79's

and suddenly his whole argument became significantly harder to defend. because what were the odds? seriously, what were the actual odds?

same morning, same book, same page. down to the exact same paragraph. sometimes he still thought about it. sometimes he still found himself smiling in the middle of nowhere because the memory would suddenly appear in his head uninvited.

ryland wasn’t trying to meet anyone that day. he wasn’t sitting in the little café because he was hoping for some life-changing romantic encounter.

he was there because it was saturday morning, he’d finished grading papers, and he wanted a hot chocolate and a cinnamon roll large enough to qualify as a geological formation.

that was all.

then you walked in, and suddenly his day became significantly more complicated. the first thing he noticed was that you were beautiful. ridiculously beautiful. the sort of beautiful that made people subtly look up from their laptops as you passed.

not because you were dressed extravagantly. quite the opposite, actually. a plain white shirt, black jeans that were perfectly tailored, looking damn near painted on, and a long coat.

nothing particularly remarkable.

yet somehow you carried yourself with an effortless grace that made the entire café seem slightly duller by comparison. ryland immediately looked back down at his book because staring would be weird. he was a grown man. a professional. he could absolutely handle the presence of one attractive woman.

easily. not a problem. then he looked up again. you were standing at the counter. the barista smiled, “what can i get started for you?”

“hot chocolate, please.”

ryland paused, interesting.

“and one cinnamon roll.”

the book nearly slipped out of his hands. what were the odds? he glanced towards his own table. towards the hot chocolate and the cinnamon roll. then back towards you.

you collected your receipt and stepped aside. ryland returned his attention to his book. clearly this meant nothing. people ordered hot chocolate. people ordered cinnamon rolls. these were normal foods. he was being ridiculous.

then a few minutes later he heard a chair move, ryland looked up, and nearly laughed, because out of every empty table in the café, you’d somehow chosen the one directly opposite his.

not next to him him, just facing him across the aisle. close enough that he could accidentally make eye contact, which unfortunately happened immediately. you smiled politely, and ryland smiled back, then looked down at his book so quickly he almost gave himself whiplash. very smooth. ten out of ten social skills.

several minutes passed, the café hummed quietly around you. coffee machines, murmured conversations, the occasional clink of cups. ryland gradually relaxed, he became absorbed in his book again which was good. books didn’t make him nervous, they were predictable. then he turned a page, and happened to glance up. at exactly the same moment you turned a page.

he frowned slightly, …that seemed familiar. he looked down, then looked back up. you were reading the exact same book. the exact same edition. he squinted.

…surely not.

a moment later you looked up too, your eyes moved from his face to his book, then back to your own, then back to his. slowly you ask, “…is that?” you lifted your book.

ryland lifted his, and for a second both of you simply stared, then started laughing. “okay, that’s weird.” your smile widened. “that’s very weird.” ryland laughs.

“same book?”

“same book.”

“same edition?”

“same edition.”

you narrowed your eyes, “what page are you on?”

ryland turned the book slightly, you immediately burst out laughing because it was the same page, exactly the same page.

for a moment neither of you could stop smiling. the coincidence was too ridiculous. “that’s actually insane.” you laugh

“i know.”

you glanced towards his table, towards the hot chocolate, the cinnamon roll, then slowly looked at your own. ryland followed your gaze. both tables had exactly the same order. there was a long pause.

“okay.” you pointed, “now you’re messing with me.”

“i was about to say the same thing.”

“you copied me!”

“you hadn’t even walked in yet!”

“that’s exactly what somebody trying to cover their tracks would say.”

ryland laughed, it slipped out before he could stop it, and immediately your eyes brightened, like you’d been trying to make him laugh all along.

you stood, picked up your book, your drink, your cinnamon roll, then gestured towards the empty chair opposite him. “can i?”

ryland’s brain briefly stopped functioning, “yes.” too fast.

you sat down anyway, “well.” you set your things on the table, “either this is the strangest coincidence in human history…”

“or we’re the same person.” he says

you gasped dramatically, “that would explain a lot.”

“would it?”

“well, i already think i’m great.”

ryland laughed again, and immediately realised he was in trouble, because you were funny, which somehow made the whole situation worse. the conversation flowed effortlessly afterwards. normally ryland needed time to warm up around people, especially attractive people. especially women attractive enough to completely derail his train of thought. yet somehow talking to you felt easy, like continuing a conversation he’d already been having.

you discussed the book, argued about characters, disagreed over certain chapters, laughed about the increasingly ridiculous coincidence, and somewhere along the way ryland completely forgot to be nervous.

until he suddenly remembered how beautiful you were, then he got nervous again. you were in the middle of explaining why one particular character was obviously making terrible decisions when he found himself staring slightly too long.

not intentionally, just… looking. watching the way your eyes lit up when you spoke, watching the way your hands moved while explaining something, watching your smile.

you caught him, and he immediately wanted to disappear. “what?” you asked, smiling. “nothing.” a terrible lie.

you looked unconvinced, “you were staring.”

“i wasn’t!”

“you absolutely were.”

his ears immediately turned red, you noticed. your smile softened slightly, became warmer somehow, less teasing. “you’re cute.”

ryland forgot every word he’d ever learned.

you looked delighted by this development. “oh wow.” he covered his face.

you laughed, “that was easy.”

“please,” his voice emerged from behind his hands, “have mercy.” you laughed even harder. for the next hour neither of you touched your books because despite arriving as complete strangers, somehow the conversation never ran out. one topic became another, then another, then another.

until eventually the café started emptying around them and the afternoon sunlight had shifted across the windows. later, much later, ryland would tell people it was the coincidence he remembered most.

the same book, the same page, the same order, the same morning. but privately? that wasn’t entirely true. what he remembered most was the moment you smiled at him across that café table. because for a few wonderful hours, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen had felt strangely familiar.

like somebody he’d been looking forward to meeting long before either of you realised it.

what are the odds?

now, almost a year later, he was standing in front of a classroom full of thirteen-year-olds trying to explain how exactly he’d ended up dating one of the most famous women in the world.

a task that, frankly, was proving impossible, because the problem wasn’t that you were famous. it took him weeks to realise that, and months to fully understand it. the problem was that when ryland thought about you, fame never even made the list.

when other people saw you, they saw magazine covers, runways, photoshoots, interviews. the woman whose face appeared on billboards and advertisements and social media feeds.

ryland saw the woman who stole his hoodies, the woman who constantly forgot where she’d left her phone, the woman who cried at animal documentaries, the woman who always reached for his hand in crowded places without even thinking about it.

so when his students reacted as though a celebrity had just wandered into the room, part of him genuinely forgot why.

the entire situation had started because he’d forgotten his lunch. again. which wasn’t even remarkable, the remarkable thing would have been remembering it.

he’d left it on the kitchen counter while trying to answer three emails, grade assignments and determine whether his classroom snake was displaying signs of boredom.

so naturally he’d walked out without it, he hadn’t even realised until lunchtime, and apparently neither had you because otherwise you’d have texted him immediately. instead, halfway through fourth period, there was a knock at the classroom door.

ryland barely looked up. he was in the middle of explaining ecosystems. or attempting to. the lesson had somehow devolved into a debate about whether raccoons would survive an alien invasion. he wasn’t entirely sure how.

“come in,” he’d called absentmindedly, still writing on the whiteboard. then the room had gone completely silent which should have been his first warning. his kids were never silent. ever.

a meteor could crash through the roof and at least three of them would still be talking. the silence was so unusual that he finally turned around.

and there you were, standing in the doorway, smiling, holding a paper bag. for a moment his brain simply stopped working. not because of how beautiful you were, although you absolutely were. it was because he genuinely hadn’t been expecting you. you’d become such a normal part of his life that seeing you wasn’t surprising anymore. seeing you unexpectedly, however, still had the ability to completely derail his train of thought.

he’d forgotten what he was saying, forgotten what he was teaching. all because you smiled at him, which was embarrassing. particularly for a science teacher.

“hi,” your voice had instantly made him smile. that happened a lot, far more than he’d ever admit out loud.

“hi.” smooth, grace. how very articulate. you’d lifted the bag slightly, “you forgot your lunch.” the entire classroom had watched in stunned silence as his expression softened immediately. he hadn’t even realised he was doing it.

but whenever you were around, something in him relaxed. like his body instinctively recognised safety. home. he’d crossed the room without thinking, taken the bag, thanked you, then you’d kissed his cheek, just casually. the kind of gesture neither of you thought twice about anymore.

except apparently thirty middle-school students thought about it very intensely because the second you’d left, the room had exploded. the reaction was immediate, chaotic, hysterical. questions coming from every direction simultaneously.

half the class shouting over each other, everyone demanding answers. everyone looking personally betrayed that their slightly nerdy science teacher had somehow managed to acquire a supermodel girlfriend.

“mr. grace is that your wife?!”

“that’s y/n y/l/n. why is the y/n y/l/n here????”

“dude, she mogs.”

“i wish i got her to sign my face.”

“mr. grace how did you land a baddie?”

“mr. grace is there space baddies?”

ryland had spent several minutes trying unsuccessfully to regain control of the room which only encouraged them further, because the more flustered he became, the funnier they found it. eventually he’d surrendered. there was no point fighting it.

“how did you casually meet the face of saint laurent???” a student had practically yelled.

“yeah.”

“seriously.”

“what happened?”

“did you save her from something?”

“did she save you from something?”

“were aliens involved?”

ryland had rubbed his eyes, “why would aliens be involved?”

“because that would make more sense.”

the entire class had nodded, which was frankly insulting. he’d decided not to acknowledge it. instead he’d leaned back against his desk and told them the truth. or tried to.

because the funny thing was that the story never sounded particularly impressive when he explained it. it sounded small and ordinary.

two people reading a book, that’s all.

except it had never felt ordinary to him, he remembered every detail. the smell of coffee, the rain outside, the exact colour of the lipgloss you were wearing. he remembered the moment you’d realised you were reading the same page, the moment you’d laughed, the moment you’d asked if he minded sharing a table because the coincidence was funny. he remembered saying yes and immediately spending the next ten minutes worrying he’d sounded weird.

he remembered walking home that evening with a ridiculous smile on his face, the sort of smile normally associated with people who’d recently suffered a concussion. he remembered lying awake afterwards replaying the conversation. thinking about you.

the students listened with growing fascination, partly because the story, yes, was romantic. mostly because they had never seen their teacher smile like this before. every time he talked about you, something changed, his entire face softened, his voice warmed, the words came easier.

one student eventually raised their hand, “mr grace.”

“yeah?”

“you’re still smiling.”

ryland blinked twice, confused.

“what?”

“you’ve been smiling the entire time.”

the classroom erupted immediately, because it was true. and suddenly ryland realised it was, he laughed, then shook his head, looked down at the floor. caught.

which made things worse, the teasing intensified. students accusing him of being hopelessly in love. students making exaggerated gagging noises. students claiming he looked like he’d stepped out of a romantic comedy.

they weren’t entirely wrong. because somewhere along the way, he’d fallen in love with you so thoroughly that talking about your first meeting still made him happy. still made his chest feel warm, still made him smile without realising.

eventually the bell rang, students gathered their bags, still raving about their favourite model and their favourite teacher. still discussing the impossible mystery of how their science teacher had managed to date a world-famous model.

one student paused by the door before leaving, “mr grace?”

“yeah?”

the kid grinned, “i think she liked you first.” the entire class immediately agreed enthusiastically. ryland opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. he wasn’t sure. he’d spent so much time convinced you were out of his league that he’d never considered the possibility.

but then he remembered the way you’d smiled at him that first day, the way you’d asked for his number, the way you’d kept finding reasons to see him again, and for the first time, he wondered. maybe you had.

the thought followed him for the rest of the afternoon. and later, after school, when he arrived home and found you curled up on the sofa reading while waiting for him, it followed him then too.

you looked up the moment he entered, smiled immediately. the same one from the coffee shop. the same one that still made his heart do stupid things.

“how was work, baby?” you asked. ryland stared at you for a moment, taking in the sight. the familiarity and the comfort. the impossible fact that you were actually here. that somehow the woman from the coffee shop had become his person.

then he crossed the room, sat beside you, wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pressed a kiss against your hair. “really good,” he said softly.

it was.

The motel room stank of whiskey, smoke, and the faint (but definitely toxic) damp smell that came complementary with every place Holland and Healy had the budget to stay in. You had accompanied March and Healy on this case; Healy was on a stake-out and said he'd call with any updates. To pass the time, you had begun a game of poker— it was now 2am, and it had devolved into a game of strip poker.

A half-empty bottle of bourbon sat on the nightstand, and the radio played something low in the background. You were sitting cross-legged on the bed, smirking as you watched an already half-naked Holland lose yet another hand.

“Fuck me,” he groaned, staring at his terrible cards like they'd personally betrayed him. “You’re a goddamn shark.”

“You’re the one who suggested strip poker,” you said. “So... strip. Don't be such a sore loser.”

"I'll be naked before your shirt's off at this rate," he grumbled. You blinked at him unsympathetically; he let out a dramatic puff of cigarette smoke and tugged his tie off, tossing it dramatically across the room.

He was already down to his shirt, socks, and boxers; you, on the other hand, had only lost your jeans so far. He was failing miserably to get you naked. The problem wasn’t his poker skills— though those were questionable: the problem was that Holland March was a weak, weak man when it came to you.

Every time you leaned forward, every time you slowly dragged your tongue across your lower lip while thinking, every time you stretched and arched your back just a little… his eyes would glaze over and his mouth would part like he’d forgotten how to breathe, until his cigarette fell onto his leg and burned his calf.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he accused, swigging Bourbon from the plastic cups you'd picked up on the way.

“I have literally no idea how to cheat in this game,” you said, dealing the next hand.

Three minutes later, Holland lost again.

“Goddammit,” he muttered, standing up and shrugging off his shirt, once crisp, now crumpled and stained with whisky. His chest was surprisingly toned for a man who drank like a fish and exercised exclusively by running away from danger. He tossed the shirt behind him and sat back down, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide.

You raised an eyebrow, his taut boxers being revealed by the lack of shirt to cover them. “Are you... hard?”

Holland didn’t even try to deny it. He just let out a pathetic groan and dragged a hand down his face.

"Christ, Holland, already? I'm still dressed!" You laughed.

“Look, I’m not proud of this, okay? You’re sitting there looking like... that, and I’m only a man! A very horny man!”

You laughed softly and dropped your cards in front of you. You crawled across the bed toward him, Holland’s eyes tracking your every movement like a starving man.

“We’ve only been playing for fifteen minutes,” you teased, straddling his lap as he sulked against the headboard. You could feel exactly how affected he was through his pants. “I thought you’d last longer than this, March."

“Yeah, well,” he hurriedly exhaled the last puff of his cigarette and stubbed it out on the nightstand, hands immediately sliding up your thighs, “I’ve wanted to fuck you since Healy stepped out the door— before then, even. I had a hard-on on the drive over just thinking about being alone with you.”

You laughed and flopped forward onto his chest, legs still pinning him either side. "You're something else, mister." You raised your head, serpentine, to brush your lips against his ear. “Why don't we do something you're good at?”

Holland made a broken sound in the back of his throat — half groan, half whimper — and flipped you onto your back so fast you actually gasped in surprise. His smoky mouth was on yours a second later, bitten lips messy and desperate against yours while his hands roamed everywhere.

“Fuck that stupid game...” he mumbled against your lips, using one arm to swipe the cards off the bed whilst grinding against you. “I forfeit. You win. I lose. Whatever. Just let me—” he groaned as you palmed him through his boxers, already damp with precome and straining dangerously.

You grinned, threading your other hand through his messy blond hair and tugging. “Can't even handle a little teasing?”

Holland groaned, burying his face in your neck as he yanked your underwear down your legs with no regard for grace.

“I am a weak man,” he admitted shamelessly, voice muffled against your skin. “And a man who’s been thinking about this for weeks. Now shut up before I come in my pants like a fucking teenager.”

Holland March was many things: a functional alcoholic, a terrible Private Investigator, and an even worse secret-keeper; but he was so stupidly in love with you that none of that seemed to matter. One example of his devotion came in the form of keeping three very explicit Polaroids of you tucked into the back slot of his wallet, right behind his emergency twenty-dollar bill and his PI license.

It was a terrible idea, but you hadn't considered the half of it when you caught him sliding one of the photos in there after a particularly enthusiastic afternoon in his bedroom. It was hot that day, and Holly was away at summer camp. You were sticky, covered in a sheen of sweat, still lying wrapped in his white sheets; he'd pulled on some boxers and a white vest, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. “Holland,” you’d said, half-laughing, half-gasping, “are you sure those aren't gonna slip out? I don't need naked photos of me scattered around LA.” He'd grinned his crooked, boyish smile and shrugged, speaking through his cigarette. “Baby, I like having you close," he said, circling round to your side of the bed to kiss your cheek. "What if I'm on an extra long, extra boring stake-out and need some entertainment?" You'd laughed, smacked his arm, and pulled him back into bed.

Two weeks later, Holland and Healy were on their way back from an investigation that had mostly involved eating gas station snacks and arguing about whose turn it was to pay for coffee. Very little detective work was actually done, and they'd spent the majority of the time on the road in Holland's Buick. “I’m starving,” Healy grumbled, fishing around in his jacket for cash. “Pull into the drive-thru. I'll pay ya back.” Holland sighed, reaching into his back pocket, and tossed his wallet over to Healy without thinking. "Fine. Back compartment, there's a twenty in there." Healy obliged, flipping the wallet open to grab the crumpled twenty, when one of the photos slipped out and landed in the footwell; Healy huffed, bending over to pick it up. Curious, he turned the picture face up; Healy froze: it was a particularly compromising shot of you on your back, legs spread, wearing nothing but white socks and one of Holland’s shirts (unbuttoned).

The car remained silent except for the low hum of the engine and Holland's fingers rapping against the car door, holding the cigarette out the window, as he turned into the drive-thru queue. Healy hadn't moved an inch or spoken a word. "You find it yet?" Holland turned impatiently to Healy, confused by his silence. Suddenly, he spotted the polaroid in his lap. He stared for a moment, cigarette falling from between his fingers into the road. Then, Holland made a noise like a dying animal and lunged across the gear shit, trying to snatch the photo out of his hands. “Give me that! Don’t look at it! I am forbidding you from looking at it!” Healy held the photo up out of March's reach, squinting. “Is that…?” “Yes, it’s her—give it to me!” Holland practically climbed over Healy's legs to grab it. It was a good thing the car was already stationary. “You keep nudes of your girlfriend in your wallet? Next to your cash? That’s… bold, March. And stupid, too.”

Grasping desperately, Holland finally snatched the photo from between his fingers and recoiled from Healy's side of the car, shoving it into his jacket pocket defensively. His face was bright red as he returned to his seat. “It’s sentimental, dick! I like having her with me!” A silence settled between them as Healy smirked. Holland used this time to find another cigarette to calm his nerves, refusing to look at Healy. "...does she have to be naked for it to be sentimental?" Healy provoked. "She's not naked in all of them." Healy lost it: he started cackling, leaning forward to peer at March. “Wait, there’s more than one? Jesus, you carry them around like baseball cards?” “Shut up,” Holland muttered, defeated. “Just shut up.” Healy wheezed with laughter, slapping the dashboard. “You absolute degenerate. What if you tried to pay for something and handed a cashier one of these? ‘Here you go, keep the change and enjoy the view!’” He smacked his knees, practically rolling with laughter. Holland groaned and dropped his head onto the steering wheel for a second. "She's gonna kill me."

ᯓ★

The first thing you're aware of when you wake up is the headache.

It sits right behind your eyes, a dull pang that seems to heighten with every passing second. For several long, deep breaths, you keep them closed. It's easier this way, you think, as you're unwilling to confront anything more complicated than the dry scrape of your tongue at the roof of your mouth and the pleasant soreness in your legs. There's a faint, mechanical whir of an air conditioning unit nearby that's fighting a losing battle against the late August heat, the sounds of San Francisco coming to life outside of what must be an open window.

This is why you don't normally drink.

In your early twenties, you'd thought yourself impervious to hangovers. This was disproved shortly after your twenty-third birthday. The morning after a particularly vicious night out had been spent puking your guts up while Hallie stood behind you, pulling your hair away from your face and cooing comforting words that irritated you more than anything else.

Fuck.

Hallie. And Reagan.

You open your eyes. The room around you is both unfamiliar and startlingly intimate.

The ceiling above you is painted a nondescript white, fan rattling with every few turns. A thin blade of sunlight spills through the gap between a pair of cheap blue curtains, spreading over the rumpled sheets near your waist. There's a dresser against the opposite wall, its surface covered in trinkets, a half-empty glass of water, and a collection of books stacked horizontally. A framed print from a movie you've never seen before hangs above it.

You stare up at the ceiling for a few moments longer, trying to recollect the events from last night, but your mind is painfully blurry.

There are fragments. Lights flashing across a crowded dance floor. Reagan pressing a drink into your hand and insisting that you let loose. The sticky hardwood beneath your heels. A brunette sliding her hand down a man's arm with a grin before disappearing into the crowd. Blond hair. A crooked smile. Your own voice asking, with a confidence you certainly do not possess while sober, Tough crowd?

The mattress shifts beside you, and your whole body tenses. You wince. Slowly, carefully, you turn your head.

The man from the club is asleep on his stomach beside you, his face turned towards the window. He has one arm tucked beneath his pillow, the other sprawled out, close enough that the backs of his fingers almost brush against the bare skin of your hip. His hair is rumpled from sleep, the strands near his temple lit gold by the sun. His glasses are discarded on his nightstand, next to a few Advil laid out.

You don't remember his name.

You're not sure if this is your error or his, though. Did he ever give you his name? Had you given him yours? You can't recall.

What you do remember is giggling breathlessly into his mouth when he kissed you in the backseat of the rideshare, and laughing loudly when he dropped his keys outside the building. Heat licks up your neck, embarrassment and exhilaration replacing your stomach with butterflies.

What have you gotten yourself into? It was so irresponsible of you, going home with a stranger. What if he had kidnapped you? Or murdered you? This is exactly the kind of thing that ends with girls your age on the news.

You close your eyes again. Okay. Panicking is not helping. You're alive, you're well, not missing any vital organs or anything—at least, that you know of.

You inhale deeply. This is not a catastrophe. You are an adult (pushing thirty, to put it bluntly). A single adult, as Hallie had repeatedly emphasized on your way to the club. You're allowed to go home with an attractive stranger. You're allowed to do whatever you please, even if Anthony would have hated it.

Thinking of Anthony is the least helpful thing you can do right now, so you decide to finally get up. You peel the comforter off your body, unsurprised to find yourself naked. You'd be a little disappointed if the night had ended on the more PG-13 side of things, all things considered.

Your clothes are scattered across the room. You sit up, cringing at the wave of nausea that threatens to have you kneeled over a toilet for the next twenty minutes. Your headache blooms with fresh enthusiasm, throbbing slightly.

Your denim miniskirt and panties are discarded on your side of the bed. Slowly, you swing your legs over, wiggling back into your bottoms. You locate your black halter top on the other side of the room. You're thankful you had forgone a bra last night, as it's one less article of clothing you need to worry about. You tiptoe with such care that it's almost comical. The last thing you want is to wake this guy up and endure an embarrassing exchange that you'd really rather avoid.

A floorboard creaks under your foot, and the man behind you sighs and shifts in his sleep. You freeze, glancing over your shoulder at him. He makes a low, unintelligible sound, his hand moving across the mattress as if searching for something. As if searching for you, you realize with a sinking feeling. You don't dare exhale until his own breathing settles into an even rhythm again.

Then you tug your top on.

You find your purse on the floor by the door with a quiet sigh of relief. Your phone is inside, with less than ten percent battery left. The screen lights up when you pull it out. You have nine missed texts and three missed calls. You open the groupchat first.

Reg: Pls tell me ur alive

Halls: Tbh I wouldn't mind getting murdered by that guy

Reg: Not helping

Halls: Ur no fun

Reg: I rlly don't want to have to file a missing persons report

Halls: I think you need a break from true crime

Reg: It's called TRUE crime for a reason!!

Reg: How bad would her luck be if her first rebound after literal Satan is a psychopath murderer

Halls: Have you ever tried a more positive outlook on life

You can't help the silly grin that tugs on your mouth.

You: Alive and well

Typing bubbles pop up nearly as soon as you send your text confirming your continued existence.

Halls: Hooray!

Reg: Back at your place yet?

You: No. About to leave now

Reg: Good luck. Can I come over

You: Sure meet u there

Halls: No fair! I have work >:(

You lock the screen before Hallie can continue complaining, shoving your phone back in your purse and slinging it over your shoulder.

The bathroom is visible through the open bedroom door, directly across the narrow hallway. You slip inside, easing the door shut behind you. It's… cleaner than you'd expect from a single guy around your age.

You barely recognize yourself in the mirror. Your mascara is smudged, a few dark tear tracks running down your cheeks. Mortification coils in your gut. Had you cried in front of your hookup about Anthony? You wouldn't put it past yourself. The breakup is still fresh, tender and raw in all the wrong places.

Your lipstick has faded almost entirely, though it lingers around the edges of your mouth. Your hair is a tangled mess, and there's a darkening mark on your collarbone that has you shivering in the warm bathroom. You think of his mouth on yours, on your neck, your ear, trailing down in spite of the pathetic whimpers leaving your mouth.

"For fuck's sake," you mutter to yourself.

Cold water helps. You splash your face twice, scrubbing with your hands in hopes of getting rid of the evidence. You try to smooth your hair down, though it still looks a little rough, and try not to look around too much. As badly as your nosy self wants to snoop, peeking around feels too invasive.

When you're finished cleaning up, you spare one final glance into the bedroom. The man is dead to the world, but it does little to assuage your unease.

God, you feel guilty. What kind of asshole leaves without saying anything? You, you guess. But disappearing without a word sends the same message as explaining face-to-face that it was a one-time sort of thing, doesn't it? You can only assume so. This is your first one night stand. At least this way, you're saving both of you the time and awkward conversation.

It wasn't meant to be the beginning of anything. That had been the point. You had gone to the club because Hallie and Reagan insisted that getting over Anthony required you to remember that other men existed, that other men would be interested in you. You had spoken to the blond stranger because he was cute and because he hadn't been entirely repulsed at your terrible opening line and because, for once, you had wanted to do something for yourself without first imagining Anthony's reaction.

And you did it. You proved whatever it was you needed to prove.

There's no reason to complicate the matter now.

That's the mantra you repeat to yourself as you skulk through the apartment, finding your heels by the front door and slipping into them. You escape into the hallway and close the door quietly after you.

His apartment is only on the second floor, thank God, and before you know it you're on the street in yesterday's clothes, squinting up at the morning sun. You're dismayed to realize he only lives a few blocks away from you, but at least it makes your walk all the easier.

Reagan is waiting for you outside your apartment door. She's leaning against the wall, scrolling through her phone and smacking her gum. She looks great, you realize a little petulantly. Her nearly white-blonde hair falls over her shoulder in a loose braid, makeup done and a cute pair of jeans and a tank top thrown on. You must look like you've been hit by a car in comparison.

"Hey," you sigh as you approach her, shouldering your purse as it starts slipping down your arm.

"Hey," she greets coolly in return. She gives you an appraising look before adding, "You look awful."

"Thanks," you grumble. You jam your key into the lock with a little more force than strictly necessary.

Reagan follows you inside, shucking her boots off carelessly. "So, tell me about last night."

You shrug, setting your purse on the kitchen counter. It feels so good to be back home after the morning you had, surrounded by your plants and books and fuzzy rugs. You decide you're never going to try the one night stand thing again. Too much work.

"It was good," you say, heading towards your bedroom. Reagan tails you wordlessly. "I think."

"You think?" she asks. She sits on your bed, leaning back on her hands.

"Well, I don't know." You dig around in your wardrobe for a pair of sweatpants and a nice, big t-shirt. "I don't remember a lot of it."

"I always forget you have a shit tolerance."

"Yeah, laugh it up. At least it's cheaper for me to get fucked up."

She waves a hand. "But black out? I mean, yeesh."

"I remember the important parts." You roll your eyes and step into the bathroom connected to your room. You throw a towel over the shower rack, setting your clothes by the sink, and turn the dial. You undress quickly, eager to get under the hot water, and slip into the shower.

"Did you at least get his number?" Reagan's voice is closer now. You peer around the shower curtains to confirm that she is now in your bathroom, trying to pop a pimple near her hairline in your mirror.

"No."

"What?" Reagan turns away from the mirror so quickly you hear her socks squeak against the tile. "Did you leave him yours?"

You duck your head beneath the spray, combing your fingers through your hair. The water is almost painfully hot, but it feels amazing on your tense muscles. "No."

She whistles. "So you really went for the whole hookup routine."

"I guess," you say, starting to wash your hair. "Isn't leaving in the morning the whole point?"

"Depends. Was the sex good?"

You squeeze your eyes shut. The easy answer is yes, the sex was good, and you don't think you've ever come that hard or that many times in your life. A tingle in your stomach reminds you of his fingers; a thumb swiping over your overly sensitive nipples; his middle and ring fingers fucking into you mercilessly as he pet your hair and pressed open-mouthed kisses to your skin; his big hands wrapped around your wrists while his cock brushed your cervix with every drunk, sloppy thrust.

The more difficult answer for you to swallow was that it hadn't just been good. To say it was good felt like a disservice to yourself. It was the best sex you'd ever had in your life.

You had slept with Anthony countless times. Of course you did. You'd gotten together your senior year of college, dated him for nearly three years, and you aren't a prude. Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. At the time it had felt only natural to fall into bed with him. In the beginning it was passionate, maybe fueled by that infamous honeymoon phase, and towards the end…

You never hated it. Sometimes it had been nice, when he had kissed your neck in a way that made you inhale sharply, or ran his hand along your waist with a tenderness that made your heart swell.

But there had always been a set distance between your body and your mind. A sense that you were observing yourself, taking notes on your own performance. Were you moving enough? Making the right sounds? Taking too long? Not long enough? Was your face doing something weird?

Anthony never complained, but he hadn't needed to. He had a very particular way of sighing when you wanted something, a way of treating any attempt of explaining how you'd liked to be pleased: like it was a chore, a complicated set of instructions for a piece of furniture he didn't want all the much anyway. He would try, sometimes, but with a reluctant concentration that made you wish you'd kept your mouth shut.

Eventually you started doing exactly that. It was easier to let him finish and call it good; easier to smile when he asked if enjoyed yourself; eventually you began to assume that's what sex was when the novelty wore off.

Sex became something mildly pleasant that you did for the closeness of it, or because it had been a while, or because the person beside you reached for you in bed and saying no required more energy than saying yes.

Last night hadn't felt that way in the slightest.

The stranger you left the club with had paid attention to you with an intensity that was almost embarrassing. He watched and listened for your reactions to his touch, his mouth, and adjusted accordingly—as though every hitch of your breath and involuntary roll of your hips was something worth noticing for its own sake. He had asked you what you wanted, and listened.

At some point, you stopped worrying about what you looked like. That miserable, exhausting awareness of yourself had slipped away, and you were able to be present. Entirely.

Reagan picks up on your silence and treats it like an answer. "It was, wasn't it?"

"It was… fine," you say.

"You are such a bad liar," she snorts. "It's actually a little insulting."

"I didn't know." Your voice comes quieter now.

"Know what?"

You swallow. "That it could be like that."

There's a brief silence, and you worry for a moment that you've really overdone it, the whole pathetic ex-girlfriend thing, but then Reagan sighs. The sound is full of such fierce irritation that you can't help but smile.

"I hated Anthony."

"You say that about every guy Hallie and I talk about," you say, unable to hide your amusement.

"I mean it, too."

"Besides, he wasn't that bad. He just—"

You cut yourself short. You shouldn't be excusing him or his behavior. You know this. Reagan's told you so many times that you're sure she's sick of it, and for once you finally understand.

There was constantly something about you that Anthony felt needed correcting. Your skirt was a little short. Your friends are immature. Your apartment is too cluttered. You laugh too loud when you drink. You expect too much. You make things difficult.

"I don't know," you finish lamely.

Reagan doesn't answer immediately. When she responds, her voice is gentler.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I was on your ass a lot about breaking up with him, and I'm glad you did, but I know it's been hard."

You're not sure what to say to that. It has been hard, to be honest, but also freeing. Reagan has never kept a guy around for longer than three months (by her own choice, she claims men get boring and pushy after that), much less three years. How could she understand what it's like to lose such a big part of your life?

You shut the water off.

Reagan gives you some privacy to dry off and change. You pad back into your living room to find her sprawled on the couch, texting, You sit beside her with a sigh, and she shoves her feet into your lap.

"I think," she declares, "that you're due some good karma from the universe."

"Yeah?" you say absentmindedly, grabbing the remote from your coffee table and flicking through streaming services. "Does the universe have Venmo?"

"Har har." She pokes you with her foot and you smack her shin lightly. "I'm serious. You're in for something good. Restorative. Something a little slutty, but in a healing way. You might even see your mystery man again."

A knot tightens in your throat. He only lives a few blocks south. It's a possibility, as much as you wish it wasn't. "I don't think that's how karma works."

"Maybe not," Reagan says, reaching forward to snatch the remote from you. "But wouldn't it be funny if it did?"

ᯓ★

The following Monday sees you in a rush. You're late to your staff meeting, again. This is thrice now, in the last month, but you can't help it.

Or, to rephrase, you absolutely can help it, you just hate staff meetings so much that dragging your feet in protest feels mandatory.

By the time you reach Grover Cleveland Middle School, you are sweating through the back of your blouse. Your phone and coffee balance precariously in one hand while you shoulder your tote bag and shove your way through the main entrance's heavy doors with the other.

The front office smells the exact same as it always does in the summer: floor wax, printer toner, coffee, and the faint tang of hand sanitizer. You inhale deeply, cherishing it one last time before it gets tainted with middle school body odor.

"Morning!" Mrs. Moreno chirps from behind the front desk.

"Morning," you grimace, glancing up to offer a tight smile. Someone has taped a cheerful paper banner above the mailboxes that reads WELCOME BACK, GCMS STAFF! in bubble letters. It's eight in the morning and you'd be damned if you said you don't want a drink right now. Such is the life of educators.

"You're just in time. Library."

"Thanks," you say, already moving.

The library doors are propped open when you arrive. Inside, the rest of the staff have already gathered around the long study tables, clustered loosely by departments, though a few stragglers sit in different groups. History near the windows. Math and science at the back. Electives closer to the computers. You take your place with the rest of the language arts department, along the sides across from physical education.

You slip into the empty seat at the end of the table beside Marisol Alba, who teaches sixth-grade ELA and, much to your envy, appears far more composed than your flushed face and heavy breathing.

She turns, glancing at you over the rim of her glasses. "Rough start?"

"Something like that," you huff.

You're relieved to find that you didn't miss anything. At the front of the room, Principal Alvarez stands beneath a blank projector screen, messing around with something on his phone. A few murmured conversations float around the room, coworkers catching up after the summer with polite small talk and meaningless questions. The assistant principal crouches near the laptop cart, sorting through the tangle of cords.

The week before school starts always feels like being slowly lowered into a pot of boiling water while someone self-important on the board describes it as professional development. You've only been teaching for four years, and when you were fresh out of college and starting at Grover Cleveland, you were so overwhelmed you had seriously weighed the options of gritting your teeth and dealing with it, or running away.

It's times like this you wish you had chosen the latter.

There are rosters to review, bulletin boards to finish, classroom expectations to go over, and at least one required meeting in which Alvarez goes over the year's vision, goals, updated policies, and that sort of bullshit. You're starting to suspect he's more in love with the sound of his own voice than anything else.

The projector finally flickers to life. A blue slide appears on the screen, titled Building Forward Together. Beside you, Marisol inhales deeply through her nose.

You nudge her and whisper, "Be strong."

"I'm trying."

Alvarez claps his hands once, looking supremely pleased with himself. "All right, everyone. Thank you for your patience. I know you're all eager to get back into your classrooms, so we'll try to move efficiently this morning."

You snort into your coffee, and Marisol rolls her eyes. You open your planner to a blank page and write Staff Meeting at the top, but you know before the meeting is over you'll end up with a whole page of doodles, little flowers and swirls.

"Before we get into our goals and some new updates," Alvarez says, "I want to start by welcoming a few new faces to our family."

Family. Ugh, you hate when people use that word. Nonetheless, you find yourself dragging your gaze up curiously. You know there's been a few new hires this year, one of which will be taking up residence in 214, the classroom right across the hall from yours. You hate to admit it, but you're excited. Your current "family," as Alvarez likes to put it, is a little lacking.

You clap politely for new office secretary and the paraeducator joining the seventh grade team, your eyes sweeping over the crowd in an effort to catch any unfamiliar faces that might be your incoming neighbor.

Alvarez checks the paper in his hand. "And finally, we are very excited to welcome the newest member in our science department, Ryland Grace. Ryland, if you could stand up, please?"

You—and nearly the whole language arts department—crane your neck to catch a glimpse of the man that stands from somewhere in the middle of the rest of the science teachers. No wonder you hadn't seen him earlier, tucked away like that.

He's tall, broad-shouldered, and Christ, he's handsome, but—

Oh, my fucking God.

You clap a hand over your mouth, turning your head away so fast that your neck pops, but it's too late. He saw you, you know it. His embarrassed smile had faltered, his eyebrows had shot up into his hairline. He fucking saw you, and recognized you as fast as you recognized him. How could you not? You were in his bed, only two days prior.

"What is wrong with you?" Marisol mutters at your desperate attempt to hide in the shoulder of her blazer. "He's not that ugly."

"Later," you choke out. You risk a glance back at the man from the club—at Ryland fucking Grace, your coworker that you slept with—and a small whimper escapes you when you see him looking back.

For a moment, you nearly convince yourself that you're imagining it. You were so drunk on Friday night, maybe he just looks really similar. But you know that's not the truth.

His blond hair is tamed, neater than it had been against his pillow. He wears a pale blue button-down tucked into dark slacks, the sleeves rolled to his forearms to combat against the heat. And those glasses—those stupid glasses. They'd gotten all fogged up from kissing, and you had plucked them from his face, admiring the way his pretty eyes went a little fuzzy, glazed over with need.

You think you might be sick.

He sits down, disappearing again behind your other coworkers, but you can feel the heat of his gaze pinning you down.

Or maybe you're imagining it.

Maybe, if there is any mercy left in the universe, Ryland Grace has already decided to be mature and professional about this; maybe he's looking at Alvarez now, taking careful notes on the district’s new instructional priorities; maybe he is not thinking about you at all; maybe, if you're lucky, he has forgotten the exact sound you made when he kissed down the side of your throat.

You press your pen so hard against your planner that the tip punches through the paper.

Marisol leans closer. "You're making me nervous."

"I'm fine."

She makes an amused sound. "You look like you need medical attention."

Your face feels too hot, your stomach twisting and rolling in nauseating circles. There's a nonzero chance that you actually do need medical attention, but you swallow it down with some coffee. "I said I'm fine."

At the front of the library, Alvarez clears his throat. “All right, now that introductions are out of the way, I want to shift our focus to this year’s building goals.”

A slide appears behind him.

BELONGING. CONSISTENCY. GROWTH.

Fine. Wonderful. All excellent concepts. You would love to belong somewhere other than this room. You would love some consistency in the form of never again seeing a man you slept with at work. You would love to grow into a new person immediately, preferably one with amnesia.

But alas.

You stare at the presentation slide while Alvarez continues speaking, his voice smoothing into the same distant, administrative hum as the air conditioner overhead. Around you, your coworkers nod along like normal people, people who have not recently discovered that karma has a staff ID and teaches eighth grade science across the hall.

Across the hall. You sink in your seat, wishing the floor would open up under you and swallow you whole.

You'll see him during passing periods, and at the copier. You'll see him during fire drills, staff lunches, parent nights, professional development days, and every other mandatory ritual this place invents to remind you that escape is an illusion.

Hell, apparently, is room 214 at Grover Cleveland Middle School.

Who would've thought?

ᯓ★

⊱ ⠀ ⠀ 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧.

part one: monte-carlo, monaco

part two: lagos, portugal

part three: ibiza, spain

part four: sicily, italy

part five: mykonos, greece

part six: epilogue

⊱ ⠀ ⠀ 𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗖𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗔𝗡𝗘𝗢𝗨𝗦.

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#summer affair

main graphic credit @/devociones

divider credit @/bronzewasp

The streetlights glint off the metal of Luke’s bike as he idles in front of your porch. His hair is practically luminous against the dark backdrop. Of course, he’s not wearing a helmet. The only time he wears that thing is when he’s performing at the carnival.

Live fast, die young, that’s his motto. Yet, he’ll always insist on you wearing a helmet when you ride with him.

He grins up at you, that lazy smirk that tugs on the corners of his mouth. He’s wearing his sleeveless shirt, the collar worn and fraying, his neck tattoos peeping out. His arms are out too, and you hate how you can see all the ridges of his muscles from all the way up here. No one has the right to look that good.

With practised agility, you grab your bag and your phone and then shimmy out of your open window. You tiptoe along the edge of the roof, hop down onto the windowsill, and then lower yourself carefully down the drainpipe. It took a few months of practice to get it right, and you fell a LOT initially. But it’s necessary. You’re a grown adult, yes, but you have no intention of telling your parents that most nights you sneak out to go and visit your boyfriend, who works at a carnival, is a serial smoker, is covered in tattoos, and drives a motorcycle VERY irresponsibly. You can already guess what they will say.

And honestly, you quite enjoy the thrill of sneaking out. It makes you feel like a horny teenager, which seems to be a fairly common sensation whenever you’re around Luke.

“Hey.” He murmurs lowly, still wearing that goddamn smirk. He straddles the bike, his thighs keeping it upright, while his big hands reach out to grab your waist and pull you in.

Immediately, you smell him - petrichor, cigarette smoke, candy floss and the faint scent of burnt wood. He’s a little damp with sweat, and you feel your skin sticking to him as he pulls you into his side. One arm sweeps up and over your shoulders, while the other curls tighter around your waist, and his head ducks into your neck.

His next words are whispered against your skin, more of a vibration than an audible sound.

“Missed you.”

“I missed you too.” You grin. It doesn't matter that you only saw him yesterday. Luke, you’ve discovered, looks like a rottweiler, but with you he has the personality of a labrador - clingy, loyal, doe eyed, extremely fucking needy. But you don’t mind. It’s pretty adorable when he complains about missing you only hours after leaving you.

But that’s not to say he’s not like a Rottie sometimes. His temper is short, and he can flip the switch in a moment, and it's not always something he can control. Not necessarily with you but…there’s a reason he has a grenade tattooed on his bicep. He knows he has a short fuse. Even over the 5 months you’ve been with him, Luke has been in at least 3 fights. Mostly innocent ones with other vendors at the carnival, when they push his buttons and he bites back without thinking about the consequences. He always comes to you, licking his wounds, insisting that the other guys look worse. Usually they do.

“Come on.” You rub Luke’s back, feeling the tense muscles under his shirt. “Let’s go.”

He grumbles into your neck, but the low growl turns into something resembling a purr when you move your hand higher to scratch the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

Literally a Labrador

Luke pulls away with an expression actually resembling pain, one hand staying snug around your waist, while his other grabs the helmet. You lean up on your tiptoes to press a quick kiss to the underside of his jaw, before taking the helmet and pulling it over your head.

The rush of air against your bare arms and legs really is quite euphoric, especially when you’ve been suffering all day in the muggy heat. No, it’s not especially safe to be riding a bike in a vest and shorts, but the thought of wearing anything heavier than that right now makes you feel nauseous. You press your face to Luke’s back, arms holding tight around his waist as he eggs the bike on, easing it over the speed limit and down the highway. Now and then, his hand reaches back to rest on your thigh, squeezing firmly, leaving it there as long as he can before a sharp turn or a gear change requires him to have both hands on the grips.

The ride to Luke’s trailer isn’t far. In fact, you could probably walk it in half an hour. But there’s no way on earth he’s letting you walk anywhere around this town alone. He’s well aware of the people who hang around, in the shadows, just waiting for a girl like you to pass them by like a ready meal. He'd rather drive you back and forth, no matter what time it is, day or night. He barely sleeps anyway. He’s always been like that, ever since you met him - he naps when he can, sometimes in the day, sometimes in the night. When you’re in bed with him, he’ll sleep - it’s probably the only time he gets a good amount of rest.

Luke kicks the stand down while you hop off the bike, pulling the helmet off your head. You’re too hot again now, the claustrophobic helmet only making things worse. The only solace is that it smells of Luke.

The man stifles a yawn as he locks his bike up against the fence, and you pout, walking over to place a hand on his back. It’s damp with sweat where you’ve been pushed up against him.

“How was the show?” you hum. “Okay?”

He shrugs, his lips pulling into a smile as he turns around, putting his arm around your shoulders. He leads you into the trailer. He’s quiet today. Which you know means he’s either tired or angry. Considering how much he’s smiling tonight, you doubt he’s angry. Which leaves the other option.

“You not talking tonight?” You cock your head, looking up at him as you sink down onto his bed. The mattress is worn, and it’s a little cramped, but god its one of the comfiest beds you’ve ever slept on.

Luke’s tongue darts out to lick his lips, shoulders pulling into a shrug again before he remembers he's already used that move. He lets out a little huff instead.

“Show was okay. Same as usual. I just missed you.”

You nod. “I know. I missed you too.”

He walks closer to you, pushing in between your legs at the foot of the bed. You tug on the bottom of his shirt. It’s not even a sexual thing at this point, it’s just you prefer to be skin to skin, and you know he does too. Yes, even in heat like this. He’s the only one you’d tolerate it for.

Luke sheds his vest while you shrug off your own top. When you look back, he’s down to his boxers, scratching at his pecs lazily.

“Come here.” You murmur, and Luke doesn’t waste any time. He crawls onto the bed, until his body is on top of yours, one hand reaching under you to press firmly against your back, the other cupping your head. You fit together easily, naturally. It’s far more elegant than the way you came together months ago, all sloppy kisses and knocking teeth. But the passion is still there, just as strong.

Luke kisses up your neck, from your clavicle to the angle of your jaw, sucking and laving with small little grunts as he goes. You hum your satisfaction, hand reaching up to stroke his hair.

“Never thought I’d say this…” Luke grunts once he reaches your chin. “But I think it’s too hot to fuck.”

You giggle, looking down your nose at his petulant expression, a little pout appearing on his pink lips. A little flame of delight curls in your chest, not because of his adorableness, but also because it's the most words he’s said to you all night, finally. And of course he could only manage them once he was pressed flush against you.

“Unfortunately, I agree.” You chuckle, hands carding through his hair.

Luke groans, ducking his head to nuzzle against your chest, only the thin fabric of your bralette separating him from your peaked nipples. He drags his bottom lip against one of them, letting it pull, and you suck in a breath.

“Luke! What did you just say-“

“Sorry.” He grins, pressing his face back into the valley between your breasts “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”

“You’re right though. We should sleep. It’s cooler tomorrow.” You hum.

Luke just hums against you, his grip around your waist tightening.

“Luke.”

Another grunt.

“When was the last time you slept?”

He huffs, the warm air damp against your chest.

“That.. That doesn’t matter.”

Okay. You won’t push him. You know how he struggles with sleep sometimes. Well, most of the time. He’s told you about the nightmares. The times he's woken up having thrown his lamp against the wall, without even realising. How his mind races just as fast as the bikes he rides.

“Alright. Let’s sleep now. I’m tired.”

He looks up at you, eyes soft.

“You are?”

You nod. You know that your needs will always come before Luke's, in his mind. If he needs to sleep, he’ll ignore that urge until he collapses from fatigue. But if you need to sleep? Lights off, blankets on, spooning immediately. This is how you’ll get him to rest.

“M’kay. Let’s sleep.” Luke nods, like this was his idea. He pulls himself up with a huff, settling back against the pillows and opening his arms. You crawl into them, taking your turn to nuzzle against his chest. Your hand reaches to trace the tattoos on his abdomen, smirking as his muscles jump under your touch.

“Stop.” He half murmurs, half whines. “Tickles.”

“Goodnight, Luke.” You hum. You crane your neck, leaning up to press a slow, chaste kiss against his lips. He returns it, cupping your jaw, darting his tongue along your lips - a promise of what's to come in the morning, when it's hopefully cooler, and your boyfriend isn’t so sleep deprived.

Ten minutes later, and the two of you are slumbering peacefully, warm but comfortable. Luke’s nightmares never seem to trouble him when you’re pressed against him. His magic charm.

hope you enjoyed! Let me Know if you did

dedicated to @pasdietrois always

It had been almost two weeks  since you had seen Bruce. Well, that wasn’t quite true. You had seen him, but only in passing–a hand brushing against your back as you rushed out the door to work, or a soft kiss pressed to your forehead that barely woke you from your dreamless slumber. Too many mornings now you had woken and splayed your hand across his side of the bed to find it cold and untouched.

You couldn’t blame Bruce for being absent. You knew the case he was working on was important. Hell, all of Gotham knew its significance, what with the panic occurring each night in the Narrows. But after a week of a ghost wandering your home while you slept, the mere thought of your husband had you pressing your thighs together and loathing the cowl.

Safe to say, you were frustrated.

You sat alone in the backseat of the Wayne family limousine. Not even your adoptive children had bothered to go with you tonight, too busy searching for the arsonist running rampant in the island district to keep you company. Tim had, blessedly, chosen to cover for Bruce tonight and give him a much-deserved break.

And yet, you still sat alone in the limo on the way to yet another pointless gala. You glared down at your phone, rereading Bruce’s most recent text for the umpteenth time, sent while you were getting ready for the evening.

Closing with investors. Will meet you at the tower.

The very same investors that you were hosting this damn gala for. You pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed. Sure, Bruce hadn’t stopped in at the Enterprise much this week–you had pulled most of the strings for this event, in all honesty. The least he could do was take some of the weight off of you, right? That’s what you tried to tell yourself, at least, to keep your knee from bouncing so much that it would begin to ache.

So you left early to pick him up from Wayne Enterprise on your way to the gala. When you had heard about the patrol schedule change, you had hoped Bruce would be home to get ready with you–you had even picked out a perfume you knew he liked, although you felt silly spritzing it on your neck in the silence of your bedroom.

All this space in the limo and nothing to do with it. You dropped your phone on the leather seat beside you and sprawled out in an undignified manner. Whatever. Bruce probably wouldn’t even ride home with you–it was more likely that he would travel straight from the gala, to the cave, then to his nightly patrol. Whatever. You were mad at him anyway.

Not really. But pretending to be mad at him was easier than thinking about how much you missed him. You just knew seeing him at the gala, with his attention stolen by the Gotham elite, would drive you nuts.

Your frustration was simmering by the time the limo slowed to a halt outside of the Wayne Enterprise. With a sigh, you adjusted your attire, slipped your phone into your purse, and leaned towards the door with one hand outstretched. You expected that you would have to rouse him from his office and drag him by his tie-

The door creaked open before you had a chance to lay your hand on the handle. In its place, jet black slacks and a matching leather belt at eye level, your hand hovering just above with fingers outstretched. You licked your lips and slowly tilted your head up to meet Bruce’s gaze. Mirth filled his piercing blue eyes. He always let his emotions show more freely without the cowl. His eyes narrowed into a softer expression, tired and maybe a bit reverent. 

God, he looked good in a tuxedo. It was almost unfair how well the black fabric complemented the graying hair at his temples and the sharp blue of his eyes. You gazed up at him from under your lashes, lips parted slightly. His hair was slicked back, something he had taken to in recent years–he felt it made him look more mature, more like the ‘former party animal who had finally settled down’ that the media so often portrayed him as these days. One corner of his mouth raised in a subtle smile. You half-expected him to make a flirtatious comment, and your cheeks warmed in anticipation.

“Are you going to scoot over for me?”

You scoffed and jumped away from the door. His chuckle fell on deaf ears as you turned your back to him and sulked, glaring out the window at passing Gotham traffic. You heard the door click shut and his knuckles rap against the privacy wall separating the back of the limousine from the driver. The car rocked forward and pulled steadily into traffic.

A warm hand settled on your thigh, just above your knee,  and squeezed gently. His lips ghosted the side of your neck, and you raised your shoulder in defense against the ticklish feeling. The fabric of your dress bunched just slightly as his hand innocently slid an inch or so higher, allowing him to lean further towards you.

“New dress?”

“No,” you answer dryly. His hand slid from your thigh until just his fingertips brushed the fabric. You leaned back subtly, pressing your back to his chest. “I bought it on our holiday in Sri Lanka a few years ago.”

Bruce hummed in thought and pinched the fabric between his fingers. You twisted and peered at him over your shoulder, your head resting against his chest. “I enjoyed Sri Lanka.”

You huffed a laugh. “We didn’t leave the hotel.”

“Then I enjoyed the hotel in Sri Lanka,” he amended. Bruce leaned over you until his lips brushed against the corner of your mouth. You tilted your head back and to the side, allowing him better access. The resolve you had to stay mad at him vanished as quickly as you melted against his chest at his kiss. “Missed you,” he murmured against your lips.

Your mouth twisted into a wry smile against his as you turned in your seat until you were facing him. His hand on your thigh drifted to your knee as you twisted, while his other settled on your waist and pulled you subtly closer. You pressed a more insistent kiss to his lips, and he angled his head to return it with fervor.

Bruce pulled away, and you leaned in to chase him. His hand on your knee came to rest on your jaw, making you pause. One salt-and-peppered brow rose teasingly, and his blue eyes fixed on yours sternly. “You’re supposed to say you missed me, too.”

Now it was your turn to hum in acknowledgement. Undeterred by his halting hand on your jaw, you shifted onto your knees and leaned into him once more. Your lips skimmed across the space where his shirt collar met his skin–you felt Bruce shiver as you trailed slow, open-mouthed kisses upward, no doubt leaving deep red kisses across his skin.

Your nose bumped the corner of his jaw, and he tilted his head, allowing you more space. You crept closer, placing a hand on his chest to balance yourself on the car seat. Bruce exhaled a warm breath against your skin as your teeth caught the lobe of his ear.

“Can I show you how much I missed you?” you questioned breathily. 

It was rare to see Bruce blush. It was subtle, and you had to know what you were looking for. It always started at the tips of his ears and moved downwards. His chest would often gain more color than his face, and you thought it was a shame that you couldn’t see it now. You knew he was blushing, though, by the way his hand on your waist tensed in a delicate squeeze.

Your hand on his chest trailed slowly downwards, crossing the broad planes of his chest and taut stomach. Bruce shifted in his seat as your fingertips brushed over the sharp line of his hip bone beneath his slacks. He seemed to relax as soon as your hand left him and planted on the seat beside him, your torso now bent across him.

“We’ll be at the venue in a few minutes,” he protested weakly.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek. You balanced with your hand on the seat while the other bunched your dress around your knees. “I only need a few minutes to convince you to leave the gala early.” Bruce huffed through his nose, his jaw tightly clenched, as you swung your leg across his lap, hovering in a straddle over him. “... Or maybe to convince you to skip it entirely.”

Bruce laughed dryly as his hands settled on your hips. In return, your hands rested on his shoulders–you tugged him forward until his shoulder blades left the back of the seat, and you wrapped one arm across the back of his neck. “Not a chance-”

You pressed your pelvis against his and ground your hips in a slow roll. A puff of breath escaped him and fanned the edge of your jaw as Bruce hung his head. You angled your hips to grind against his half-erect cock, already straining against the front of his slacks. “So you did miss me,” you teased as your lips returned to his neck.

Bruce’s hands gripped your hips tighter and guided your rocking movements against him. He groaned as your teeth nipped at his skin and sucked gently, leaving a subtle mark that would quickly fade. A curse fell from his lips as he pulled your hips jerkily across his.

“You’re killing me,” he groaned with his forehead pressed to your shoulder. You pressed your chest against his, using your arm around his shoulders to help you balance.

“You seem pretty alive to me,” you countered as you rolled your hips forward against the hard length of him. His hips twitched upward in response, and a breathy sigh escaped him at the feeling. Bruce wrapped one arm around your lower back and held you flush against him as his hips rocked in tandem with yours.

The ragged whine that crept from your throat encouraged him as his pace picked up. You tipped your head back to give his teeth access to your neck. Teeth dragged against your soft flesh, tugging gently before trailing down to your shoulder. You let out a gasp and buried one hand in his hair as his teeth sank playfully into the soft meat of your shoulder.

“Fuck, Bruce,” you moaned as you rolled against him and tugged at his once perfectly styled hair. Arousal pooled in your underwear as warmth spread from your pelvis, and you wondered how long you could keep this up before you dampened the front of his slacks-

The limousine rolled to a stop. Bruce captured your lips in a heated kiss. You groaned against his lips, an agonizing sound that accompanied the slowing of your hips. “We’re here, darling,” you mumbled against the plush curve of his cupid’s bow.

Your husband surged forward and crashed his lips against yours, nearly knocking you backwards off his lap. His teeth nipped at your bottom lip. His tongue dragged across the seam of your lips to part them, allowing him to taste you. Your hands rested on his shoulders and gently pushed. Bruce finally took the hint and drew back just enough to meet your eyes.

“Five more minutes,” he demanded, his hands already reaching for his belt.

Bruce was not particularly excited about this date.

She was pretty, certainly, and the very picture of the kind of woman the media expected Bruce Wayne to date. She (Samanatha? Savannah? He remembered her surname, at least) was a B-list celebrity he had been introduced to at a charity foundation–really, she and her producer had been there to promote her movie more than the foundation.

She was nice enough to make Bruce feel bad about his behavior. Honestly, he hadn’t intended to take her out- it was her producer who suggested it in an email to his personal assistant, offering charity compensation in return for some publicity with his new star. A PR relationship for just one evening. Bruce had been hard pressed to turn the offer down, given he had been out of the public eye for a few weeks at this point. He wasn’t even sure if she knew that her producer had set them up, or if she even cared.

Regardless, he played his part well and tried to push thoughts of the recent case he had been working on out of his head. The tabloids had grown suspicious of his departure from his usual abundance of parties and events.

It was for that reason that he didn’t mind the very obvious photographer standing on the corner of the street. Bruce stepped out of the car and into the street, catching sight of the figure out of the corner of his eye. While he would normally walk around the back of the car, he walked to the front, the side closest to the photographer, this time. He made sure to plaster an excited smile on his features as he opened the door for his date and helped her out of the vehicle. Bruce offered a polite wave to the driver and escorted his date inside, ensuring the photographer could snap a few shots of the two of them.

His date giggled and blushed, having noticed the figure at the end of the street. She wrapped herself around Bruce’s arm as he led her inside the restaurant, her chest puffed out at the notion of the world seeing her on the arm of the billionaire.

He put up his best front during the meal, really. He flirted, teased, listened to her talk about filming her movie–under other circumstances, he may have even been interested, at least for the night. But, Bruce was tired, and was far more concerned about tracing who owned the weapons depots in the Narrows. His thoughts slid back to the case each time until he suddenly remembered to snap his attention back to his date.

Bruce finally excused himself for a moment, after a few glasses of wine and his best attempt at witty banter, and hid in the bathroom for a few minutes. He splashed water on his face and righted his tie before stepping back into the restaurant proper. His date (Sabrina, he remembered) tapped idly on her phone. Her eyes lit up when he sat back down and she turned her screen towards him.

“They sure do work fast,” she joked and presented Bruce with a tabloid headline and photo of the two of them outside of the restaurant. In the image, she spoke animatedly to him and clung tightly to his arm. Thankfully, in the photo Bruce appeared just as engaged.

He cracked a smile and leaned back in his seat, allowing himself to feel a slight sense of relief. “I hadn’t even noticed the paps were there,” he lied.

Weeks later, Bruce spotted the same photographer again, this time lodged in a crowd with several others. It made sense–Bruce had arrived at the new Mayor’s inauguration with Dick in tow. It was rare that he brought his barely teenaged ward into the spotlight, preferring to keep him out of the public eye as much as he could until Dick was old enough to make that decision for himself. That, and it made it easier for Dick to maintain his ulterior identity without interference.

Unlike last time, Bruce made sure to make direct eye contact with the cameras and wave, rather than pretend to be oblivious. He noticed that you, the photographer he scrutinized while attempting to make his gaze look sweeping, had failed to lift your camera. Instead, the object hung limply from the strap around your neck.

Bruce ushered Dick inside Gotham City Hall and turned to face the cameras once more, posing briefly for individual photos with his hand raised in a wave. He noticed that this time you did raise your camera and take a few photos, now with Dick out of sight.

Curious.

“I take it the event well?” Alfred inquired the morning after the event as he placed breakfast (brunch, really) on the table in front of Bruce and Dick.

Bruce shrugged as he plated his food. “Just the usual low-life lobbyist trying to make the Mayor a quick buck. Saw some names associated with Maroni. I figure we may need to look into the Mayor’s recent associates,” he admitted as he tucked in. Dick, cast him a sly grin over his plate of eggs, excited by the prospect. Bruce returned the toothy grin with a thin-lipped one of his own.

“Well, the tabloids certainly appreciated your presence,” Alfred spoke with a mirthful lilt to his voice. He placed a tablet on the table between the pair of vigilantes, displaying recent tabloid headlines. Each of them focused on his boisterous ‘drunkenness’ the night before.

Much to Bruce’s surprise, a few of the headline images depicted him in a different light. The images were almost artistic, rather than the usual grainy, motion-blurred paparazzi images. His eyes scanned the name the images were credited too.

Yours. He hadn’t even noticed that you had been in attendance. He scrolled through the tabloids, noticing your name pop up a few more times under associated images–clearly, you were still working as a freelance photographer, but it appeared you had stepped up your game, so to speak.

He nodded and grunted in acknowledgment through a mouthful of food as he passed the tablet back to Alfred.

Bruce arrived early to the annual Thomas Wayne Medical Foundation fundraiser. It wasn’t often that he arrived early to functions, intentionally so, but this was one that he refused to bring a carefree attitude into. His father and the work he had done for the city deserved more respect than that.

The fundraiser, held yearly at Wayne Manor, had gained more traction this year than it had in previous. More Gotham elite insisted on attending and, as expected, had brought along outside guests. Bruce was fairly certain he had seen some wealthy businessman from Star City included on the guest list–that was certainly a long flight for just a gala.

As a result of the event’s increased popularity, Bruce found himself stuck longer than intended at Wayne Enterprise entertaining investors who sought his undivided attention before the event. Why their proposals couldn’t have been forwarded to his PA or board members, Bruce would never understand.

Regardless, Bruce found himself arriving at his own home for his own party just before the party began. Unsurprisingly, reporters had already gathered on the lawn in the hopes of catching sight of the elites in attendance. Each of them wore lanyards stating which agency they worked for–a few had party access listed on their lanyards, permitting them attendance into the actual party.

The driver halted the car halfway up the driveway and Bruce stepped out with a quiet ‘thank you.’ Guests were already trickling in before the main event began. Bruce adjusted his tuxedo, thankful once again that he kept a spare in his office, and plastered on a broad, charming smile.

Cameras flashed as he approached and he raised a hand to wave politely. They lined the walk towards the front steps in a tight cluster, reporters and photographers alike leaning forward to catch his attention. Bruce warmly greeted those he recognized, particularly tabloid heads-

He paused, surprise taking him for just a moment. You stood at the edge of the crowd with your camera raised and pointed towards him, the shutter rapidly clicking. He recognized you instantly, despite the camera obscuring your face and the more business-attire black dress you wore compared to the casual street clothes he had previously seen you in. You looked striking–the dress hugged you in just the right places and flared in the others. Compared to the gowns other attendees wore, it was nothing to glance twice at, but…

Bruce sidled up to the reporter next to you, letting his eyes glance off of you in what he hoped was a casual fashion. “Hey Arnett. How’s the Post treating you?” he greeted, shaking the familiar reporter's hand.

“Just fine, Bruce, just fine,” the balding man greeted, returning the firm handshake. “Don’t suppose you’d have time for me later?”

“Maybe, sure,” Bruce answered noncommittally as he slid past the man with a wide smile. He paused in front of you and tilted his head to the side curiously. You lowered the camera to reveal a doe-eyed expression, suddenly very aware of the billionaire staring right through your lens. He pointedly looked at your lanyard, taking care to read your name off of it. “Hey, don’t I know you?”

“Uh…” you managed to squeak out and quickly glanced at the reporters on either side of you, as if he could be speaking to anyone else and you were just mistaken.

Bruce buried his hands in his pockets. “Thought I saw your name in the Gazette recently.” ‘Recently’ was a stretch–it was about two months ago at this point that he had seen your most recent photos of him.

You perked up and beamed brightly at him. “Yeah, I submitted a few shots to the Gazette a bit ago. I work for the Gotham Post now, though,” you gestured towards Arnett, who placed his hand on your shoulder and squeezed affectionately.

“Our best photographer, I guarantee it,” Arnett encouraged, giving you a slight shake. You blushed sheepishly and batted his hand away teasingly. “I tell you, Bruce, this one’s got real potential.”

“You flatter me too much,” you protested.

Bruce nodded along with Arnett’s words. “No, I agree. I liked your work.” You brightened even more, softness returning to your eyes at the praise. Bruce tilted his head and tapped his right cheek with a single finger. “I like that you get my good side.”

Your eyes dropped to half-lidded and your smile turned coy. “I’m not sure you have a bad side, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce’s stomach flipped pleasantly. Huh. It certainly wasn’t his first time hearing a line like that form a reporter, but… he rather liked the sweet way you said it. Better yet, you held his gaze firmly as his grin turned wolfish, all teeth and charm.

“Will I see you inside?” he asked, leaning slightly closer.

“If my boss lets me,” you answered with a bump of your elbow against Arnett’s arm. Bruce glanced at both of your lanyards, spotting a lack of guest privilege listed on them. Disappointing.

“If he doesn’t,” Bruce began, knowing full well your boss had no control over your admittance, “I’ll be sure to tell security to make an exception.” You beamed at him as he turned and continued making his way inside.

To your surprise, security really did make an exception. You were new to events like this, and barely understood the admittance rules. Security let you through easily after the guests arrived, although Arnett was not so lucky. Upon security halting his entry, he held you hostage on the front step and explained in an abundance of detail who you should seek out, what angles he hoped for, and implored you to please get him a few interview dates.

You took dutiful notes on the notepad you kept in the camera bag slung across your shoulder, fully expecting to not meet any of Arnett’s demands. The squat, balding man had given you a list of names that went in one ear and out the other despite how quickly you attempted to keep up with your pen.

You would be lucky to find even one of these names in the crowd, particularly considering you didn’t want to feel disruptive. It was already a privilege for you to be allowed admittance to the private event at all. Your best bet was to simply take as many photos of guests as possible, or at the very least take some creative shots of the event for broader headlines.

At the very least, you could build your portfolio and move your way up the Gotham Post.

You hesitate to move through the crowd, feeling out of place. The party was in full swing, and guests prance around with flashy, art deco attire customary of the Gotham elite. You, on the other hand, were dressed more akin to the servers milling about the room, rather than the well-dressed attendees. 

Certain the camera strung around your neck and the associated bag across your back drew more attention than you desire, you hid behind your lens again. You lift your camera to your face and adjust the image distance. The chandeliers in the event room glimmer like starlight captured in the warm ambience. If you angled just right, you could keep the chandelier in the center frame and capture the crowd from shoulders up (for the most part). You adjust slightly, maintaining your rule of thirds-

The image distorts and you furrow your brows in confusion. Had your lens gotten wet? You lower your camera, intent to turn it and inspect the glass, only to realize the distortion had been caused by a champagne flute presented to you just below eye level.

In a confused daze, your eyes follow the hand around the neck of the champagne flute to the tailored tuxedo sleeve, to the pressed collar and white white bow tie, until your gaze finally settles on Bruce Wayne.

“Mr. Wayne,” you greet warmly, your surprise thinly veiled. The camera slips from your fingers and returns to its hanging spot on the strap around your neck as you reach for the glass offered to you.

“Enjoying the party?” he asks as he falls in beside you, shoulder to shoulder, and surveys the crowd. He holds a full glass in his right hand, a mirror of yours. You notice a signet ring on his pinky, emblazoned with a cursive ‘W.’

“I am now,” you admit. He turns his head towards you and arches his brows, a playful look in his piercing blue eyes. You noticed, curiously, his eyes are closer to grey than they are to pale blue under the warm lighting. “Are you bored of boozing and schmoozing yet?”

Bruce barks what you think was a genuine laugh, caught off guard by your comment. “Eternally,” he answers with a toothy grin. You return the expression with one of your own. For a man in his early-thirties, he appeared nearly boyish at your joke. “Can’t say I find much enjoyment in events like this.”

“I can’t blame you. This is my first and I’m already overwhelmed.”

“Not much of a partier?” You shake your head in answer to his question. “Quite the career you’ve picked, then.”

You shrug. “Most people ignore the photographer. You’re an anomaly, Mr. Wayne.”

“Bruce,” he corrects, and you feel your cheeks warm. You probably shouldn’t have been caught off guard by the familiarity–Arnett called him by his first name after all. Perhaps he was informal with most reporters.

“Bruce,” you echo, rectifying your earlier statement. He turns back towards the crowd, finally taking his eyes off you, and you find you already miss the attention. “Honestly, events like this are just a stepping stone. At least, I hope so. I’d like to get away from glamor shots and paparazzi work eventually, but… it’s where the money is.” You take a sip of your champagne, hiding from what you expect to be judgment from the wealthiest man in Gotham who clearly did not mind the publicity he got from people like you.

Instead, he huffs out a laugh, like your comment was the first genuine thing he had heard all evening. “I can’t blame you. Personally, if I could take a step back from it all, I would, too.”

At that, you turn to look at him and find him already, once again, gazing back at you. He is as handsome as the tabloids say and your photos make him out to be, you note, as he fixes you with a charming grin. You find yourself surprised by your admittance, thinking, despite what others in your profession say, there may be more to Bruce Wayne than that of a playboy.

Bruce sets his untouched champagne glass down on the tray of a passing server and you blink away your sluggish thoughts. “Have you seen the grounds yet?”

“From a distance.” He offers you his arm instantly, clearly meaning to lead you. You hold up your hands in protest. “Your guests-”

“- Don’t give much of a damn about me, honestly. This party could happen without me and the results would be the same,” he debates, his arm still extended in invitation. You hesitate for just a moment before settling your hand on his covered forearm. Bruce smiles warmly as he directs you away from the crowd and towards the open doors that lead to a balcony.

Warm, early-summer air coasts around you, carrying a floral scent with it. You tilt your head back and allow the breeze to brush pleasantly over your skin, a welcome reprieve from the stuffy atmosphere of the gala. Your eyes adjust to the dark evening as Bruce guides you onto the balcony, then towards a set of stairs to the left. You place both hands on his arm to steady yourself as you take down the steps in tandem, falling into an easy pace.

The grounds are stunning–it’s a shame that everyone is stuck inside. Your fingers itch to reach for your camera as you wander down a gravel path lined by manicured hedges, broken only by lilac bushes in full bloom. Lights dapple the property, adding more ambiance than spotlight.

“What drew you towards photography?” Bruce asks, breaking the comfortable silence between you. You lean into him and he eagerly draws you closer until your shoulder is pressed to his arm.

“I suppose… I’ve spent my whole life in Gotham, and I love this city to death, but there are parts of it that deserve to be seen.” You level him with a stare out of the corner of your eye. “Darker parts, I mean. Corruption. I wanted to showcase that, but…”

“You got stuck with tabloids,” he finishes for you. You nod in affirmation.

“It pays the bills, but it’s not the angle I want to present,” you admit. “I’ve been working on a collection about Crime Alley that I’d like to submit to publishers for review. No one deserves to live like some people here do, but not many people seem to want to make a change at the street level. I doubt it’ll get picked up.”

Bruce is silent for a beat, and you worry you’ve misjudged him for a moment. He seems like he’s on the same page as you, but what if the papers were right about depicting him as shallow-

“I wish I could do more for the city, too,” he finally states, and you breathe an audible sigh of relief. His opposite hand comes to rest atop yours on his arm, offering an affectionate, familiar squeeze. “I know half of these galas don’t make much of a difference for most Gothamites, but… well, there’s only so much I can do as Bruce Wayne.”

Your brows furrow at that comment and you turn to scrutinize him carefully. He doesn’t elaborate, and you shrug off the tail end of his statement. “I was offered an entry-level position at the Daily Planet, the one in Metropolis.”

Now it’s Bruce’s turn to hesitate. “Do you want to take it?”

“God, no,” you laugh, and the tension in his shoulders seems to ease. “Gotham is dirty, and dangerous, and corrupted, but it’s home. I would prefer to pull back the curtain and make the city a better place than abandon it. I’m not sure how well photography can manage that, but it’s something, at least. Not all of us can launch off of buildings like the Bat, right?”

Bruce’s lips quirk up in a subtle smile. He guides you up the steps of a small pavilion ringed by golden string lights located not far from the balcony you entered the grounds from. Your hands release him and clasp the railing as your eyes close. The warm breeze passes over your face, drowning out the dying sounds of chatter and car engines. It seems the party is finally starting to clear out.

“I should probably head home soon,” you remark quietly, trying and failing to hide your disappointment. “I don’t think I got any of the shots my boss wanted, but… I had a good time.” You turn to face Bruce and smile coyly at him.

The light cast by the string lights frames Bruce as a statuesque figure, as handsome as he is formidable. It strikes you then how broad he is, filling out his tuxedo. You try not to ogle and think about what may lie under the tuxedo.

Your thoughts are cut short as his hand crosses the railing to settle on your wrist. Bruce lifts your hand, then slides his from your wrist into your open hand. Your eyes slip half-lidded as he presses a feather-light kiss to your knuckles.

You expect him to release your hand. Instead, he keeps yours clasped in his and lowers your joined hands to the railing. Your heart patters in your chest, growing faster as the seconds stretch between you. Maybe…

You take a step closer, nearly chest to chest. He leans over you slightly, eyeing you playfully as his lips quirk up at the corners in a subtle smile. Your heart thunders now as you hesitate, steadily building courage. 

You press up on your toes and brush your lips tenderly against his. It can hardly be considered a kiss, more an invitation of one than anything else. He takes the invitation eagerly as his free hand rises to cup your cheek and press his lips more firmly to yours. It’s a tender kiss, but it takes your breath away all the same.

You chase him the moment you feel him start to pull away as your mouth slots against his. You feel Bruce sigh against you as he tilts his head to accommodate your insistence. Your hand fists his tuxedo jacket, dragging him closer as his lips part against yours and drag you back under for more.

When you fall back on your heels, he follows you with open-mouthed kisses that nearly make your toes curl in your shoes. His tongue brushes across the seam of your mouth and you part your lips eagerly. You think that it’s quite possibly the best kiss of your life. It’s unbearably gentle, and yet each sweet press of his lips against yours draws every thought out of your mind without fail.

For just a second you think it’s silly that you’re weak in the knees until his hand still clasped around yours releases and moves to hold your waist. You think that’s when you finally give way to something more demanding, when you feel the heat of his wide palm on your waist. You want to feel it under your dress, on your skin-

Your camera bumps against his chest, causing you to pull back in surprise. He follows you for just a second, his eyes fixated on your lips. Bruce’s pupils are blown wide, and you imagine yours are much the same. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths as his eyes rise to settle back on yours.

“Do you want to come back inside-?”

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation and surge to kiss him again. His breath catches this time as he leans into you.

You’re nearly lightheaded with glee as Bruce’s hands settle on your waist and he half drags you back towards the Manor. He parts from you only to hurry you across the gravel path, stopping periodically for feverish kisses that leave your lips tingling and demanding more.

When you reach the foot of the staircase up to the balcony, Bruce’s lingering kisses find the corner of your mouth, your jaw, and your neck. Your hand winds into his hair as his teeth drag teasingly over your skin, and you bite back a sound that waits in the back of your throat. He practically pushes you up the stairs, and you step backwards and up, mindful not to catch your heels.

Once inside the Manor, you find yourself briefly pressed against every available surface. His kisses are hungry, and you return them with equal fervor. Your hands bury in his hair, squeeze his arms through his tuxedo jacket, and drag his collar aside to expose untouched flesh. You smile victoriously as a breathy sigh passes Bruce’s lips when your teeth nip at his jaw.

The moment your back is pressed to a door you begin unfastening his bow tie. His kiss is all tongues and teeth as you slide his jacket off his shoulders, and you revel in it. You were wrong–this has to be the best kiss of your life. Bruce kisses you like a drowning man coming up for air.

He dips slightly as his hands find the hem of your dress and he pushes the fabric up, exposing more of your flesh to him. His hands knead your thighs and his nails tease you in gentle scrapes that have you gasping against his lips. He smiles against your mouth and finally opens the door, ushering you into the room.

Now it’s Bruce’s turn to be pinned as you press him firmly against the door. You both kick your shoes off, your heels disappearing somewhere into the darkness of his bedroom, while your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his dress shirt. He helps you, stripping the fabric from his body and is quick to yank his undershirt over his head next.

You take a step back to marvel at the man in front of you, lips parted in silent praise.You were right to wonder what he may be hiding under his attire–your hands settle on warm, firm muscle, pulled taut with anticipation. You meet his eyes for just a moment then quickly pull your camera bag over your shoulder and toss it to the ground. You unloop the strap of your camera from your neck and gently place it atop its associated bag, then promptly sink to your knees.

“Fuck-” Bruce groans as your nails drag down his chest before your palms settle on his thighs. You press your cheek to the prominent bulge in the front of his slacks and gaze up at him from beneath your lashes. He sucks in a sharp breath as one of his hands winds into your hair. “You don’t have to-”

You press a kiss to the inside of his wrist, his hand twisting in your hair as a result. “I want to.”

You hear him inhale sharply through his nose, then his hands are on his slacks without a second thought. You wait eagerly on your knees as he unzips his slacks and slides the fabric and his briefs down his thighs. You nip the exposed flesh of his thigh just as his cock frees itself from the confines of his garments and bobs upright. Bruce kicks the fabric away and you once again lean back to take him in.

He seems hesitant to move as you watch him, taking in the full length of him and the flushed head of his cock. Bruce breathes a sigh of relief as your hand settles on the base of his cock. He expects you to glide your soft hand across the length of him, and instead finds himself biting back a moan when you lick the length of the underside of his cock.

Bruce’s breath hitches and one hand settles in your hair while your tongue swirls around his tip. His head falls back against the door with a grunt as you flatten your tongue against him, seal your mouth around him, and slowly take more of him in your mouth.

“Fuck-” he groans as your hand pumps what your throat can’t reach. Your throat vibrates as a groan escapes you and a gasp leaves his mouth. You pull back, keeping the flat of your tongue against the length of him, and suck before descending again.

You close your eyes and quicken your pace, occasionally rolling the flat of your tongue against his length as the tip of his cock hits your throat. Your head bobs and his grip on your hair tightens each time you bottom out.

Bruce’s head lolls to the side and watches you with parted lips. “God, you have- no idea how good you look… taking me like…” he groans and knocks his head against the door once more.

Your eyes open as you bob and slide your hand in tandem, a devious thought worming its way into your mind. Your free hand skitters across the floor until your fingertips brush over the canvas of your camera bag. You snatch it and drag it closer until your fingers find the cold plastic of your camera. Fumbling with it until your fingers find the grip, you lift the camera and present it over your head to Bruce.

His panting pauses for a moment and you worry he may be panicking on you. You nearly withdraw your offered camera, until his cock jumps in your throat and his hands shakily grasp the object.

“Holy- fuck…” he gasps as his hand fists your hair. His hips gently push forward, the tiniest motion than as you moaning around him in appreciation. At that, his hips snap forward and the tip of his cock bullies its way into your throat with each gentle rock of his lips. “Just like that, beautiful, just-“

You hear the telltale snap of the camera shutter. His hips stutter as you moan around him, your eyes sliding closed. His cock twitches, and you think he might be about to cum-

Bruce yanks you off him and you whine as cock leaves your throat. Your whine is promptly silenced as he drags you to your feet and his lips crash against yours. You sag against him, and Bruce wraps his arms around your waist to stabilize you. Once you find your footing, one hand is quick to find the zipper of your dress and tug it down while the other handles your camera still tight in his grasp. 

You gasp against his lips as his hands wind beneath your dress and shirk the fabric from your body. You shrug the dress from your shoulders and allow him to pull it down your body. As the fabric pools at your feet, you kick it to the side and press your body against his.

Bruce’s insistent hands on your hips usher you backwards until your calves hit the edge of what you assume is a bed. You drop to a seated position and he chases your lips with hungry kisses. You feel the weight of your camera drop to the bed beside you just as the man in front of you sinks to his knees.

You have half a mind to be embarrassed about the fact that you tremble in anticipation when his knees hit the floor, but that thought quickly vanishes the moment he places one leg over his shoulder and drags his lips across your calf. You lean back on your elbows and watch his lips draw closer to where you need him, his teeth occasionally nipping your flesh and making you jump.

When he reaches your knee, his attention turns to your other leg which hangs limply over the edge of the bed. His lips glide up your thigh and you whine impatiently. You think you might die when his nose finally brushes your core over the fabric of your underwear.

“Bruce…” you moan, your voice rising to a demand. He meets your demand as his tongue laves a flat stripe over your underwear. Your hips buck and he withdraws just enough to loop his fingers around the fabric and tug it down your legs.

He doesn’t wait for you to beg. The first press of his lips to your clit makes you jolt. He repeats his earlier motion and drags his tongue through your folds, gathering your wetness. Your head drops to the bed, your back arches, and you buck against his mouth.

“Good?” he asks, warm breath fanning over your flesh. In response, your hand settles in his hair and drags him closer. Bruce chuckles against you as he dives back in, setting a steady rhythm of flicks and sucks against your clit. Your hips push up against his mouth as he works, dragging moans from your throat.

Bruce pulls you closer until your ass nearly hangs off the bed and throws both legs over his shoulders. Your thighs tighten around his head briefly in response and he moans, prompting your hips to buck. One of his arms loops over your pelvis, keeping you firmly in place. Your head lolls to the side, catching sight of his signet ring on his hand as he buries his tongue in you.

Your fumbling hands reach for your camera as you tremble against his mouth. Shaking, you grasp the plastic and aim it at him. “Can I?” you ask, earning an eager moan from Bruce in response.

The shutter clicks, and he groans against you as if it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever heard. You drop the camera beside you and recline on the sheets once more as you move against his mouth. You feel Bruce’s thumb settle on your clit, circle once, twice, then everything goes tight.

Your back arches as you clamp down on nothing and tremble through your orgasm. A choked out whine escapes your throat as you tug at his hair, unsure if you want him to stop or keep going. His tongue pulls you through it until you finally stop writhing. Your chest heaves as you deflate on the mattress.

“Oh my God…” you mumble. Bruce chuckles and stands at the foot of the bed. He leans over you and presses another tender kiss to your lips. His hands glide over your flesh, slowly working feeling back into your limbs.

“Good?” he reiterates. You mumble a quiet ‘mhm’ against his lips and he laughs again. His hands usher you to move further up the bed and you do, allowing him space to crawl over you. Bruce settles between your thighs, his cock resting against the bend of your hip as he kisses life back into you slowly.

He moves in the moment your thighs part to accommodate him. You shift and brush your wet folds against the head of his cock, feeling it catch your entrance. Bruce rests his forehead against the crook of your neck and pushes forward.

You choke out a gasp as the length of him fills you in one slow, fluid motion. You tighten around him and he groans, pausing as he hilts inside you. You push your hips against him and he takes it as an indication to draw back slowly. You whine as each agonizing inch drags slowly against your walls, and your nails settle on his back, grazing and demanding more.

His hips snap forward hard enough to make the bed frame jolt against the wall, and you keen. He builds a steady rhythm, drawing out slowly then slamming his hips forward. Each time you gasp and writhe beneath him. When his pace picks up, you see stars.

“Thought about you all night,” he groans as his lips coast over your throat and shoulders. “Thought about what you’d feel like around me- fuck, you feel perfect, gorgeous-” You claw at his back with a whine.

Bruce sits on his heels and drags you with him. His hands grip the backs of your knees and tugs your legs over his shoulders. One hand winds over your thighs, keeping your legs against his chest while his other settles over your clit. Your back arches as his deep thrusts quicken to a punishing pace. Your eyes roll back as you tighten around him.

“Fuck, just like that-” he gasps as his hand leaves your clit and fumbles across the bed. His wandering hand finds the camera, lying forgotten beside you. His rhythm falters for just a moment before picking up again as he turns the lens down, snapping a photo of his cock sliding through your folds. “Just like that, baby, stay just like that-”

Your back arches as your eyes roll, and the camera drops back to the bed with a bounce. “Come on, baby, give me one more,” Bruce pleads as sweat beads on his brow he leans forward, folding you nearly in half, and you wail as his cock reaches deeper, brushing against a spot inside of you that makes you clench.

He coaxes a shattering orgasm from you. Your legs drop from his shoulders and wrap around his waist as you tug him down to your chest and tremble. He moans, keening high as you clench around him, and you wish you could hold on to that sound forever. Bruce presses his forehead to yours as his thrusts once, twice more than spills inside you.

You stay like that for a while, clinging to him as you come down from your high. Your thighs tremble around him and you feel him soften inside you. He makes no move to pull away. Feather-light kisses dust your hairline as he whispers praises to you.

When Bruce does finally pull away from you, it’s only for as long as it takes him to retrieve a warm, wet cloth and clean you with the same focus he had fixed you with in the garden. You pull him to you and kiss his knuckles appreciatively. When he stands again, his hands find your camera and return it to its rightful place in your bag by the door. He’s quick to climb back in bed with you and pull you tight to his chest.

You press tired kisses to his lips, the curve of his mouth molding perfectly with yours. The kisses drag out slower and slower until he pulls away and settles you against his chest. You fall asleep tracing scars on his flesh that you hadn’t noticed in the darkness.

The next morning, Bruce would rather be anywhere than a board meeting. He slumps in his chair at the head of the table as board members report the various investors and donations gained through the previous night's event.

He tugs at his collar, his fingers sweeping over an already fading red mark you had left just beneath his shirt. His gaze lowers to the table as his mind wanders to the feeling of your thighs wrapped tightly around him-

His phone buzzes in his coat pocket, and he withdraws it in what he hopes is a discreet fashion. An unknown number flashes on his screen. Opening the text message, Bruce’s eyes widen seeing the photos of the previous night’s escapades. His cock in your mouth, his mouth between your thighs, and-

His chest tightens as three dots pop up below the image, indicating you’re typing. Bruce’s cock hardens in his slacks as he waits. His phone buzzes in his hand as you finally hit send.

Dinner tonight?

You’ve never been particularly possessive of others before— Most of your boyfriends never caught much attention apart from yours and, in all honesty, you never loved them enough to feel threatened by anyone else. With Joel, however, you always find yourself sticking a little closer to his side, your hands roaming his shoulders a little bit more obviously whenever the two of you are out. He’s never given you a reason to feel intimidated, but you’ve never been with a man as attractive as Joel Miller. 

He catches everyone’s eyes. The cashier at your favorite food truck, the teller at the bank, the security guard at the mall; everyone stares with varying degrees of want and need. Joel, for the most part, doesn’t seem to notice: He thinks the cashier is staring because he orders way too many olives on his fish taco, and the teller because she’s trying to figure out if he’s going to rob the place, the security guard is just doing his job at keeping the weird man in check at Victoria’s Secret. 

But you know better. They want him just as much as you do, and you need to figure out a way to keep people away. 

The first time you give him a hickey, Joel laughs it off. He says something about being too damned old for that but you notice the way his fingers tighten on your hips, the way his breath stutters and how he doesn’t ever try to pull away— The mark is on his chest, hidden away with any t-shirt, but every time you see it brings a thrill that you’ve never felt before, the little ‘O’ shaped bruise going from deep purple to a soft blue to green to finally fading entirely. You actually miss it when it’s gone, your fingers tracing the pattern you’ve memorized over his chest as the two of you lie in the afterglow one evening.

“What’re ya doin’?” Joel asks when you lean over him, his chest still shiny with sweat. You poke your tongue out, running over his nipple, tasting and testing. His breath stutters, a hand coming up to the back of your neck. “Not sure I can go again so quick, sugar.” 

You chuckle against his skin, climbing over him as you nose his pecks, your mouth going from one nipple to the other. 

“You don’t have to.” You tell him, your naked body molding against his as you move upwards, your teeth dragging across his chest until you reach the hollow of his throat. 

Joel whimpers when your mouth latches onto his skin, biting and suckling until his hips are buckling up into yours, his fingers digging into your love handles as if he’s unsure whether he wants to pull you close or push you away. 

“Goddamnit, woman.” There’s no real heat to his voice, and you grin when he tilts his head backwards, giving you better access to the column of his throat. “Everyone’s gon’ see it.” 

“Good.” You say, your tongue running over his Adam’s apple before you bite down onto the side of his neck. “Let them all know you’re mine.” 

Joel chuckles. “ ‘S that what I am?”

You pull back just enough to stare at him, one eyebrow raised, both of your hands sprawled on his chest. “Are you not, Miller?”

“Of course I am.” He says and, this time, his voice doesn’t carry any of the teasing it did before. Joel’s hands run up your sides, his callouses catching on the soft skin above your ribcage. “ ‘M all yours.” 

His whispered words make you shiver, the weight and truth of them settling somewhere deep inside your core. You shift, fully straddling him now, Joel’s soft cock brushing against your ass when he grips you. 

“Say it again.” 

“I’m yours.” Joel tells you, his brown eyes locked into yours. “Just yours, sugar.”

The kiss you share is bruising, teeth clacking against each other, your nose pushing against his as his hands dig into you, pulling your naked body as close as it’s physically possible. Joel whines when you bite down onto his bottom lip just on the side of too hard, his hips bucking against you; you’re still so wet from your slick and his come that you slide against his navel, your clit catching on his pelvic bone. Your mouth goes from his lips to his jawline, sucking hard on the little patch next to his chin where his beard doesn’t really grow. 

“Baby—” Joel says, and you can’t tell if it’s a warning or a plea. Your teeth scrape against his jaw when you turn your face to the side, latching onto his pulse point. 

“Say it.” 

“I’m yours.” He says it quicker this time, unthinking, his head thrown back against the pillow. You leave another mark behind, the redness already deepening by the time you bite down on the soft of his collarbone. “Let me— I need to be inside’a you.”

Joel turns a little, reaching for the bedside table where you know he keeps the blue little pills he swears are for ‘emergencies only’ but you swat his hand away. 

“Leave it.” You say, leaning back so grab a hold of Joel’s half hard cock and he raises an eyebrow at you, hesitating for a moment before he finally leans back. “I want you hard because of me, not because of the pills.” 

Joel opens his mouth, but you shush him with a kiss. You know his desire for you isn’t at stake here. You know that it happens and that his refractory period is going to get longer with age and stress and that it’s not a you problem or a him problem but you don’t want to hear it at that moment. Instead, you kiss him until Joel is writhing underneath you, panting into your mouth. 

It’s not easy, or sexy, when you finally push Joel’s only half hard cock inside of you. You’re still wet and open enough that you’re able to sit somewhat comfortable on him but it’s not exactly easy to do so, and Joel needs to help you at one point, hissing through his teeth as you sink little by little. You run your hands over his chest once Joel is fully sheathed inside of you, your nails dragging over the dark hairs there, thumbing his nipples in the way you know he likes.

The power you feel when you watch him from above, a trail of purple bruises down his neck and chest contrasting even more with how furiously his skin is blushing, isn’t something you can quite explain. You wish you could reach for your phone, take a picture or a thousand of him like this, hairs standing on ends, panting even though neither of you are moving, his eyes hazy from desire. 

“I love you.” He says, the words stuttering and mending together when you start to move your hips back and forth, just a little bit. “I love you.”

“I know.” You smile, leaning down so you can latch your mouth to his shoulder, the muscles rippling under you. “And everyone’s gonna know too.” 

You can feel him hardening inside of you, thickening and pulsing as you speed up the movements a little— Not yet bouncing, just teasing, circling your hips the best you can as you press your chest down onto his. Joel’s hands knead your asscheeks and you know bite down hard when he tries to use it as leverage to dictate the pace. 

“Nuh-uh.” You soothe the bite with your tongue, tracing the indents of your teeth before you pull back. You peck him on the lips, lightly, restraining yourself from biting his bottom lip again— You don’t want to hurt him, not really, just enough to leave traces of your presence behind. “You take what I give you.” 

Joel’s chest rumbles underneath you, somewhere between a laugh and a moan— That’s a sentence you’ve stolen straight from his books, the sort of taunting you’ve heard time and time again when Joel is in a teasing mood. 

“Is this payback?” He asks, but he’s grinning ear to ear. 

“Maybe.” You lift yourself just slightly before sinking down onto him again. “Or maybe I’m just figuring out why you like bossing me around so much.” 

“You’re a real menace, ain’t ya?”

“Oh, am I?” You raise your hips a little, hands pressing down onto Joel’s chest as you hold the position. “Want me to stop?”

“Please don’t.” The tendons on Joel’s neck strain as he holds himself back and your stomach flutters at the knowledge that he could easily flip the two of you over but, no matter how many seconds pass before you sink back onto him, Joel remains still. “I’ll be good— Just please don’t stop, sugar, c’mon.”

You’re uncertain if you’re taking pity on him or on yourself but you finally allow your body to move at a pace that has you moaning above him, fingernails digging into Joel’s chest as you chase your pleasure; Joel doesn’t seem to mind, his fingers grasping whatever part of you that he can reach, his big hands roaming from your ass to your hips to your chest and then back to your ass— He plants his feet on the mattress, hips bucking upwards into yours.

“Fuck, Joel—” You lose rythm but he’s right there, pistoning his hips up while he pulls you down onto him, your clit grinding against him with every thrust. “Joel.”

“That’s right, baby.” He grunts, fingers bruising your hips with how much he grips you. “Say my name— Tell me who’s the only one that makes you feel like this.”

That snaps you back to reality. You dig the heels of your palms onto his chest, and Joel groans when you push into a particularly sore bruise— A groan of pain, this time, and he frowns up at you. 

“No!” You whine, taking the hands that are gripping your hips and pinning them above his head; Joel interlocks his fingers with yours so fast you think he might not even be aware that he’s done it. “I’m in charge here. You don’t get to make me feel anything.” 

Joel gives you a small, toothy grin. He looks boyish like that, smiling up at you, his curls a mess where they sprawl over his forehead and pillow. 

“Yes, ma’am.” He says, but his hips still ondulate one last time before he finally lets his weight fall back onto the mattress. 

This time, when you move, you’re not thinking about Joel’s pleasure. With your hands in his, both still pinned above Joel’s head, you move for yourself, hips circling and bucking until you find the right position, the tilt of your hips that has the head of his cock brushing up on just the right spot inside of you. 

Joel comes inside of you with a strangled cry, his fingers squeezing yours as he holds onto you just as much as you hold onto him, the tendons on his neck straining as he struggles to stay still. It makes for the prettiest picture, you think, having Joel like this— Teeth clenched, chest flushed, his neck and torso littered with red and purple shapes that you put there; the man that is always such a fortress, big and strong and capable, turned into a bruised, whining mess underneath you. 

You ride him all through your own orgasm until your legs and lungs are burning, your slick and his come slipping out of you as Joel’s cock softens. You let yourself topple over him, your nose bumping against his jawline as you rest on the crook of his shoulder. Joel finally lets your hands go, his arms wrapping around you, both of you clammy with sweat and spit. You poke your tongue out, circling a particularly nasty bruise on his pulse point. 

“I’m goin’ to get ripped to fuckin’ shreds at work tomorrow.” Joel says but you can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Poor Joelie.” You coo. “Got fucked for an inch of his life and now everyone will know.”

“Fuckin’ menace.” Joel barks out a laugh, tilting his head enough to press an open-mouthed kiss to your lips. “You’re lucky I love you, pretty girl.” 

And you know. By God, you know.

With a sigh and a wave of your hand, you gave Olivia the okay to answer the question. She happily took your permission and ran with it, always the first to answer any questions you posed in class. If only the rest of these damn middle schoolers were as eager as she was.

“Penelope didn’t want to marry anyone else, so she gave them an impossible task,”

“Why does she always know everything?”

Marcus thought his comment was whispered just low enough that you wouldn’t hear him in the first row, but he was never quite that lucky. He quickly shut his mouth and looked anywhere but in your direction the second he caught sight of the disapproving look you were casting directly at him.

“You are exactly right, Olivia. Thank you for answering my question,” there were a few chuckles in the room at the obvious sarcasm laced through your words, as you hopped up onto your desk to relax and get a better look around the room full of kids. “Penelope knew the only person that could string her husband’s bow, was her husband himself. She needed to buy time, especially when these suitors only really wanted to be the ones to inherit Ithaca-”

There was a loud knocking on the door to your classroom that had been left open for the last 20 minutes of class, interrupting your words. You weren’t surprised in the slightest to meet the eyes of none other than Ryland Grace, the science teacher.

“Uh- sorry! Didn’t mean to interrupt important book talk stuff. Super important, you uh-you never know when Shakespeare will come up at your future desk job,” the cringe that Ryland physically did at his own comment was easy to see, even from across the room. He gave you a sheepish smile, his glasses barely hanging onto his face from their unconventional spot hanging off of one of his ears. The blonde held up the brown bag in his hand, and you could practically smell the food that rested inside. “I’m early, I’m sorry. Didn’t think you’d want to have a cold burger for lunch.”

“I told you!” Marcus still didn’t understand the concept of a whisper, leaning over to his best friend Jason at the desk beside him, slapping him on the arm. “They’re totally dating!”

“As if Mr. Grace could pull her,”

There was a chorus of snickers and laughter through the class, any semblance of order you might’ve had descending into chaos as every single one of your loveable, little shits just kept casting looks between you and Ryland, who still stood awkwardly in your classroom doorway with reddened cheeks.

Your face was surely no better, you were sure you could feel the heat that was emanating off of your skin, as you ran a hand down the burning skin of your face and wondered why you chose to teach these little menaces for the rest of your life. The world decided to be kind to the pair of you though, for once, letting the lunch bell save you from any further embarrassment from a group of 13 year olds.

“Please come to class prepared to actually answer questions tomorrow!” you called out over the hustle and bustle of the class as they grabbed their things, eager to scurry off to their lunch hour and finally eat. “Your unit test is at the end of next week, and I would prefer not to fail all of you.”

They weren’t listening, but by this point in the day you were hungry and didn’t have the energy to try and argue with them.

Any of that tiredness they brought to your bones? It disappeared the second you watched the way they all interacted with Ryland on their way out the door.

Big smiles, every single one of them excited to see the school’s favorite science teacher lingering in the doorway to their English class. You could just barely hear the tail end of one of Ryland’s terrible science puns, something about a hungry planet needing a ‘light snack’ that got a groan out of Marcus. All it did was bring a soft smile to your face, though, one that somehow softened even more at the quick, secret handshake Olivia shared with him before she was out the door.

Then, it was just the two of you, smiling like idiots as you locked eyes across the room again. And god, did you want that fluttering group of butterflies in your stomach to calm down for just a moment.

Having a crush on Dr. Ryland Grace, the former molecular biologist turned San Francisco middle school science teacher, was inevitable from the moment you turned up at the school for your first day over a year ago. Incredibly smart, amazing with kids, and so incredibly handsome you thought your heart stopped beating the first time you saw him–hell, Mrs. Doyle, the math teacher for over 5 years, said there were at least 4 other young teachers that absolutely had crushes on this man. You were far from the first.

He broke that perfect vision of himself you were building in your head within 5 minutes of meeting, tripping over his own two feet and knocking the stack of papers a mile high from the Principal’s hands, but you had only found it even more endearing.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he apologized again, long legs striding across the room and reaching your desk in a matter of seconds. “I had a free period before this, a-and you mentioned this morning you forgot lunch so I grabbed some for both of us-”

“Sal’s?” you questioned, pointing to the bag of foot now sitting on your desk with the familiar logo. “They’re, like, 10 blocks away. Why’d you go that far?”

“Because I know they’re your favorite,”

The flare of heat in your cheeks was instant. Ryland Grace, who rode a damn bike to the school every day, used his free period to ride 10 blocks away and pick you up lunch from your favorite spot, all because you mentioned offhandedly at 7 a.m. about forgetting your lunch for the day.

Well, he certainly didn’t do that for the four fresh out of college teachers that had crushes on him. You’d mentally consider that a hefty win in your book.

“How sweet of you to remember,” Ryland simply waved you off, head turned away as he passed your wrapped burger into your hands, taking up space on your desk chair while you stayed comfortable on top of your desk. “You even remembered tomatoes this time!”

“I forgot them one time and I never hear the end of it,” laughter was shared between you both for a moment as Grace took a bite of his own burger. “I caught the tail end of that discussion. Olivia answering all your questions like a champ?”

“Isn’t she always,” you shot back with another laugh, turning slightly on your desk to better face him. “I swear she’s the only one that I can ever get to answer any of my questions. She might be the only one that does any of my assigned readings.”

“To be fair, can you blame her?” Ryland’s words were muffled slightly by the food in his mouth. You couldn’t even contain the slight smile that grew as he managed to just barely catch the ketchup dripping off his burger before it could smear itself on the stack of papers that needed graded at your desk. “Shakespeare was just…so interesting. Couldn’t get enough of his stuff. Don’t know why your kids don’t want to read it.”

There was silence for a moment, your eyebrow quirked in his direction. The blonde stopped mid bite of his burger, looking back at you quizzically, trying to figure out what he had said wrong.

“You know we’re currently learning The Odyssey, right?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll let you think about that for a second,”

He did, just slowly blinking in your direction. He glanced at the chalkboard behind you, covering in little notes you’d made throughout the class discussion, before they flickered to the copy of the book that sat on your desk. That was finally when you saw the light bulb flicker on above his head, Ryland’s eyes shutting as he let out a loud sigh.

“...that wasn’t written by Shakespeare, was it?”

The laughter that bubbled out of you practically had you throwing your head backward.

“No, but I’m sure Homer won’t be too offended,” feet landing on the ground as you hopped off your desk, you gave Ryland’s shoulder a quick squeeze as you moved past him. “The attempt was cute, though, it was a good try.”

Cute. Why in the world did you let that one slip? You were practically cursing yourself in your head for that one, taking another bite of your burger as you worked to erase the whiteboard to prepare it for your next class. You didn’t dare steal a glance over at Ryland, in fear that your little slip-up was going to ruin everything.

There was only quiet for a moment before the single moment of awkwardness was gone.

“I promise you I know Homer wrote that. I swear!”

The desperation to believe him drew another laugh out of you. Sparing a glance in his direction, Ryland was giving you his best, exaggerated puppy dog eyes, begging you to believe him, as a smile just barely squeaked its way onto his lips.

“Right, of course you did. My mistake. Whatever you say, Ryland-”

“I mean it!” It was his turn to laugh this time, a sound that had those butterflies rattling around once more. “I was just…distracted.”

“Uh-huh, distracted,” as if you were preparing to scold one of your students, you turned to face him fully with a hand on your hip, eyebrow raised expectantly. “By what, exactly?”

If a human being could buffer, Ryland Grace always seemed to be constantly buffering. Your eyebrow remained raised, waiting for him to piece together his response. All he could do was open and close his mouth like a fish, before looking away and taking another bite of his food.

“Nevermind that, just finish your food before it gets cold. I did bike, like, three miles to get that thing,”

With a roll of your eyes that held zero malice what-so-ever, you made sure the blonde could see your next bite of your food, a satisfied smile on his face.

“Back to the previous topic,” you steered the conversation in another direction, wiping off the last bits of chalk on the board and writing down your next period at the top so that you could start the discussion on the reading over again. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard to get some of these kids to just read the content. They all pay attention in your class!”

“I heard Jason make a comment yesterday during class that Marcus has a crush on Olivia. Maybe they’re too distracted to read,”

You shot him a skeptical look.

“Marcus, crushing on Olivia? He was just making fun of her before you came in the room,”

Ryland averted his eyes, suddenly very interested in his ID badge hanging around his neck from his school issues lanyard.

“W-well, maybe he just doesn’t…know how to express his feelings,” he spared a glance up at you, seeing you were still watching, as he tripped over his words again. “It can be hard for boys–and men–of all ages, to…tell someone how they feel.”

“Well, I don’t know where he’s learning from, but making fun of the girl you like isn’t the right way to go about things,” you shot back.

“Then teach them!” Ryland sounded absolutely ecstatic, that light bulb over his head going off again as he looked like he’d come up with the world’s greatest idea. “Classic literature, there’s plenty of great love stories in there. Get his interest by teaching them about that, so he can learn from them.”

“Alright, give me an example then, Mr. Suddenly an Expert in Classic Literature,”

“Romeo and Juliet,” he said like it was the easiest thing in the world, balling up the remnants of his finished food and tossing it in the bag it came in. “Greatest love story ever told, so great Taylor Swift wrote a song about them.”

“Except they don’t run off and get married and live happily ever after, Ryland. Romeo thinks she is dead and kills himself with poison, and when Juliet realizes he’s dead she stabs herself,”

Ryland’s excitement fell slightly, his mouth forming a little ‘o’ shape.

“...oh,”

“Don’t think that’s what I want to teach young, impressionable pre-teens about love-”

“Daisy and Gatsby, then! He loved her so much he stood on that dock staring at the-the bright yellow light of a stoplight for her,”

“It was a green light and it was the dock light, first of all. I’m not even sure how you could be that off. Secondly, Gatsby is murdered at the end of the book and Daisy doesn’t even attend the funeral, she and Tom move away and pretend it never happened,”

Ryland’s eyes are shut at this point, his fingers massaging his temples and those glasses just barely hanging on from their place around his neck.

“...does anyone not die in these old books?”

The sound of your laughter permeates the room and you sweep over, collecting his trash and combining it with yours. You never even spared him a glance, though you could feel his eyes on you, as you swept the trash away with you to the other side of the room, his voice echoing across to you.

“I’m going to get lucky on one of these guesses!”

What Ryland Grace was really lucky about was how adorable you found him, and how head over heels you were for him, because his lack of literary knowledge was astounding.

❤︎

“I’m sorry, you’re trying to tell me that aren’t currently fucking the eye candy that is the science teacher in room 305?”

“Evelyn!”

Evelyn Doyle was in her late thirties, married since she was 18, and already had three kids with her high school sweetheart. Since you had transferred into Grover Cleveland Middle, you’d become fast friends and she had become a great mentor.

She had, sadly, caught onto your pathetic crush on Ryland Grace before you had even fully realized it, and was now ‘vicariously living through you’ as she always said.

“There’s not a single child left in this entire school right now,” she shot back, gesturing around her empty classroom, as she finished cleaning up anything her students had left around at the end of the day. You rolled your eyes at her excuse, perched on the edge of her desk. “Please, I’m tenured, what are they going to do?”

“I’m more so yelling at you for butting into my love life, once again,” was your reply through laughter. “Ryland and I are good friends, that’s it.”

It was her turn to laugh, finishing up her cleanup around the room before she joined you at her desk, packing her things away into her shoulder bag.

“Oh please, you keep denying that little crush of yours-”

“I never said I was denying that,” you cut her off. “Lord, you realized I liked him before I even did. But he and I aren’t anything besides friends. I’m not lying.”

Your pleas fell on deaf ears, like they typically did when you were around Evelyn. She simply waved your statement off, tossing her bag over her shoulder as you followed her out of her room and down through the quiet of the school hallway. The quietest the hallway ever was, in the hours right after students were sent home for the day. You’d rather be anywhere else, preferably at home, but these mandatory once-a-month staff meetings were unavoidable.

“Whether you’re telling me the truth or not, you have to understand why everyone thinks so–teachers AND students. I think even some parents think so!” The only response she got was an eyeroll, her shoulder bumping into your’s playfully. “He brings you lunch at least once a week, meaning he rides that dingy bike to get whatever you’re craving that day.”

“It’s usually just something random-”

“Constantly in your classroom, or vice versa,” she cut you off, and you quickly realized you weren’t getting a single word into this conversation. “I’m pretty sure Principal Marshall has considered, somehow, moving your classroom closer to his just so he’ll stop being late to classes because he’s busy talking to you.”

Okay…yeah, you didn’t have a retort for that one. Your classroom was on the opposite end of the school building from Ryland’s own, and yet every time he had even a split second he was somehow always leaning in your doorway. Even if it only resulted in a conversation that lasted all of a minute.

Many times those ended with your students having to remind him that the bell rang and he definitely had students in his own class unattended, waiting on their teacher. More than once he’d slipped as he tried to sprint back to his classroom from yours. It didn’t matter how short those little conversations were, though, because every second around him was precious to you.

“Awe, look at you blushing about it-”

You slapped Evelyn’s hand away, throwing her a look of disdain that didn’t really hold any true malice to it.

“Look, all I’m saying is the ball is in his court,” was the response you finally settled on as Evelyn propped the door of the small auditorium open for you to enter. “Ryland is nothing but friendly to me, so if he’s interested then he’s got to show me.”

“You’re acting as if you’ve made your own feelings clear, honey,”

“No, but I clearly don’t do a good enough job of hiding them,”

Speak of the devil: there he was. Ryland’s head shot up the moment the pair of you walked into the auditorium. Those damn glasses hanging down from one side of his face, framing his stubbled jawline perfectly. A smile lighting up his face the second those blue eyes found yours, gesturing to the empty seat beside him.

A packed auditorium, as you and Evelyn were the last ones there. Every seat up practically filled, and yet Ryland Grace sat among a crowd of people, eyes trained on you and a single seat saved for you amidst it all.

All you could feel was the heat in your cheeks, and the touch of Evelyn patting your back as she laughed, voice low but loud enough to hear as she shifted past you to find a seat of her own.

“Doesn’t have interest in you my ass,”

Her words swam through your head with every apology you muttered to the other teachers as you snuck past them in the cramped rows, happily taking the empty seat beside Ryland.

“You didn’t have to save me a seat, you know,” your voice held a hint of teasing to it, but it was soft. Filled with an adoration that you knew you were terrible at hiding. Luckily, Ryland was terrible at picking up on it.

“Wanted to sit next to you,” he whispered back as Principal Marshall began to drone on about updates neither of you particularly cared about. He leaned in close, a hint of his breath wafting over the shell of your ear as he spoke. “You make these slightly less boring.”

Close proximity to this man was your worst nightmare, and the cramped auditorium wasn’t helping. That single touch of his breath against your skin was enough to send a simultaneous shiver down your spine and another round of heat to your cheeks. His suit jacket covered arm rested on the shared armrest between your seats, the edge of his bicep ghosting against the bare skin of your arm with every little shift he made, tapping incessantly against the armrest.

The slight action made you smile. He never could sit still in these meetings, always hated them.

“Did anything fun happen in class today?” you kept your voice low, eyes trained on the principal, as your head tilted slightly over to Ryland so he could better hear you.

“Uh, if you count Madison telling me that she thinks the sun orbits the earth, then sure,” you had to stifle your laugh at that, casting Ryland a side glance as he grinned at you, doing a terrible job of whispering back at you as usual.

“How could she possibly think that?”

“You’d be surprised,” Ryland leaned just a tad bit closer, the side of his arm pushed up fully against your own. You could almost hear the smile in his voice without even having to look over at him. “The National Science Foundation estimates that 26% of Americans still think the sun orbits the earth.”

“Jesus, that many?”

“Well, 100% of them are stupid, so,”

Nasty looks from other faculty were shot your way that second you choked on your own breath, slapping a hand over your mouth in an attempt to stop yourself from breaking out into uncontrollable laughter. You gave them the most sympathetic look you possibly could, learning how to breathe normally again before mouthing sorry at them all.

Ryland didn’t care in the slightest for the warning look you shot him, a bright smile on his face as his eyes seemed to trail over every inch of your face.

“If you keep doing this in every faculty meeting, they’re going to separate us, Ry,”

“I met Madison’s parents for the first time last month for parent-teacher conferences,” he continued, ignoring your plea. Instead, he leaned in even closer, eyes locked on yours, and god it was impossible to look away. “They are, 100%, undeniably, part of the Flat Earth Truthers Club.”

You shook your head, a smile creeping back up on your lips. Ryland’s gaze could still be felt on the side of your face as you turned back to face the front, eyes focused back on the principal again in an attempt to pay attention to the meeting.

“Flat earthers are ridiculous. They’re just scared of science,”

“Well, you know what they say…the only thing they have to fear is sphere itself,”

There simply wasn’t enough time to clap your hand over your mouth and conceal your laughter, a split second of it breaking through the quiet of the auditorium. And Ryland? His smile was somehow even brighter than it was before, still locked onto your face, never having strayed once.

“Dr. Grace, is there something you feel needs to be shared with the rest of your fellow faculty?”

Principal Marshall’s voice was enough to knock Ryland out of whatever trance he seemed to have put himself in. Eyes wide as if he’d just seen a ghost, hands barely able to catch his glasses as they almost fell right off of his ear where they dangled, a burst of red spread through his cheeks instantly as his deer-like eyes locked onto the unamused principal.

“I-I uh, no. No, nothing, Principal Marshall,” he scratched at the back of his head, ruffling up his already messy hair, a nervous tick you’d picked up since the moment you’d met him. You simply buried your head in your head, eyes trained on your shoes and Ryland out of the corner of your gaze, terrified to look up at your fellow faculty that you’d already apologized to once. “Just getting super jazzed about faculty updates. Hard to keep it in here. I’m like a mushroom, getting all…hyphae…”

A collective groan sounded through the auditorium at the terrible biology pun that rolled off of him with ease. All you could do was smile into the palm of your hand.

“Please just…pay attention to the meeting, Dr. Grace, before I separate you and your other half,”

Other half. That’s not how she meant it, but it was impossible not to let your mind wander to the idea.

Early mornings. Coffee, the smell of eggs and toast burning in the kitchen. Ryland and his hair that was surely even more unkempt that early in the day. The guarantee that he definitely had about 120 science puns ready to go at any moment.

Late nights. Curled up on a couch. A movie, a shared blanket, warm in the embrace of his arms. The quiet of just being with someone that made you happy in ways you’d never felt before. The promise of another day with them on the horizon.

It was becoming increasingly harder not to think about Ryland Grace like that every day, of what a life with the awkward, endearing science teacher could be.

And as Principal Marshall continued her meeting, and your eyes met the blue ones that were already looking at you: soft, kind, a hint of something you couldn’t understand in them, you could only dream he thought the same thoughts when he looked at you.

❤︎

“Alright, who can tell me the day of the first human space flight?”

Not a single middle schooler, packed into the building’s planetarium, raised their hands at first. Many of them started whispering to each other, confused looks on their faces, but Ryland just waited with a smile on his face. A brave soldier from Mr. Harkin’s class, Damien, finally raised his hand.

“Uh, Mr. Grace? Wouldn’t that…be today?”

“Excatly!” Grace’s clap echoed through the room as he pointed toward the young kid sitting in the front row of seats. “International Day of Human Space Flight, commemorating the first human space flight by Yuri Gagarin. It was a trick question, and you passed my tiny friend.”

Were you excited about losing a chunk of your day to escorting your class to the planetarium, along with other classes in the building, for a special science presentation? Absolutely not, especially not with how terribly your class did on their last The Odyssey assignment.

When you found out that Ryland was giving the presentation during your allotted time? Suddenly, The Odyssey meant nothing to you. Not when you could watch Ryland teach, something he did so effortlessly.

The way he captured every single child’s attention with ease. That glowing smile on his face every time they answered a question right, and simply the way he seemed to love what he taught. You were captivated every time you got the chance to see him teaching the thing he loved so much.

“Yuri Gagarin was a Soviet cosmonaut who became the first person in space in 1961 aboard the Vostok 1,” the planetarium was lit up with the night sky, little stars reflecting down. You could almost see them in the students eyes, in their bright smiles as they looked up into the vastness of space. Your eyes trailed to Ryland, already looking at you with a soft smile of his own, before he cleared his throat and moved throughout the room, focusing back on the kids. “Over the course of 89 minutes, his ship traveled to a maximum altitude of 187 miles, as it orbited the Earth.”

“Wait, so we weren’t the first people in space?” one of your students, Lydia, called out. Ryland laughed, pointing over at her.

“No, we kind of sucked,” you rolled your eyes with a grin at Ryland’s statement, though it drew a laugh from all of the kids. “No, America had actually scheduled its first space flight for May 1961, so this was a huge blow to us. It really heated up the space race.”

“He really is good with them, isn’t he?”

Glancing over, Mr. Harkin had saddled up beside you on the edge of the room, head tilted toward you and voice low so as to not disrupt the lesson the kids were being taught. Your gaze drifted back to Ryland as he continued his lesson, eliciting more laughter from the kids. It only brought another soft smile to rest on your lips.

“He is, in a way that I just don’t understand,”

Those blue eyes you’d become so fond of met yours for a moment across the room, face illuminated by the light projecting onto the planetarium’s dome walls. The little grin he wore seemed to drop just slightly, gaze still locked on you but flickering every moment over to Mr. Harkin as he spoke to the students. Harkin’s elbow dug lightly into your side.

“Careful, you’re giving him major ‘heart eyes’ across the room right now,”

You did your best to conceal your laughter, shooting Harkin a look, Ryland’s gaze still felt on the side of your face even as you looked away.

“Why do I feel like I’m about to find out that every teacher in this school has a secret betting ring going on when it comes to Ryland and I?”

“I mean, it’s not a secret. Principal Marshall runs the damn thing,”

“Mr. Grace?” one of the youngest girls in the grade, Aurora, called out, raising her hand up to get Ryland’s attention. “My mom told me the other day that there’s 8 planets in our solar system. What happened to Pluto?”

Ryland went to answer when Mr. Harkin beside you laughed, capturing the attention of everyone in the room, as he shook his head at his young student.

“No, honey, scientists a couple years ago decided that Pluto wasn’t a planet anymore,”

Your eyes flickered to Ryland, who was already staring at Harkin from across the room as he tossed his little crochet earth back and forth in his hand. His response was a bit of a forced laugh.

“Well, your teacher isn’t wrong. Scientists classified Pluto as a dwarf planet a couple years ago,” he explained to the kids, eyes trained on the little crochet sphere in his hands. “But there’s 8 other very important, even closer planets that we should focus on. I mean, who really cares about a tiny, slow planet that takes 248 years to orbit the sun–honestly, he should just accept that he’s slowly falling into obscurity and stop trying to steal the spotlight.”

The room got quiet. Your eyebrow raised slightly, head tilted, as everyone just seemed to stare at Ryland, who had yet to look up.

“Uh, Mr. Grace?” some student in the back called out. “Why did you call Pluto ‘he’? Are the planets boys and girls like us, too?”

Ryland’s head shot up, as if he suddenly remembered he was in a room full of students. His eyes shot to you, his mouth opening, then closing, before he quickly looked away.

“I–well…planets don’t really…I’m not trying to misgender the planets, you know? That’s not for me to decide, that’s for them to–you know what, does anyone else have any other questions that aren’t related to Pluto?”

You really didn’t want to laugh at Ryland, but only he would be able to accidentally turn a lesson about space and planets into almost a lesson on bodily autonomy. He caught your eye, his widening just slightly and you could almost see his cry for help written across his face, but it only made your laughter worse.

It was little Madison that raised her hand next, speaking before she’d even been called upon.

“Are you sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe?”

Ryland hung his head in shame, the shaking of his head evident from across the room as a few of the kids around laughed at the young girl’s comment. You were quick to shoot them a warning look, not keen to hand out any detentions today.

By the time your gaze turned back to Ryland, he was already looking at you. His gaze flickered to Harkin, then back to you, and it was like a light bulb had just flickered on the way his eyes lit up.

“Yes, Madison, I’m sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe. And I can show you,” his long legs crossed the room in seconds, his body sliding between you and Mr. Harkin as his hands landed on your shoulders with a tiny little squeeze that sent your heart leaping through your chest. “But to do that, I’m going to need this volunteer that I’m not quite giving a choice.”

“It’s not volunteering if you didn’t ask, Ry!”

You exasperatedly tried to whisper to Ryland as he steered you across the room to stand before all the kids. He only shook his head as a bunch of your own students started cheering for you around the room, only worsening the red that coated your cheeks the second his hands had landed on your body.

“I need you for this,” he shot back hastily, positioning you in the middle of the room, standing in front of you. His body blocked the students from your vision, blue eyes boring down into yours, hands gently squeezing at your upper arms as you begged the blush in your skin to not be too obvious. “You trust me?”

A ridiculous question, because the only answer was yes. You gave him a nod, and Ryland’s smile only widened as he turned back to the kids in the room.

“Alright, kids. Your gorgeous teacher here is the Sun,”

Little oohs and awes sounded from the kids around the room at Ryland’s little slip in of the word ‘gorgeous.’ There was a sting in your bottom lip as you bit into it with your teeth, trying to contain your own smile. Marcus spoke up from across the room without raising his hand, as usual.

“Then what’s Mr. Harkin?”

“Oh, he’s Pluto,” Ryland shot back immediately, nodding his head. “Suits him.”

Laughter rang through the room, the young boys as rambunctious as ever. Ryland met your astonished look with a tiny wink of his own, one that forced a small laugh to tumble from your lips. Then, he began to slowly spin, walking around you in a circle.

“And I am the Earth,” he called out to the kids, and you could only hope he didn’t trip over his own two shoelaces. “The Sun holds 99.8% of the mass in our solar system, which means it’s packing some massive gravity.”

Ryland stopped spinning himself, still moving around you in a circle. He held his hand out toward you, and you slipped yours into it without hesitation, spinning in that circle slowly with him.

“Because the Sun holds such intense gravity, it’s actually pulling Earth into it. But, Earth has such high forward velocity that it actually keeps us moving sideways. Put these two together, and it keeps Earth moving in an almost perfect circle around the sun. Can anyone tell me another fun fact about our movement around the sun?”

The words went in one of your ears and straight out the other. There was no paying attention, not when Ryland’s hand held your own. Soft skin, just slightly rough around the edges, and those blue eyes were so soft, locked onto you as if there was nowhere else he wanted to look.

“Our speed changes!” Olivia called out from somewhere in the back, but you didn’t even try to look and find her. “When we’re closer to the sun in our orbit we move faster, and the further away we are, the slower we move.”

“Very good, Olivia!” Ryland called out, sparing just a quick glance over to the kids in the room as his hand held yours tighter, still spinning slowly together. “Madison, we also know this works because there’s other sun-like stars out there that are also orbited by planets. Like Tau Ceti, which has four Earth-like planets orbiting it.”

“Is the sun important for other things, besides just being the center?”

Ryland’s eyes flickered to you, and you watched as he paused. The slight hesitation on his face, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple for a moment, before those blue eyes locked onto yours and refused to look away.

“I-It is…for a lot of reasons. The Sun is the Earth’s entire reason for existing. The Sun gives the Earth life. The Sun is the reason the world is beautiful,”

Your breath hitched, eyes still trained on Ryland. There was something in his words, something in that earnest, raw look that he had written across his features as he looked at you that added a weight to his words. A weight that sent a tiny chill across your skin, raising the hair on your arms.

“Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing,”

There was quiet across the room. Then, a couple snickers, followed by Olivia’s smug little voice.

“The Sun sounds beautiful the way you talk about it,”

“She is,” his voice was lower, softer than it was before. Until, he seemed to realize what he said, the red on both of your faces spreading further than before as his eyes shot wide. “THE SUN I mean! I-I’m talking about the sun, obviously, b-because this is a science presentation!”

Laughter rang through the room, little chants of your names mashed together coming from some of the kids as the bell rang and saved either of you from further embarrassment.

Ryland, being Ryland, chose that moment to finally trip over his own two feet. You pulled on his hand as hard as you could, saving him from plummeting to the ground as he instead just landed on his one knee.

“Make good choices,” Ryland commented lowly as some of the kids walked past the two of you, still snickering and giggling to themselves. You let go of his hands finally, simply resting it on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “Don’t uh, I don’t know, blow up the world during lunch or anything. Or pop those chip bags and give kids heart attacks, whatever you kids do these days.”

You laughed, stepping around Ryland as your kids lined up outside of the room, waiting for you. He shot you a sheepish smile from the floor, and your skin still burned with heat at the memory of his words as you looked at him.

“Every time I think you’re doing well with those kids, they manage to knock you down a peg,”

“Yeah, well, what’s new?”

When you met your class outside, you didn’t let them get a word in before you warned them not to say anything. You could still hear little comments talking about ‘shipping’ their English and Science teachers the entire way back to your classroom.

❤︎

Ryland Grace didn’t understand how he had ended up here.

Well, he did. Calling the leading scholar in his field a “staggering waste of carbon” at a UNESCO conference in Denmark was an easy way to get blacklisted from the field he’d studied in for many years in college. It was an easy explanation for how he ended up teaching middle school science at Grover Cleveland Middle in San Francisco.

Not that he had a problem with teaching! He actually loved it. Loved his kids, loved talking about science. He loved teaching the future little scientists of the world about why every facet of science was awesome. The pay wasn’t great, though.

Especially when it was the reason he rode a bike to school daily.

And there was currently the equivalent of a monsoon raining down from the sky onto the pavement, the reason he’d been standing at the front doors for the last 20 minutes hoping that the rain would simply let up. The heavens didn’t take pity on him, though, and it only rained harder and harder. His rain coat and bike were not meant to withstand heavy rain and damaging winds to this extent. 

Best cast scenario? It takes him a little longer to get home on his usual 20 minute bike ride than normal. Worst case? He crashes and dies, dead in a ditch covered in mud.

“Ryland, please tell me you aren’t thinking of riding your bike home in this?”

Then there was you. You were probably the single greatest reason why he loved teaching at Grover Cleveland Middle. If he ever had the unfortunate chance to meet that scientist from the conference again, he’d thank him this time for being a staggering waste of carbon, because it led him down a path to you.

“I can’t be that bad,” he tried to joke, waving you off as a crack of thunder seemed to shake the entire building, and his fake confidence faltered for a second. He glanced back at you, coat wrapped around your bag instead of yourself in order to keep its contents dry. “Just, you know…the slight threat of bodily harm.”

He really wished the path that led to you was less bumpy and full of himself looking like an idiot, but at this rate he’d take what he could get from the universe.

“Yeah, absolutely not,” was your immediate reply, head shaking as she fished your car keys out of the bag still covered with your coat. “I’m giving you a ride home, can’t risk the best science teacher’s life over a dumb storm.”

Ryland immediately shook his head, turning to face you beside him. He was not letting you risk your own life in the storm for him. If it really came down to it, he’d sleep at his desk. There was a change of clothes he kept in the bottom drawer, it wasn’t the first time he’d had to do it.

“I can’t let you-”

“This isn’t up for discussion,” Ryland snapped his mouth shut as you cut in once again, dangling your car keys up in front of him with a little shake. “I…care about you, okay? I want to know you are home safe.”

There was no stopping the immediate heat that filled Ryland’s cheeks, and he knew it. There was red blooming across your own, but Ryland shook all wishful thinking from his mind. The AC unit in this school was unreliable, you were definitely just flushed from the heat. No other reason.

Ryland decided he wasn’t going to put up a fight at this point, but he wasn’t going to let you do this without anything in return. He shrugged the yellow raincoat hanging over his own shoulders off as he kicked the glass door in front of him open, the muffle sounds of the torrential downpour now louder as droplets of water splashed into the front door. He held the jacket out, hanging it above your head to protect you from the rain.

“At least let me save you from getting drenched,”

“You’re going to look like a dog that just had a bath by the time we reach my car,” Ryland only smiled at your joke, and the little giggle that fell through your lips. The close proximity didn’t help as he held the jacket up around you.

“Actually, it’s not windy today,” he shot back with a grin, nodding out the propped open door into the rain. “That means if we run, I’ll be drier than if we walked, because the rain that’s hitting us from above is proportional to time. Though, the rain hitting us from the front is proportional to distance, and when running-”

“Ryland Grace, you are adorable when you get all science-nerd, but if we’re going to run…we should run,”

Ryland was thankful that you couldn’t see the renewed heat flooding his cheeks, as you were both too busy sprinting through the torrential downpour to the staff parking lot.

Being a gentleman (who was head over heels in love with you and too terrified to say a damn thing) was thrown out the window with how fast you were booking it to your car, the idea of shielding you from the rain with his jacket abandoned after just a moment booking it across the lot. He could feel the coolness of the water settling against his skin as it soaked through every layer of clothing he had, every few seconds having to furiously wipe at his glasses in hopes of seeing through them.

None of it really mattered in the end, not when he heard your laugh. The little shrieks of laughter as a particularly big drop happened to fall right in your eyes. Or the laughter as Ryland managed–in his signature fashion–to slip on the final step into the parking lot, and you had to double back in laughter to help haul him to his feet.

He’s spring clumsily through the rain a thousand more times if he got to see you smile like that. And that is why his kids always told him that he was definitely ‘whipped’ for you. Whatever that meant.

The second you had both jumped into your respective seats of your vehicle, doors slamming shut, there was only a moment of silence between the both of you. Ryland felt like his chest was going to explode, remembering why he always hated gym class, his heavy breathing mixed with yours as you both caught your breath, before you locked eyes over the center console.

Then the laughter resumed.

He held his hand to his stomach, feeling an ache settling in as he couldn’t stop his own laughter. Your’s grew slightly louder in his ear as you leaned over, trying to help him wipe at his glasses that were still covered.

“I was right, you look like a wet dog,”

Ryland’s only response was to shake his soaking wet hair like one, a simple reaction that earned yet another shriek of laughter from you and a light slap to his shoulder. You muttered something unintelligible under your breath, but Ryland found himself unable to tear his gaze away from your lips as you started the car and began to pull out of the staff lot. How soft they looked, the way the little beads of water running down your cheeks fell over them.

Whipped. He still didn’t get it, but he agreed wholeheartedly with his kids at this point.

There was no driving fast in this rain, especially when the windshield wipers were moving at their highest programmed speed and it still wasn’t enough. It was quiet in the car for just a moment as you pulled out of the parking lot, but Ryland broke it the second your phone had connected to the car’s bluetooth, music filling the space between him and you.

Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars.

“Frank Sinatra,” Ryland couldn’t help the growing smile on his lips as the familiar song flooded through the car speakers. He kept his eyes trained on the side of your face, watching the little smile grow on your own lips, eyes focused on the road conditions in front of you. “Old books and old music. Didn’t know you had such an old soul.”

“You calling me old, Ryland?”

“N-no!” Ryland immediately back track, hands flying up and shaking back and forth as his eyes went wide. “I might say some stupid stuff some–okay, most of the time–but I know better than to comment on a woman’s age.”

“I’m just teasing you,” he could thankfully hear the sincerity mixed in with the teasing lit to your voice. “But yes, I do enjoy some old music. Always been a big fan of Sinatra, especially this one.”

“It’s a nice song…just not scientifically accurate,” he caught the side eye that you threw his way for just a moment, another crack of thunder banging across the sky and almost shaking the car. Ryland couldn’t help but jump slightly. “Jupiter only has a 3.13° tilt to its axis, so it doesn’t experience seasons like we do. Mar’s would, though, because its axis is tilted at 25°, only 1.5° more than our own tilt…”

Ryland trailed off as the car rolled to a stop at a red light, and he caught you fully facing him this time with a bemused expression written across your face. His smile dropped just slightly as he let out a sheepish laugh, adjusting his glasses as they slid back down the wet bridge of his nose.

“...I went full science-nerd again, didn’t I?”

Your laughter drowned out the rain beating against the roof of the car as your attention returned to the road once more.

“You always do, but I happen to enjoy it very much,”

If only teaching paid more, because the commute to Ryland’s apartment was a lot shorter than his bike ride home every day from work. 

Parked in an open space across the road from the dimly lit apartment building, Ryland Grace hesitated with his hand on the handle of the door. His eyes swept out over the area around the vehicle, still being hounded with rain. The top of his road looked like the beginning of a river, the way the water was rushing down the small incline to pool at the bottom.

“Thanks…for this,” he gestured toward the weather right outside the card.

You moved to respond to him, when the weather alert on your phone propped up on your dashboard sounded out. Ryland could just barely make out the headline: FLASH FLOOD WARNING.

The roads were far too dangerous, and Ryland already knew from various conversations that you lived on the opposite end of town from him.

He…could ask you to stay for the night. Just for safety reasons, obviously! He was quickly trying to work through the pros and cons list in his head.

Pros: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman he’s been head over heels in love with for the last year would be safe and not driving in this storm.

Cons: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman he’s been head over heels in love with for the last year would be inside his tiny little apartment that looked like it had been hit by a separate hurricane than the one it felt like they were currently suffering through.

“I should probably get home-”

“Stay,” Ryland cut in, quickly continuing his words after his vague statement. “I-It’s just, the roads are bad, and you live on the other side of town. This storm is just going to get worse, and I-I’d hate to know something happened to you.”

You hesitated, he could tell, shaking your head.

“Ryland, I couldn’t ask you to let me stay,”

He hesitated himself for a moment, every feeling he’d kept bottled up for a year now threatening to escape past his lips. Instead, he settled on echoing your own words.

“I…I care about you. I want to know you’re safe,”

Moments later, he had his rain coat draped over your head as he rushed you inside his apartment to shelter from the storm.

Ryland’s hands shook the entire time as he put his key into his front door’s lock. The last time he had guests over…was never. His apartment was built and designed for him and his brain, scattered with notes and books and piles of arts and crafts that he worked on in order to decorate his classroom. It was not meant for visitors, especially not ones as pretty as you.

“Don’t, uh, mind the mess,” he mumbled, holding the door open and motioning after you, allowing you to take a step inside his apartment as he let out the small breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Chucking off his sneakers, little puddles of water forming below them on the ground, his jacket found its way into a pile with them. Ryland wiped his hands nervously against the thighs of his jeans, the action doing nothing against the soaking went material, as he watched you take in his apartment.

The apartment that looked like it had been ransacked, at least partially. Stacks of books relating to a thousand different topics were stacked on the ground by the tv stand, on top of the coffee table along with the coffee cup he’d abandoned there early in the morning in a haste to get to the school, and and by his desk that had a stack of papers scattered around it after her strewn them about in order to find one specific slip of paper at 11 p.m.

It was a mess, and Ryland regretted everything.

“It’s not messy, it’s homey,” your reply sent a burst of heat through his skin as you turned to him with a bright smile, leaving your own bag and coat by his pile of wet items before gesturing to your own soaking wet clothing. “Do you maybe have something a little less…wet?”

He scurried away into his bedroom, trying to ignore that little section of his brain that took your comment in a MUCH different way.

His bedroom was worse. Ryland wasn’t letting you sleep on the couch, but he surely wasn’t letting you see his room in a state like this.

Clothing was thrown across the room and Ryland quickly ran about, shoving piles of clothing away into corners where he was certain you wouldn’t be able to see any of it. Throwing it into his closet and slamming the door before it could fall out, pushing it down in his laundry basket, kicking it under his bed so it was out of sight and out of mind, whatever he could think of.

“Great idea, Ryland,” he muttered to himself, pulling on a dry pair of sweatpants and a tshirt for himself, trying to shake the remaining water out of his hair as he rummaged for something you could wear. “Almost get the woman you’re in love with killed by letting her drive you home in a monsoon. Invite her to stay the night in your apartment that makes you look like an even bigger loser than you are. Amazing idea. A doctorate in molecular biology and this is the best you can do.”

You were waiting by the couch in his living room, just glancing around at everything with a smile, when he reappeared. Sheepishly, he handed the folded clothing over to you, hand running through his soaking wet hair as he pointed down the hall.

“You can take my bed for the night. Uh, just leave your clothes in the bathroom, I can throw them in the dryer in a bit. I can scrounge up something to eat in the meantime,”

“Thanks, Ry,” your hand reached out, squeezing his upper arm lightly, and he felt the heat in his skin instantly bloom under your touch. “For all of this.”

If it wasn’t for the giant crack of thunder that flickered the lights of the building for a moment and made Ryland jump out of his skin, he would’ve forgotten how to breathe again.

He rummaged through every part of his kitchen, desperately trying to find something that he could make the two of you to eat that also wouldn’t make him seem pathetic. All he could come up with…was a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of jelly.

Yesterday. He’d stayed late after the end of the day to help in tutoring. He forgot to go grocery shopping. Ryland let out a sigh at his realization, back to his fridge door and head banging back against the stainless steel, hand running down his face and dragging against his skin as his glasses were knocked off, hanging off of one ear.

“Great,” he muttered into his palm. “Just absolutely freaking great, Ryland.”

Ryland Grace desperately wished he had the guts, the bravery, to just simply tell you how he felt.

From the moment he met you, when you had arrived for your first day at Grover Cleveland Middle, he was a goner. It had been a long time since he’d had a partner, his last one certain that he was too busy with his head in the clouds to pay attention to her, and she wasn’t wrong. But from the moment he looked at you, waving and smiling as you introduced yourself to all of the teachers that had gathered to welcome you, you were suddenly the only thing his brain wanted to focus on.

He had been so focused on you, too busy admiring every inch of you in silence, that in his typical clumsy fashion he tripped over his own two feet and knocked Principal Marshall’s papers out of her hand, spreading them five feet across the floor. But you’d joined him on the ground, laughing lightly to yourself, as you helped him clean up the papers, and Ryland knew he was a goner for you.

It only continued every single day, getting worse, and you somehow became his friend. His only friend, if he was being quite frank. So he tried to hide the way he really felt, too scared to mess anything up. He’d rather have you in his life in any way he could, then mess this up and lose you forever.

Keeping those feelings in was getting increasingly harder in the last few months. Which explained why he’d traveled cross town just to get lunch from your favorite place, or compare you to the sun and basically called you his entire reasoning for living in front of a bunch of children-

Either Ryland was going to blurt it out at some point, or he was taking these feelings to the grave with him.

“Peanut butter and jelly? Sounds like we’re eating like royalty tonight,”

He shouldn’t have looked over at you. He really, really shouldn’t have. Leaning against the opposite wall of the kitchen, hair still damp and dripping onto the cheesy “I had potential” shirt he’d been gifted by one of his students the following year. Sweatpants that were bunched up around your ankles so that you didn’t trip over the length, waist tied in as tightly as possible so they didn’t just slide right off your hips.

Ryland Grace had never thought it possible that you could look more gorgeous than you did every day, but he stood corrected. He felt more in love than he ever had just looking at you right in this moment.

“Sorry, I don’t exactly…live a life of luxury,” Ryland awkwardly laughed as he spoke, pulling out two sad paper plates from the cabinet next to him and flashing them in your direction, shaking them lightly in the air. “Hope this doesn’t ruin my perfectly curated image.”

His eyes followed you as you brushed past him, humming to yourself with a little grin. You fumbled through every drawer in the kitchen, looking for something, when Ryland quickly popped open the one right next to him, showcasing his small selection of utensils. You flashed another heart-stopping grin at him before digging out two knives from the drawer.

“That image cracked a long time ago, Ry. Like that time you let Marcus perform some chemical reaction and got the fire department called to the school,”

The tall blonde groaned to himself, rubbing at his temple as you pushed past him to throw some of the bread down onto the plates and crack open the jars of peanut butter and jelly set out.

“That was one time!” he tried to defend himself, saddling up beside you as you passed him one of the knives. He almost completely missed the opening of the peanut butter jar, eyes too transfixed on the sight of you in his clothing. It was still up in the air if his heart was actually working correctly yet. “I learned my lesson very quickly not to let him handle any more chemicals.”

“Don’t worry. I made the mistake of doing popcorn reading when we were working on The Outsiders. Marcus seemed to end up with every single instance of profanity in the book, which he would yell at the top of his lungs,”

Ryland snapped his fingers, glancing down at you at his side with a teasing smile.

“You know what? That explains that really loud ‘HELL’ I heard across the school a couple months ago. I was so sure that it was going to shatter the windows of my classroom,”

“Oh, shut up! It wasn’t that bad!”

Your laughter permeated the air, elbow digging into his side as you spoke. And when your eyes locked with his, and Ryland got the perfect look at every square inch of your face, he could see it so clearly in his head.

Mornings just like this, where you’d both struggle to get out of the warmth of the blankets. The way he would surely annoy you with his very disorganized morning routine, but he’d make up for it with coffee already set out for you, just as you liked it. The lingering moments by the door, too wrapped up in each other because you didn’t want to leave the peace of this space, even though you were going to the same place.

Late nights, curled together on the couch with some movie playing on TV that neither of you were particularly paying attention to. Whispered words, laughter shared. Kisses that lingered, hands that trailed-

Thunder broke Ryland from his spell, thoughts gone in a flash. He was back in his dingy kitchen, with you just inches away, staring up at him as the picture of true beauty.

“T-This is nice,” he cleared his throat, turning back to his sandwich as he spread his toppings along the bread, heat blooming across his cheeks again. It always did around you. “Making dinner with someone…no matter how sad the dinner is. I haven’t done this in awhile.”

“Right,” your voice responded after a momentary pause. “Sarah, wasn’t it? You were dating her when we first met. What, uh…what ever happened to her?”

“Oh, we broke up a long time ago,” Ryland waved the comment off, shaking his head. “She just, uh, thought my head was too far in the clouds. Didn’t think I wanted to be down here on Earth. She wasn’t wrong. It was for the best, though. She hated…all of this. The rundown apartment, the lack of a car, my love of science. She just never understood it. I was just…too much for her. But she’s with Mark now, so I’m sure she’s happy.”

Ryland chose not to mention that his last relationship had been dead long before it officially ended, the pair not having seen each other in well over a month by that point. If his math was right, which it usually was, Sarah had started dating Mark before she’d even broken it off with him.

He also failed to mention the relief he felt inside when she had called it off, knowing his heart had belonged to you the moment your eyes had locked with his.

Fingertips just barely ghosted over Ryland’s cheek, and he froze in place. Eyes trained on the plate in front of him, he could feel the way your hand curled around his cheek. The way your thumb glossed over his skin, back and forth, and the way your other fingers barely grazed over the shell of his ear. He couldn’t help the way he instantly leaned into the touch, a touch he hadn’t felt in so long.

Ryland turned his head, still resting in the palm of your own, to look you in the eyes. You gave him the softest smile, hand trailing across his cheek and ghosting over his jawline. His eyes watched it move, the way your fingers gently curled around the frame of his glasses dangling precariously from his face, and placed them gingerly back where they belonged, resting on the bridge of his nose.

His breath caught, your body so close to his, as your hand trailed back down and rested on his chest for just a moment, your own gaze flickering to its resting spot while his gaze stayed on your face.

“You are never, and will never be, too much, Ryland. Not for the right person. They’ll love every part of you. The clumsy parts, the nerdy parts, every part that makes you…you,”

The Sun. That’s what you were to Ryland Grace. He meant every word he had said in that planetarium that day, driven by the rare jealousy of seeing Harkin that close to you. 

The Sun was the reason Earth had life. Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing.

Without you…well, Ryland Grace had accepted long ago that he didn’t understand what it was like to truly live until he’d met you.

Your eyes flickered for just a second, and Ryland took in an audible breath, swearing they settled on his lips for just a second. The apartment was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge and the pattering of the rain against the living room windows.

The moment shattered with yet another terribly timed clap of thunder, your body jolting away from his, focus turned back to the counter in front of you, face hidden from his wide eyes.

“Y-you know…I can’t tell you the last time I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,”

Ryland shook his head, smiling slightly to himself at the little stutter in your own words, turning back to finishing his own food as well. But the moment still lingered in his head, the heat that bloomed from where your skin touched him still lingering.

“Since peanut butter is banned in school for allergies, probably awhile,”

“I almost forgot that rule a couple weeks ago and almost packed peanut butter crackers,” you joked back, before Ryland heard you snap your fingers. “Oh! Speaking of work, did you put yourself down to volunteer for the school dance next week?”

Sandwiches finished off, Ryland packed the ingredients away and stashed them back in their appropriate spots, laughing awkwardly to himself.

“Hah, uh, no I didn’t. I chaperoned last year and kind of left covered in punch, became the kids’ favorite ‘meme’ for a week afterward since one of them got a picture of it,”

He turned back to you. Leaning against the island counter, holding your sad little sandwich in your hands, face still lit up red as you smiled toward him.

“I think so far it's me, Doyle, and Harki, plus Principal Marshal and I think Katie and Dawson from the front office. We could really use another teacher,” he swore the fluttering of your lashes was on purpose just to kill him and his resolve. “Sign-up? For me?”

Well, there was no universe in existence where Ryland said no to a request like that.

Rejoining you at the counter, he held his own sandwich in his hand, reaching out and tapping it against yours as if you were sharing a toast.

“For you? Totally,”

Even as you both took a bite of your sandwiches, eyes still locked together, Ryland felt as if something had shifted in the air. Your eyes were still as kind, your smile still bright, but it felt like there was a new weight to your gaze as you looked at him.

And he swore–and hoped–for just a split second, that your eyes had just flickered down to his lips again.

❤︎

The student council had outdone themselves with this end of the year dance.

As you stepped through the main doors of Grover Cleveland Middle’s building, the smile on your face grew immediately at the sight before you. The walls were lined with little fairy lights, little styrofoam planets hanging down from the ceiling at various lengths, glow in the dark stars right around them and glowing. Silver streamers hung around the fairy lights, with the check in desk decorated with tons and foam and lights behind them to look like twinkling lights in the clouds.

“A space theme?” you called out as the two kids in front of you ducked away from the registration desk. Evelyn Doyle finally looked up from the sign-in sheet, grin growing as she took in the sight of you and rounded the desk. “I hadn’t heard anything from the student council on the theme, but they did well.”

“Nevermind the theme, you’re finally here!” you laughed as you threw her arms around you, reciprocating the hug, before her hands landed on your shoulders in order to get a good look at you, eyes trailing you up and down. “And look at this dress, oh my god!”

The deep yellow dress fell right around your knees, the fabric light and airy as it swooshed through the air with every move you made. Buttons lined the front down to the tie around your waist, leaving just enough room for the little gold necklace resting against your collarbone. You thanked yourself for choosing a short sleeve option, already feeling the heat in the building from how many kids were all packed in and dancing together.

“Thank you,” was the sheepish reply you gave your friend as she let you go. “I’m sorry I’m late, I caught one of my student’s parents in the parking lot and they turned it into a mini parent-teacher conference, sadly.”

“Not a problem,” she waved the comment off, gesturing toward the doors of the gym just off to the left of you both. “Just get on in there, have some fun, and keep those slow dancers at least 12 inches apart at all times.”

If the hallways were gorgeous, the inside of the gym shone even brighter. Bathed in blue and purple, even more little lights twinkled around the room, hung off the walls, the ceilings, and on every surface they could possibly find. Moon and star decals, made by the art students, hung off the walls and from the ceiling, almost glowing under the lights.

Your eyes trailed over all of your children, scattered throughout the room, already having been dancing for at least thirty minutes. The smile on your face grew as you watched each one of them, gathered with their friends as they danced together in groups, or even stood off to the sides and just observed from beyond the dimly lit dance floor.

Mr. Harkin had been stationed at the punch table, and you could hear him from across the room warning these middle schoolers not to try and spike the punch. You could only giggle to yourself, shaking your head at his antics, before your eyes swept over the crowd once more-

The music seemed to stop in your ears, breath hitching, the second you laid eyes on him across the room. Ryland Grace.

He wasn’t in anything fancy. A nice pair of jeans, the worn pair of black dress shoes you’d seen by his apartment door that night. A dark green shirt was tucked into his jeans, adorned with a worn, navy blue suit jacket overtop, and those same glasses almost falling off the bridge of his nose as he spoke animatedly to Olivia.

Ryland looked good. Too good, in your eyes.

For just a second, he looked up, and his eyes happened to meet yours across the room. You thought for sure you’d forgotten how to breathe.

Whatever had happened that night, in the silence of his apartment with only the beating of the rain against the windows and the roof as a witness, had shifted something. From the moment your fingertips had ghosted along his skin, your hand had rested against his chest, and you’d been close enough to see the specs that danced in those ocean blue eyes of his up close, nothing had been the same.

Like the little bubble you had been existing in with your harbored crushed had finally popped. Like a toe had dipped just slightly over a line, and there was no going back from then on.

You always blushed around your friend, every time he’d manage to fumble his way through a comment that borderlined on a kind-of-not-just-friendly compliment. But since that day just a week or so ago, every time he has been within a few feet of you, your face lit up like a hot summer’s day.

Moments where he’d find a second to linger in your classroom door, held a new weight to them. Sharing lunch together, fingers just barely brushing for a second as you both reached for your food, to moments when you’d simply be walking together down hallways, back of hands brushing along each other’s but no one making any moves to stop it from happening.

Something was different, and you weren’t sure you wanted to go back to how things were before. Not after touching his skin, or existing in his orbit like that. Not when you’d seen the side of him beyond these school walls.

You were in love with Ryland Grace. You had been for a long time. And, finally, you were done trying to pretend that there wasn’t at least a small chance that he felt the same.

“I need your help,”

The heated staring contest between you two was broken by the sound to your right. You turned, just to see Marcus standing directly beside you and reaching up to pull on the sleeve of your dress. His hands wrung together, foot tapping incessantly on the ground, and you immediately knelt down in front of him to get a better look at his face that he was trying to hide from you.

“Marcus? Honey, what’s wrong?” you asked gently, hands coming to rest on his arms as you tried to get him to look at you.

“I…I like Olivia,”

Oh. It was one of those problems. The anxiety you felt in that moment finally washed away, an easy smile falling to your lips as you took a quick glance over in Ryland and Olivia’s direction, the former’s eyes still locked onto you from across the room.

“I did hear a rumor about that. Olivia is a great girl,”

“She is,” he said quickly, finally looking at you. His nerves were basically written across his face. “I-I’ve been really mean to her. I didn’t mean to be.”

“I know, honey. Sometimes feelings can be confusing,” you stood up, hands on your hips as you looked down at him with a smile. “Do you want to dance with her?”

“I do,”

You held your hand out toward him with a smile.

“Then why don’t we start by going and apologizing to her?”

With Marcus’s hand in yours, you confidently led him across the room, eyes locked back onto Ryland’s as you approached. He stood with Olivia at his side, who was talking his ear off, a dopey looking grin on his face as he nodded to whatever she said as he continued to watch as you approached him.

“Dr. Grace, I’m sorry to interrupt you and Olivia,” you announced yourself to the pair with a grin of your own, hands on Marcus’s shoulders and you lightly pushed him forward. “But Olivia, there’s something that Marcus here wants to say to you.”

The young boy shuffled awkwardly forward, hands wringing together again as he stood in front of his crush.

“I, uh, I wanted to say I was sorry. For being really mean to you. I didn’t mean it,”

Olivia’s eyes went wide, as she too shuffled uncomfortably for a second. Ryland saddled up to your side, the pair of you sharing a glance as you watched the interaction happen right before your eyes. His hand graced over yours lightly, and it took everything in you not to reach out and lock your fingers with his.

“Oh! It’s, um, it’s okay. Thank you,”

“Say, Marcus?” Ryland called out to them both, catching the boy’s eye and gesturing toward Olivia with a wink. “What do you think of Olivia’s dress?”

“I…I think she looks really beautiful,”

That comment finally seemed to catch Olivia off guard, her eyes wide in shock as she giggled nervously.

“Oh! I…thank you, Marcus. You look really nice too,”

“Thank you,” his posture seemed to straighten out at Olivia’s reaction, like seeing her accept his compliment gave him the confidence he needed. “Do you want to dance with me?”

Olivia shot you and Ryland a look, and you both immediately gave her a thumbs up. Then, your happy eyes could only watch the two pre-teens awkwardly shuffle away together to the dance floor, not daring to meet the eyes of the other.

“Look at us, playing matchmaker for middle schoolers,”

“I think they did that for themselves, we just helped,” you laughed, turning your head. The laughter died on your lips the second your eyes met with Ryland’s, voice low and breathy as you whispered to him through your smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he whispered back just as breathily. His hand came up to the back of his head, running through his hair for a moment, and you could see the red and pink hues that lit up his cheeks. “I got worried when I didn’t see you. I was ready to call you.”

“You could’ve,”

“I’ll remember for next time,” he shot back, hands finding their way to rest in the front pockets of his jeans. His eyes moved back over the crowd, finding your two young students once more. “I’m proud of him for that. That…must have taken a lot of guts to do.”

You followed his gaze, landing on the pair as they danced together, laughing and talking like old friends.

“Like you said before, it can be hard for boys to express their feelings. All he needed was to pull up his big boy pants and ask her,”

Ryland laughed beside you.

“Yeah…I should probably follow in his footsteps,”

You glanced back to him, seeing him already watching you. A single eyebrow raised toward him quizzically, even though your heart felt like it was ready to beat directly out of your chest.

Ryland’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were trying to force out words that he couldn’t quite seem to get right. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath, hoping inside that whatever he wanted to say would address the weight that seemed to be hanging between your gazes.

“Stay here,”

There wasn’t even time for you to respond before the tall blonde rushed away, almost tripping as he dashed over to the DJ booth across the way from the makeshift dance floor. He whispered something to the DJ, and you could see the thumbs up he got in return, before he rushed back over to you, panting slightly.

“Ryland?” you questioned softly, the man who held your entire heart without knowing it standing just a foot in front of you with a nervous grin on his face. “What did you just do?”

As if on cue, the song changed, and familiar lyrics floated through the room, bouncing off the walls.

Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars

“I’m pulling up my big boy pants,” he responded with a nervous laugh, his hand outstretched toward you. “And asking you to dance with me.”

Nothing else existed the second that you slid your hand into Ryland Grace’s without hesitation, letting him pull you in. You weren’t in the school, not in a room decorated for a middle school dance, and certainly not surrounded by middle schoolers and a bunch of faculty that had placed bets on you both.

It was just you and Ryland Grace. That’s all you wanted it to be.

Your arms found a place to rest around his shoulders, fingertips just barely brushing past the strands of hair that tickled the back of his neck. There was a fluttering in your chest the second that his hands made their way to your waist, curling around the divet just above your hip bone, pulling you into him just by another inch.

In other words, hold my hand. In other words, darling, kiss me. Fill my life with song, and let me sing for ever more.

"I didn't tell you yet…,” his voice was soft, words whispered just between the two of you in a crowded room. “But you look beautiful,"

"You don't have to flatter me, Ryland,"

"No, really, you look-"

"Like a banana in this yellow dress?"

He paused. His tongue poked out, running along his bottom lip, and you could see the nervous bob of his Adam’s apple before he spoke again.

"...like the sun,"

You are all I long for, all I worship and adore.

Oh. That fluttering in your chest was back, and suddenly, you weren’t at a middle school dance anymore. You were back in that planetarium, spinning in circles. And this time, there were no doubts in your mind. You were the Sun, and he was the Earth. And what was the Earth, without its Sun?

"Ryland-"

"I wasn't lying,"

You cocked your head.

"...about what?"

"That I knew Homer wrote The Odyssey,"

That drew a short laugh from you, but you could still see the nerves that were laced through Ryland’s smile.

"Right, you were just distracted,"

"I was. By you. I'm always distracted by you,"

In other words, please be true. In other words, I love you.

You took a deep breath. He’d crossed the line for you, thrown himself onto the other side, and was waiting for you with open arms. It was just a leap of faith.

“I’m always distracted by you, too. Since the day we met,”

The song faded away, melting into the next. There could’ve been eyes on you both, either from students or from faculty, but nothing would break either of your gazes away from the other.

Ryland took a quick look around the room, before his hands took hold of your own, bringing them down between you both. He gave you a grin, one filled with more happiness than you had ever seen–and you knew your own matched his perfectly–before he tugged you toward the doors of the gym.

“Come with me,”

“Ry, we’re supposed to be chaperoning!”

“I don’t see Principal Marshall anywhere. What’s the worst she could do, fire us?”

“Quite literally, yes!” you shot back with a laugh.

Ryland only shrugged his shoulders, tugging you again, and you didn’t even try to fight back. Your feet simply moved with him.

“Worth it,”

Hands clasped together, fingers intertwined, your laughter echoed off the walls of the empty hallways as Ryland Grace ran you down them, a destination clear in his mind. Every few seconds he’d look back, just smiling at you as his eyes trailed over every single inch of you, before you’d yell at him to look at his own feet before you’d both be sprawled across the linoleum floors.

The door to his classroom was open as you flew inside, hand slipping from his as you caught yourself on the projector cart sitting in the middle of the room. Spinning on your heel, you caught his eye just as he shut the classroom door behind him, and the silence enveloped you both once more. Finally alone, no prying eyes to watch.

The momentarily confidence that seemed to seize hold of Ryland dissipated in that moment. He wiped his hands against the front of his jeans, chuckling awkwardly as he took a few steps toward you.

“What was your plan here, Dr. Grace?” you teased, taking a couple steps toward him as well, too high on the feeling of everything you’d just finally realized. High on the feeling of finally not denying what your heart knew long ago: you and Ryland Grace were never just friends.

“I’m not going to lie,” he shot back, coming to a stop just in front of you, barely an inch or two separating you. “I hadn’t thought this far ahead.”

“Then stop thinking,”

No one had leaned in first. It had been both of you, as if drawn together like two magnets, as your lips finally found one another's.

Goosebumps rose across your skin as Ryland Grace’s mouth moved against yours with an ease that shouldn’t exist between two people that have never kissed before. It was like a perfect dance between two partners that knew each other better than anything.

Your lips never left his, moving against his as if you couldn’t believe you had deprived yourself of this for so long, as your hands wound around his shoulders. Fingers curled into his hair, finally carding themselves through the blonde strands that felt so soft between your fingers.

The slightest little moan, enough to send heat coursing through your body the second you heard it, slipping from Ryland’s mouth into your own. His hands grasped at your hips, winding around your back to press into your lower back and tug you as close as humanly possible, as if he was a starved man that craved to touch you in any way that he could.

His lips were soft, a feeling that you knew you were going to crave for the rest of your life now that you’d had a single taste of them. You pressed further into him, a small mewl tumbling from your own lips and swallowed by his mouth as you pressed every inch of yourself into him, desperate to hang onto the moment in case the world would be cruel and wake you from this dream moments later.

The need to breathe was what finally separated you, but not far. Ryland’s forehead pressed to yours, his breath fanning out across your skin. His hands still gripped at your hips, holding him to you, as yours stayed carded through his hair, nails gently scraping at his scalp as you chest heaved as it tried to level your breathing back to normal.

“If I haven’t made it clear already, you’re my best friend,” his words were breathy, accented by the way he was still trying to catch his breath. But his smile was bright, his eyes almost shining, as he looked down at you. “And I’m completely in love with you. Literally, since the moment we met.”

You laughed, trapped in this little bubble with him, as your hands slid from his hair to instead cup his cheeks. The tip of your nose just barely brushed against his, and he bumped his right back against yours without hesitation.

“I’m completely in love with you too, Ryland Grace. Since the moment you tripped over your own two feet,”

The sound of your laughter filled the empty, dark science classroom again as Ryland’s hands came to scoop you up around your thighs, spinning you in relentless circles. All you could do was hang onto his broad shoulders and smile, his lips peppering a thousand kisses to every inch of skin he could possibly reach.

The Earth needed the Sun, like how Ryland said he needed you. The person that makes it all worth it, that makes the days brighter, that makes this short little life worth it.

You don’t even know where Colt is right now. Probably taking a nap in his trailer, or grabbing a bite to eat off-set. You can’t think about that now, because you need to focus on talking over Ryder. “That’s insane,” you counter. “It’s too expensive to reshoot the stunt, and it’s already perfect as-is. It doesn’t take a whole lot of work to recreate the scene you just did.” It’s really not. All he has to do is wave his stupid prop-gun around and run his mouth.

“Pain in the fuckin’ ass,” Ryder mutters indiscreetly. You can only scribble away on your script, unamused. The makeup artist that comes to touch up the highlighter on his cheeks looks half-scared to death. You can tell that she’s in a quick rush to dab the brush at his face and scurry away as fast as possible.

“Tom, bear with us for a minute. We’ve got this scene left, and then it’s press time. You love the press,” the director exclaims, all too sporadically. “We’ll redo the scene really quick, bud. Just go with the flow.”

—

You’ve been keeping your eye on Colt for the last week and a half of production. It’s not that you can control it. Whenever he’s substituting in for Ryder for the fight scenes or the pyro or the vehicular stunts, he’s always front and center. You’ve got to keep your eye on the script and Colt simultaneously; it’s your job—tracking the consistency. In any case, you’d have to do just the same for Ryder. Except, when Colt’s not needed for the shot, you, on occasion, still keep your eye on him.

So, you might have an inkling of a crush on the senior stunt double on your set. The reason, you’ve tried to deduce, is that he’s relatively much nicer than Ryder, which means you’re so much more likely to like him. And you’d be lying if you said you weren’t attracted to him, with his blonde highlights and all the movie quotes he spews out between takes.

Usually, you’ll find him at the catering table, on his third cup of your shared fourteen-hour day. It’s under these usual circumstances that he comes to thank you. You feel a tap on your shoulder—and Colt’s there, right beside you, mug in hand. You give him a nod and a smile, trying not to come off too jumpy. He still has his costume on, grayish blue suit and a slightly darker tie to match—topped with a brimmed cowboy hat. It’s the same as Ryder’s. You drop your thermos down on the folding table, trying to figure out what pastry might tie you over for the rest of the day.

“So, I heard you did me a big favor,” Colt murmurs. Word travels fast on-set, clearly. He takes the white little espresso mug up to his lips, taking a sip of the hot brew as he leans back against the catering table. He lowers it just a little to say, “You should’ve just let him make us reshoot.”

You shake your head, picking a scone off one of the trays and placing it onto your flimsy styrofoam tray. “It’s good to get him worked up early during production, so he might ease off the bitching later. It’s like an advanced payment.”

Colt snorts. “Nice,” he says, “I’m pretty sure he’s trying to get Gail to get you fired. Obviously, you didn’t hear it from me.” It barely fazes you. Ryder’s always dying to get somebody fired, and it alternates based on his particular moods. His targeting you is no different than usual.

“She can’t fire me,” you chuckle. After four blockbuster films of you on script with the bigwigs, you’re convinced that you’re invincible. It’s naive, maybe, but you’re good at what you do. You’re credible. And, on this particular contemporary Western at least—with crunch time now, in the middle of spring—you’re safe. You digress, “I know the film inside out, and it’d be a killer to replace me at this point in production.” 

“Right,” Colt nods. He doesn’t seem to believe you too much, but it is what it is. He seems to lower his voice as crew, largely lighting and sound in all-black, whizz past you to set up for the next scene. Intently, he tells you, “I wouldn’t mind reshooting if it means Ryder won’t give you as hard of a time.”

Your eyebrows crease. It’s not that you don’t appreciate his efforts to make your life easier. It’s just so simple the way Colt thinks he can be tossed around; you wish he’d be more careful with himself. “Kind offer. Thanks.” You’re brushing him off; he can tell.

“Even if you won’t take me up on it,” Colt tilts his head, “I’m around whenever you need me. What is this, our third film together?” He’s flashing you a grin, back to the table. He must think he’s real cool; you hate that it’s working on you.

“Fourth,” you correct. You’re not sure if it comes out short or timid; regrettably, it feels more like the latter. Colt lowers his mug down onto the table, faltering just slightly.

Briskly, he repeats, “Fourth.” Colt makes an extended effort to turn around and pick your thermos up off the table. You have to suppress a yelped “hey.” Despite your protests, thermos his hand, Colt practically bodyguards the whole setup—the Keurig and the metal basket of espresso pods adjacent to it. Your hip bumps against his as he puts his forearm to fend you off. You’d try to grab for it if you weren’t at work, PAs and DPs flitting around you both. “You don’t have to—”

And, like a flash, Colt tosses your thermos onto the bottom plate, whips the pod into the canister, punches the lid down, and clicks double-shot. “My first installment for you screwing over Ryder on my behalf.” While you’re both waiting for the machine to pour down coffee, he’s humming something like ABBA. “How pissed was he to reshoot?”

“Practically frothing at the mouth,” you tell him, “I’m surprised they didn’t prep a bib.” Colt’s perfectly satisfied with this answer, nodding curtly. Respect. Not many people are capable of talking down on Ryder so openly.

The thermos gets filled halfway, and Colt offers it back up to you, “Here.” You take the thermos back, in steady avoidance of his callused fingertips. He admits, “I don’t know how you like your coffee yet.” Yet? You narrow your eyes. You’re not sure that Colt has ever been so attentive talking to you, and you’re trying not to feel the way your breath hitches in your chest in response.

If there’s anything you’re able to bond about with Colt, it’s the damn on-set coffee. He’s practically running on the stuff, probably ten times worse than you are. His little mug finds its way back into his hands again. Colt fails to speak for a moment, too occupied by… something on your face. You’re trying not to crumple beneath his observation, but Colt’s smiling and he’s searching over your features for something.

Finally, after a few seconds, he lets up. “I’ll get your order down sometime this week. I’m, uh, quick to learn,” he tells you. Then, he raises up his little cup toward you. “Cheers. To you disturbing the peace.” You raise your thermos, and Colt’s ceramic clinks against your metal. A little victory.

—

You could care less about Ryder’s peace, really; but, you’re partially grateful in the fact that it’s allowed you to catch Colt’s attention. Colt sticks to his word about the coffee, because he seems to keep his attention fixed whenever you’re at that catering table with him. And when you’re not at the catering table, he’s still somehow around, holding open doors for you and keeping spare pencils tucked on his person for you to use to mark scripts. You don’t want to mistake it for anything that it’s not, but it feels almost vaguely like Colt Seavers is trying to court you.

All the fuss that he’s been making to please you culminates into a really unnecessary scene on-set. You’re right off camera, next to the director, camera op, Gail, and… Colt. It’s one of those classic getaway car scenes, set in a downtown street; they’ve got Ryder in the motions of hopping into a great Oldsmobile Toronado, while two security guards are trying to hop and skip after him in the facade of a nameless bank. All the action—Ryder yelling “Really, it ain’t personal,” in a vaguely East Coast accent—culminates into him jumping down a set of stairs and whipping the door open. He clambers in, slams the door shut, and throws a big duffel into the backseat. The open zipper of the bag makes for a great effect of bills being scattered all in the closed containment of the car.

The director yells cut and the crew runs round to reset. Ryder runs his nails into his scalp, pushing back his curls; it all comes very easily to him, these things. As terrible as he is a person, he still can’t help but be great at his craft. It’s insufferable. One of the PAs guides him out of the car and off-camera to a tall chair with a glass of water and a tray of fruit. He pops a green grape into his mouth, before staring off in your direction, bored. “Can somebody tell Colt to stop eye-fucking the scripty?”

The notes that you’re taking down in red ink have to wait. You slap your script down onto your lap. “He’s not,” you spit out, gawking most of all at the choice of words. In front of the entire set—oh, you want to kill Ryder; there’s nothing in the world you’d want more.

“I’m not—” Colt scoffs. “I’m trying to gauge if the camera needs to get pulled back. It’s gonna be a killer if I crack the lens.” You look over your shoulder to check Colt’s conviction. There’s zero of it. He’s looking down at you and back at Ryder, hands propped on his hips. You can see his chest rise and fall. Colt wants to look tough, and his composure is doing absolutely to help you.

Ryder laughs, really guffaws. He makes sure to crunch down another green grape, before he shoos the whole arrangement away with a “Thanks, honey.” The PA by Ryder’s side makes sure to make themselves sparse, taking away the fruit and leaving him with the water. Ryder keeps his eye locked on Colt, already quite entertained. “You’re a shitty liar, dude.”

“There’s a reason why one’s the lead and the other’s the double,” Gail says heartily, smacking her gum with a shrug. When she finds that you haven’t agreed with her, or at least laughed alongside the two of them, she gives you an eyeroll under her wide glasses. It’s all wide and clear: Gail thinks you’re no fun. She should really adjust her priorities.

The director groans, “Jesus, Colt, just go get in the car.” The talk is getting you all further behind schedule. Colt’s meant to crash into a storefront window. Amidst the arguing, everything’s all in place—an Oldsmobile replica driven up in place of the real deal, door open for Colt to jump in. You can feel him hand tap the back of your chair as he straightens out his costume and grabs for his crash helmet. A wordless sorry. You try not to jump at the feeling of Colt’s suit brushing against your shoulder as he passes by you.

“You got it, boss,” Colt calls out, exclamation muffled. He throws out a big thumbs up as he makes it over to the car. You have a feeling that Colt is going to grovel later about Ryder making a scene of the two of you, but really, it isn’t the worst thing in the world—at least, until Colt slams the car door shut and Ryder decides to speak up again.

Leaned over in his tall chair, he asks slovenly, “Seriously, are you sleeping with Seavers? If it’s because he’s my stuntman and it’s a power thing—” 

“No! No, I’m not sleeping with Colt and even if I was, you would have absolutely nothing to do with you,” you hiss. The ego on Ryder makes your head thrum. You try to keep to your script—taking up the clipboard in your lap to write notes down on your log on the last couple of shots.

“It would make sense ‘cause he looks like me, you hate my guts. It’s like that psychosexual shit that Freud talks about… uh…” Ryder taps his fingers on the armrest of his chair, then clicks his fingers: “Displacement.” Smartass. He probably only knows the term having prepped it for an interview on one of his psychological thrillers. Ryder is about to continue harping on about how flattered he is, but the 1st AD calls quiet on set; he shuts it.

—

You’re stationed at your new spot on the opposite side of the backlot, five feet behind the secondary camera setup—where Colt is meant to swing the car through a large glass window. Luckily, Ryder and Gail have decided amongst themselves to depart elsewhere to talk about the next big film. This way, you’ll be able to worry about this stunt in peace.

At action, the Oldsmobile revs. Colt is making sure to kick up some smoke. You can tell now that this is going to be a good take—just from the way he’s handling the car. If you’re not mistaken, you think that he might even be driving with a bit of extra force. The car starts barreling down the set raucously. You’re trying not to grip your script too hard at the sight of him speeding down the road. As Colt’s car approaches, you’re unable to see his expression past the tinted helmet. The flash that you do catch is of his gloved hands gripping the wheel—and the most that you can do is cross your fingers.

The collision is hard. You can’t help but flinch at the sight of him tearing the car through the pane. It shatters loudly, and you can see the motion of the Oldsmobile hitting the crash pad. The director makes sure to hold, so SFX can machine-pump a bit of fog out of the fictitious storefront and make the scene look a little prettier. Then, they call “Cut.” There’s a whole lot of movement towards the car—first, with brooms to sweep away the stray glass, and second, to check on Colt.

The door of the Oldsmobile whips open, and Colt shoots out a thumbs up. You sigh. He’s fine. As soon as he gets out of the car, though, you can’t help but notice that he’s gripping his shoulder and trying to stretch it back. He takes a moment to tug off his helmet and mess with his hair just a bit. The nearest on-set medic tries to approach him with a “If it hurts, I can take a look at it,” but you hear him deny it with an insistent “All good. Don’t worry about it.” The director runs up to give Colt praises—“The shot was perfect, man. Good job.”—calls a thirty-minute break to the crew, and then rushes away.

By the time Colt gets over to you, you’re still locked into your seat trying to look busy. Your fingers are clasping around your script and logs, trying to straighten out the stack as you tap it atop your knee a few times. He comes up and leans one hand on your armrest. As casual as he tries to make it look, Colt’s trying to keep himself steady. You suck in a breath and look straight up at him. “You screwed your shoulder up, didn’t you?”

His brows furrow. “No. I stepped on the gas harder than I should’ve so it’s just a residual, you know, body reaction,” Colt says, coming off your armrest. For once, Ryder’s right: Colt is a shitty liar. “I would know if I screwed my shoulder up,” he says dismissively.

“You,” you say, index fingers pointed up and towards Colt’s chest, “are going to let me take a look at it, and if it’s bad, I’m going to tell them to send you home early.”

He scoffs. “I still have two more stunts tonight.” But somehow, he’s still bending to your whim—because as soon as you hop off your chair and begin to walk off in the opposite direction, Colt’s right on your tail. “It’s my job to get dinged up,” he says, eyes still tracking your expression. He’s trying to tell whether or not you’re mad at him. You aren’t mad, per say—but you’re not very pleased, either.

His trailer is in sight pretty quickly, tucked away in a corner of the exterior set. It’s really just a giant metal box, identical to the rest. “Okay, yes, you’re supposed to get dinged up, but not recklessly,” you tell him, approaching the front door of the trailer. “Or more than you have to. Quality over quantity, Colt.” When you look over, Colt is trying not to wince. You can’t help but frown at him.

“I’m used to it,” he tells you, shaking his head, “I have Extra Strength Advil in there. It’ll work like a miracle—just watch.”

—

You already know that Colt screwed up his shoulder, because he can’t even take the suit jacket off himself. You have to come up behind him and help him shrug it off, trying to pay no mind to the shaky breaths and heavy groans that come with the movement. The pale blue dress shirt he has on is tight around the arms; it’s not your first time seeing how much muscle Colt has on him, but it’s still just as jarring. So, you’ve got to ignore that, too. The tie is easy for Colt to pull off and toss away. Though, he’s having trouble with the buttons on the shirt—too much pull on his shoulder. You swat his hand aside and begin the motions of unbuttoning it for him.

“Okay. I shouldn’t have driven as fast as I did,” Colt admits to you, “It’s on me, obviously—but it’s also on Ryder.” You get to the bottom button slowly but surely, trying to pay close attention to his words. This feels… close. Considering you’d offered the check-up purely out of worry, this is all more intimate than you’d expected.

You tilt your head. “Because he was saying all that stuff about the…”

“Eyefucking, yeah. And I’m sure it was uncomfortable for both of us to get a load of that in front of all of our coworkers. I didn’t wanna make it a thing, so I just… I was driving angry, which is never a good thing,” Colt says, “He has no class.”

“It’s Ryder, you know? It’s not like his words really ever carry any weight,” you say. Your priority still is to make sure Colt’s shoulder isn’t too screwed up, but it also doesn’t hurt to test the waters. You pop the last button off and try to help him shrug off his dress shirt. It’s difficult not to feel a little shifty in your abdomen when your fingertips slide down against Colt’s bicep; you make sure to fold up the shirt semi-nicely before tossing it down with the tie.

When you turn, Colt in his undershirt and the dress pants looks almost boyishly guilty. You narrow your eyes, “Okay, turn around. Lemme see it.” And Colt does as you say, spinning around to show you his back. His shoulder is splotched purple and green, pigmented all across his shoulder blade. “Fuck, Colt.”

“It always looks worse than it actually is. Stunts 101.” He’s trying to make you laugh, but you’re much too focused on the bruising. He steps away as soon as you ghost your fingers over his skin. Colt’s grabbing an ice pack from his mini fridge and bringing it over his shoulder. “And I should probably use right now as an opportunity to reassure you that I wasn’t trying to eye-fuck you,” Colt says. It’s a contradiction: you can see his eyes flashing down and back up.  “Unless, obviously, you wanted me to. Then, it’d be a whole different story. But—”

You kiss Colt, crashing your lips against his, and he practically hurls the ice pack away to hug his arms around your waist. Given the chance, he would’ve gone through a whole spiel of telling you that he respects maintaining a professional relationship. But, now, you’re really laying it all out on the table. Your hands are coming up greedily to cup his face, and he’s sliding his hands up and down your lower back. He tastes like spearmint gum, and his face is burning up the longer you’re close to him.

Colt pulls back only for a moment to look at you; his pupils are dilated beyond repair. “Okay,” he murmurs, “Ryder caught me staring. Good on him for calling me on it.”

“I figured. You’re so easy to read,” you laugh, unable to stifle your amusement. Colt’s not offended at all—only leaning in closer to you. Everything about him seems a little bit lighter after you’ve kissed; he’s standing up straighter, and his hands are coming up to your head. Colt has his nimble, calloused fingers brushing through your hair. It’s a soothing, gentle motion—possibly a distraction—but it’s also romantic enough to placate you. You have to shuffle away a little bit, still locked into Colt’s grasp. “So, can I put in a word with somebody to see if you can get tonight off?”

He drops his hands back down to your waist—the workaholic he is. “If it pleases you, yes. And if it works out, I’ll nap here while you close out, ice my shoulder, and then I can take you out to dinner very, very far away from set. You choose, I pay,” Colt decides, “And we can make out a bit more after dessert. Does that sound good?” He really doesn’t waste any time.

You hum in agreement, hand flattening against Colt’s abs, just under the white wifebeater he’s got on. You can feel his stomach tighten just slightly. Sensitive. “You have me for ten more minutes, and then I’ve gotta go find an AD.”

And cockily, Colt replies, “I’m pretty sure you and I can get a lot done in ten. Don’t you?”