restricted to whenever Rocky fell into one of his food comas. Doesn't happen often, but you know you've got a solid few hours to yourselves at the very least.

Right now, you're in hour two of one of those food comas. Time's ticking.

You're perched on one of the lab tables that hasn't been used in forever now that the mission's over, your legs gently swinging back and forth while boredom takes you hostage. Ryland's sitting on a stool at the table next to yours, eyes practically glued to a microscope where he's examining the star-saving Taumoeba he bred.

Sometimes he just likes to look at it. You understand why. It's a mix of pride and anxiety. Checking in on it and yet admiring it at the same time. You like to let him do it as much as he needs to, but…it does get a little boring when you're not busy elsewhere.

Mary's dependable despite all She's been through. She doesn't really need to be piloted all that much.

You sigh.

"Uh oh," Ryland pipes up, practically speaking into the Taumoeba when he does. "I know that sound."

"You don't know that sound."

"I do know that sound." Ryland briefly pulls back from the microscope. Just long enough to raise an eyebrow and look up at you. The overhead light casts a glare on the lens of his glasses. You could pout; all you wanted was to see those pretty baby blues.

"I've been around you for months in the closest quarters imaginable. You think I don't know all your sounds?"

You roll your eyes, but there's a smile teasing the corners of your mouth. It's impossible to get annoyed with him. It's even harder to feign that annoyance. You gesture toward him with one hand—a tiny challenge. He straightens. Challenge accepted, apparently.

"Fine, genius. Go ahead and tell me what that sound was."

He just stares at you. Crosses his arms. You try not to think about his biceps or his forearms when he does it. Without a single shred of hesitation, he very confidently says, "It's boredom. You're bored."

Shit.

You lean back on the lab table, careful to not knock anything over as you press your palms into the cold aluminum surface of it. It's first nature for you to want to act like he's wrong. He'd get all squeaky, and then he'd get pissy when you'd laugh at him for getting all squeaky. That's always fun to do, but…only when Rocky's helping you do it.

"Well," you trail off, staring into the glare where his eyes are hidden and trying to come up with some smart assed remark that'll give you the upper hand.

Then you let your head fall backward and you push out a groan.

"Okay. You got me."

Ryland's laugh echoes off the lab walls. He reaches over to grab and squeeze your knee that's closest to him, then returns to looking into the microscope.

"Should've said something, hun. What do you wanna do? We've got all the time in the world."

You lift your head back up. While you're thinking of a response, Ryland starts to slowly rub his thumb back and forth over your leg. Your eyes drift down to his hand, down to his thumb, down to the soft sweeping notion he's doing. It's as if it's nothing to him, and yet everything to you.

The warmth of his palm is bleeding through your sweatpants. Bleeding through that glove he's got on. Why he put gloves on to look at a sample in a microscope, you aren't sure, but…there's a fire being stoked in your belly while you're looking at the soft blue color of it.

Maybe it's time for a little bit of that exploration you'd been thinking about.

"Rocky's out for a few more hours. Probably."

His grip tightens on your knee and you have to bite back a laugh. Sometimes he reacts like a dog does when you've just said its favorite word.

When he pulls off of the microscope this time, there's a glint in his eye that you only see when you've finally got a pinch of privacy. Could be the glare from the light, of course, but you know it's there anyway. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then rubs the back of his neck with his other hand. After he gives your knee another squeeze, he attempts to speak again.

"What's on your mind?"

Your thoughts drift to his thumb still gently sweeping over your knee. Then to his free hand, and the glove tightly wrapped around it, as it pulls his glasses down so he can hang them on his jaw in that weird way he always does. A soft, wispy sigh slips from between your lips, and you gnaw on your bottom lip a little, then you let out a breathy, slightly nervous laugh.

"I," you pause. Then you clear your throat. Ryland—always obedient and attentive—simply waits. Sits silently while his eyes not-so-subtly attempt to devour you.

"You mentioned roleplay a couple days ago," you spit out. That fire in your belly is still roaring; somehow, though, it's traveled up to your cheeks as well. Borderline uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as the ache between your legs when you see the little smirk playing on his lips.

"Yeah? I piqued your curiosity with that one, huh?"

"A little," you squeak out. He nods his head. Only takes a second for him to rise off of the stool he was perched on and slot himself between your legs instead. He runs his hands up your thighs before clutching your hips in a gentle, reverent grip. Your arms instinctively slide around his neck.

"I just," you begin, voice low and a little shy, "I haven't done it, and…"

You gasp when he tugs on your hips, pulling you closer to him and closer to the edge of the lab table. It cut your sentence off completely. Made you lose your train of thought. His newly tightened grip is intoxicating. He's closer, now, but not close enough for you to kiss him.

When he slips his hands beneath your shirt (his, a button up…why'd they send a button up to space?) and the latex-covered pads of his fingertips brush over your waist, you shiver. Why the feeling of that latex against your skin is giving you the filthiest thoughts, you're not sure.

Boredom's a crazy motivator.

"I had…an idea," you whisper. "It just came to me. Only if you're up for it."

"Always up to it with you," he whispers back.

The soft push of his forehead against yours just a few seconds later makes you smile. You get what you want because of that; as soon as you close in and press your lips against his, you finally feel whole. Your hands tangle in his messy hair at the nape of his neck, giving it a gentle, experimental tug that has him groaning into your mouth.

That little noise gives you a chance to slip your tongue into the kiss. A tilt of your head deepens it. Ryland leans into you a little more. Enough to press himself against you. It isn't long before he's cradling your body with one arm, slipping it around your waist while he presses his other hand into the lab table behind you. Keeps both of you steady.

He's good at that. Can hardly walk on his own two feet if he's doing something on his own, but when he's got you weak and pliable in front of him like this, he's invincible. It's actually quite admirable.

It's unfortunate that you have to breathe. Your need for oxygen makes you pull back. While you're panting and trying your best to catch your breath, Ryland's dipping his head down into your neck. His stubble tickles, prickly and a little overgrown—his usual look that you haven't gotten tired of once. Makes you squirm. The soft drag of his teeth against your skin before he nips at it yanks a moan out of you that you didn't even know you were hoarding.

"You're distracting me," you playfully scold him, laughing through a heaving breath and patting his chest. He smiles against your skin and pulls back to get a good look at you. Takes a little step back and removes his hands from your body; the equivalent of a death sentence for you.

It gets worse when, through his muttered apology, he goes to take his gloves off. You frantically reach forward to lay your hands over his when he slips his fingers beneath the elastic band tightened around one of his wrists.

"Wait, don't take those off!"

Ryland does as you say when he completely stops in his tracks. His brow knits together and he looks down at his hands. Confusion is always so adorably physical on him.

"Don't…take these off?"

"Don't take them off," you confirm. There's a beat. You stare at each other; him still lost, you still a little shy. But you've already made it weird by reacting like that, so…might as well go all the way.

Your hands slip away from his. He leaves them suspended in the air between you, still gloved. It's like he's too lost to move. Makes you giggle. Eases some of the tension. Your fingers find the buttons at the bottom of his shirt you're wearing, but they don't move. You don't wanna give him anything just yet.

You clear your throat and shrug your shoulders. Let out a very dramatic, very pathetic little sigh. Ryland hasn't lost that confusion he got well-acquainted with. Eyes widened, and cheeks flushed pink, and lips in the beginning stage of being kiss-swollen while his mouth hangs open just a bit.

"It's been so long since I've had any sort of physical exam," you purr. His eyes somehow get wider. His face somehow flushes deeper. You laugh at him.

"Maybe you could help me with that. Make sure everything's in tip-top shape. What do you think, Dr. Grace?"

He punches out a laugh of utter disbelief, but he smiles at you. A tiny shiver rushes down your spine. It's instinctual, honestly; happens every time he has his eyes on you.

"I absolutely can help you with that."

Your hands gently lunge toward his jaw so you can put his glasses on correctly. As you're settling them on his face and slowly pushing them up the bridge of his nose, you whisper, "Need to be able to see to get a good look at me, right?"

He laughs. Winks at you from behind his lenses. Now that he's standing above you, you can see his eyes clear as day. No more overhead light glare. Just a soft, steadily darkening pair of eyes that makes your heart race.

"Maybe you should be the doctor," he whispers back. Steals a quick kiss from you that sees you grinning at him. Then, he clears his throat and gestures toward the table you're sitting on.

"Can you sit back, ma'am? Y'know, so I can get that good look at you?"

You slowly lean back for him. The steel table is cold beneath your palms when you press them into the empty space behind you. Grounds you and cools you off just a bit.

Ryland's eyes trail over you now that you're a little stretched out. You see them linger on the familiar places he always does. Over your thighs and hips, over your sides, over the gentle curve of your breasts and up your neck.

The area over your collarbones is the only sliver of your skin he can see right now; everything else is covered by his shirt you're wearing and the pair of sweatpants you haven't ditched yet. That tiny bit of skin's basically an oasis in some sort of desert.

You huff before you look him in the eyes. He meets them soon after, face flooded pink but his gaze still…hungry.

"Do you look at all of your patients like this, Dr. Grace?" you tease. He rests his left hand on your hip.

"I assure you," he begins, voice deep and raspy and definitely full of need, "this is all part of the exam. You're in good hands."

"I like when my doctor is good with his hands," you purr. Was that too on the nose for this little game you're playing? Sure. But it's what makes this fun. It gets him to huff out a laugh through his nose and give your hip a little squeeze.

You gnaw on your bottom lip to keep yourself from laughing, too, but only for a moment. Ryland's too busy bringing one hand up to your face and cradling your jaw. As soon as his thumb brushes over your chin, you release your lip from your teeth. His eyes land on your mouth and stay there for a beat longer than they should.

The soft scent of latex gently creeps up to your nose as he holds your face still. That scent gets a little stronger, lingering and pushing into your skin when his thumb runs over your bottom lip.

Why is that doing something for you? Why does it have you making a mess in your panties? What the hell will this awaken in you? Why did it only take two months to get here?

Questions to address later.

"First thing we need to do," he rumbles while still eyeing your lips, "is a temperature check."

His thumb remains on your lip. It isn't long before he slowly, softly pushes it a little forward. Aiming for the inside of your mouth, clearly.

"I'm so sorry, but our themometer is broken, so," he pauses. Lets out a fake apologetic scoff. Then he shrugs and looks you in the eyes to continue hedging with, "I'll have to use my hand instead."

Said it with his whole chest. Completely devoid of jest. Seems like he's really hitting his stride here. How many times has he done this with someone else?

You add that one to the bank of questions to be answered later. You need to up your game if he's bringing this much to the table.

"Do you need me to open wide, Dr. Grace?"

Although your words are muffled from his grip on your jaw and his thumb playing at your lips, you get them out clearly. Clearly enough to make him flush a soft pink that bleeds over the bridge of his nose and threatens to reach his ears.

He doesn't stumble, though. If you guys hadn't been shot up into space against your will, he might have been able to pursue a career in acting. You know, after the whole "Sun's dying" thing got fixed.

Instead, Ryland straightens.

"Mhm," he hums his answer. "Now, open wide."

So you do as he says and you drop your mouth open. Real wide. Until you can't open it any more. Time for that temperature check.

Ryland shoots you a sly little grin. Nods his head and blesses you with a whispered, "Very good."

The raw, deep rasp in his voice when he bestows that praise on you is enough to shoot a jolt of need straight to your pussy. Enough to make you squirm, to make your body physically ache for him. It's his most effective form of temptation. Has you wanting to ditch this fun little game and just let him fuck you.

But he's so enamored with this that you let it continue. You swallow your impatience, you still your writhing hips, and you let it go on.

His thumb gently pushes beyond your lips, brushing at the tip of your tongue. That heat blooming in your lower half deepens. Simmers a little more. Makes you think you might be sitting on an oven instead of a freezing cold lab table.

"Close," he instructs seconds later. Seems like you're not the only impatient one here. You've never followed directions faster in your entire life. Your lips encircle his thumb almost immediately. The skin-tight latex surrounding his hand takes away the joy of his thumbprint pressing against your tongue. Should be considered a crime.

"Perfect."

Ryland presses his thumb a little deeper into your mouth. You gently suck on the thick digit while looking directly into his eyes through your lashes. He's always been a sucker for the way you look at him while you're trying to tease him.

It breaks his concentration; an incredibly brief flash of need when he pinches his eyebrows together and he punches out a shaky sigh. His knees might have buckled, actually—but he plays it off like he's just shuffling to get closer to you. Like it actually was his intention to tighten his hold on your hip and pull you near the edge of this table.

When you push a little further and circle your tongue around his thumb, he actually shuts his eyes. Hangs his head for a second before he mutters, "Yeah, like that."

You indulge him. Suck a little harder. Tease with your tongue a little more. Give his thumb just enough attention to make him shudder in front of you. He reopens his eyes and reluctantly forces them back up and on you. It's not long before he's pulling his thumb out of your mouth. The quick action forces a lewd little pop to ring out into the tight space around you. Whether it's because he was about to come in his pants or not is beyond you.

Solid chance that it was, though.

"Did that feel good?"

Your cheeky question makes him chuckle. His face turns even more pink.

"My temperature, I mean," you clarify. "Did it feel good?"

"Yes," he answers through a smile that mangles the general casualness he was trying to upkeep. His hand slides down to your neck. His thumb, still damp with your saliva, braces against your jaw. You lean into his touch. How could you not?

"It was just right," he coos while he positions his fingers around the side of your neck, palm softly pressed against your throat. His thumb hovers on your quickened pulse on one side of your neck, just beneath your jaw, while his index and middle fingers dig into the pulse on the other side in the same spot.

You hum and try to ignore the thrumming between your legs when he gives your neck a single, firm little squeeze. When his fingers dig a little deeper into the soft give of your pulse points, when you can feel your own heartbeat hammering against your jaw from how hard he's grabbing you. It's not enough to take your breath away, but it's just enough to make you weak. To force a head rush when he releases his grip but leaves his hand there.

Your teeth find your bottom lip. You gnaw on it so hard that the taste of copper spreads over your tongue, metallic and abrasive as opposed to his softness. You look up at him through your lashes again—in that exact way that kills him every time—and your voice is breathy when you find it. Struggling from the gentle firmness of his grip and the fog of your own lust.

"What's this for, Dr. Grace?"

He gives your throat another squeeze. You shut your eyes and whine softly, head tilting back just a bit. There's something so intoxicating about the rough dig of his fingers into that sensitive, soft skin beneath your jaw. Did your hips buck up toward his? Probably. Not like you have time to focus on it, though; he's too busy giving you another fucking head rush when he relaxes his grip.

"For checking your heartrate."

When your eyes flutter open again, you find him smirking at you. He follows it up with another squeeze on your neck. One of your hands beelines for his where it rests at your hip. The way you borderline stab your nails into his wrist is almost as instinctual as the whimper that leaves your mouth when he relaxes his grip again and inundates you with a euphoric rush you're coming to adore. Your hold on him grounds you, but not for long.

"Seems to get quicker when I do this," he mutters, then he gives your neck another fucking squeeze. A little harder this time. Lasts a little longer, cuts off your blood flow just enough to make you deliciously woozy. Has your pussy fluttering and clenching around nothing. You'd be surprised if your arousal wasn't seeping through your sweats at this point.

You sink your nails deeper into his skin. He doesn't even flinch. Just laughs, soft and sweet despite how he's putting you through the ringer.

"What's that about? Are you nervous?"

"Yes! Yes, I'm—I'm just a little nervous. That's all," you stutter out. Total lie. Wasn't even convincing in the slightest. You run your tongue over your bottom lip and try to ignore the remnants of your own blood lingering there.

"No need for that," he reassures you, all saccharine and sickeningly comforting.

"You're in good hands, remember?"

Punctuates that one with another squeeze of your throat. That means another head rush a few seconds later when he releases it. You moan this time. Close your eyes tightly and tilt your head back a little. It was impossible to keep any part of that reaction in.

"Good hands," you eventually choke out. Whiny. Impatient. Breathy and embarrassingly pathetic. A parroting of only a fraction of his own question. Like you're giving him an excuse to call it quits and tear into you like you desperately want him to.

But Ryland doesn't break. Seems like he's actually capable of teasing you when he doesn't have his thumb in your mouth. It'd be admirable if you weren't so needy. All he does is hum to himself. Your bliss depletes when that soft, silky latex of his glove glides down your throat and toward your shirt.

"Got a strong, steady pulse aside from those nerves. Feels healthy to me," he mumbles. Does a good job at ignoring the frustrated groan that you punch out. You could have came from the "heartrate check" alone if he had done it a few more times.

Then, he drops his voice. It's a whisper, now. Confident, but so hardly-there that you consider leaning in when he tells you, "Let's keep going."

His fingers tease at the top button you've got fastened on his shirt. He taps it once, twice, three times. Gentle, and maybe a little teasing, but that's just your judgment from the hint of a smirk painted on his lips.

"I'm gonna need you to open your shirt, ma'am."

He clears his throat and shoots you a half-grin.

"So we can continue with your physical examination, that is."

It's right after that sentence that his hands leave you completely. No more teasing the buttons on your shirt. No more palm pressed against and fingers curling around your hip. He even takes a step back—distances himself from you until you can't feel his hips against the inside of your knees. Can't feel the warmth of his body flooding into yours even through all your layers. All you can do is deflate.

Months of close contact without even a second of personal space, and you're at your most miserable when you finally get a little bit of it.

The desperation to get it back is what pushes you to lift your fingers up to the buttons of your shirt. While you find each button and fumble with it, Ryland keeps his gaze glued on you. On your trembling fingers, on the heave of your chest, on the way you've got nothing but lust clouding your half-lidded eyes.

"Need some help?" he asks, soft and genuine, when he sees you slipping and fumbling over the third button on your shirt. You nod. Immediately. Quickly enough to have you feeling a hot, embarrassed flush in your cheeks. But it's only for a moment—he overshadows it by closing in on you again.

His massive hands are nothing but delicate as they close in on your shirt buttons. Slow and steady. Precision that gets your shirt completely unbuttoned within a matter of a few seconds. Why is that turning you on even more?

"There you go. Lean back and relax for me," he murmurs while in the process of undoing that final button. Instead of shrugging your shirt off, he simply pushes it open. The loose fabric billows around your waist. Brushes over your collarbones and your ribs. Hangs onto your shoulders as if it's only a brief look away from falling off of them.

By the time you press your hands back into the steel table, you're much more exposed. You'd conveniently forgotten to put on a bra this morning. Well…if it was morning when you woke up. Time doesn't exist here.

You chest is bare. Breasts on full display now that this shirt of his you've got on is open wide for his viewing pleasure. He looked directly at them, because even in the midst of his dedication to this roleplay, he's still a man.

Why not torture him a little?

"Is this where you want to start, Dr. Grace?" you purr. The hitched breath in his throat is audible when you gently arch your back and lift your chest in his direction. He tries to play it off with a fake cough but falters when he looks up at you. His pupils are so blown out that you should probably be concerned for him.

"Want me to take some deep breaths for you?"

Your teasing question makes Ryland hum. His hands have already returned to your hips. His thumbs, still enveloped in latex, are buttery soft when they gently trace back and forth over the skin just above your waistband. Almost as soft as the hold he's got on you. The gentle dig of his fingers into your body remind you of home. Maybe he is your home now.

"Go ahead," he commands. Nods when you do just as he says. One big, deep inhale—enough to make your lungs burn—followed by a full exhale.

"Very good. Just like that. Give me another one."

He trails one hand up your stomach, over your abdomen, toward your ribs. His touch merges with his praise. Leaves a path of goosebumps in its wake and a shiver shooting down your spine.

You manage to pull in another breath. Breathing is an automatic process for the brain, but when Ryland Grace is pawing at you this well, this hypnotically, it kicks that automatic process into manual. So when you draw it in, it's shaky. Hesitant, in a way. Unfocused.

All you can think about is the way he's inching closer and closer to your chest and how he's looking at you like he would devour you if you so much as thought about giving him permission to do so.

After that pathetic attempt at a breath, Ryland clicks his tongue at you. Very quiet. A little disappointed. Maybe even an attempt at humiliating you because he knows you like it. There's something mischievous in his eyes. Something a little playful behind all the lust.

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip. Curls his fingers around a section of your ribs and gives you a gentle squeeze. Finds his voice a few seconds later, and gifts it to you in a low, rich rumble.

"I'm afraid that wasn't sufficient enough. I need you to take a big, deep breath, ma'am."

You whine. You squirm. You let your head fall back for some brief, momentary relief from his still-hungered gaze. It's the only set of actions you could muster, especially with his hand sliding up and toward the valley of your breasts.

His large palm splays out over your sternum, steady and grounding despite how miserable you feel right now. He's great at bullshitting this. There's no way that this is actually how breathing is supposed to be measured.

Not that you care.

"C'mon. Just give me one more," he firmly instructs. Gives you a gentle tap on your sternum and lowers his velvety tone to a whisper.

"You're my best patient. If you wanna keep that title, I suggest you take a deep breath."

That gentle, cooed compliment really gets you going. Does its job, although it's a bit difficult to get there. After you push out the remaining whisper of a breath you had in your chest, you inhale. It's still a little shaky, but it's full-bodied; enough to make him smile at you and pat your chest.

"Perfect."

He continues with the "exam" in a way that's actually familiar to you. Because, instead of doing it like an actual medical doctor, he's doing it like himself: As a scientist. His hands glide up to and over your chest, his fingers tease, pinch, and tug on your nipples, and he gropes your breasts. His expert hands slide down your abdomen while his tongue sings soft praises to you for obeying the good doctor's orders.

He's not examining you like a doctor, though. He's exploring you like a scientist—and you're a fool for it. Staring up at him through lidded eyes, sucking in stilted breaths, releasing soft little whines and whimpers and moans spurred on from being poked and prodded.

So much for a physical exam. This borders on a lab test. And being the test subject of the brilliant, world-saving Dr. Ryland Grace? That's even better than being his patient at this makeshift doctor's office.

But he knocks you back down into your roleplay as his fingers tease over the waistband of your sweatpants.

"Can you take these off? Pelvic exam's the final step before we wrap up here."

"How about you do it for me?" you plead through feigned innocence. "You're just so good with your hands. Much better than I am."

He laughs. Then he blushes. And when he starts to untie that knot at the front of your sweats, he sends you a grin that'd make you swoon if you weren't so desperate to have him all over you.

"I'd love to help you with that, ma'am," he purrs while he slips his fingertips into your pants and slowly pulls them down your thighs. Only takes a second or two for you to kick them off and let them fall onto the floor in a heap. Takes even less time than that for him to pull your panties down.

"Lay back," Ryland tells you. A gruff little command. Definitely not as professional as a doctor would be. He's gotta be hurting as much as you are if he's starting to break like this, as subtle as it was.

But you do as he says. The lab lights cascading all over your body as soon as you lie down are extremely bright. Almost fluorescent.

Here you are: Illuminated by the harshest light possible, all spread out on this cold steel table, a lab rat for him to test on. Fully exposed. It should be embarrassing. It should make you want to cover up. To run and hide.

Instead, you spread your legs. And it makes Ryland turn a much darker shade of red than he was earlier. He covers up his blush with a smile. His hands meet your calves. They slowly run up your legs and toward your thighs, smooth latex gliding against your skin and making you shiver. Part of you misses the feeling of his bare skin against yours.

Ryland's hands glide up and up and up, slow and teasing, before they rest at your hips. His thumbs gently press into the soft skin there, and his fingers tighten their grip on you, and his eyes do a little gliding of their own. Up and down your entire body, lingering on every inch of skin he can get them on.

His tongue runs over his bottom lip before he softly coos, "You're so pretty."

You gasp. Act offended. Try to hide your genuine adoration and glee for his compliment behind a fake, snippy attitude.

"Are you flirting with your patient, Dr. Grace?"

"Making an objective observation, actually," he sasses back. It's almost hard to believe this guy could barely look at you the first time you slept together. What an honor it is to witness someone coming out of their shell.

"If I'm so pretty, can this exam be on the house?"

Ryland throws both of his eyebrows up.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

You scoff. A quip forms on your tongue, but dies almost immediately. You lose your ability to speak as soon as Ryland's hands slink away from your hips and toward your inner thighs. As his big, warm palms pin your legs down onto the table you're basically spread eagle on, he asks, "Can you keep your legs spread for me?"

You can't come up with the single, affirmative word. You just nod.

"I'm gonna trust you," he murmurs, thumbs getting to work by gently spreading your folds open. You keen. Your body jolts, and he's barely even touched you—but any sort of attention to your aching, needy pussy will do that to you.

"Especially since you've been doing so well for me," he adds. Although your head is swimming, clouded with nothing but wanton need that makes you want to lunge at him, you keep your word. Your hips squirm, but your legs stay open.

He smiles. His eyes flit up to yours when he glides one thumb through your folds. When you gasp and let out an actual moan, he laughs. Sweet and full of adoration for you.

"Easy. Sit still," he whispers. His other hand finds your stomach, big, warm palm splayed out over it so he can keep you still. You squeeze your eyes shut, and you toss your head back, and your jaw tenses so roughly that you're worried it might shatter.

But when Ryland's thumb finds your clit, the combination of the soft latex and his warmth makes it a little easier to relax. Finally, some fucking relief.

He starts rubbing slow, heavy circles on the sensitive bud. Enough to make your head loll to the side and your chest heave. Ryland's other fingers trace random shapes into your abdomen. It's soothing enough to keep you from squirming.

"Looks real good," he says while adding a little more pressure to the circles he's drawing on your clit. You moan again. It might be loud enough to wake up Rocky. You know that's not possible, but…there's a first time for everything.

"Reacting very well to stimulation."

"Fuck," you hiss, hips stuttering and one hand flying down to his wrist. Your nails dig into his exposed skin just above the elastic band of the glove on his hand. You want to stay in character; unfortunately for you, he's managed to wind you up so much with his poking and prodding that you're already about to come.

"Is something wrong, ma'am? Do you need a break?"

"I—No! I'm fine!" you squeak out, back arching, pussy fluttering around nothing and probably dripping onto the table beneath you already. He clicks his tongue against his teeth and, after getting you so close to your orgasm that you were seeing stars in your clouded vision, takes his thumb away.

"Why don't I try something else?"

Tears begin to pool in your eyes. You fall back down onto the table with a defeated, earth-shattering groan and let go of his arm. If you weren't so tired, you'd have fired off a string of insults his way. That's no way to get what you want, though. Ryland can be quite withholding when he's in the driver's seat.

He chuckles. Drums his fingers against your stomach for a moment, then gently mutters, "We're almost done. Take a deep breath for me."

With the last semblance of your mental awareness, you do it. The breath you suck in is deep. It burns your chest when you hold onto it. Luckily for you, though, it doesn't stick for long—Ryland pushes two of his gloved fingers into your pussy and your breath leaves you as a loud, guttural moan.

"Feels so good," he whispers to himself, as if he's the one struggling to keep it together.

There's no resistance. You're soaked from all the teasing and touching, so he slips in with ease. You cover your mouth with your own hand, teeth digging into your palm as you whimper into it and try to keep it together.

Truth be told, though, you didn't have a chance. Ryland's already thrusting them in and out of you, slow and deep and just how you like it. He's curling them up and hitting that soft, spongy spot that almost makes you black out each time he touches it.

"Dr. Grace!" you roughly pant, whimpering and hips roughly bucking up to meet his hand. He doesn't stop you. He probably wants to see you come more than you want to come.

"Is this part of the exam?"

He smirks up at you. Speeds up his fingers and presses his thumb against your clit again. Clears his throat and announces, "Of course it is. Just making sure everything's working how it's supposed to."

What a pervert. A beautiful, incredibly-skilled-with-his-hands pervert.

Something about that makes it impossible for you to keep it together. You throw your head back, your legs tremble, your lower half roughly and involuntarily twitches. The worst part is that you can't keep your mouth shut; you let go with a slew of almost unintelligible babbles and a set of moans so loud that you're worried your vocal cords will be torn to shreds.

When you come back down to Earth—or, rather, Mary—Ryland's got a shit eating grin on his face. It's a little crooked. Somehow, that makes it even more perfect. He clears his throat and straightens between your legs. Pulls his fingers out of you and presses both hands into the table, bracketing you in without a chance to escape.

Not that you'd want to.

"I think that test was inconclusive," he lies through his teeth. When you roll your eyes and lean up on your elbows because you want to shoot him a smart-assed response, you end up falling silent. His fingers are undoing the knot at the front of his own sweats, and he's taking you in like a starved man.

You giggle at him. At the way he's enamored with you despite you not doing anything. Then you simply ask, "What on Earth are we gonna do about that?"

He shrugs. Pushes his sweats down before he reaches forward, grabs your hips, and pulls you closer to the edge of the table you're still laid out on.

"I've got another test in mind."

If the thud of his body hitting the floorboards wasn't what woke you up, the loud groan that followed definitely was.

The shuffling of fabric made you sit up, attempt to sit up at least. Ryland had you down by your waist, cuddling into you from behind. You look up at Colt, who was now stood up, holding his pillow as his hand was raised, rubbing his shoulder from the impact.

He spots you looking and smiled. "I'm going back to my own bed, it's way too cramped for the three of us," he whispered.

You look around slightly at the twin bed that had now become a floor bed, all four legs had given way during last night's activities

"Maybe I should go with you?" You whisper back, you slowly start to pry Ryland's fingers away.

Colt looks at his brother sleeping peacefully. He was still smiling, even in his sleep. Both his arms were wrapped tightly around you, as if scared you would roll away. A couple strands of hair were sticking up, his face almost pressed against your shoulder blade.

And so Colt holds it in. He shakes his head, 'you stay here, with him,' his gaze says.

You nodded, laying back down as the stuntman made his way to leave.

Phase two of the plan, you're alone with Rylo. He held back a chuckle. His brother owed him big time.

The last thing you hear is the light shut of Colt's door, your eyelids grow heavy again.

Your neck feels cold. Actually, no, it's not cold, its wet

Your eyes snap open, only to be met with the top of a nest of blonde hair.

"Ry, sweetie, what are you doing?"

He pauses, but his breathing is heavy.

"nothing," he spoke before hesitating, "just kissing you."

You pull his head back up to look at him. His pupils are blown and his lips were pink and puffy. You say nothing, only raising your eyebrow at how worked up he seemed to be from just 'kissing'.

"I told you, it's nothing.. I just gave you some hickies." Your eyes widen.

"Ryland Grace, I have work today, I can't show up looking like this." He pouts, his eyebrows furrow as if he's upset. "People are going to talk, you know my department, they'll probably link it to you or something"

At those words, his frown disappeared, replaced by a bright beam. He buries his face back into your neck, letting out a dreamy sigh.

"God, I hope they do." comes his muffled voice.

Rolling your eyes, you pull him closer. Your leg recoils as it touches the bedsheets under him, they're soaked, and sticky.

"Ry, did you —cum?" you ask incredulously.

"mmh yea,” he reels, “I already came twice, can't help it when you're here —so close" He looks at you again, his eyes were more black than blue. "Will you be mine?" he asks after a lingering moment.

He word vomits the rest.

"I promise you won't regret it, I'll do whatever you want me to do, please please just give me a chance to take you out for dinner sometime?"

His eyes looked really alert for someone who slept way past his bedtime, he almost looked manic, but you could see the hope. You catch a slight falter in his gaze after a couple seconds of you not answering.

"Dinner sounds nice Ry." You smile. He smiles back.

You both lie there comfortably enjoying each other's presence.

Your fingertips trace the shell of his ear, hand moving down to cup his face, thumb fanning out over his light stubble, you lean closer, kissing along his jaw before finally making your way to his-

“Oh fuck—” You threw your head back, your fingers clutching Ryland’s hair while his tongue did wonders to your cunt. Swiping his tongue up, savoring your taste as he groaned— face buried in, the vibrations giving you chills.

It was a mistake. Really you should've pushed him away, told him that this shouldn't happen. It did anyway.

You've been friends with Grace since the two of you were sucking on rocks on the playground. Putting sand in your mouths and giving your respective parents heart attacks over just how determined you were to get yourselves killed before kindergarten.

Making friends as a kid is easy.

No introductions needed, nor wondering whether the other person even likes you. You didn't even need to make elaborate plans on how to approach said person or what to say once you get to talk to them. It was a hassle.

Thankfully as a kid all you had to do was approach someone who looked mildly interesting and declare your friendship.

Which was exactly what you did.

Grace had been sitting by himself in the sandbox, completely absorbed in dragging a stick through the sand. You wandered over, crouched beside him, and watched the squiggly lines he was making. You weren't exactly sure just what he was trying to draw.

“What are you making?”

Grace, who finally acknowledged your presence, turned to look at you. “A fox.”

“That's a fox?” Give it up to kids who never bothered to sugarcoat their words. Even so, you continued to watch Grace draw his seemingly out of shape fox.

He didn't mind your words and focused on his drawing, he even scooted towards the right to make space for you as you watched him.

That settled it. With not even a second of consideration, you announced, “We're friends now.”

He stopped briefly before moving on to draw the fox's whiskers. “Okay.”

You didn't mind his lack of enthusiasm, that confirmation was more than good enough for you.

From that day onwards, Ryland Grace was your friend. And as it turns out, he didn't have much say in the matter.

You followed him everywhere. Sat with him on the swing, dragged him into games he didn't understand, you even stole pieces of his snacks and insisted that because you were friends, that means his food is technically your food too.

Grace complained occasionally, though it lacked actual bite. Still you ignored him, happily munching on the handful of skittles you got from him.

By the time your parents had realized what was actually happening, the two of you grew inseparable.

Elementary turned into middle school, eventually high school. And somehow, through every awkward haircut experiments, embarrassing phase, terrible fashion choice, and questionable life decisions, Grace stayed.

And without even meaning to, you had learned each other's habits.

You knew when Grace was annoyed simply because his breathing changed. You knew when he was lying because he suddenly became far too interested in whatever was happening in the other side of the room. Grace knew when you were upset even when you insisted that you weren't. He knew which snacks you hated and which ones you'd die for, quite evidently so whenever he comes over during your period carrying a paper bag full of snacks that you like.

Both of you changed a lot growing up, the friendship remained the same.

By the time college came around, nobody questioned why the two of you were always together, you'd simply become a package deal. Pea in a pod, buy one take one, whatever, it's just that whenever someone is looking for you, they always receive the answer, “oh yeah they're with Grace.”

You studied together, complained about assignments together, survived exams together, and occasionally questioned if the course you had taken was the right choice. Thankfully Grace was there to stop you from shifting courses during your 2nd year. Would've been a disaster if you had ditched your current course and started from the bottom all over again.

There were nights when the two of you would sit somewhere on campus, (being extremely lucky that both of you shared long vacant hours together.) and shared whatever food you'd managed to afford while talking about absolutely anything that comes to mind.

Sometimes you wonder about what life would look like if you hadn't approached the kid who seemed to be more interested in the sand than playing with others. The answer was difficult to imagine.

It was nice, despite all the stress college had thrown your way, Grace managed to make it tolerable. Which is why you'd do absolutely anything to keep this friendship thriving, he'd have to cut off all your limbs before you admit it though.

And that is exactly why you're currently in a dilemma, Rylands tongue on your cunt feels so good but at the same time– this is so wrong. You couldn't even enjoy it thoroughly because the only thing you can think about is your friendship.

About how long you've known him, about the fact that Grace was Grace, your best friend since childhood, and somehow the two of you ended up in a situation that neither of you had discussed.

“Oh god—” you gripped his hair tightly, with no regard to whether it hurts him or not.

This was going to be a mistake, you already knew that. Whatever happens tonight, things aren't going to go back to normal. You can already guess what would happen first thing in the morning, awkward conversations, getting ready while trying to avoid each other's gaze— it's going to be a whole mess. It's a mystery why you hadn't stopped while you still could. It's Grace, he would've stopped the moment you displayed discomfort in a millisecond, that's the kind of man he is. And that's exactly the problem.

You cried out when the ministrations of his tongue stopped, Grace hovered just inches from your cunt, you could feel his breath grazing you. it ached, waiting for him to start moving again.

Grace turned to look at you, his hands held your thighs tightly. “You can hold onto me,” he said softly. “Just don't pull.”

You immediately loosened your grip, briefly patting his head afterwards. “Sorry..”

“Good girl.”

His approval and god— that nickname sent an embarrassing warmth through your face. You hated just how much it affected you.

You looked away, trying to focus on literally anything else other than your beating heart that's abnormally fast.

“Hey look at me.”

You turned to look at him, of course you did. Grace's expression was gentle.

“Don't be so tense,” he murmured. “I'll tell you what to do.” You nodded in response.

There was a pause, for a second you thought if he was going to stop— he didn't let you think for long though with the way he dived back in your pussy. His mouth kissing it before licking you whole, he's addicted. He knew he should stop if he wanted your friendship to stay the same, but alas, he's already too far gone. And besides, you're enjoying every second he spends on your cunt. If you like it this much, he shouldn't deprive you of what you want can he?

He moved his head upwards, Grace didn't waste any time the moment his mouth found your clit. He sucked the bundle of nerves and briefly rolled his tongue around it, the way he tortured your clit— leaving your hole empty and aching made you whine.

It felt good— fuck so good, you arched your back every time Grace decided to not play fair and kept sucking it. Leaving your cunt wanting more, it keeps getting wetter by the second but it seems like he'd rather tease you— or maybe he's waiting for you to finally break and beg.

With how desperate you are, maybe you will. Beg repeatedly for him to finally take his cock out and fuck you with it, he's been eating you out for the past hour— not that it doesn't feel good but damn, you want to be full already.

“Grace..” you whined, tears already forming in your eyes. Threatening to fall.

He glanced up at you, pulling away from your clit. (even if he was a bit hesitant to do so.) The faintest smile already playing at the corner of his mouth, he knows you're breaking. “What?”

“Please..”

His eyebrows lifted at your answer, you didn't have the strength to retort back at how obvious it is that he's enjoying this. “That's a little vague.”

You swallowed, cheeks warming as you gathered the confidence to say what you want explicitly. “Please, Grace.. I want you to...” you trailed off, the confidence leaving you halfway.

He smiled. “To what?”

You looked away. “You know…”

“I do.” Grace stood up from his position, his knees ached a bit from kneeling for a long time. “But you need to say it.”

You hesitated before looking back at him. “Please fuck me already..”

Grace's expression softened, his hand pulling your legs apart while he got in between them, making himself comfortable. “There you go.”

You exhaled shakily, relieved that he finally accepted your answer and that, finally, you were going to lose your virginity.

Not that you believe in all that purity nonsense. Your virginity isn't some kind of precious thing you needed to guard and preserve for the sake of some arbitrary standard. You simply wanted your first to be with someone who felt worth it— someone you trust and care about. And Grace…well he was your best friend, he checks all the requirements you have.

But that's exactly the problem, the fact that the two of you will eventually have to confront each other and talk about this later gnawed the back of your mind. Tomorrow, you'd still have to look at him somehow and pretend nothing had changed. You knew that. You knew this was wrong in all the ways that mattered.

Yet every time the thought resurfaced, the warmth of Grace's touch, his soft voice quietly guiding you through every step, drowned it out again. You couldn't bring yourself to be mad, because if it had to be anyone, you were glad it was him.

Grace stared at you while you were lost in thought, seemingly pleased at how easy you followed his lead. “See? You listen so well.”

You bobbed your head, if it can even be considered a nod.

“Good girl.” there it is again, that awful nickname that gets you all riled up. It's not fair, the way your cunt throbbed at the mere praise that left Grace's lips.

At your reaction Grace couldn't help but feel amused, he hadn't expected you to be this receptive.

Feeling impatient, your hands started wandering downwards, ready to take care of the emptiness yourself. Grace caught your wrists and guided it above your head before you could even reach your abdomen. “Keep them there.”

You nodded. His eyes narrowed slightly.

“I didn't ask for a nod.”

“Yes Grace..”

“Good.” he kept one hand around your wrists, making sure it'd stay put. His gaze fixed on your face. “Look at me.” you did.

“Don't look away.”

You squirmed by just how intense Grace was looking at you.

“Now tell me what you want.”

You hesitated, Grace waited, unfortunately for you he was a very patient man. He didn't rush nor fill the silence, he simply hovered over you, unmoving until you gave him an answer.

“Please…”

His eyebrows lifted. “Please what?”

“Kiss me?”

A satisfied smile appeared on his face. “That's better.” Grace says before leaning down and pressing his lips against yours, you kissed back hungrily. You were already making a mistake anyway, it already happened, there's no harm in letting your real feelings slip out just this once. It doesn't hurt to pretend.

His tongue swiped against your bottom lip, he didn't have to ask twice as you opened your mouth letting his tongue explore every crevice he wanted. Saliva dripped down from the sides of your mouth. A small bitter spark of jealousy bubbled in your chest, Grace was far too good at this.

The thought came unbidden: how many people had he done this with? How many others had he learned this from? How many people had been on the receiving end of that confidence, that patience, the effortless ability to make you feel exactly the way you did now? The thought was maddening. You knew you had no right to be jealous, you and Grace weren't together. He could have had a dozen partners before you— and you knew he had, all of them hated you for being his friend. Although it hurt, you always distanced yourself from Grace whenever he got a girlfriend, it was futile though with the way they never lasted.

It shouldn't have mattered if he got a girlfriend here and there.

But it did. More than you'd care to admit, and still you'd rather die than acknowledge why you felt this way.

Grace pulled away, giving you a chance to catch your breath. “You feel fine?”

You hummed, your head lolling to the side.

He followed your trail of sight and maintained eye contact. “Use your words.”

“Yes Grace.”

“Good.”

Just like earlier— all his previous praises, sent a shiver through your spine. He noticed, of course he did.

“Don't get shy now,” He murmured “You've been doing so well.”

Grace chuckled at your reaction, it's been too long now, his cock getting painfully hard. You did already tell him to fuck you earlier so how could he deprive you of getting dicked down any longer?

He slowly pressed his cock in, God you felt so warm. It's like your cunt was especially made for him with how good it's taking him in. You moaned at the intrusion, it felt..weird at first. Grace was huge, bigger than you'd imagine.

There were nights where you'd fantasize about him ramming your insides. It wasn't something you're proud of, not at all but how could you not? You've had boyfriends before, it never lasted long since every single one of them seemed to view Grace as a threat. Every single time without a beat, after a few weeks in they'd ask you to cut off Grace if you truly loved them. How ridiculous is that? Obviously you chose Grace over their insecure asses.

It wasn't a surprise that Grace was the one intruding your wet dreams whenever the rare instance it happened to you, came along.

Still, imagination doesn't and probably never will beat the real thing. Fuck, you could feel him everywhere, not only was he blessed with the length, his cock has an impressive girth to it as well.

“Grace..”

“Yes I know, you're taking me so well.” He cooed, rubbing his thumb on your waist as he settled in, his pelvis meeting your ass.

After deeming you ready, he finally began to move, slowly, painfully slow.

He's infuriating.

“Grace please..” you choked out a sob.

“What's wrong? You wanted me to fuck you, I'm doing just that.” Grace tilted his head, his pace unchanging as he thrusted in again then ever so slowly pulls his cock out just to do the same thing all over again.

“You're being so slow..!”

Grace stopped his movement which earned another sob from you, your hands moved from above your head to his arms, squeezing it tightly.

“What did I say?” Grace moved slightly towards the side and held your legs together, then unexpectedly—

Smack

You yelped, your ass stinging as the palm of his hand collided with your ass. “I–wha..?”

Smack

“I asked you a question.”

“Grace I–”

Smack

“Don't speak if you're not going to answer my question.”

You whined at every impact, you should've hated it but fuck..Grace really is something, making you discover a kink that you hadn't even considered being interested in.

You opened your mouth but nothing came out, Grace clicked his tongue.

Smack

“Nggh..!!”

“You were doing so well.” You can't explain it, well, maybe the fact that you can't think clearly right now added to it— anyhow, Grace being so calm somehow made him more terrifying. “You decided you didn't want to listen anymore? Is that it?”

You shook your head quickly, not trusting your mouth to utter the words you really wanted to say.

“Then put your hands back and be patient.”

You didn't hesitate to put your hands back above your head— sure the spanking was fucking hot but hearing Grace's praise over weighs it all.

Grace watched you settle again, his expression easily slightly. “That's better.”

“Grace..can you please go faster?”

“That's my girl, that wasn't so hard was it?”

You moaned, not caring about how loud you're being while Grace finally slid back in, his huge cock stretching your cunt open.

“mmffgh…s’big.” you mumbled incoherently, Grace picked up the pace as per your request. He cursed under his breath at the sound of the headboard colliding with the wall, fuck.. He forgot to put a pillow before ramming your insides.

To be fair, it's not like either of you planned on fucking each other.

The sound of his cock fucking your cunt was filthy, the smell of sex enveloping your room.

Grace leaned in without warning, closing the small distance between you as his lips met yours. You melted into the kiss almost immediately, you badly wanted to wrap your arms around his neck but you knew better. Unless you wanted red ass cheeks (you kind of did, screw him for introducing you to spanking.)

A strangled moan escaped you, his cock hitting all the places you never managed to reach by yourself. At this point going back to dildos might be challenging when you already got a taste of Grace's dick.

Grace smiled against your lips at the reaction you have, lingering for a moment before pulling back just enough to look at you.

“Pretty.”

Your body was swaying across the bed moving along with the rhythm of his hard thrusts. Every motion leaving you increasingly breathless, the feeling of his huge cock buried deep inside you was becoming something you could hardly imagine going without. And yet his soft voice was what affected you the most, it's like the praises came effortlessly to him.

“nghh.. Ahh..!” Your back arched the moment his hands found its way towards your clit, the bundle of nerves that was already overstimulated by the way Grace was eating it out earlier, was getting even more sensitive by the minute.

“Grace..! Ahh.. Too much..! Too much.. Please please..” You can't process the words that are currently leaving your mouth, your mind going on autopilot as Grace abused your clit all while ramming in and out of your hole.

You were completely lost in the moment, barely able to keep your thoughts together when Grace cut through the haze.

“Look at me.”

You managed to meet his eyes, drool dripping down the side of your mouth. His expression softened when he saw how overwhelmed you are— though, despite being overstimulated, you didn't miss the heat behind his eyes.

“Tell me when you're close.”

You nodded instinctively, anything he says— you agree.

“Use your words.”

He watched as you tried your hardest to form a coherent sentence. Waiting patiently for your reply.

“I will…”

“Open your mouth later when I tell you to.”

You nodded again, breathless yet still trying your best to obey, you want to be good for him. “Yes Grace.”

A satisfied smile crossed his face. “That's my good girl.”

A moan escaped your lips at his words, you hate just how much that simple phrase gets you so hot.

Grace held your hips steady, his thrusts, hard and fast, were losing its rhythm. “Fuck..being so good for me, feel so—” he groaned when he felt you tightened around his cock.

“GraceGraceGrace mmclose…!”

“Good, that's good, you listen so well.” he uttered out, his hips slapping against your ass, he's now moving erratically chasing his high. His free hand never leaving your clit as he sped up, helping you reach your climax.

“Oh fuck—” Grace pulled out while continuing to rub your clit harshly, your climax hitting you like a pile of bricks. Your back arched as the bedsheets under you get even more stained, your fluids getting everywhere.

His hand made its way towards his cock, pumping it fast, staring at your disheveled state. “Open your mouth for me.”

It was embarrassing just how fast you followed his order. Grace smiled in satisfaction as he crawled closer to your face. “fuck— I'm coming—” His cum squirted out, landing mostly on your tongue, while the rest was scattered on your face.

You stayed like that, not daring to move or do anything until Grace has given you an order.

He chuckled. “You really are a natural at this.”

Grace smiled at the way you whined, mouth still open with his cum. “Swallow.”

He didn't have to ask twice, you quickly closed your mouth and swallowed the thick cum, it was salty and musky, you weren't exactly sure if it was pleasant or not— well to be fair you haven't been too curious before to find out what cum tastes like.

Heavy breaths covered the room, the two of you catching your breath. Eventually, you heard a loud thump as Grace collapsed besides you on the bed.

Staring blankly at the ceiling, exhausted.

For a while neither of you said anything, the room had gone strangely quiet. It wasn't uncomfortable though— well, not yet.

There was still a lingering warmth between you two, the kind that made it tempting for you to just close your eyes and let yourself sink into the mattress. Your breathing finally began to settle, though every now and then you still find yourself taking a deeper breath than necessary, your body knowing that you hadn't exactly caught up with everything that just happened.

Grace laid besides you, his arm under your head as you laid on his chest. You could hear the faint rhythm of his breathing, his heartbeat that didn't seem to slow down.

You didn't look at him. You were afraid that if you did, reality would settle in too quickly, so you opted in staring at the ceiling instead.

You deluded yourself into thinking that this is just another normal sleepover, nothing happened at all for the sake of your sanity.

You've slept with Grace before— well not like this.

You'd spent countless nights together during college, whether it was because one of you had fallen asleep while studying or because you'd stayed up talking until an ungodly hour.

Which is why you're trying your hardest to convince yourself that this isn't supposed to be different.

Except it did.

Very different.

Grace shifted besides you. “You okay?”

You turned your head towards him, hair slightly disheveled— slightly was a bit of an understatement. “Yeah.”

“Sure?”

“mm”

He watched you for another moment, it was painful at how obvious his expression was, you could practically see the question behind his eyes.

‘Are you regretting this?’

You wondered if he could see the same in yours, still, neither of you asked.

Grace eventually relaxed back against the pillow. “Okay.” he mumbled out, grabbing the tissue on the nightstand and wiping your face clean with it.

Just for tonight, it was easy to ignore the obvious, that you didn't just lose your virginity to your best friend.

You're tired. He's tired.

Whatever happened tonight could be dealt with tomorrow, not tonight.

Because tonight, you wanted to lay besides your friend and bury your face at the crook of his neck like you always did, whenever a thunder scared you or when a nightmare followed. You didn't want to face the consequences just yet.

Grace leaned down to press a soft kiss on the top of your head, he felt you bury yourself deeper. He can't really blame you, but he knows tomorrow things would become extremely difficult. Which is why he gave himself the chance to be selfish, because he knows that this might be the last time he can properly convey his real feelings towards you.

You closed your eyes, letting the exhaustion take over.

He did too.

You woke slowly, sunlight slipping through the curtains and falling across your face. For a few blissful seconds you had no idea where you were. You stared sleepily at the ceiling, your mind still fogged with the remnants of sleep.

Then you became too aware of the warmth besides you. Slowly, you turned your head to locate the source. At that you found Grace's figure, naked, with his arm draped over you.

His breathing was slow and even, his face relaxed in a way that you're accustomed to whenever you were the first one to wake at your sleepovers. And everytime he never fails to make you lose your breath at just how gorgeous he is, it's actually kind of criminal. What man needs eyelashes that long??

Then suddenly everything came rushing back.

Oh fuck

The memory hit you all at once, your stomach dropped.

You slept with Grace.

You slept with Ryland Grace.

You slept with your best friend that you'd known for years.

The person you'd spent practically your entire life being able to trust without questioning what the relationship between the two of you meant. And now you were supposed to get up, get dressed, and walk out like nothing happened? Continue being the same two people you've always been? Is that even possible?

Your chest tightened, your hands making its way to your face, burying yourself as far as you could.

What the hell did we just do?

You glanced at Grace again, he stirred. How eyebrows furrowed slightly before his eyes opened. His eyes looked at his surroundings, panic was nowhere to be found in his face— not until he saw you, fully naked beside him.

His eyes widened, the previous night finally came splashing him in the face. “Morning…” his voice rough with sleep, still the shock was evident in his voice.

“Morning.” You replied.

A beat passed, Grace glanced away, you did the same.

It was comical at how hard both of you were trying not to acknowledge the enormous elephant that's circling happily around the two of you.

The room felt smaller, the air felt heavier. Not being able to bear the tension any longer you stood up. “I should get dressed.”

Grace cleared his throat. “Yeah I probably should too.”

Neither of you mentioned what happened. Both of you dressed in silence, the awkwardness was painful.

You didn't look at him for too long.

He didn't look at you for too long.

When you finally left, you told yourself that things would go back to normal once you got some distance.

If only you knew just how wrong you were.

The awkwardness followed you everywhere. You tried to make things normal you really did.

Grace tried even harder.

He sent you stupid messages just like he always did, those dumb memes he'd stumble across while scrolling mindlessly on his phone.

He brought you your usual coffee, the same you always buy whenever he tells you he'd be the one paying. Determined to drain his wallet dry, you always go for the most expensive one on the menu, Grace complained but never did he once decline.

He ranted to you about his lazy professors, talking about how crazy it is for them to have three hours on their schedule but only show up 10 minutes right before their subject ends.

He made some ridiculous joke one afternoon, and you laughed before immediately remembering why the sound suddenly felt strange.

Grace noticed, because of course he did. His smile faltered. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” no.

“You sure?”

“I'm fine.” You cleared your throat.

He nodded. “Okay.” he wasn't convinced, but what can he do?

Things that had been once effortless now required thought. Whenever Grace sat besides you, without missing a beat, your mind never fails to remind you just how close he was.

When your hands accidentally brush against each other you immediately pull away.

When he looked at you for far too long, you suddenly found something very interesting on your phone. You hated it.

You missed how things used to be, how easy it was to tease Grace like your life depended on it, how easy it was to be close to him without being molecularly aware at how close the two of you are.

And judging by the way Grace kept trying to recreate every little routine you'd shared, he missed it too.

He was trying.

You were trying.

But how were you supposed to pretend nothing happened when everything felt different? The way every conversation seemed to carry an invisible second meaning, every silence lasted too long, every accidental touch reminded you of something you were both refusing to acknowledge.

Eventually Grace reached his limit.

“Can we talk?” the question came so quietly that you almost didn't hear it.

You looked up from your phone, Grace was standing a few feet away, his hands tucked into the pockets of that yellow jacket he periodically wore. He wasn't looking at you. And it stung even if you knew you were doing the exact same thing.

“About what?” you know what he means, you think that maybe ignoring it for a little bit more will help. (it doesn't)

His jaw tightened. “You know.”

You stared at him. “No I don't.”

Grace finally met your eyes. The nervousness was practically radiating off of him. It felt weird, Grace had never been this nervous towards you— well, before all of that happened.

“I've been meaning to talk to you for a while.” He managed to utter out.

“About what happened?”

He hesitated. “Yeah.”

Your fingers tightened on your phone. “Grace we don't have to—”

“Yes we do.”

The answer came too quickly, Grace stumbled back when he realized just how sharp he sounded and immediately softened his voice.

“Sorry I just..” he exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don't know just how much longer I can keep pretending everything is normal when it's not.”

You looked away. “It is normal.”

“No it isn't.” His voice went quiet. “You barely look at me anymore.”

“That isn't true.”

“Yes it is.”

You opened your mouth but he continued before you could defend yourself.

“And everytime I try to talk to you, you always find a reason to leave. You never do that! In all the years we've spent together the last thing you'd do was to leave, I'm not telling you that it's wrong to want time for yourself, I'm just saying that it's not something you do.”

You swallowed, you didn't have an answer to that. “....I've.. Been busy..”

“I know.”

The way he said it made your chest tighten.

“You've been busy for days.” Grace looked down at the floor. “I don't want to lose you.”

“You're my best friend.” He continued. “I don't want one stupid night to ruin everything we've had.”

“Grace..”

“I know we both agreed to talk about it tomorrow even if we never properly said it, I know you thought about it.” he laughed, it's the kind where it's evident that he doesn't know what to do anymore. “Then tomorrow became the next day, then the next, and the next.”

You couldn't argue with that.

“I don't regret it.” he declared.

You froze, Grace being Grace immediately noticed, his eyes searched your face. “I don't know if you do.” he admitted. “And maybe that's why I've been so afraid to ask.”

You looked down. “I don't know what I'm supposed to say.”

“Neither do I.” Grace shifted his weight, clearly struggling to find the right words. “That's why I wanted to ask.”

You gained the courage to glance up at him. “about what?”

“What if we didn't have to make it weird?”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

“What if we just… kept doing what we did?”

“Grace—”

“Not— I'm not saying we have to date.”

“I know.”

“We're friends, we've always been friends.” he swallowed. “So we keep it that way.”

You stared at him while he took a breath.

“friends with benefits.”

The words hung between you two. For a moment you genuinely couldn't believe he uttered those words. Grace mistook your silence as uncertainty rather than shock.

“I mean we'd set boundaries,” he continued quickly. “we'd talk about it, keep things simple. No expectations whatsoever, and no feelings. We wouldn't have to pretend it never happened, but we wouldn't have to turn it into something else either.”

You couldn't find a response. Grace's confidence slowly began to disappear beneath your silence.

“I thought..” he stopped.

“What?”

“I thought it'd make things easier.”

You were speechless, that's for sure, your thoughts were racing way too quickly.

Grace watched you carefully as he scrambled to find the right words to not mess things up further than he already did. “You don't have to answer right now.”

You stood, his expression immediately changed.

“I have to go.”

“What?”

“I just remembered I have something to do.”

“You don't have anything to do.”

“I do.”

“You really don't.”

You grabbed your things. “Look I just need some time—”

Grace took a small step towards you. “Wait.”

You stopped, you don't know why you did despite wanting to get out of there as soon as possible.

Neither of you spoke, you could see his bottom lip trembling.

“Did I make things worse?”

You couldn't bring yourself to answer, for Grace that was more than clear enough.

Grace watched your retreating figure as he stood there helplessly. He didn't have it in him to move. Then he dragged his hands down his face.

“Fuck.”

He wanted to fix things. He wanted to make sure he didn't lose you. And somehow he'd just suggested turning one night that had already complicated everything into an arrangement that made your relationship infinitely worse.

Grace sank into the nearest chair and stared blankly at the floor.

He knew he fucked up. And he doesn't know what he can do to fix things, after today he doesn't know if he can trust himself to utter another word towards you.

A week later, you are staring at the report in your hands, in a decidedly different location than your office.

It stares back at you.

You lose the staring contest, because right there, right at the top of the page, in the subtitle, it says ‘research conducted by Dr. Ryland Grace, United States,’ and you have to blink a few times to make sure that you’re reading it right. She did it, then. She read the paper, and she found him, and now he’s named astrophage and discovered how they reproduce. He is probably on his way to the aircraft carrier, right now, because when Stratt decides she needs someone on the project, they are scooped up and dumped here immediately.

This means two things: one, this will be the first time you’ve seen him in years; two, you are now wondering if he’s even thought about you in that time. He must have, because you do. Because you have the scar, and the pictures from the photobooth that have still managed to stick around in your purse, and the hole he left in your life.

--

science camp – between fifth and sixth grade

The university’s campus is so huge, you think, walking toward the welcome hall. Your mom had tried to come with you, but you had insisted that you could go by yourself, because you’re about to go into middle school and are therefore basically an adult. So you handle registration yourself, getting your nametag with a little blue dot on it, and you listen carefully as the front desk person tells you where you need to go.

Thankfully, it’s just across the open courtyard at the center of campus. You’re early, so there’s only a few other kids sitting at the color-coded tables, including one blond boy at the blue table. When you sit down next to him, you stick your arm out for a handshake—again, almost an adult, pretty much—and smile widely. “Hi. I think we’re on the same team.”

He turns to you and blinks at your hand before shaking it. Then he glances down at your nametag, looking at the blue dot, which matches the color of his eyes. “Cool! I’m Ryland.”

“I know. I can see your nametag.”

“Oh. Right.”

But you tell him your name, anyway, because he already looks a little embarrassed, and you think you heard your dad say once on a phone call that team chemistry was important for success. “What grade are you in?”

He puffs out his chest a little. “Sixth.”

“Wow. Do they really give you lockers when you get to middle school? I’ve been wondering about that, and if I should buy decorations and stuff.” You’d already drawn it all out: a cute little chandelier, a fluffy rug for the bottom, some magnets. But your mom said she wouldn’t take you to get any of that until you actually knew if you’d have a locker.

Ryland seems to deflate as you ramble. “…Well, I’m going into sixth grade, so I don’t really know.”

“Oh, that’s even better! It means we’re in the same year.” Your smile widens, and after a moment, his own returns, if a little shyly.

Some of your other teammates filter in, and you quickly decide that you like Ryland the best, so you stick to his side throughout the day, and each day after that. He’s crazy smart: he has the best ideas for the derby car, already knows stuff like air resistance and velocity, and he figures out pretty quickly that you’re the best kid on the team at art, so you get to paint the car. At lunch, in one of the college’s dining halls, he tests how high he can make his fro-yo—college is so awesome, and you can’t wait until you’re old enough to go—and he always shares it with you.

Your team wins the derby race at the end of the week of camp, which wasn’t really ever in question. Your mom makes the two of you pose for a photo as the other kids start leaving with their parents. At first, this is super embarrassing for you, but then Ryland gives you his mom’s email so he can have the photo, too. Science camp next year can’t come fast enough.

--

As you wheel the cart of lab equipment across the hangar bay, wincing every time one of the wheels catches on a divot in the floor, you wonder if Stratt is having you do this because she suspects that the two of you know each other. Well. Used to know each other, at least. Because why else would you have that paper, for what other reason would you send it to her in the first place? You can’t help but think this must be some kind of strategy or ploy. Or maybe she’s just trying to be nice, have him greeted with a familiar face—you don’t know, you don’t actually interact with her that much.

This is the last trip, anyway, and then you can go back to doing actual work, the kind that you are qualified for. Now that the astrophage could be reproduced, the issue of fuel was solved, and the engineering team could move forward with the design of the Hail Mary. You’d already drafted some preliminary sketches; these would probably be scrapped, because it was in such an early phase, but you liked having the visuals. Maybe you’d throw together some concept art of the living quarters, try to make it a little homey. It was the least you could do for the astronauts who would die there.

As you’re contemplating this, there’s two sets of footsteps that stop just outside the plywood and plexiglass room, and a familiar voice speaking. “Thanks. Er, right, Mandarin. Can’t say I ever picked that up. A thumbs up is universal, right?” It is not, but you don’t say so, because you are trying to busy yourself with the test tubes so you don’t have to turn around. “Oh. Hi. Wow, I see I have you to thank for the lab. It looks great.”

You clear your throat, because the anxiety simmering in your gut has started to crawl up your windpipe. “No problem. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.” You’re not sure why you even say this, because this really isn’t your job, and you don’t even know if you’ve set some of the equipment up correctly.

“Thanks. Uh—I’m Grace, by the way. Dr. Grace. Dr. Ryland Grace.” A thought pops into your head, then, reflexively: he still never landed on what he wants other people to call him.

It’s probably time to rip the band aid off, you think, get this over with and see if he even recognizes you, so you turn around. “I know.”

He just—freezes, then, staring at your face, and his mouth opens and closes a few times before he settles on, “What?”

“I might look a little different,” you say, as disappointment floods through you, “but—”

“No, that’s not. I recognize you, obviously I do, I just—I really was not expecting that it would be you, when you turned around.” His hand flexes by his leg, and he takes a step forward, and you think he might be about to hug you, but he stops at the look on your face. “It’s. Wow. This is just. Wow,” he repeats. “How are you? How have things been? Why are you—here?”

He falters on the last word. It’s as if he’s realizing that of all the questions he just asked, that is somehow the most obvious one, when it should be the other way around. “Well. I’ve sort of been involved in the design and construction of almost every NASA mission in the past decade. So. I kind of know how to build a spaceship. Which is the whole point of this project.”

“Right. That’s—yeah.” Ryland—because he will always be Ryland to you, because that’s how he introduced himself when you first met, all those years ago, at that blue table—looks immensely uncomfortable. There is a tiny, petty part of you that is glad for it.

“And I’ve been good. Just got promoted to associate professor last year.”

He nods and sticks his hands into the pockets of his cardigan. “I know. I saw that.”

Oh. He’s been keeping tabs on you, even after you gave up on doing the same for him. Then why didn’t he just call, or text, or email? Show up on your doorstep, like he did—“I see,” you finally reply, if only to stop your own train of thought. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Welcome aboard, Dr. Grace.”

You start to walk away, and you make it out of the doorway when his voice stops you. “It’s still Ryland. You’ve never—I’m still Ryland.”

“Alright.” You don’t turn back around. “I’ll see you around, Ryland.”

--

science camp – between eighth and ninth grade

It’s the last day of science camp, ever, because it’s only for middle schoolers, but any sadness you might feel about that is washed away when Ryland tells you he’s going to Central starting next year, because you’re going to Central next year, too. And you have a phone, now, and he puts his number in so you can send him your class schedule when they come out.

Right now, you’re supposed to be at lunch. You are not.

Ryland takes his nametag off and stuffs it into his pocket. It says ‘Ryland’ this time, because for a couple years he decided to go by ‘Ry,’ but apparently he has now concluded that nicknames are a little too childish. You’re secretly glad about this, because you like his full name, to the point that you almost never called him Ry in the last two summers.

You’d like to point out to him that taking the nametag off isn’t really going to make the two of you any less obvious, because this is still a college campus, and you are very clearly soon-to-be high schoolers that are here for summer camp. You still take yours off, too.

“Score,” he says, smiling widely at you as the doorknob to the lab turns. “I knew they didn’t keep it locked.”

You have to tilt your face up a little to look at him. It’s weird, because you’re used to being taller than him, but a growth spurt must have hit over this past year. “I still really don’t think we should do this. We’re missing out on the fro-yo,” you whine.

Despite your hesitation, you still follow him into the room. “This is way more fun, though. I want to actually do stuff without everyone else crowded in here and getting in the way.” He hands you a pair of goggles and some gloves. He turns to you when he has his goggles on and gives you a gloved thumbs up. It looks a little funny, because his black, chunky glasses are kind of smushed underneath the plastic. It was a bit of a surprise to see him with those this year—he told you he had been getting headaches, and it turns out he badly needed glasses to look at things close-up. “And I can ask my mom to take us to get ice cream.”

“Sweet.” The two of you had hung out a little bit outside of camp, but nothing too crazy. Mostly it was meeting at the library or getting dinner with your moms after a day of camp. Ice cream, though—that felt special. The sort of thing that qualifies as a date. You can’t help the small smile that spreads on your face, the heat dusting your cheeks. “So—what do you want to do?”

Ryland takes a glass beaker out of the cabinet and then rustles around for some reagents, because evidently none of the people running this camp thought to lock anything up. “Actual science, not the kid stuff they’ve been showing us. I watched a video about titration the other day, I think I’d like to try that.” He sets up the beaker and the burette as he keeps talking. “Don’t worry, this is a super standard thing people do in labs. I won’t burn the building down. It’s just about using a titrant to figure out the exact concentration of the analyte. But I want to practice now, so I can get a headstart on being a world-famous scientist.”

You try your best to follow along and watch carefully as he pours two different liquids into the beaker, and then sucks up a third with the burette. “What’s that?”

“Hydrochloric acid.”

“Isn’t that a little—dangerous?” You ask nervously, though you don’t move away, still watching his hands carefully set up the titration.

He scoffs. “Hydrochloric acid is in household cleaners, I’m pretty sure. It’s used all the time for stuff like this in labs.”

You shift, a little anxious. “Just. Be careful, please.”

Ryland looks up at you then and smiles widely. It’s annoying how nice his teeth are, because you’re stuck with braces for at least the next two years. “I’m always careful.”

This is completely untrue, but you stay quiet and watch as he slowly lets the liquid drip in, and then gasp when the liquid in the beaker changes color. “Did you do it? Is that supposed to happen?”

“Yep. First try. I knew I could do it.” He goes to turn his body fully toward you, and then his arm hits a bottle, and neither of you realize that the bottle does not have a cap until there’s liquid on your arm.

Holy cow, it hurts, it hurts really bad, and you have to bite down on your cheek to keep from crying out as he drags you over to the sink and starts running water over it. “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry, it’s okay—I think I got it off in time—are you okay?”

You nod as tears start to spill down your cheeks. The skin is red and blistering, but the water is helping to dull the pain. “I’m alright.” Somehow you manage to laugh, and he looks at you, extremely confused, probably thinking that you are delirious from the pain, or something. “Of course I’m the one who gets burned.”

His face is red, and he almost looks like he’s about to start crying, too. “I am really, really sorry. I can’t believe I forgot to put the cap back on.”

“It’s okay. Maybe it will be a cool scar?”

He sniffles a little as he pulls your arm out from under the stream of water. You wince as the pain returns in full force. “I’m not sure. It doesn’t look super deep? I am so sorry.”

As he turns your arm carefully to inspect the burn, you notice that the pads of his fingers are also blistering. “Ryland, your fingers.”

He lets go of you to look at them. “Oh, yeah. I think I accidentally touched some when I pulled you over here.” Oh. Maybe that’s why he’s also been tearing up. When he looks back up at you, he smiles, his eyes a little glassy. “Maybe we’ll match.”

The two of you do not get ice cream later, because you both end up needing to go to urgent care, and your parents are pissed. The doctor tells you that it’s second-degree, and that you’re lucky, because it should heal on its own, but you’ll likely end up with a scar. Ryland fares a little better, he tells you over text: he’ll have some raised bumps, but they’ll eventually go away.

--

Dozens of schematics are scattered across your desk, and your fingers are starting to cramp from holding the pencil. Technically, you could just do this digitally, but you like the feeling of drawing it yourself, the tactile experience of bringing what will most likely be the pinnacle of human engineering into life on the page.

The main focus of the engineering team’s meetings so far has been the fuel tanks. This is rather boring, because you could probably design those in your sleep. But you’ve been dutifully sketching them out anyway, calculating how much material you would need, where the tanks would be connected to reduce stress on the ship and allow for the astrophage to be funneled to the engines. Apparently, they were bringing on a Russian scientist to make these, which meant there was only so much the team could do before that was figured out.

You’ve turned to your little side project in the meantime: designing gold plaques to go in the ship, akin to the Pioneer and Voyager plaques. The ship itself would be a message to any intelligent life that might stumble upon it, but it would be even better, in your mind, if there was some purposeful communication there. You’re looking over the sketch of human evolution when your stomach grumbles. You should really eat, but—you’ve been staying away from places where groups of people gathered. It feels childish, to avoid him like this, but you tell yourself that you’re just saving the two of you from the awkwardness of dealing with the fact that whatever place you used to have in his life is gone.

You settle for pulling a granola bar out of your bag and munch on it while you keep thinking. There should definitely be a plaque about the astrophage, but you would need to consult with some of the biologists on this to make sure the visual was accurate. Maybe you could—

A knock on the doorframe of your lab makes you jump. “Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?” You say, reflexively, and your lips pull into a small smile, despite the fact that it currently feels like you’re being punched in the chest at the exchange.

You swivel around to see Ryland standing there, balancing two trays on one arm. “Radon.”

“Radon, who?”

“Radon, man,” and he stretches out the word ‘man’ like a caricature of a stoner might, grinning widely. “I brought you lunch.”

“Why?”

He walks in and sets the trays down before dragging another chair over and sitting next to you. It reminds you of science camp, and high school, and getting dinner together after a quiz bowl tournament, and studying in the diner in college, and—and you force yourself to stop thinking about it. “I haven’t seen you in the mess hall at all. And then I asked around, and someone said you usually eat at your desk. So.”

You look at him for a few moments. His hair’s gotten a little darker since grad school, and he’s finally figured out how to grow a little bit of scruff out. It looks good, you think idly. Same wire frames, though. Once he figured out those looked the best—not that it was a very high bar, because the thick black ones he started with were pretty bad—he never changed the style. “Okay,” you finally say. “Thanks.”

“And.” His fingers drum on his thigh as he looks at his tray, then around your workspace, before finally settling his gaze on you, nervous and unsure. “I wanted to say sorry.”

“For?” This is not a real question. This is you letting that small petty thing inside of you win.

His mouth twists, just a little. You hate the expression on him. “For not calling. Or texting. Or—you know. Anything. I’m sorry.”

You don’t really know what to say. It makes something twinge in your chest, because it used to be that you never had to think about it, that you could say anything to him. And it feels ridiculous, too. Plenty of people fell out of touch with childhood friends. Sure, it felt like your friendship had been a little bit stronger than that, lasted longer, had been more, especially when. When. “It’s. I accept your apology.”

“And I know you’re—wait, what?” He blinks at you in surprise.

“It’s fine, Ryland.” You shrug and start unwrapping the plastic around the fork and knife. It is decidedly not fine, but you are trying to be the bigger person here. “You had a lot going on.”

He’s silent at that, just another thing that doesn’t fit into the picture you’ve kept of him in your mind. You’ve never known him to not have something at the ready, a witty response or a longwinded explanation, and it’s another reminder that you don’t really know him at all anymore. “I. That’s. Alright.” It seems he doesn’t know how to have this conversation, either. He looks at you for a little while before slowly grabbing his own utensils, and then his mind changes halfway through the motion, because then he’s picking up one of the schematics on your desk. “Wow.”

“What?”

The paper is slightly trembling as he holds it. Probably the adrenaline crash from coming in here, you think. “These look amazing.” He glances back up at you with a small smile. “You kept drawing.”

You try to return the expression as best as you can. “It comes in handy. I’m somewhat decent at it.”

“I know you are,” he says quietly. “I remember.”

--

tenth grade

God, Ryland is taking forever to come pick you up. At least it’s nice out, as you sit on your front porch. The autumn foliage has set in nicely. You pull your phone out to snap a quick picture—you had to beg your parents to buy you one with a halfway decent camera and a keyboard that doesn’t require hitting each number a billion times—since it looks like it would be good watercolor practice, you think, maybe a piece you could do for your art class. Because that was really the only time you had for art these days, what with robotics, and quiz bowl, and all of the studying you have to do for pre-calc on top of your other classes.

He finally pulls up in front of your house. You sling your backpack on your shoulders and bound down the steps, carefully opening the passenger door—if you pull too hard, the casing of the handle flies off—and slide in. “Took you long enough. I was afraid the thing had fallen apart on your way here.”

Ryland waits for you to buckle up your seatbelt before driving away. He gives a gentle pat to the dashboard. “Be nice to the old gal. She’s trying her best.”

You fiddle with the aux cord. It takes some adjusting, because it’s actually connected to a cassette tape, and the wiring has to be positioned just right to work. Finally, some music is playing from your MP3 player, although it kind of sounds like shit. Half of the speakers don’t work. “Have you come up with a name yet?”

“Not yet. But I’ve got some contenders. I’m thinking Leia. Or Daisy.” His fingers tap along to the music on the steering wheel, and some of his hair flutters around the glasses perched on his head. If he doesn’t keep them on his person, they will simply vanish.

“You are such a nerd. I’m assuming Daisy is because of Space Odyssey?”

He looks over at you and smiles while the car is stopped at a red light. “Bingo. Can’t do Hal, obviously.”

You roll your eyes and try to ignore the fluttering in your stomach. “It’s a car, it doesn’t have a gender. But also, you shouldn’t do Hal, because he famously tries to kill them all.” Then you glance over at the plastic casing rattling around the air vent. “Actually, maybe you should name it Hal.”

“Hey,” he whines, but he’s still smiling.

You stick your tongue out and then lean your head against the window, closing your eyes against the chilly October air that comes in through the cracked window. It sort of sucks that quiz bowl practices are always on a Saturday, because this would be a nice day to walk around, maybe go to a movie, but at least it was another chance to hang out with Ryland.

He turns down the music a little, and you’re about to chide him for it, but he speaks before you can. “So. Homecoming.”

This makes your stomach drop and every muscle fiber in your body freeze. “What about it?” You say carefully.

“Have you thought about who you might want to go with?”

You have. You have thought about it quite a bit. You are currently making a poster to ask him, because you’re fairly certain he won’t do it first. None of this comes out, obviously. Instead, you reply, “A little. What about you?”

Ryland nods, and it’s a little nervous. “I think I might ask Krista.”

“Oh.” Alright. Well. Maybe you’ll just burn the poster and your entire house down with it. You clear your throat. “Krista? That’s—she’s the girl you’re tutoring, right? On the volleyball team?”

“Yeah. I know you think she’s dumb as rocks—”

You snort, trying not to cry or possibly throw up in his car. “She does have an F in geometry, so.”

“But she’s really nice, actually. And I was wondering—would you help me make one of those posters? To ask her? Since you’re so good at drawing and stuff.”

This is, actually, the worst. You feel like the side character in a stupid romcom, the best friend who helps the guy get the girl, who is vaguely implied to be a lesbian at the end of the movie, just to make it clear to the audience that she was never a love interest the whole time. “Sure. I can do that.”

It comes out flat, and he notices immediately, because he always does. “Are you sure? You don’t have to, if you’re busy or something.”

“No, no,” you rush out. You could never refuse him, even if you wanted to. “Sorry, it just made me remember—there’s a robotics competition the same day, and I forgot to tell Mr. Samson that I couldn’t go. We were supposed to do that earlier this week.” This is a lie, through and through, because he wanted you all to tell him if you weren’t going to the tournament this coming week. “I can make the poster. When do you want it by?”

He exhales in relief. “Maybe by next weekend? You’re the best,” and then he reaches over to squeeze your hand, unthinkingly, still looking at the windshield because he’s driving.

Quiz bowl practice is fine. You make the poster when you get home. The one you had started making for him gets shoved in the back of your closet.

Krista says yes.

Your team gets first place at the robotics tournament. He sends you a shitty picture of his glasses tangled up in his hair, because he recently switched to ones with a wire frame but keeps putting them on top of his head anyway, and he looks really nice in his tie and boutonniere.

They start dating for a while.

--

Ryland starts bringing you lunch nearly every day. You almost want to ask him if he truly does not have anything better to do, but that hour is so nice that you can almost forget that he went radio silent on you for years. So you let him do it, and you let him look through all your drawings, give you some suggestions for the plaque about astrophage. Sometimes he shows you what he’s working on, and at least this one thing hasn’t changed: he is still brilliant, creative, willing to try things no one else would ever even think of.

Some days he stays after lunch, simply watching you work, and you don’t know why he does it, because he gets fidgety almost immediately without anything to do.

Like right now, for example. He’s been alternating between clicking his pen incessantly and tossing a little crocheted ball back and forth between his hands. When he switches back to the pen, your eye twitches. “Ryland. Please.”

“Sorry.” He sets the pen down. You return your attention to your screen, because you’re trying to look over some of the designs for fuel cell eleven, but you simply loathe any and all CAD software with a passion. You do not get very far. “Who do you think would win in a fight,” he says suddenly, “Godzilla, or the big space fetus at the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey?”

His mind is truly an enigma. The corner of your mouth lifts up. “Well. I think it depends—which Godzilla are we talking about? Like, Final Wars Godzilla, or the 1998 American one?”

“See, you always have the best follow-up questions to these.” You can hear him lean back in the chair and spin around in it as he thinks over his response. “Let’s say it’s the one from Godzilla vs Mechagodzilla.”

You have to rack your brain for a second, because it has been almost two decades, at this point, since he sat you down and forced you to watch all of those movies with him. Oh, right—that’s the kind of very cute looking Godzilla. Who fights the robot, but that part was obvious. “Okay. And how are we interpreting the end of Space Odyssey?”

He stops spinning, suddenly, and you turn so you can see his expression without even realizing that you’re doing it. His eyebrows are raised, and he’s looking at you as if he’s saying, seriously? “There’s only one correct way to interpret it.”

“There’s really not.”

“But there is,” he insists. “Bowman experiences time all at once, and then he’s lifted to the next stage of evolution, which is the star child—”

You interrupt him, if only to be extremely pedantic. “Okay, but you’re not addressing whether the star child is actually him or only a copy of him.”

He waves a hand. “That’s in the book, that’s not relevant.”

The conversation is giving you an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, because you’re pretty sure you’ve had this exact argument with him several times, in what feels like another life. “Okay, fine. I’m going Godzilla.”

“I think I have to go with the space fetus,” he sighs, as if this is the obvious choice. It’s not. He definitely would have picked Godzilla if you hadn’t answered first.

You snort. “All it does is influence human events. Godzilla literally has atomic breath. He’s giving that little baby radiation sickness, if he doesn’t just totally blast it apart.”

The way Ryland is smiling in disbelief and shaking his head is what you imagine he must do to his students when they’ve given a particularly nonsense answer to a question. “The fetus is literally in space, if it hasn’t gotten radiation sickness yet, it probably can’t. Also, I think ‘he’s giving that little baby radiation sickness’ is probably the first time those words have ever been put in that order.” He scoots his chair forward and puts his hands on the armrests of yours, looking way more serious than the topic demands. “And the baby could influence humanity to kill him.”

“No, that’s not fair, that’s bringing in a third party,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes. “We’re talking fisticuffs here.”

There’s a lock of hair hanging in the middle of his forehead. You don’t know when you started looking at it. “Okay, and the fetus would still win, because it’s literally larger than the entire planet.”

“You know the whole saying, ‘How do you eat an elephant? You take one bite at a time’? That’s what Godzilla would do.”

“And how would he even get to space to do that.”

“That just makes the whole argument nil, if we’re assuming that they have to get to each other first. No, for this question to even make sense, they already have to be in fighting distance.”

Ryland smiles, then, in a way that makes your throat seize up. “I missed this. A lot.”

You look at him for a long moment, studying the piece of hair still curved toward his brow, the way his eyes have softened almost imperceptibly, the soft dip of his cupid’s bow. “Yeah. I did, too.” That petty part of you wants to point out that neither of you needed to be in a position where you’d miss it, because it could have stayed the whole time. You do not. Instead, you say, “And you’re deflecting, because you know I’m right.”

“I am not.”

--

eleventh grade

If he doesn’t stop throwing the bouncy ball at your wall, you’re going to hurl him out of the window.

You’re both supposed to be studying for AP Calc, because the exam is in a few weeks, and God knows Mrs. Murphy wasn’t really preparing any of you well enough for it. What is actually happening is that you are studying, while he gave up about ten minutes ago, not because it’s hard—it is genuinely annoying how easily this stuff comes to him—but because he’s bored.

The door to your bedroom is closed. Your parents have stopped being pedantic about it, because it has become clear that, while Ryland is a serial dater, he isn’t going to try anything with you. It is sort of depressing that even your own family doesn’t think you can get any.

“You can leave whenever you want, you know,” you mutter, still looking at your textbook. “I’m sure you have a date with Stephanie, or whatever.”

“Nope.” He doesn’t stop throwing the ball. “We broke up last month, remember? And then I got back with Krista.”

You jot something down in your notebook. “You’re kind of a slut.”

The ball doesn’t hit the wall again, because now it’s being lobbed at your shoulder. “Rude. Not very third-wave feminist of you.”

“Well, if you stopped being a man-whore, I wouldn’t call you that.” The ball kind of hurt, actually, and you have to rub your arm a little to soothe it. “Anyway. Whatever, then, I’m sure you have a date with Krista.”

He walks over and scoops the ball back up, and then he starts bouncing it on the top of your head. You sigh but don’t do anything about it. “We’re sort of. On a break, at the moment.” This makes you snort. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you thought it.”

You are thinking it, but you won’t say it. They’ve been on-again, off-again since they first started dating. You still don’t really get it, and it is genuinely not just because you have been crushing on Ryland since the seventh grade, which is a fact that you have resigned yourself to accepting and tucking away. No, they just have almost nothing in common, and she’s kind of mean to him. Maybe he’s just a masochist. Another thought occurs to you as you consider all of this. “Wait. Who are you going to prom with, then? Isn’t it in, like, two weeks?”

He sighs and lays on your bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Dunno. She made it sound like we weren’t going together, and everyone else already has a date.”

“Bummer.” You close your textbook and spin around in your chair to face him. He’s now tossing the ball up in the air and catching it, and at one point it hits him square in the face, which is pretty funny.

And then, like the ball falling on his face has struck him with an idea, he sits up so fast that you’re worried he’s going to snap his spine. “Wait. You don’t have a date.”

“Uh-huh. Because I’m not going.”

He leans forward to grab the arms of your chair and drags you to the edge of the bed, and then he pulls his glasses up onto his nose and looks at you, extremely serious. “You haven’t been to a single dance. This is, like, the quintessential teenage experience.”

Normal teenagers don’t really use the word ‘quintessential,’ but you refrain from pointing this out. “I doubt I’m missing out on much. Also, I’m getting my braces off that morning, remember?” You’d had to keep them on for an extra year, because. Well. It is possible that you weren’t as diligent with the rubber bands as you should have been. And you’d purposefully scheduled it that day, so you had an excuse to avoid suffering through a night of watching him with someone else.

“What time?”

You sigh. He has set his sights on this, and he will not let go of it. “Ten.” It was, unfortunately, the only time available when you scheduled it, because the orthodontist’s office closed early on Saturdays.

His face lights up. “You’ll definitely be done in time. We can go together.”

It is difficult for you to describe the emotions that spike through you in that moment. Have you been desperately hoping he would ask you to be his date to a dance for literal years? Yes. Is it, genuinely, the worst freaking thing ever that this is in the context of being his backup date? Also yes. Are you capable of saying no to him? “…I don’t have a dress.”

He knows that this is a yes, that he has won, even though you never actually agreed. “That’s fine. We can go this weekend, I’ll need to match the color of my tie anyway.”

Ryland keeps his promise and takes you to get a dress. You pick a blue one, to match his eyes, and then the next weekend he’s picking you up, and your parents make you do the incredibly cheesy thing where you walk down the stairs, all dressed up, as they take pictures. He slips the corsage on your wrist, and you give him a tentative, nervous smile, with teeth.

He stares, and stares, and stares, and then he finally says, “You look weird.” So you punch him on the shoulder, hard, and he holds your waist as your parents take more pictures, and then he drives you to prom. It’s fine. High school dances are pretty overrated, in your opinion, although there is a photo booth there, which is pretty cool. The two of you never manage to take pictures in it. You try to let yourself pretend, just for the night, that you had been his first choice, and he dances with you during the slow song, and he says your smile looks nice. Pretty, even.

--

Slowly, the shape of your routine changes, because suddenly you are being brought along on trips to meet with other scientists, engineers, whoever, outside of the Vat, and of course he’s there, too, as the preeminent researcher on astrophage. You have a sneaking suspicion that he has something to do with this.

This time it’s a conference room in Geneva. Ryland is tapping away on his laptop, looking frumpy and annoyed, because the real-life astrophage breeding isn’t matching his simulations. It reminds you of the weekends in college you would get together—because even though you went to different schools, you both were in the Bay Area—and study for exams in a decrepit diner with shitty coffee and slightly better pancakes.

You push the thought away as a severe Norwegian woman walks into the room. A rather silly argument follows about his paper, which really wasn’t that bad, in your opinion, certainly not a ‘slap in the face to the entire scientific community,’ but then they’re leaning towards each other, and you simply cannot put yourself through this again.

Then you’re getting even more pissed off, because Dr. Lokken says, “…this was the only way to tell you a critical design flaw in the Hail Mary.”

“Excuse me?” You interrupt. “We have the greatest engineers on the planet making this thing, and you think there’s a ‘critical design flaw’ in it? Are you even an engineer?”

Ryland looks at you, slightly surprised, because you used to never snipe at someone like this, certainly not in a professional setting. The only person you would get snarky with was him. You almost want to throw it in his face. He isn’t the only person who’s changed. You’ve been through the hell that is the job market, getting tenure, dealing with decrepit men in charge of robotics labs that still aren’t sure women should be around machinery.

Dr. Lokken sighs, a touch exasperated, and takes some papers out of her bag. “The most important part of the ship is the lab, yes? None of the equipment you’ve listed here will work in zero-g.”

“Which we’ve already thought of,” you swiftly interject.

Stratt takes over, because apparently she hadn’t realized she had brought two hotheads along. “We’re having several companies around the world design zero-gravity versions of all of this equipment.”

The other woman scoffs. “You won’t have enough time to test it all. You need gravity.”

As Stratt says something about artificial gravity, it hits you: Dr. Lokken is building up to suggesting exactly that, artificial gravity, but not the sci-fi kind.

“She means a centrifuge,” Ryland says, and then he looks over at you, because somehow he can still tell, even after all these years, when you’ve reached a similar conclusion at the same time he has.

You look over the hastily drawn up schematics as they discuss the particulars. The design she’s brought is simple, but it’s sound, even if you can already tell it will require some tweaking. You look back up when Stratt is telling Dr. Lokken she has an hour to pack a bag and meet the three of you at the airport. Awesome. The person who essentially personally insulted your work is now going to be on your team.

Stratt leaves, and then Dr. Lokken does, too, because now she has about thirty minutes to gather up her belongings before being dropped on a ship in the middle of the Pacific. “Well,” Ryland sighs, spinning around to face you. “What do you think?”

“I think you all pretty much covered it. It makes sense.” You pack up your bag and stand. “It’ll make the crew more comfortable, at least. Spending that long in zero-g and then dying doesn’t sound super fun.”

He chokes out a surprised laugh at that as he gets up. “Yeah, probably not.” The two of you walk out of the room, down the long hallway, and then outside. Stratt is standing by one of the cars on the phone. You’re about to head over when Ryland stops next to you and grabs your arm. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry.”

“…I guess? I thought we were on a pretty tight schedule, though.”

“We’ve got thirty minutes or so, it’s fine,” and then he’s jogging over to Stratt, saying something you can’t hear and gesturing over at you. She waves a hand in dismissal, which is basically her way of saying yes. He walks back over and stands in front of you. “There’s a little grocery store down the street. Not exactly authentic Swiss cuisine, but, come on, let’s go.”

He tugs you down the sidewalk. He must have looked at a map on the way here, because he always does that before going to a new place, trying to memorize it to see if he can get around without needing directions. It usually does not work. This time, though, the convenience store is close enough that the two of you don’t get lost. Soon you’re sitting out on the curb, splitting a two-pack of those Lil Debbie cupcakes, looking extremely and unabashedly American. It reminds you of quiz bowl, you think, watching as a family bikes down the street, when he would get so antsy at practice before a tournament out of town that you’d sneak out so he could test his memory of the map he looked at.

You take a bite of your cupcake. Sweet, tooth-rotting sugary goodness. “You know, this reminds me of—”

“Quiz bowl?” He finishes for you. “I was just thinking the same thing.” His cupcake is almost gone already, because he’s basically been cramming it into his mouth. “Sometimes I really don’t know why you were friends with me for so long. I was kind of a jerk.”

“Was?”

He elbows you. “Hey now.”

A grin settles on your lips. “I’m joking, obviously. Teaching’s really mellowed you out, you know. Well. At least a little bit,” you tack on, because he did kind of immediately start arguing with Dr. Lokken back in the conference room.

“And thank goodness for that. I’m surprised I didn’t give you an ulcer, back then.” He dusts his hands of crumbs and then wipes at his lap. There’s a spot of cream on the side of his mouth.

You pull your sleeve up. “You did give me a scar, to be fair.”

He grabs your wrist and brings your arm closer to look at it, fingers brushing over the raised and shiny skin. You hate what the touch is doing to you. “And I have taken lab safety extremely seriously since then.” When he lets go, you raise an eyebrow at him. “Okay. Mostly seriously.”

“Anyway,” you continue, taking the last bite of your cupcake, “you weren’t that bad. I think if we hadn’t been friends, I would have been so boring. Never leaving the house, just studying and going to robotics tournaments. Probably would have failed orgo at Stanford, too.”

“Nah, you would have been fine.” He stretches his legs out a little into the street and brings his glasses to hang beneath his chin before leaning back on his hands.

The sight makes your stomach twist. He still never picked a normal way to take his glasses off but still keep them close by, you realize, and for a moment it is like no time has passed at all. You mourn the years that you missed out on, that he missed out on, because he had always made you feel like a better version of yourself, braver and more exciting, and you find yourself wondering who you would be now if he had simply kept in touch.

You clear your throat a little. The sound makes him glance over at you curiously. “What?”

“Nothing. You have some cream by your mouth.”

“Here?” He wipes at the wrong side. You almost wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. You roll your eyes and wipe it off for him, and then you lick the cream off for good measure. “Hey,” he whines, watching you with wide eyes, “I might have been saving that.”

You dust your own hands off, then, and stand, offering him your arm to help him get up. “You snooze, you lose.”

He matches his stride with yours as you walk back to the car. “You know, you’ve changed, too.” There’s something to his voice that you can’t quite pin down. “Academia roughed you up a little bit.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Ryland holds the car door open for you. “I meant it as a compliment,” he says, almost as an afterthought, and then he closes the door.

--

college, sophomore year

“I just still do not understand pericyclic reactions,” you mumble, staring at the notes sprawled out on the table in front of you. Your drawings are perfect, they always are, but you feel like you’re simply regurgitating the figures without actually understanding them.

Ryland hums from the other side of the booth. He’s on his third cup of coffee, despite the fact that it’s almost one in the morning. “What don’t you get?”

You sigh and rest your head on your hand. “That’s the thing. I don’t even know how to word what I don’t understand. That’s how much I do not get it.”

He sets his pencil down and looks up at you. “Okay. Let’s start with the basics. What makes them different from ionic and free radical reactions?”

“Um…” You rack your brain sluggishly. “They aren’t affected by solvent changes, radical initiators, scavenging reagents, or electrophilic or nucleophilic catalysts. For the most part.”

“Good. That’s one,” he smiles. “There’s two more.”

You fight the urge to look down at your notes. “Okay. Second one…pericyclic reactions—they’re a simultaneous series of bond breaking and making within one kinetic step.” He nods and waits for you to continue. “And. Oh, the obvious one. There are no ionic or free radical intermediates on the reaction path.”

He gives you an enthusiastic thumbs up. “Exactly. Alright, give me the four principle classes.”

“That’s easy. Cycloaddition, electrocyclic, sigmatropic, and ene.”

“Perfect.” The praise makes you feel all tangled up inside. You watch as he tugs some of your notes free, then, and you try not to stare at his fingers for too long. “Point to a cycloaddition reaction.”

You tear your eyes away from his hands to skim the page. “This one.”

“And what’s happening here?”

“Uh. I don’t—I’m not sure,” you finally respond, embarrassed. “I don’t know. It’s fine, I’ll just try to go to office hours—”

Ryland shakes his head. “No. You know it. Just look at your diagrams. They’re really good, by the way.”

A tired smile tugs at your lips as you stare at your drawings a little longer. “I think. It’s…two pi-electron systems, and they combine…to form a new ring with two sigma bonds and two less pi bonds?”

“Yes! I told you that you knew it.” You have to duck your head to hide the warmth on your cheeks. “Now electrocyclic.”

This continues until you’ve gone through all of the different classes. Some of them take you a couple tries, but you eventually get it. “Thank you,” you whisper softly. “You know, you’d make a really great teacher.”

He rubs the back of his head sheepishly after setting your notes down. “I don’t know about that. I think I’d start arguing with a kid. Their parents too, probably. And I didn’t teach you anything, not really. Just helped you see that you already knew it.”

That’s kind of exactly the point you’re trying to make, but you let it go, because your phone lights up. You huff and roll your eyes when you read the text and quickly tap out a response. The reply makes you mutter, “Oh, my god.”

“What’s up?”

You set your phone back down. “Nothing. Just this guy I’ve been talking to. He texted me ‘you up’ and then asked me to come over with a winky face. Super subtle.”

He looks at you, measured and careful. When he speaks, his voice is a little strained. “And are you? Going to go over?”

“Probably not. I don’t know. He’s fine, I guess. A little. Well. He’s in a frat,” you admit.

“Oh. So he’s stupid.”

You laugh and start packing your notes up, because you’re not sure your brain can handle any more organic chemistry for the night. “He’s not that dumb. He’s in finance.”

Ryland snorts at that and starts putting away his own things in his bag. “So he’s really stupid. How’d you meet this guy, anyway?”

“A party,” you shrug. “I went with my roommate. His name’s Drew. The frat guy, not my roommate. But you knew that, you’ve met my roommate. I really need sleep.”

The two of you step out into the night air after paying your bill, and he walks you to the bus stop. He always stands there with you, just in case some creep comes up to you while you’re waiting for the bus to show up. “I don’t think you should go over there,” he blurts.

“Well, yeah, I wasn’t going to. It’s, like, two in the morning, and I have class at nine.”

“I don’t just mean tonight. I mean ever.”

You glance over at him curiously to find that he’s very purposefully looking away. “And why’s that?”

“You deserve someone who can hold a conversation with you. Who doesn’t just text you after midnight to come over. And who can count past ten.”

“I see. Anyone specific come to mind that fits those requirements?”

You’re goading him, and you know it, and you want to see if he knows it, too. The only sounds for a few moments are crickets, the odd car driving by, your footsteps against the pavement. After a while, he mutters, “I don’t know. Just—I don’t know.”

The two of you have arrived at the bus stop, and you just look at him for a second as the bus pulls up, surprisingly on time. “Alright. I’ll text you tomorrow. Thanks again for the help. With the pericyclic reactions.”

“Any time.” He does a little mock salute and then stays standing there while you get on the bus, as it pulls away.

In a fit of frustration, you tell Drew you’ll come over. He kind of is an idiot, but he is surprisingly attentive in bed, and you have to concentrate so your mind doesn’t wander to a different pair of hands, the color blue, the smell of coffee and sour candy.

--

Dr. Lokken isn’t so bad, the more you get to know her. There’s a bit of a cultural divide: she is extremely blunt, always saying the thing that she means even if it’s a little rude, but you find that you don’t mind it much anymore. She has good input on the design for the centrifuge, and she agrees with your opinion that the living quarters should be, well, actually livable for the crew.

At every turn, she makes her disdain for Ryland known. It is immediately obvious to you that she likes him, because you have dealt with the same condition for years.

Her plans to use the astrophage as a radiation shield are inspired, once she gets the advanced copy of the CERN paper confirming the microbe’s super cross-sectionality, and it’s easy enough to add a millimeter-wide layer of it to the ship’s design.

But Stratt insists that it needs to be run by Ryland first.

“So,” he says, looking over the schematics, “you want to add a layer of astrophage to the ship. Okay. So. One problem that comes to mind: they can be killed with a stick. An extremely small stick, to be fair, but a stick nonetheless.”

Dr. Lokken pulls out another stack of paper. “I had my friends at CERN run some tests. Even at near lightspeed, nothing gets past it. We won’t have to worry about physical trauma.”

He keeps looking over it all, and his hesitancy morphs into something akin to an impressed expression. “It wouldn’t take any extra mass,” he mumbles, almost to himself, “since it’s using the fuel itself. Hidden from anything that would make it explode, probably. Hopefully.”

She watches him take this all in until he looks up again. You stay silent, because you know it will work, because you’ve worked through all of this with her yourself, and this is merely a formality. “So? What do you think?”

“I think it’s genius,” he finally replies. She smiles and looks away. You are so tired of this, you think. But then he looks at you, instead of at her, and gives you a small thumbs up. It makes you think of blue gloves, and the scar on your arm, and the photos that still live in your purse, and the yellow lighting of a crappy diner.

--

college, senior year

The basement is positively dingy. Maybe three years ago, this would have been fine, but now it’s just kind of gross. Ryland seems to hold the same opinion. This was supposed to be your victory tour, after the both of you had gotten into grad school, after so many weekends of studying together in that crappy little diner, of keeping your promise to stay friends after going off to college. But the unfinished cement walls are just kind of sad, at this point.

“Proposal,” he murmurs into your ear, dipping his head down so you can hear him, “we take a shot and then we leave.”

“Deal.”

The only thing left is UV Blue. This used to be delicious. Now, you are pretty sure it will just make you throw up, but you down it anyway, shuddering at the way it slides down your throat. Ryland tugs you up the stairs and into the cool night air, and the two of you stumble all over each other on the way to the bar.

Another shot. “To us,” he says triumphantly, “to getting into the PhD.”

It goes down smoother than the last, and you lean against his arm once you’ve set the glass down. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you around,” you slur.

“You’ll be fine.” His arm comes around you, then, and you fight the shiver that rolls down your spin. “We should—let’s go sit down.”

As you slide into the booth across from him, you find yourself staring, at his hair, his glasses, the patchy scruff that’s coming in on his jaw. He’s wearing the periodic table shirt you got him for his birthday last year. When he catches you looking, you smile, wide and sweet and extremely drunk, and then your mouth suddenly twists. “I mean it. I—I just. I don’t know who I am without you.”

“You’re you,” he says simply. “And we’ll stay in touch. We have so far.”

It’s so assured, so definite, the way he says it, that it might as well be a law of the universe. You rest your elbow on the table and stick your pinky up anyway. “Promise?”

His finger curls around yours. “Promise.” You take a long sip of water, then, and glance at the side of the bar, where the photo booth sits. It’s usually out of order, but tonight, apparently, it’s working. He follows your gaze and then smiles. “Let’s do it. I think I owe it to you, anyway.”

You lean your cheek on your hand. You do not bother to hide the love and infatuation that shines out of your eyes. He’s never noticed it so far, anyway. “You remember?”

He snorts. “Of course I do. I think you asked to take pictures at prom, like, every hour.”

You let him tug you out of the booth and across the bar, behind the curtain of the photo booth, your hip pressed into his on the tiny bench. For the first photo, you both make absolutely ridiculous faces, and he gives the camera a thumbs up. The second, the two of you are holding up finger guns to each other. After a moment of consideration, you wrap your arm around his neck and smush your cheek into his for the third, smiling right into the lens. Finally, for the last one you stay smiling, pulling your face away a little, letting him pose however he wants to. You hope that he’s smiling nicely and not making a totally stupid face.

It takes a second for the photos to print once you step out. The first strip is in full color, and the second is in black-and-white. You stare at the fourth frame for a while, because while you’re looking into the camera, he’s staring at you, lips pulled into a wide grin, and you let yourself believe, just for a second, that it means what you want it to mean.

He takes the black-and-white version. “More vintage,” he explains, carefully tucking it into his pocket.

The booth is still open, so the two of you slide back in after getting another round, which will later result in you throwing up into your toilet. “I want a cig,” you mumble after a little while, mouth around the straw of your tequila sunrise.

“Absolutely not.”

You blow a raspberry at him. “No fun. Drew always lets me bum off him.”

His hand tightens around his glass. “Are you still seeing him, then?”

A pssh leaves your lips as you wave a hand. You are very drunk. “Nah. But the sex was great.” This is, most definitely, just to see what his reaction is, and you are extremely pleased when he rolls his eyes as he takes another sip.

“Yeah, I bet.”

The way he says it makes you pause and narrow your eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Your words are sliding into each other.

“The guy was a dick,” he says, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. He looks at you flatly. You are too busy staring into the blue of his eyes behind his glasses to care. “I doubt he was that concerned with making it good for you.”

“Like you care,” you mutter, swirling the orange liquid in your glass around with the straw.

His brows furrow. “I do. You’re my best friend. You deserve nice things. And that includes. Well.” He has to take a moment to think about what he wants to say next. “You know.”

You look up at him from half-lidded eyes. “I don’t, apparently.”

The next moment is extremely fragile, as you look at each other, as your chest feels like it is about to burst, until he downs the last bit of his drink. “We should head back.”

“…Alright.” So you leave, and he guides you down the uneven sidewalk, all the way to your apartment, and he holds your hair while you puke, and then you tuck him in on the couch before passing out in your bed, holding the photo strip.

--

The Russian scientist, Dmitri, arrives on the Vat. He’s a delight. Very enthusiastic, extremely intelligent, deeply excited to potentially blow things up. You consult on his spin drive design, and it’s ingenious, really. You tag along for the demonstration when it’s finalized. Ryland is incredibly reluctant to hand over some of the astrophage he’s been reproducing.

“You know,” he pouts, clutching the container to his chest, “that giving this much away is like losing out on double the amount next month.”

Stratt plucks it out of his hands and gives it to Dmitri, who happily replies, “This is a good day. Dr. Grace, now I show you my spin drive!” And then he smiles at you and nudges your arm. “Our spin drive. Your engineer, very smart.” Then you’re all bounding up the stairs, filing into the vacuum chamber. Ryland stands right next to you, his arm pressing into yours, as you look at the little spin drive.

Dmitri explains the design and confirms that the ship is far enough from land before ushering all of you out. The chamber is sealed, and then it fires, just for a second, and then it’s done. He has to stop Ryland from trying to go back into the chamber, because the little spin drive just fired off sixty thousand Newtons of force, which means the chamber is very, very hot. You’re glad it worked and that the entire ship hadn’t just been vaporized.

“Good,” Stratt finally comments. “This is the prototype, I assume? When will the real thing be ready?”

The Russian scientist points to the screen, where the video feed of the drive is displayed. “Is the real thing. We put one thousand and nine on the ship, for redundancy. Your engineer,” he says, clapping you on the shoulder, “calculate how many we need, the size that fit into ship but maintain functionality. Very good. I buy her a drink later.”

You almost try to tell him that the alcohol is pretty much free here, but he walks away to join the rest of his team before you can. Stratt leaves shortly after, and then it’s just you and Ryland, staring at a hunk of melted metal on the screen. “So that’s what you’ve been doing,” he finally mumbles. “Helping with this. For Dmitri.”

“It’s pretty cool, right?” You’re still looking at the spin drive, at this little marvel of engineering and pure energy. “He’s kind of a genius.”

He’s quiet for a few moments. “…Sure. A genius who could have caused a tsunami and killed everyone on board. I still want my astrophage back.”

You smile and pat him on the arm. “Our astrophage, you mean.” It’s meant as a stupid reference to that communism meme, but he huffs, because he’s been spending most of his time painstakingly breeding the little microbes. “Lighten up. That was pretty cool. And he needs the rest of it to test the spin drives.”

When you glance over at him, you find that he’s not looking at the screen anymore. “Let’s go get a drink,” he blurts. “To celebrate not being annihilated just now.”

“Sure.”

You follow him as he leads you to the lounge, and he orders you a tequila sunrise without asking. “Sorry. I don’t even know if you still drink these.” You don’t, really, but you take it anyway. “I imagine they don’t have UV Blue on here.”

Even the name of that alcohol makes you gag. “I hope not. I’d probably throw up just at the smell.”

He smiles and takes a sip of his beer. “What is your shot of choice, now?”

“I don’t really do shots at this point. Now that I’m not in school anymore.” He raises an eyebrow, peering at you over the tops of his glasses. “Okay, fine, um…” You glance over the shelves of liquor bottles behind the bar. “If I was forced to do one, maybe a green tea shot.”

Ryland gives you a mischievous smile and then waves the bartender over. The two of you down the shot, and you laugh as his nose wrinkles. “That,” he chokes out, “does not taste like green tea. At all.”

You giggle as you wipe your mouth. You can’t even remember the last time you giggled like that. “No, it doesn’t. But it’s still tasty.”

He looks at you flatly. “It really isn’t.”

“Sorry.” You lay a hand on his arm without really thinking about it. “I forgot I was talking to the guy who brewed mead in his basement once.”

“For science,” he clarifies. “Always for science.”

A couple more rounds are ordered. He tells you about his classroom, back in San Francisco, his students; and you detail your publications, working at JPL; and you can almost, almost forgive him for disappearing.

At one point, he’s staring at your left hand, holding his third beer. “I thought—weren’t you engaged?”

“I was,” you admit. The realization that he stalked your socials, just like you had with his for a while, gets pushed away. “That didn’t work out. Obviously. He didn’t want to relocate, when I landed the job.”

He searches your face for a moment. “His loss,” he murmurs.

You bring your drink to your lips, if only to have something to do. “What about you? Did you ever get back with—Linda, that was her name, right?”

The hand holding his bottle tightens, just barely. “No. We. No,” he repeats. “We did not. And I haven’t—it’s been a while.”

“Wow. Impressive.”

He scoffs. “What’s that supposed to mean.”

A playful smile dances on your lips as you mess with the rim of your glass. “Nothing, nothing. Just—you dated around a lot, for a while. I’m pretty sure I called you a slut for it.”

“And a man-whore,” he points out. “Which was—probably fair.”

The two of you are quiet for a little while, then, for the first time that evening. You hadn’t known that he’d never gotten back with Linda, because that had been after—well. It was around the time that he had stopped responding to your texts and calls. And he’d never been very good at updating his social media accounts. You’re fairly certain that the last time you’d checked his Facebook, it said they were still together. To be fair, that had been years ago. But. Still.

You desperately want to ask him the question that has been tormenting you this whole time.

You do not. “I should probably head back to my room. Not as young as I used to be,” you joke. “I’m already tired.”

He nods after a moment. “I’ll walk you back.”

And he does, all the way to your tiny shoebox of a room. He asks if you need to throw up. You do not, but you still laugh anyway, and then he closes the door behind him as he leaves.

The photo strip is still in your purse. You do not take it out.

--

grad school – ABD

God, there are so many things you need to do before this weekend—clean, grocery shop, plan activities, the list goes on—and he still hasn’t given you his ETA for Friday. It’s supposed to be the belated celebration for both of you passing your quals, and you want to make sure that it’s fun, particularly because you hardly get to see him anymore.

You decide you’ll start with cleaning. Maybe you’ll take him to the bar your cohort likes to go to every month, although it’s a little pretentious. Perhaps a weekend in would be better, rent some movies, pick up a bottle of wine (or two).

When you shut the vacuum off, you pull your phone out to see a notification from him. Perfect, hopefully this is him finally letting you know when he plans to start driving—

You stare at the text for a while. ‘Please don’t hate me, I got my dates mixed up and Linda wants me to meet her parents…’

This is fine. It is not, actually, but it’s fine. He does this a lot. He’s become much more scatterbrained since starting the PhD. It makes sense. It’s a lot of stress, and deadlines, and papers, and conferences, and. And.

After a little while, you slowly tap out, ‘no worries, I can check my calendar and see when another good weekend is.’

--

Ryland misses lunch. And then you find that he’s not in his lab, when you go to check on him later. No one’s seen him when you ask around, and you know that he’s not on a trip with Stratt, because you just saw her an hour ago.

You make your way to his room. He might just be sick, or catching up on sleep, because he hasn’t been getting a lot of that recently. When you get there, you rap on his door, three quick knocks, followed by two, then one, so he knows that it’s you.

After a few seconds, he calls out, “It’s open.”

He’s lying on his little bunk, in jeans and t-shirt, the one with the cat and the Golden Gate bridge that he’d bought from a tourist shop when you’d gone on college visits. It’s like he had gotten dressed and ready for the day, and then just. Laid back down to stare at the ceiling. “Everything alright? You missed lunch, and no one’s seen you, so I just—are you sick, or something?”

“No,” he exhales. “No. I’m fine.”

He is most definitely not. You cross the room, closing the door behind you, and sit on the edge of the bed to look him over. His eye bags are a deep purple. You’re not sure the last time he washed his hair. It’s taking a toll on him, you think, the comas and the planned suicides and Antarctica and paving the Sahara, because Stratt consults him on each and every one of these decisions. You haven’t had very strong feelings about her, really—she’s in a difficult position, and this was all about saving humanity—but in this moment, you kind of hate her.

You don’t tell him any of this. Instead, you run a comforting hand over his arm, and his eyes slip shut, causing a tear to slide down the side of his cheek. Something inside you urges you to wipe it away. You do not.

“You want to talk about it?” You ask, gently.

“Not particularly, no.”

“Alright.”

You keep rubbing his arm, because you don’t really know what else to do. After a while, he sits up, hunched over to keep his head from hitting the top of the bunk, and you scooch in a little so you can sit next to him. “Sorry. I’m okay. Really.” He wipes at his eyes with the heel of his palm.

“It’s okay if you’re not.” Your arm settles around his shoulder, then, and he leans his head against it gratefully.

The two of you sit there like that, until suddenly he laughs a little. “Sorry, I’m just—sometimes I still can’t believe that you’re here.”

The way he says it makes you think that he might be working up to finally explain why he vanished from your life. You don’t know how you know this, but you do, with complete certainty, and it makes you realize that you’re not even sure you want to hear it anymore. You were so angry, and sad, and frustrated, for so long, and you are simply tired, and you don’t want to be mad at him again, not when you’ve gotten him back. So you squeeze your arm and murmur, “Well. I am.”

He lifts his head, slow, so slow, and tilts it to look at you. The look—you know this look. And you cannot do this again. You cannot be the thing he settles for, the thing he goes to for comfort, because you still have only ever been able to say no to him once in your entire life.

“You should eat. Let’s go get you some food.”

You help him out of his bunk and walk with him to the mess, sitting with him while he eats, filling the air with nonsense chatter as the color slowly returns to his face. He goes back to his room after to sleep, and you go to yours, perched on the edge of your bed, staring at your purse.

--

postdoc

It is absolutely pouring outside, which means the gutter is probably flooding again, because the landlord still hasn’t fixed it. You cannot wait until you can find a new place for next year, one a little farther from campus, quieter and somewhat livable.

You close your laptop with a sigh. There are simply too many things to do: lab reports to look over, assignments to grade—because the postdoc came with a 1-1 load, and the teaching experience is nice, you suppose, but it’s a bit much—but it’s close to midnight, and you want to get up early tomorrow to prep for your meeting with the department head in the afternoon.

You’re standing in your crappy little kitchen, drinking a glass of water, when there’s a knock on your door. Probably some drunk undergrads, you think, so you decide to ignore it.

And then there’s three quick knocks, then two, then one.

You set the glass down with a shaking hand and slowly walk over to the door.

“Surprise?” Ryland says weakly. He is soaked to the bone and shivering, so you usher him inside and then run to the bathroom to grab some towels, all before you even say anything. “Thanks,” he mumbles as you wrap the cotton around him. “Sorry for. Well. Kind of. Showing up here without saying anything.”

You guide him to your thrifted couch and have him sit. For a split second, you think about laying another towel down, but it’s really not that great of a couch, so you decide not to bother. “It’s fine. What’s going on?”

He sighs and takes his glasses off, trying to dry them off with the edge of the towel. “Just wanted to see you,” he finally responds.

“…Okay?” You know that this isn’t the full reason, because even if he’s been pretty shit at responding to your texts recently, you know him, probably better than you’ve ever known yourself. But you don’t push for it, simply waiting for him to tell you.

Another sigh. “They want me to take an extra year. To ‘shore up’ my dissertation.” Oh. You knew he’d been starting to have problems, butting heads with some of the faculty, but you didn’t realize it was this bad. “Linda broke up with me, also.”

You carefully sit next to him and hesitate, just for a moment, before wrapping an arm around him, even though he’s already starting to soak through the towel. “I’m sorry. Did she give you a reason?”

He shrugs. The movement is utterly defeated. “Said I had my head in the clouds. Always thinking about something else, never really there. Which is true, probably.”

This was the one girlfriend of his that you’d never met, so you don’t actually know the full context, but it seems like an unfair thing to say to someone who’s trying to finish their dissertation. “Sorry,” you repeat. There’s not really much else to say. “Do you want to take a shower, or something? At least change? I think I still have one of your old shirts.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “That would be. Yeah.” When he looks at you, his eyes are bloodshot and puffy, and his lips are still a little blue from being out in the rain. It hurts, it’s always hurt to see him like this, so you stand and dig through your closet to find his old t-shirt that you stole back in undergrad, plus a pair of sweatpants that don’t fit you, and then you direct him to your bathroom.

While he rinses off, you dig out two wine glasses and grab a bottle from the back of your fridge. You give him a hefty pour, and then you shrug and give yourself one, too. There’s not really any snacks that would ‘pair’ well with it, so you settle for a bag of chips.

When he comes out, his hair is still wet because you’d only had one clean, dry towel left, and it drips onto his glasses and his shoulders. He plops down next to you and then downs the glass in one go before pouring himself another. “I hate to ask this after showing up here unannounced. But. Could I, possibly—”

“Yeah,” you answer, before he even finishes the question. “You can crash on the couch. How’d you get here, by the way?”

“Flew. Then took an Uber from the airport.” He starts to munch on the chips, washing them down with wine every few bites. Yikes. He is not doing great. Also, if he got an Uber, then why was he…? He must have stood outside of your door for a while, you realize, working up the guts to knock.

Well. This is an unexpected turn of events, and it feels awful to see him doing so poorly, but you are also, secretly, extremely happy to see him, so you take a long swig of your wine. “Want to watch a movie? Or play a game, or something?”

He leans back on the couch, evidently done with the chips. “You can put on whatever.”

You decide to pull up a show that you know he likes making fun of, but he barely ends up watching it, because he forces you to update him on everything that’s happened since you last saw each other. This takes a while—which makes something clench in your chest, because it means it has simply been that long—and between the two of you, the bottle is finished by the time you catch him up to speed, and a few mixed drinks on top of that, too.

Ryland’s smiling, and his cheeks are dusted red from the alcohol, and you have missed him so much. “Look at you, little miss JPL,” he grins. “Moving up in the world.”

“Like I said, it was just a good conversation at a conference. But. Yeah. I feel pretty good about it. Would be nice to be back in California.”

His grin turns into a sly little thing. There’s a flip in your stomach. “Yeah? How come?”

“Oh, you know. The weather’s pretty good out there.”

He starts tapping his fingers against his thumb on each hand, like he’s a crab. Oh, no, not this, you think with a smile. “There’s no other reason? None at all?”

You start to inch away from him on the couch as he moves closer, still holding his hands up. “The food is pretty good, too—no, not that, Ryland,” you giggle, because now he’s tickling you, and he knows all the exact spots that make you squirm and shriek with laughter.

“I’ll stop when you say the real—reason—”

“Never,” you gasp, and he intensifies his efforts. “Okay, okay! It would be nice to live in the same state again. There, happy?”

“Mm-hm,” he hums, hovering above you—you’re not even sure when that happened—and his hands are still on your sides. Blue eyes search yours as his glasses start to slip down the bridge of his nose. You think you could pick out the hex code of his eyes without even trying. “I missed you,” Ryland murmurs. “A lot.”

It’s. You think you understand what is happening right now. And you want it, so, so badly, because you have wanted it for over a decade, at this point.

But it’s—not like this. You don’t want it like this, when he is drunk, and sad, and freshly single. You cannot let down the young girl inside of you like that, who pined over him for years, who imagined some giant, romantic gesture, who only ever wanted to feel truly loved.

“You should sleep,” you finally say. Something breaks in his gaze, just before he closes his eyes and nods, sitting back on the couch. You grab an extra blanket and a pillow and tuck him in, just like you would when he would crash at your place in college, and you set a glass of water and an ibuprofen pill on the table for him to have in the morning. “Good night, Ryland.”

He’s already asleep, because he had definitely drunk much more of the wine than you had. You gently slide his glasses off and fold them up, putting them next to the water. Then you just—look at him, for a little while, at the way his lashes rest on his flushed cheeks, the slight parting of his lips, the way his chest rises and falls. An unknown amount of time passes like this before you head to bed.

It is the last time you see him.

--

You head to Baikonur ahead of everyone else, because someone needs to oversee the final phase of construction, make sure the safety checks go smoothly, coordinate with the engineers on the ground.

It is insanely boring.

Ryland emails you, at first, and then you think he must get Stratt to give him a satellite phone, because then he calls you almost every day. Most of the time it’s not really about anything at all, just talking about your days, random anecdotes from the time the two of you didn’t speak, reminiscing about high school or college.

You send him a picture of the finished gold plaques. It’s beautiful, he replies. Everything you make is always so beautiful.

Then, finally, the people that have stayed on the project arrive in Kazakhstan, and it is like he is a clingy cat that you’ve left at home over a vacation, because he is practically glued to your side. He comes with you for safety checks, and you hang out in his trailer to do paperwork, and sometimes he falls asleep on your couch.

Construction screeches to a halt during a particularly bad week of storms during the rainy season—it’s record precipitation, probably a consequence of both the astrophage as well as the methane the project released into the atmosphere when they nuked Antarctica—and the two of you are holed up in your trailer. On the first day of rain, all you could think about was your shitty postdoc apartment, an empty bottle of wine, a shirt and sweatpants neatly folded up in a pile on your couch. Now, after a few days, you can simply allow it to be rain and nothing else.

“What do you think you’ll do? After the launch,” you ask idly, because you have been staring at paperwork for so long that the words are starting to swim off the page. You toss the stack onto the table and kick your feet up.

He shrugs next to you on the couch, still looking at the paper in his lap and periodically writing something down. “Probably go back to my kids, keep teaching. You?”

You sigh thoughtfully and look out the window. It’s difficult to see anything further than five feet from the trailer. “JPL, I guess. But. I don’t know—I think I might have had enough of rockets and spaceships for a lifetime.”

“That’s…understandable.” He does one last signature before putting the stack on the table, shifting on the couch so he can face you, resting his elbow against the back cushions and laying his temple against his knuckles. “What would you do? Instead of that.”

“Might be nice to just do some art, for a while. Try to relax. I don’t know.”

You’re about to lightly comment that the Bay Area has a pretty good art scene, because you are not letting him leave your life again, but then he suddenly says, “I stopped because I’m a mess.”

“Um. Okay?”

He takes his glasses off and rubs his face. “Sorry, that didn’t. I meant to have a build up to that, which happened in my head instead of out loud, so that didn’t make any sense. Okay.” He takes a deep breath and looks at you, so earnest and open, that you can’t find it in you to say anything to that even if you wanted to. “I was a mess, then. Objectively speaking. And you—I was—when I—gosh, this is going terribly.”

You lean forward, taking your feet off the table, to put a soothing hand on his elbow. “You don’t have to—”

“But I do, though,” he interrupts, sharply, and your eyes widen a fraction. “Sorry, I’m just. You were doing so well. The dissertation award, and the postdoc, and JPL, and I was—I was being me, doing things before I was ready, and.” He has to clear his throat to keep speaking. “And I didn’t want to drag you down with me. Because that’s what I do to you.”

A few moments pass, while you wait to see if there’s anything else, before you speak slowly. “Alright. And it never occurred to you to ask what I wanted?”

He blinks at that and shifts uncomfortably. “Well. That’s not. I didn’t want to—you—no. I guess not.”

“Okay. It’s my turn to talk now, then.” Ryland nods, looking a little ashamed of himself. “I was devastated. Genuinely devastated. I almost got fired from my job, because I couldn’t sleep, and I stopped showing up to meetings, and—”

“I’m sorry,” he tries to interrupt, but you hold a hand up.

“Not done. I spent the whole time wondering what I did wrong, if it was because I didn’t let you kiss me that night, even though I would have hated myself for it, because—because—I have loved you, I have been in love with you, probably since middle school, and I could not let myself be the thing that you settled for, and that’s fine.” God, you’re starting to cry, and it is embarrassing and annoying. “I made peace with that, a long time ago, because I literally could not picture my life without you in it. And then you left.”

You would like to keep going, but sobs are starting to heave out of your chest, and he wraps you up in his arms as you shake. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispers, over and over again, into your hair. “You—you love me?”

“Ryland,” you sniffle. You wipe your snot on his shirt, because at this point he deserves it. “It is, quite literally, the most obvious thing about me.”

He gently grabs your shoulders, then, and pushes you back, just a little, so he can see you. His hands are shaking as he wipes off your tears, as he reverently holds your face, even as he brings you forward and kisses you, and it tastes like salt and coffee and sour candy.

There is a single moment where you let it happen, where you kiss him back, where you sigh into his mouth as his thumb smooths over your cheekbone, and then you pull away. “I’m not—I’m not doing this, if it’s not—”

“It is,” he rushes out. “It is.” Ryland breathes out your name, then, and it sends a shiver skittering down your spine. “It always has been. You. It’s just been you.”

“Then why? Why now, why not before, why—”

His hands start to smooth over your hair, your neck, your shoulders, as if they cannot stop touching you now that they have started, and it is both exactly how you imagined and entirely new. “Because I am an idiot. The world’s biggest idiot. If I could—I would do everything so different, if I just—I,” and then, apparently, he decides that words are simply not working for him, because he tugs you toward him again.

You let it happen, this time, kissing him as if everything inside of you is finally pouring out, and you don’t know how you’ve been keeping it all there this whole time. His fingers grasp at your shirt, and you bring your own hands up to slide them through his hair as you lick into his mouth. The sounds, the sounds he is making, you think you could live off of them alone and simultaneously never have enough of them.

It is not the most comfortable thing, when you clamber onto his lap, and you simply do not care. You need to be close, as close as possible, right now, because you have been waiting and waiting and waiting for this for two decades, and you cannot go a single second longer without it.

You whine into his lips as you grind down onto him. The groan he lets out sears itself into your mind, so you keep doing it, keep dragging yourself against him as his hands squeeze your sides, still kissing him, still crying a little, until he leans back. “I want—” He sucks a breath in through his teeth, then, because you’ve dropped your head down to bite and suck mark after mark onto his neck. “Bed, please, I would really like to do this on a real bed.”

Frankly, you would probably be willing to do this outside in the pouring rain if it meant that it would happen right this second, but you nod—after another mark—and he shifts around so he can plant his feet on the ground, grabbing your hips, and then he stands and carries you all the way to your bedroom.

When he lays you down, it is so gentle, so kind, so loving, that you think you might start crying all over again, but he climbs over you before you can, tracing his hands fervently over your body and sighing into your mouth. You tug at his shirt impatiently. There are still entirely too many clothes in this equation. He pulls it off, and then he tugs down your pants, and then he’s back to kissing you. It is messy and awkward: your teeth clack against each other, and his glasses are digging into your nose, and it is all so perfect.

One of his hands slowly slides underneath the hem of your shirt. It is like he is mentally mapping every curve and line of your body, but finally his fingers slip beneath your bra, pushing it up with the back of his hand. “Oh,” you gasp, as his thumb starts to gently circle over the bud of your nipple. “Please, I want to—just—please, Ryland.”

You never actually said what it is that you wanted, but he knows, of course, and he shakes his head as he starts to slide down, pressing his mouth against your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, lifting your shirt and bra up all the way. “No. I have been—for so long—I’m going to take my time.”

And he does, and it is infuriating and intoxicating, the way he slowly kisses and nips and licks your stomach, your ribs, your chest. By the time he’s laving his tongue over the peak of your breast, you are about ready to burst, but he still maintains this torturously slow pace. One of his hands dances down until it rests at the apex of your thighs so you can grind against it, a kind of peace offering for his unhurried movements.

It’s possible, you manage to string together in your mind, that you could come just like this, rutting against his hand and arching into his mouth. It is unclear—though it probably shouldn’t be—how he senses this, because then he starts moving down again until he’s resting in between your legs, pushing up his glasses so he can see the soft expanse of your body, even in the low light. “I’m ready, I swear I’m ready,” you beg, squirming against the sheets, “you don’t have to do this, we can just. Please.”

Ryland looks up at you as he pulls your underwear down, lifting your leg so he can slide it off on the one side, not even bothering with the other. His hands wrap around your thighs. “I told you, back then. You deserve nice things. Including this.” His head rests against your leg, and he stares at you pleadingly. “Please let me give this to you.”

You finally nod. You can’t say no to him. At least, in this, he is granting you some amount of mercy, because when he brings his mouth to your cunt, it is not slow or teasing. Your eyes squeeze shut as he utterly devours you, filling the room with the sounds of your moans and the obscene wetness of him sucking at your clit. It is—he is very good at this, and a thought momentarily flashes in your brain, that he’s done this, practiced this, with people that are not you. It does not take much effort to push that thought away.

One of his fingers slides inside of you, then a second, and you feel every inch, every centimeter of it, of the hands and fingers that you spent years staring at and fantasizing about. You clench around them, and he genuinely whines at the feeling. It makes you open your eyes and thread your fingers into his hair, grasping tightly, so you can grind against his tongue. “Just like that,” you gasp. His eyes flick up to yours, and you can still see the blue of them, even with the lights off. “I’m so—I’m already—wanted this for so long, it’s not my fault.” You’re babbling, at this point, but neither of you really care.

So he keeps going, and going, and going, licking and teething and sucking at your clit, never faltering in his rhythm, letting you guide his face against your wetness. He wants you to come, so badly, not just to give you this nice thing that you deserve, but also because he wants to know what it feels like to be buried inside of you. This is it, this is the thought that does it for you; your fingers tighten in his hair, and your thighs squeeze around him, and your head tips back against the pillow as you whine and cry out, and he keeps going through all of it.

In fact, he doesn’t stop, even after you start to come down from it. You twitch from the overstimulation. “Ryland—”

“I think you could come again,” he mumbles into your cunt, “just like this. Want to taste it.”

Jesus Christ. “Probab-ly, fuck, yes, I probably could, but it’s not. If you aren’t inside me in the next thirty seconds, I am going to lose it.”

The speed with which he moves and kicks off his pants and underwear could probably break the sound barrier. You sit up quickly to take off your shirt and bra, both because it is a little uncomfortable and because you’d like to feel every inch of your skin against his.

When he settles between your legs again, brushing his cock through your slickness, his eyes look like they’re watery again. “Sorry, it’s just—it’s a lot,” he huffs, wiping at his tears before bracing his hand against the bed by your hip again.

You grab his hand. “I know. I know.”

Ryland keeps looking at you, roaming over your body, blinking like he still can’t quite believe that this is happening. He brings his eyes back up to yours, and then, finally, finally, he is pushing himself inside of you, and you force yourself to keep your eyes open, to hold his gaze as his hips meet yours.

It is—it is—there is nothing, there are no words that can effectively communicate the feeling. It is just you, and him, and the rain pattering against the windows, his hand underneath yours against the sheets.

“Love you, so—so much, for so long,” he stutters and groans out, dragging against your walls, “since—I don’t even know when, that’s how long—please touch yourself, I can’t, I’m the same, not going to be able to—”

You bring your other hand to your clit, fingers trying to match the stilting rhythm with which he drives into you, over and over and over again. “Please, just like that, it’s so good, you are—I love you,” and you can feel him twitch inside of you at the words, can see the way his abdominal muscles ripple and tighten.

He leans down to kiss you—it’s barely a kiss, really, more just the two of you breathing and whispering and babbling into each other’s mouths—and you keep circling at that little bundle of nerves, and when he shifts your leg, just a little, a moan catches in your throat, strangled, because suddenly the angle is just right.

You come again, just like this, letting yourself get lost in the stretch of him, crying out into his mouth, and he swallows up every sound, telling you that you’re perfect, so beautiful, that you feel so good around him. “Come—here—” You choke out, even as your orgasm is still cascading through you, grabbing at his shoulders and tugging him down.

He wraps his arms around your torso and buries his face into your neck. His hips start to move again, and you slide one hand down his back and the other into his hair, mumbling and cooing and begging in his ear, telling him that you love him, that you need to feel him come inside you, just like this. “Oh, god,” he groans at that, and he does, he spills inside you just like that, with a broken cry muffled into your skin.

The two of you lay there for a moment, breathing in the other, slowly, reverently. He shifts after a while to lay on his side and pulls you with him, and he strokes your hair and kisses you, again and again and again.

“Not going anywhere,” Ryland murmurs into you. “I’m right here.”

He’s not. You will not let that happen again. So you nod, and then you roll him onto his back, because you have no plans to let him sleep tonight. It is the least he can do, after all the shit he’s put you through.

--

epilogue

Periodic table shirt, the one you got him for his birthday. Golden Gate Bridge shirt from the tourist shop. His canvas shoes that look like they haven’t been cleaned, ever. Skittles. Some pants. His little crocheted Earth.

All of it and more is put into the soft-sided container methodically, robotically, even as salty tears pour and pour and pour.

He is leaving. He has already left, really, and once again he’s done it without saying goodbye.

You carry it outside once it’s full. Your feet do not take you to the little makeshift headquarters. Instead, you go to your trailer, and you open your purse, and you take out the strip of photos, because his black-and-white version is hung up in his apartment.

“Oh fuck—” You threw your head back, your fingers clutching Ryland’s hair while his tongue did wonders to your cunt. Swiping his tongue up, savoring your taste as he groaned— face buried in, the vibrations giving you chills.

It was a mistake. Really you should've pushed him away, told him that this shouldn't happen. It did anyway.

You've been friends with Grace since the two of you were sucking on rocks on the playground. Putting sand in your mouths and giving your respective parents heart attacks over just how determined you were to get yourselves killed before kindergarten.

Making friends as a kid is easy.

No introductions needed, nor wondering whether the other person even likes you. You didn't even need to make elaborate plans on how to approach said person or what to say once you get to talk to them. It was a hassle.

Thankfully as a kid all you had to do was approach someone who looked mildly interesting and declare your friendship.

Which was exactly what you did.

Grace had been sitting by himself in the sandbox, completely absorbed in dragging a stick through the sand. You wandered over, crouched beside him, and watched the squiggly lines he was making. You weren't exactly sure just what he was trying to draw.

“What are you making?”

Grace, who finally acknowledged your presence, turned to look at you. “A fox.”

“That's a fox?” Give it up to kids who never bothered to sugarcoat their words. Even so, you continued to watch Grace draw his seemingly out of shape fox.

He didn't mind your words and focused on his drawing, he even scooted towards the right to make space for you as you watched him.

That settled it. With not even a second of consideration, you announced, “We're friends now.”

He stopped briefly before moving on to draw the fox's whiskers. “Okay.”

You didn't mind his lack of enthusiasm, that confirmation was more than good enough for you.

From that day onwards, Ryland Grace was your friend. And as it turns out, he didn't have much say in the matter.

You followed him everywhere. Sat with him on the swing, dragged him into games he didn't understand, you even stole pieces of his snacks and insisted that because you were friends, that means his food is technically your food too.

Grace complained occasionally, though it lacked actual bite. Still you ignored him, happily munching on the handful of skittles you got from him.

By the time your parents had realized what was actually happening, the two of you grew inseparable.

Elementary turned into middle school, eventually high school. And somehow, through every awkward haircut experiments, embarrassing phase, terrible fashion choice, and questionable life decisions, Grace stayed.

And without even meaning to, you had learned each other's habits.

You knew when Grace was annoyed simply because his breathing changed. You knew when he was lying because he suddenly became far too interested in whatever was happening in the other side of the room. Grace knew when you were upset even when you insisted that you weren't. He knew which snacks you hated and which ones you'd die for, quite evidently so whenever he comes over during your period carrying a paper bag full of snacks that you like.

Both of you changed a lot growing up, the friendship remained the same.

By the time college came around, nobody questioned why the two of you were always together, you'd simply become a package deal. Pea in a pod, buy one take one, whatever, it's just that whenever someone is looking for you, they always receive the answer, “oh yeah they're with Grace.”

You studied together, complained about assignments together, survived exams together, and occasionally questioned if the course you had taken was the right choice. Thankfully Grace was there to stop you from shifting courses during your 2nd year. Would've been a disaster if you had ditched your current course and started from the bottom all over again.

There were nights when the two of you would sit somewhere on campus, (being extremely lucky that both of you shared long vacant hours together.) and shared whatever food you'd managed to afford while talking about absolutely anything that comes to mind.

Sometimes you wonder about what life would look like if you hadn't approached the kid who seemed to be more interested in the sand than playing with others. The answer was difficult to imagine.

It was nice, despite all the stress college had thrown your way, Grace managed to make it tolerable. Which is why you'd do absolutely anything to keep this friendship thriving, he'd have to cut off all your limbs before you admit it though.

And that is exactly why you're currently in a dilemma, Rylands tongue on your cunt feels so good but at the same time– this is so wrong. You couldn't even enjoy it thoroughly because the only thing you can think about is your friendship.

About how long you've known him, about the fact that Grace was Grace, your best friend since childhood, and somehow the two of you ended up in a situation that neither of you had discussed.

“Oh god—” you gripped his hair tightly, with no regard to whether it hurts him or not.

This was going to be a mistake, you already knew that. Whatever happens tonight, things aren't going to go back to normal. You can already guess what would happen first thing in the morning, awkward conversations, getting ready while trying to avoid each other's gaze— it's going to be a whole mess. It's a mystery why you hadn't stopped while you still could. It's Grace, he would've stopped the moment you displayed discomfort in a millisecond, that's the kind of man he is. And that's exactly the problem.

You cried out when the ministrations of his tongue stopped, Grace hovered just inches from your cunt, you could feel his breath grazing you. it ached, waiting for him to start moving again.

Grace turned to look at you, his hands held your thighs tightly. “You can hold onto me,” he said softly. “Just don't pull.”

You immediately loosened your grip, briefly patting his head afterwards. “Sorry..”

“Good girl.”

His approval and god— that nickname sent an embarrassing warmth through your face. You hated just how much it affected you.

You looked away, trying to focus on literally anything else other than your beating heart that's abnormally fast.

“Hey look at me.”

You turned to look at him, of course you did. Grace's expression was gentle.

“Don't be so tense,” he murmured. “I'll tell you what to do.” You nodded in response.

There was a pause, for a second you thought if he was going to stop— he didn't let you think for long though with the way he dived back in your pussy. His mouth kissing it before licking you whole, he's addicted. He knew he should stop if he wanted your friendship to stay the same, but alas, he's already too far gone. And besides, you're enjoying every second he spends on your cunt. If you like it this much, he shouldn't deprive you of what you want can he?

He moved his head upwards, Grace didn't waste any time the moment his mouth found your clit. He sucked the bundle of nerves and briefly rolled his tongue around it, the way he tortured your clit— leaving your hole empty and aching made you whine.

It felt good— fuck so good, you arched your back every time Grace decided to not play fair and kept sucking it. Leaving your cunt wanting more, it keeps getting wetter by the second but it seems like he'd rather tease you— or maybe he's waiting for you to finally break and beg.

With how desperate you are, maybe you will. Beg repeatedly for him to finally take his cock out and fuck you with it, he's been eating you out for the past hour— not that it doesn't feel good but damn, you want to be full already.

“Grace..” you whined, tears already forming in your eyes. Threatening to fall.

He glanced up at you, pulling away from your clit. (even if he was a bit hesitant to do so.) The faintest smile already playing at the corner of his mouth, he knows you're breaking. “What?”

“Please..”

His eyebrows lifted at your answer, you didn't have the strength to retort back at how obvious it is that he's enjoying this. “That's a little vague.”

You swallowed, cheeks warming as you gathered the confidence to say what you want explicitly. “Please, Grace.. I want you to...” you trailed off, the confidence leaving you halfway.

He smiled. “To what?”

You looked away. “You know…”

“I do.” Grace stood up from his position, his knees ached a bit from kneeling for a long time. “But you need to say it.”

You hesitated before looking back at him. “Please fuck me already..”

Grace's expression softened, his hand pulling your legs apart while he got in between them, making himself comfortable. “There you go.”

You exhaled shakily, relieved that he finally accepted your answer and that, finally, you were going to lose your virginity.

Not that you believe in all that purity nonsense. Your virginity isn't some kind of precious thing you needed to guard and preserve for the sake of some arbitrary standard. You simply wanted your first to be with someone who felt worth it— someone you trust and care about. And Grace…well he was your best friend, he checks all the requirements you have.

But that's exactly the problem, the fact that the two of you will eventually have to confront each other and talk about this later gnawed the back of your mind. Tomorrow, you'd still have to look at him somehow and pretend nothing had changed. You knew that. You knew this was wrong in all the ways that mattered.

Yet every time the thought resurfaced, the warmth of Grace's touch, his soft voice quietly guiding you through every step, drowned it out again. You couldn't bring yourself to be mad, because if it had to be anyone, you were glad it was him.

Grace stared at you while you were lost in thought, seemingly pleased at how easy you followed his lead. “See? You listen so well.”

You bobbed your head, if it can even be considered a nod.

“Good girl.” there it is again, that awful nickname that gets you all riled up. It's not fair, the way your cunt throbbed at the mere praise that left Grace's lips.

At your reaction Grace couldn't help but feel amused, he hadn't expected you to be this receptive.

Feeling impatient, your hands started wandering downwards, ready to take care of the emptiness yourself. Grace caught your wrists and guided it above your head before you could even reach your abdomen. “Keep them there.”

You nodded. His eyes narrowed slightly.

“I didn't ask for a nod.”

“Yes Grace..”

“Good.” he kept one hand around your wrists, making sure it'd stay put. His gaze fixed on your face. “Look at me.” you did.

“Don't look away.”

You squirmed by just how intense Grace was looking at you.

“Now tell me what you want.”

You hesitated, Grace waited, unfortunately for you he was a very patient man. He didn't rush nor fill the silence, he simply hovered over you, unmoving until you gave him an answer.

“Please…”

His eyebrows lifted. “Please what?”

“Kiss me?”

A satisfied smile appeared on his face. “That's better.” Grace says before leaning down and pressing his lips against yours, you kissed back hungrily. You were already making a mistake anyway, it already happened, there's no harm in letting your real feelings slip out just this once. It doesn't hurt to pretend.

His tongue swiped against your bottom lip, he didn't have to ask twice as you opened your mouth letting his tongue explore every crevice he wanted. Saliva dripped down from the sides of your mouth. A small bitter spark of jealousy bubbled in your chest, Grace was far too good at this.

The thought came unbidden: how many people had he done this with? How many others had he learned this from? How many people had been on the receiving end of that confidence, that patience, the effortless ability to make you feel exactly the way you did now? The thought was maddening. You knew you had no right to be jealous, you and Grace weren't together. He could have had a dozen partners before you— and you knew he had, all of them hated you for being his friend. Although it hurt, you always distanced yourself from Grace whenever he got a girlfriend, it was futile though with the way they never lasted.

It shouldn't have mattered if he got a girlfriend here and there.

But it did. More than you'd care to admit, and still you'd rather die than acknowledge why you felt this way.

Grace pulled away, giving you a chance to catch your breath. “You feel fine?”

You hummed, your head lolling to the side.

He followed your trail of sight and maintained eye contact. “Use your words.”

“Yes Grace.”

“Good.”

Just like earlier— all his previous praises, sent a shiver through your spine. He noticed, of course he did.

“Don't get shy now,” He murmured “You've been doing so well.”

Grace chuckled at your reaction, it's been too long now, his cock getting painfully hard. You did already tell him to fuck you earlier so how could he deprive you of getting dicked down any longer?

He slowly pressed his cock in, God you felt so warm. It's like your cunt was especially made for him with how good it's taking him in. You moaned at the intrusion, it felt..weird at first. Grace was huge, bigger than you'd imagine.

There were nights where you'd fantasize about him ramming your insides. It wasn't something you're proud of, not at all but how could you not? You've had boyfriends before, it never lasted long since every single one of them seemed to view Grace as a threat. Every single time without a beat, after a few weeks in they'd ask you to cut off Grace if you truly loved them. How ridiculous is that? Obviously you chose Grace over their insecure asses.

It wasn't a surprise that Grace was the one intruding your wet dreams whenever the rare instance it happened to you, came along.

Still, imagination doesn't and probably never will beat the real thing. Fuck, you could feel him everywhere, not only was he blessed with the length, his cock has an impressive girth to it as well.

“Grace..”

“Yes I know, you're taking me so well.” He cooed, rubbing his thumb on your waist as he settled in, his pelvis meeting your ass.

After deeming you ready, he finally began to move, slowly, painfully slow.

He's infuriating.

“Grace please..” you choked out a sob.

“What's wrong? You wanted me to fuck you, I'm doing just that.” Grace tilted his head, his pace unchanging as he thrusted in again then ever so slowly pulls his cock out just to do the same thing all over again.

“You're being so slow..!”

Grace stopped his movement which earned another sob from you, your hands moved from above your head to his arms, squeezing it tightly.

“What did I say?” Grace moved slightly towards the side and held your legs together, then unexpectedly—

Smack

You yelped, your ass stinging as the palm of his hand collided with your ass. “I–wha..?”

Smack

“I asked you a question.”

“Grace I–”

Smack

“Don't speak if you're not going to answer my question.”

You whined at every impact, you should've hated it but fuck..Grace really is something, making you discover a kink that you hadn't even considered being interested in.

You opened your mouth but nothing came out, Grace clicked his tongue.

Smack

“Nggh..!!”

“You were doing so well.” You can't explain it, well, maybe the fact that you can't think clearly right now added to it— anyhow, Grace being so calm somehow made him more terrifying. “You decided you didn't want to listen anymore? Is that it?”

You shook your head quickly, not trusting your mouth to utter the words you really wanted to say.

“Then put your hands back and be patient.”

You didn't hesitate to put your hands back above your head— sure the spanking was fucking hot but hearing Grace's praise over weighs it all.

Grace watched you settle again, his expression easily slightly. “That's better.”

“Grace..can you please go faster?”

“That's my girl, that wasn't so hard was it?”

You moaned, not caring about how loud you're being while Grace finally slid back in, his huge cock stretching your cunt open.

“mmffgh…s’big.” you mumbled incoherently, Grace picked up the pace as per your request. He cursed under his breath at the sound of the headboard colliding with the wall, fuck.. He forgot to put a pillow before ramming your insides.

To be fair, it's not like either of you planned on fucking each other.

The sound of his cock fucking your cunt was filthy, the smell of sex enveloping your room.

Grace leaned in without warning, closing the small distance between you as his lips met yours. You melted into the kiss almost immediately, you badly wanted to wrap your arms around his neck but you knew better. Unless you wanted red ass cheeks (you kind of did, screw him for introducing you to spanking.)

A strangled moan escaped you, his cock hitting all the places you never managed to reach by yourself. At this point going back to dildos might be challenging when you already got a taste of Grace's dick.

Grace smiled against your lips at the reaction you have, lingering for a moment before pulling back just enough to look at you.

“Pretty.”

Your body was swaying across the bed moving along with the rhythm of his hard thrusts. Every motion leaving you increasingly breathless, the feeling of his huge cock buried deep inside you was becoming something you could hardly imagine going without. And yet his soft voice was what affected you the most, it's like the praises came effortlessly to him.

“nghh.. Ahh..!” Your back arched the moment his hands found its way towards your clit, the bundle of nerves that was already overstimulated by the way Grace was eating it out earlier, was getting even more sensitive by the minute.

“Grace..! Ahh.. Too much..! Too much.. Please please..” You can't process the words that are currently leaving your mouth, your mind going on autopilot as Grace abused your clit all while ramming in and out of your hole.

You were completely lost in the moment, barely able to keep your thoughts together when Grace cut through the haze.

“Look at me.”

You managed to meet his eyes, drool dripping down the side of your mouth. His expression softened when he saw how overwhelmed you are— though, despite being overstimulated, you didn't miss the heat behind his eyes.

“Tell me when you're close.”

You nodded instinctively, anything he says— you agree.

“Use your words.”

He watched as you tried your hardest to form a coherent sentence. Waiting patiently for your reply.

“I will…”

“Open your mouth later when I tell you to.”

You nodded again, breathless yet still trying your best to obey, you want to be good for him. “Yes Grace.”

A satisfied smile crossed his face. “That's my good girl.”

A moan escaped your lips at his words, you hate just how much that simple phrase gets you so hot.

Grace held your hips steady, his thrusts, hard and fast, were losing its rhythm. “Fuck..being so good for me, feel so—” he groaned when he felt you tightened around his cock.

“GraceGraceGrace mmclose…!”

“Good, that's good, you listen so well.” he uttered out, his hips slapping against your ass, he's now moving erratically chasing his high. His free hand never leaving your clit as he sped up, helping you reach your climax.

“Oh fuck—” Grace pulled out while continuing to rub your clit harshly, your climax hitting you like a pile of bricks. Your back arched as the bedsheets under you get even more stained, your fluids getting everywhere.

His hand made its way towards his cock, pumping it fast, staring at your disheveled state. “Open your mouth for me.”

It was embarrassing just how fast you followed his order. Grace smiled in satisfaction as he crawled closer to your face. “fuck— I'm coming—” His cum squirted out, landing mostly on your tongue, while the rest was scattered on your face.

You stayed like that, not daring to move or do anything until Grace has given you an order.

He chuckled. “You really are a natural at this.”

Grace smiled at the way you whined, mouth still open with his cum. “Swallow.”

He didn't have to ask twice, you quickly closed your mouth and swallowed the thick cum, it was salty and musky, you weren't exactly sure if it was pleasant or not— well to be fair you haven't been too curious before to find out what cum tastes like.

Heavy breaths covered the room, the two of you catching your breath. Eventually, you heard a loud thump as Grace collapsed besides you on the bed.

Staring blankly at the ceiling, exhausted.

For a while neither of you said anything, the room had gone strangely quiet. It wasn't uncomfortable though— well, not yet.

There was still a lingering warmth between you two, the kind that made it tempting for you to just close your eyes and let yourself sink into the mattress. Your breathing finally began to settle, though every now and then you still find yourself taking a deeper breath than necessary, your body knowing that you hadn't exactly caught up with everything that just happened.

Grace laid besides you, his arm under your head as you laid on his chest. You could hear the faint rhythm of his breathing, his heartbeat that didn't seem to slow down.

You didn't look at him. You were afraid that if you did, reality would settle in too quickly, so you opted in staring at the ceiling instead.

You deluded yourself into thinking that this is just another normal sleepover, nothing happened at all for the sake of your sanity.

You've slept with Grace before— well not like this.

You'd spent countless nights together during college, whether it was because one of you had fallen asleep while studying or because you'd stayed up talking until an ungodly hour.

Which is why you're trying your hardest to convince yourself that this isn't supposed to be different.

Except it did.

Very different.

Grace shifted besides you. “You okay?”

You turned your head towards him, hair slightly disheveled— slightly was a bit of an understatement. “Yeah.”

“Sure?”

“mm”

He watched you for another moment, it was painful at how obvious his expression was, you could practically see the question behind his eyes.

‘Are you regretting this?’

You wondered if he could see the same in yours, still, neither of you asked.

Grace eventually relaxed back against the pillow. “Okay.” he mumbled out, grabbing the tissue on the nightstand and wiping your face clean with it.

Just for tonight, it was easy to ignore the obvious, that you didn't just lose your virginity to your best friend.

You're tired. He's tired.

Whatever happened tonight could be dealt with tomorrow, not tonight.

Because tonight, you wanted to lay besides your friend and bury your face at the crook of his neck like you always did, whenever a thunder scared you or when a nightmare followed. You didn't want to face the consequences just yet.

Grace leaned down to press a soft kiss on the top of your head, he felt you bury yourself deeper. He can't really blame you, but he knows tomorrow things would become extremely difficult. Which is why he gave himself the chance to be selfish, because he knows that this might be the last time he can properly convey his real feelings towards you.

You closed your eyes, letting the exhaustion take over.

He did too.

You woke slowly, sunlight slipping through the curtains and falling across your face. For a few blissful seconds you had no idea where you were. You stared sleepily at the ceiling, your mind still fogged with the remnants of sleep.

Then you became too aware of the warmth besides you. Slowly, you turned your head to locate the source. At that you found Grace's figure, naked, with his arm draped over you.

His breathing was slow and even, his face relaxed in a way that you're accustomed to whenever you were the first one to wake at your sleepovers. And everytime he never fails to make you lose your breath at just how gorgeous he is, it's actually kind of criminal. What man needs eyelashes that long??

Then suddenly everything came rushing back.

Oh fuck

The memory hit you all at once, your stomach dropped.

You slept with Grace.

You slept with Ryland Grace.

You slept with your best friend that you'd known for years.

The person you'd spent practically your entire life being able to trust without questioning what the relationship between the two of you meant. And now you were supposed to get up, get dressed, and walk out like nothing happened? Continue being the same two people you've always been? Is that even possible?

Your chest tightened, your hands making its way to your face, burying yourself as far as you could.

What the hell did we just do?

You glanced at Grace again, he stirred. How eyebrows furrowed slightly before his eyes opened. His eyes looked at his surroundings, panic was nowhere to be found in his face— not until he saw you, fully naked beside him.

His eyes widened, the previous night finally came splashing him in the face. “Morning…” his voice rough with sleep, still the shock was evident in his voice.

“Morning.” You replied.

A beat passed, Grace glanced away, you did the same.

It was comical at how hard both of you were trying not to acknowledge the enormous elephant that's circling happily around the two of you.

The room felt smaller, the air felt heavier. Not being able to bear the tension any longer you stood up. “I should get dressed.”

Grace cleared his throat. “Yeah I probably should too.”

Neither of you mentioned what happened. Both of you dressed in silence, the awkwardness was painful.

You didn't look at him for too long.

He didn't look at you for too long.

When you finally left, you told yourself that things would go back to normal once you got some distance.

If only you knew just how wrong you were.

The awkwardness followed you everywhere. You tried to make things normal you really did.

Grace tried even harder.

He sent you stupid messages just like he always did, those dumb memes he'd stumble across while scrolling mindlessly on his phone.

He brought you your usual coffee, the same you always buy whenever he tells you he'd be the one paying. Determined to drain his wallet dry, you always go for the most expensive one on the menu, Grace complained but never did he once decline.

He ranted to you about his lazy professors, talking about how crazy it is for them to have three hours on their schedule but only show up 10 minutes right before their subject ends.

He made some ridiculous joke one afternoon, and you laughed before immediately remembering why the sound suddenly felt strange.

Grace noticed, because of course he did. His smile faltered. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” no.

“You sure?”

“I'm fine.” You cleared your throat.

He nodded. “Okay.” he wasn't convinced, but what can he do?

Things that had been once effortless now required thought. Whenever Grace sat besides you, without missing a beat, your mind never fails to remind you just how close he was.

When your hands accidentally brush against each other you immediately pull away.

When he looked at you for far too long, you suddenly found something very interesting on your phone. You hated it.

You missed how things used to be, how easy it was to tease Grace like your life depended on it, how easy it was to be close to him without being molecularly aware at how close the two of you are.

And judging by the way Grace kept trying to recreate every little routine you'd shared, he missed it too.

He was trying.

You were trying.

But how were you supposed to pretend nothing happened when everything felt different? The way every conversation seemed to carry an invisible second meaning, every silence lasted too long, every accidental touch reminded you of something you were both refusing to acknowledge.

Eventually Grace reached his limit.

“Can we talk?” the question came so quietly that you almost didn't hear it.

You looked up from your phone, Grace was standing a few feet away, his hands tucked into the pockets of that yellow jacket he periodically wore. He wasn't looking at you. And it stung even if you knew you were doing the exact same thing.

“About what?” you know what he means, you think that maybe ignoring it for a little bit more will help. (it doesn't)

His jaw tightened. “You know.”

You stared at him. “No I don't.”

Grace finally met your eyes. The nervousness was practically radiating off of him. It felt weird, Grace had never been this nervous towards you— well, before all of that happened.

“I've been meaning to talk to you for a while.” He managed to utter out.

“About what happened?”

He hesitated. “Yeah.”

Your fingers tightened on your phone. “Grace we don't have to—”

“Yes we do.”

The answer came too quickly, Grace stumbled back when he realized just how sharp he sounded and immediately softened his voice.

“Sorry I just..” he exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don't know just how much longer I can keep pretending everything is normal when it's not.”

You looked away. “It is normal.”

“No it isn't.” His voice went quiet. “You barely look at me anymore.”

“That isn't true.”

“Yes it is.”

You opened your mouth but he continued before you could defend yourself.

“And everytime I try to talk to you, you always find a reason to leave. You never do that! In all the years we've spent together the last thing you'd do was to leave, I'm not telling you that it's wrong to want time for yourself, I'm just saying that it's not something you do.”

You swallowed, you didn't have an answer to that. “....I've.. Been busy..”

“I know.”

The way he said it made your chest tighten.

“You've been busy for days.” Grace looked down at the floor. “I don't want to lose you.”

“You're my best friend.” He continued. “I don't want one stupid night to ruin everything we've had.”

“Grace..”

“I know we both agreed to talk about it tomorrow even if we never properly said it, I know you thought about it.” he laughed, it's the kind where it's evident that he doesn't know what to do anymore. “Then tomorrow became the next day, then the next, and the next.”

You couldn't argue with that.

“I don't regret it.” he declared.

You froze, Grace being Grace immediately noticed, his eyes searched your face. “I don't know if you do.” he admitted. “And maybe that's why I've been so afraid to ask.”

You looked down. “I don't know what I'm supposed to say.”

“Neither do I.” Grace shifted his weight, clearly struggling to find the right words. “That's why I wanted to ask.”

You gained the courage to glance up at him. “about what?”

“What if we didn't have to make it weird?”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

“What if we just… kept doing what we did?”

“Grace—”

“Not— I'm not saying we have to date.”

“I know.”

“We're friends, we've always been friends.” he swallowed. “So we keep it that way.”

You stared at him while he took a breath.

“friends with benefits.”

The words hung between you two. For a moment you genuinely couldn't believe he uttered those words. Grace mistook your silence as uncertainty rather than shock.

“I mean we'd set boundaries,” he continued quickly. “we'd talk about it, keep things simple. No expectations whatsoever, and no feelings. We wouldn't have to pretend it never happened, but we wouldn't have to turn it into something else either.”

You couldn't find a response. Grace's confidence slowly began to disappear beneath your silence.

“I thought..” he stopped.

“What?”

“I thought it'd make things easier.”

You were speechless, that's for sure, your thoughts were racing way too quickly.

Grace watched you carefully as he scrambled to find the right words to not mess things up further than he already did. “You don't have to answer right now.”

You stood, his expression immediately changed.

“I have to go.”

“What?”

“I just remembered I have something to do.”

“You don't have anything to do.”

“I do.”

“You really don't.”

You grabbed your things. “Look I just need some time—”

Grace took a small step towards you. “Wait.”

You stopped, you don't know why you did despite wanting to get out of there as soon as possible.

Neither of you spoke, you could see his bottom lip trembling.

“Did I make things worse?”

You couldn't bring yourself to answer, for Grace that was more than clear enough.

Grace watched your retreating figure as he stood there helplessly. He didn't have it in him to move. Then he dragged his hands down his face.

“Fuck.”

He wanted to fix things. He wanted to make sure he didn't lose you. And somehow he'd just suggested turning one night that had already complicated everything into an arrangement that made your relationship infinitely worse.

Grace sank into the nearest chair and stared blankly at the floor.

He knew he fucked up. And he doesn't know what he can do to fix things, after today he doesn't know if he can trust himself to utter another word towards you.

But it’s just this one time.

A forgotten essay you literally had no idea of. You only learned of it when Ryland told the class that the grades are already posted in the portal for the assigned essays, and specifically called you—and three other students—out for not submitting anything at all. Not even a half-assed essay that he could’ve easily given you a C for, because at least that would’ve spared you from another round of humiliation now that you two are alone.

You didn’t mind it when he did it in front of the class. Whatever humiliation that took place a few hours ago was practically lukewarm from what you’re about to receive now. Because at least Ryland wasn’t outright calling you stupid around other people. At least he was kind enough to only call out your incompetence and laziness that will no doubt affect a huge chunk of your grade.

“I feel like I have,” Ryland sighs to himself as he leans against his desk. “I feel like I’ve been too kind to you that you’ve forgotten I’m also your professor, you know?”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry unless you’ll actually do anything to make a difference,” he snaps, immediately shutting you up. “This isn’t the first time it happened. And the first one, I let it slide, and I gave you a special project instead because I want you to pass. But like I said, I feel like I’ve been too kind.”

Ryland approaches you slowly until he’s standing in front of you. You can feel the heat of his body near you—it’s so near. You can smell his gentle cologne and his aftershave. But you can’t look in his eyes. Because if you do, you’ll cry. So you stare at his white shoes instead.

“Don’t you also think so?” Ryland asks you as he tilts your head up by his fingers on your chin. “Answer me.”

“I’m sorry,” is all you can really say. Because he’s right. He’s been nothing but kind to you, always adjusting deadlines when he sees you struggling, offering a helping hand to your other courses—he’s been kind and patient. But you also know better than anyone that even Ryland has his limits. And he’s never really tolerated how stupid you are when it comes to academics even if he’s helping you through it all. “I’ll do better next time. I just—it slipped my mind. I had that group project for—”

“And that means you get to forget about my class and not put any effort in it at all?” Ryland asks, his eyes darker through his glasses, clearly pissed. “Was I supposed to remind you about it? Isn’t it your job as a student to know that stuff? Do I have to spoonfeed you all the time?”

“No,” you shake your head, avoiding his eyes by closing your own. You can only be grateful the two of you are back home now and he’s not doing this in his classroom or his office like last time. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry—”

“I don’t need to hear it again,” Ryland cuts you off. “Go ahead and strip instead.”

That’s how you found yourself getting fucked stupid into the bed. As if you being stupid isn’t the reason why Ryland is so mad in the first place.

He’s got your air hiked up in the air, his thick cock stretching you open. He’s mean enough to leave his clothes on while you’re fully naked, the roughness of his jeans and belt slamming against your bare ass while he pinches your nipple hard between his fingers.

You scream. Not the quiet and muffled scream. You scream so loudly that Ryland slaps a hand across your cheek that immediately renders your mouth shut, but not enough to keep the sobs from falling between your lips.

“Ry, I’m sorry—please, please, forgive me—won’t do it again—” you sob repeatedly. You don’t even know what words are coming out of your mouth. All you can do is sob and beg for his forgiveness while Ryland continues his drilling assault in your sopping wet hole. “I’ll do better—I’ll do better, Ry, please—please forgive me—”

“I know you will,” Ryland simply grunts breathlessly.

He looks down to watch his thick cock fucking inside you. It’s damn near splitting you open. It’s been awhile since he fucked you this hard again, and you have no idea what’s going on in his mind, mainly because you can’t even fucking think for yourself in the first place.

Then he pulls his dick out completely, making a loud wet squelch that makes you sob out in emptiness as you make grabby hands at him like a needy little kitten. You don’t even care how stupid you look. But if your cunt is the only thing that will make Ryland feel better, then you never want his cock out of you anymore.

But before you can beg him to fuck you again, he slaps your swollen clit three times in a row. And each time, you jolt and scream and your legs instinctively push his hand away.

“No, you won’t.” Ryland slaps your cunt again, and this time you don’t stop the wave of tears dripping from your eyes. Your whole body racks into sobs as you desperately try to close your legs. “Dumb stupid little girls like you deserve this. You shouldn’t even be getting my dick, but I’m generous. So you should be grateful I’m touching you like this.”

Ryland mounts you again as he shoves his wet fingers into your mouth to shut you up. His cock slips right inside without any problem, wet and sticky, every inch of his fat cock reaching places inside you that you didn’t even know existed. He goes so deep that his balls are slamming against your ass when he continues to fuck you hard and deep. 

“Goddamnit,” he grunts. “No matter how much I fuck this dirty little pussy, she’s always so fucking tight. Does she love getting fucked by my dick so much, baby? Is that why?”

All you can do is nod. He sounds in a better mood. That’s a good thing. But then his thumb finds your clit as he pounds away, and your legs shake uncontrollably around his waist, and then you squirt.

You squirt all over his shirt and pants, and your brain instantly becomes foggy with pleasure. You barely hear anything as your ears are ringing loudly, but you can feel your legs still quivering and the way Ryland fucks you through it, his thumb going crazy on your swollen clit as you spray everywhere.

“Oh fuck—oh fuck, Ry, I’m—oh fuck, that feels so fucking good—oh god—” you whine loudly, head throwing back on the mattress. “Oh fuuckkkk—please, don’t stop—please, Ry, please come in me—please come in me, please—”

“Yeah,” Ryland rasps out, and you feel him already throbbing hot inside you. Any moment now and— “Keep squeezing me—yeah, that’s right. Good girl. Good fucking girl, keep squeezing ny cock—oh shit—”

He lets out a loud, guttural moan as he fucks his cock deep inside you, then begins coating your gummy walls with hot spurts of cum. But even then, Ryland doesn’t slow down immediately. He fucks you through it, his thumb still rubbing your sensitive little clit, until he eventually slows down his thrusts—your cunt making loud wet squelches as he moves, and before you know it, he’s pushing you over to another orgasm.

Your toes curl as your pussy gushes cream all over his meaty cock. And when Ryland pulls away, he takes a moment to catch his breath as he keeps your legs open for his own viewing. You can feel your cunt sore and gaping. You can feel his cum dripping out of you and onto your asshole that clenches instinctively when it feels the thick liquid. 

And when you look down, you see Ryland already pumping his cock to hardness again in his wet hand. 

“You’re not done. Come here and clean off the mess you made on my dick.”

Still, you were both begging for some alone time, when Ryland quickly led you both into the bathroom and attacked your mouth before you could protest. And hey, why would you?

You slid his tie loose and he swiftly unzipped his dress pants, waiting for you to provide him with easy access as well, shifting your wedding fit swiftly. No words were spoken, it happened at lightning speed, knowing you only had so much time.

You were both locked inside of the bathroom stall, trying to stay as silent as possible. Ryland had your hips lifted so perfectly, his hands gripped your ass with a strong grip, his cock was hitting that perfect spot inside of you. You threw your head back whining, and he was hiding his head inside of the crook of your neck groaning as his hips pistoled forward. He was gasping and whining, you had him right where you wanted him, and he had you where he wanted you too.

“Missed you so much.” He whined. “God, you feel amazing.”

“Ryland, don’t stop, I’m–” Your sentence was cut off by a moan as he thrusted harder.

Suddenly you felt his hands slip, and he lost hold of you.

You yelped as you dropped to the tiled floor on your feet and he slid out of you abruptly.

You both had a look on each other's faces that said you’ve been blinded by horniness like teenagers. Ryland pulled you towards him so your bodies were still pressed up against one another. When you looked at Ryland’s tie that was way too loose to be taken seriously, you both let out a fit of laughter.

You smiled at the absurdity of the situation and he leant his head down toward you to kiss your mouth again. 

“God, we are idiots.”

“Married idiots.” Ryland murmured, kissing your cheek.

“You know, this is so much better than reciting vows.” You joked.

Ryland gasped at you in shock.

“I’m joking!” You half whispered, half shouted.

“Your vows were so good. Did you see how much you were making me cry?" He asked.

You laughed.

"Hey, says you! I was a sobbing mess."

It was true, both of your vows had been the perfect amount of bantery and kind. He managed to tell you how attractive and talented you were in five different ways. He brought up inside jokes you had forgotten about. And you recounted falling for him reluctantly during his PhD (your Master's) and his obliviousness to your flirting. You even teased him about his nerdiness and his tendency to talk in puns. And by the end of it, you were both sobbing and laughing.

Ryland pecked your lips again, and you were overcome with a feeling of being utterly content.

"I'm so happy." You sighed.

"Me too. I just wish I could find my glasses so I could see you better.” 

You placed your hand on his cheek, cupping his face softly. Those were expensive glasses, and a gift from Colt.

“What do you say we try again, I was just about to cum.” You said, looking deep in Ryland’s eyes.

“Were you now?” Ryland teased. "Yea we can try again. Please, let's try again."

You let out a giggle at his begging.

He placed his hands on your waist again, he was about to place you back in position, when you heard the bathroom door open and a knock directly on the stall you were, it made you both jump. Ryland quickly tucked himself back inside his pants, and you tried to adjust your outfit too.

“Ryland, y/n? We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

It was Colt.

“Are you serious right now!” You whisper screamed at Ryland.

Ryland gently rubbed your shoulder.

“Yea, we’re uh a little preoccupied.” Ryland cleared his throat.

“Ew really? Here? Out of all places?!” Colt asked.

You and Ryland both cringed, the ridiculousness of the situation coming to light. Colt banged his hand against the door again.

“Alright, that’s enough, come on love birds, it’s time for your entrance.” Colt demanded.

“Do something.” You whispered, looking at Ryland with pleading eyes.

He laughed, catching your puppydog look.

“Uh, okay wait, can we get 10 more minutes you think? Please?” Ryland said, turning his head toward the door of the stall.

You heard Colt audibly sigh, then groan in disgust.

“What’s in it for me?” Colt asked.

And without seeing his face you could see the way Colt was giving you his squinty eye, face scrunch. You sighed. Ryland gave you a look that read, ‘you know what he wants’.

“Fine!” You whined. “You can do a backflip! But only after your speech.” You grimaced.

You could feel Colt pumping his fists in excitement.

“Alright, fine! I guess I can tell them to delay the entrance because of an emergency or something. But only for at least 10 more minutes. Use protection you weirdos.” Colt said, his footsteps getting farther away. 

Ryland turned back towards you.

“You think you can do this in ten minutes?” You asked.

Ryland scoffed as if you were doubting his skills.

“It’s our wedding day, of course I can do this in ten minutes.”

Ryland wore a white tank top under a leather jacket with “Miami Vice Stunt Team” written on the back of it. With it, he wore light wash jeans, leather shoes, and a pair of sunglasses sat on his head instead of his usual metal rimmed prescription glasses.

Everything he wore screamed that either Ryland was going through an identity crisis, had a doppelganger, or was possessed. Even his usual stubble looked fuller, and darker, than usual, and his hair looked dyed rather than a natural blond—you scolded yourself for noticing even the tiniest discrepancies about your colleague.

“Ry…land?” You call again, uncertain if you should panic. He opened his mouth to respond when you hear another set of footsteps approach the classroom.

You instinctively turn, only to find Ryland. Your eyes widen while he calls your name, his hands resting on his hips. “Hey. Sorry, I was in the bathroom. What’s up?”

He seems to not notice the other presence in the room yet. That, or he’s okay with having a doppelganger. Ryland’s brows knit when he notices your gaze looking between him and the front of the room.

“Wh…?” He begins before following your eyes. His face falls just as his hands do. He begins walking with haste towards fake Ryland, who places “lava” back down and begins waving with a grin.

“What are you doing here?” He asks in a hushed tone between gritted teeth, though you can still hear him.

“You said I could come by anytime!” The fake Ryland exclaimed, still with a grin, and open arms.

“Not while I’m at work!”

“Come on, at least hug your brother. Don’t you miss me?” He places his hands on Ryland’s shoulders, then pauses. “Did you wash your hands?”

Ryland couldn’t help but scoff out a laugh, a smile appearing on his lips. “Stop it.”

He stretches out his arms to embrace his brother(…?), who taps his back twice in return before pulling away.

You hug the folder of your report to your chest as you slowly approach them. “What is going on?”

Ryland turns to you and rests his hands on his waist again, remembering that you have no clue of what is happening. He begins, “Right—”

“I’m so sorry. Where are my manners?” The other Ryland starts before the original can continue, holding out his hand as he approaches. “Colt Seavers, pleased to meet you.”

You take your report in one hand to shake his hand and absentmindedly introduce yourself as well.

“He’s my twin,” Ryland points at Colt before his hand returns to his waist. Your brows furrow again.

“How…?”

“The last names?” Colt voices out your thoughts; it was probably something often questioned. “We were sort of “Parent Trapped.” Difference is, our parents just separated and decided their pride was more important than us having the same last name.”

“Okaaay,” You respond and nod slowly, then turn to Ryland with a pointed finger. “How come I didn’t know you had a twin?”

“We don’t really get together often, he’s always off in other countries with…what’s his name?”

“Tom Ryder.” Your eyes widen.

“The Tom Ryder?” He nods, gesturing towards himself.

“I’m his stuntman.”

“I thought he did his own stunts? I heard he’s a dick,” your thoughts spill out of your mouth before you can stop yourself.

“I…legally, I cannot comment on that,” Colt remarks while nodding his head with a snort. You can’t help but chuckle at his ‘subtle’ agreement.

Ryland forces a chuckle while glancing between the two of you before his gaze settles on his twin. “Go home, Colt.”

“Home is in LA,” he retorts. “We’re shooting in town, I got a day off since Tom won’t be doing stunts today. Decided since I have nothing else to do, I was gonna visit my little brother!”

Colt reaches for Ryland to ruffle his hair which the latter quickly evades.

“Well, unlike you, I have work to do.” Ryland fixes his hair before motioning towards the stacks of paper on his desk. “So, you can wait for me at the apartment or…go somewhere else.”

He grabs his bag and fishes around for his keys, tossing them to Colt.

“You sure you don’t want me to wait for you?” Colt twirled the key ring around his index finger before grasping the keys in his fist. “The thought of you cycling home makes me sad.”

Ryland flashed a brief, fake smile. “Thanks for the concern, but I’ll be fine.”

“Which…I forgot—” He takes the keys back to get the keys for his bicycle.

“No, I wasn’t concerned,” He corrects Ryland as he is given back the keys.

“I actually feel sad for you that you only have a bicycle.” Ryland’s mouth falls before he rolls his eyes and turns away.

Colt cocks his head towards you while pocketing the keys, “What about you, gorgeous?”

Ryland faces his twin again and closes his eyes as his palms come together, the tips of his fingers pointing towards him. “Please don’t flirt with my colleagues.”

“I’m good.” You nod with a smile as you absentmindedly respond to Ryland. You snap out of it, drop the dazed smile, and shake your head before turning to Colt. “I mean, I’m good, Mr Seavers. I have a car.”

He motions towards you and whips his head towards Ryland. “See how they have a car? Just let me buy you one, Ry.”

Ryland shakes his head profusely while Colt returns his attention to you. “And please, call me Colt. In fact—!”

He walks towards Ryland’s desk to grab a pen.

“What are you doing?” Ryland follows him as he grabs one of the pieces of paper from the desk. “No—Stop, that’s my lesson plan.”

Ryland scratches his head as Colt pauses from his writing, looking at his twin with a guilty look on his face before continuing to write. He folds the paper to only show what he wrote, placing down the pen before giving it to you.

“Just call me.” He winks before patting Ryland on the shoulder. You can tell how heavy his hand was by how Ryland winced. “I’ll see you at home, Grace-y!”

Colt walks past you to leave the classroom while your hand remains raised, holding the folded piece of paper with Colt’s number on it. Your gaze trails his movements until he is out of sight.

Ryland sighs, looking at the paper in your hands while you turn back to him. “Now I’m gonna have to reprint that.”

“Cute,” you mutter while Ryland walks towards the other side of his desk, arranging his papers. His head immediately tilts up to look at you.

“Our mom says I'm definitely cuter,” he says like a child seeking validation from an adult.

“Oh, for sure.” You can’t help the surprised upturn of your lips; you were talking about the nickname, but you didn’t have the heart to tell him.

“You don't have to call him, by the way. He's just like that sometimes,” he mutters as if unsure of what he was saying.

You shrug, ready to tease, slowly walking towards his desk while looking at the piece of paper.

“I don't know. I might, after I submit our reports,” you ponder before looking at him. “Which, speaking of, you've done, l assume?”

He begins to shake his head before he’s even thought about it. “No, I'm not done. I need to revise mine, could probably take a while. I also need to reprint that page.”

You follow his gaze and look at the paper in your hands before you slide it into your pocket.

“Okay.” You raise a brow and hide your bemused smile behind your folder. “I'll just submit mine first, then.”

You turn on your heel to leave the room.

“Sure. Could I, uh, borrow your phone?” You pivot to face him again at the odd request. “My phone's dead and I just need to make a call or...block a number.”

You pretend not to hear his last words as he mutter them under his breath. Your eyebrows raise as you bend slightly at the waist to get closer. “What was that?”

He waves a dismissive hand and turns back to his paper as if the matter meant little to him. “Nevermind. I'll just borrow Colt's. Block you on his cell.”