౨ৎ Francesca ౨ৎ

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

All you have is time and each other, now.

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

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

"What about roleplay? You ever tried it?"

"Ryland Grace!"

"What? It's fun!"

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

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

"Just answer the question!"

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

"Grace and mate discussing mating rituals, question?"

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

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

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

"Grace is bad liar."

Grace, indeed, is bad liar.

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh.

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

"You don't know that sound."

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

"Okay. You got me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's on your mind?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boredom's a crazy motivator.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wait, don't take those off!"

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

"Don't…take these off?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I absolutely can help you with that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Questions to address later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, Ryland straightens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Perfect."

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

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

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

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

Solid chance that it was, though.

"Did that feel good?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For checking your heartrate."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're in good hands, remember?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why not torture him a little?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that you care.

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

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

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

"Perfect."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ryland throws both of his eyebrows up.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Reacting very well to stimulation."

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

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

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

"Why don't I try something else?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is this part of the exam?"

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

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

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

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

Not that you'd want to.

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

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

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

"I've got another test in mind."

"He's fine! Just a little anxious so I order something to help. him. relax!" The doctor pulled again and this time you weren't asking nicely. Pulling the doctor away from Lars and nearly onto his ass, your voice came cold and authoritative.

"Get out of this room before I drag you out." With a spat curse and a look you knew you'd be addressing later, the doctor left. You'd be reprimanded almost certainly for telling off a doctor like that but he wasn't helping Lars at all. The poor man was trembling all over, skin red from crying and from a pain response you understood him to have. It was heartbreaking and immediately your attitude softened entirely. Carefully you pulled a stool up to the examination bed but kept a good distance so Lars didn't worry about being grabbed again. His eyes were screwed shut and when they were open he blinked hard and fast, he was having a bad episode and all he had needed was someone with some damn patients. She hated how doctors always acted like they knew best and it didn't matter what the patient needed. Most doctors weren't like that but the one they were stuck with was an asshole about everything.

"I'm sorry about this," you told him quietly not wanting to startle him, his eyes blinked but remained on the floor. "That was probably so scary." Lars still heaved through breathes and you glanced up to the heart rate monitor he was still hooked up to. It was concernedly high, you needed to help him calm down. "How about I sit here with you for a little while? Just in case you need me? And we don't have to talk, we don't have to do anything just breathe. Could you maybe breathe with me? I get nervous when I have to do it alone." Lars glanced quickly at you, barely a moment's glance but he recognized you. You lived on their street, on the corner. He'd seen you jogging sometimes, or in your yard, you'd always been kind. Always said hi and always pretended you didn't see him when he openly and very obviously ran to hide from you. So he nodded, a little jerk of his head before you thanked him so softly in came on a breath and hit him carefully. Lightly. You took a deep breath and Lars struggled through another, you held it a moment, Lars did his best, then you guided him through a slow exhale. And you repeated this once or twice more before praising him, "Great job. You're doing so good." He blushed but it wasn't as dark or nearly as uncomfortable.

"Your name's Lars right? I live on your street, I've seen you chopping wood a few times. I don't have a wood burning stove, bet it's really nice." Lars began slowly relaxing, leaning more into the bed instead of half out of it. His watery eyes looked over to you a little longer smiling just a hair as he nodded.

"It's nice, yeah. And-um, y-yeah I'm Lars. I-I've seen you running sometimes." He looked away then almost embarrassed at having admit that. You just smiled. As he calmed more, the blood came throbbing painfully in his hand and he gripped it instinctively. You noticed the movement and the gauze that was much redder than it should have been. What did that doctor do to him?

"Is this why you're here, Lars? Did you hurt your hand." He looked at it, nodding bashfully before looking at you. When you weren't looking at him he took a little longer to look away.

You were pretty, he'd always thought so. It was why he always tried to hide when you'd speak to him or see him. Lars wasn't the best at talking to new people and you'd only moved in a few months ago. He knew you worked here, though. He'd seen you come home really early when he was getting ready to go to church or work outside and he'd seen you leave fairly late. Always in scrubs. Usually bright colors. Today you wore a bright green with Snoopy and Woodstock on them. He liked them.

You said his name and he quickly dropped his eyes, "Can I take this gauze off? I'll have to clean it and move it a bit. If I put on two gloves and maybe let you keep your hand on a paper towel, do you think you'll be okay? Do you think it'd be enough layers I won't hurt you?" Everyone in town had "warned" you about Lars and his peculiar ways but it was always out of kindness and care. They all loved Lars deeply and only wanted you to understand him a little bit so you wouldn't be offended and the like. You weren't. You thought he was sweet just— anxious. A lot. You watched him think it over, gauging the pain he was already in and deciding how he wanted to proceed. It was important he made that choice. And understood he didn't have to put up with being mistreated or his needs ignored. Finally, after a few moments and deep breaths, he nodded.

"The— The gloves will help." You nodded with a quiet agreement before rolling back a bit and putting on a few pairs of gloves. It would make moving a little harder but you knew he needed this and he needed his hand looked at. Lars watched you carefully almost anticipating you'd try and trick him. To test if touch really hurt him if he wasn't looking, but you kept your word. He counted three layers of gloves. Seeing how tight that made him filled him with a sickly churning guilt but you didn't mention it. It didn't outwardly affect you at all, and honestly? It really didn't. If it helped Lars feel safe then it was what you'd do. Not just because it was your job but because Lars was kind, he was gentle, and he deserved the patience he gave others. You cared about him. You cared about all your patients but Lars had held a special place in your heart since you first met him moving in. He hadn't spoken or looked at you all that much but when he saw you struggling with the heavier boxes and furniture, he wordlessly stepped in to help. Before he knew you. Before you asked or even noticed him. Because that's who Lars was. Awkward and shy, maybe perpetually anxious, but above all that he was caring. He wanted to help sometimes even if he might not know how. So yeah, if more gloves helped him trust you, helped him feel brave again, then it wasn't an inconvenience at all.

You still set his hand on a cloth before carefully removing the gauze, hissing in sympathy. It was a pretty nasty cut but not deep enough to damage tendons or nerves. Maybe just a stitch or two. Lars' body tightened up looking at it. It looked worse now. Was it because he got scared? Did he make it worse? "Good news, Lars," you smiled up at him making him blush, "I think we'll just need two teeny-weeny stitches. Nothing really serious." You pinched your fingers and heightened your voice which may have looked childish or silly but it helped him. He smiled a little before his eyes fell away again. "I'm going to flush it out, shouldn't burn it's just some really clean water." He liked that you were telling him what you were doing before you did it. Even something as little as that meant a lot to him. And your touch was very gentle, light, like you were making a conscious effort not to grab or force him with too much pressure. You weren't looking at him again and he watched you work, followed the slope of your nose and the way it crinkled when you focused on something little. He admired the way your hair lay and the way your skin reacted to the different light, shimmering with what he assumed was sweat but it still somehow looked beautiful. He watched your tongue poke from the corner of your mouth, the pinch between your eyebrows while you worked. Yes. You were very pretty and he couldn't help the little smile growing a little wider when you sat up meeting his eye. You had been so attentive and patient with him, he kept his eyes on you the entire time you spoke,

"All done! You did awesome, Lars. Just keep this wrapped and dry, I'll send ya home with some stuff to keep it all clean and then you just come back in a few weeks and get em removed!" Lars nodded looking at his wrapped hand before rushing to speak seeing you stand,

"Will you be here?" You stopped by the curtain tilting your head a bit. "W-When I have to- to get out?" He was flustered again. All that confidence evaporated the moment you looked at him and smiled.

"I'll try to be, if not you can come to my place? I have everything there, too. How's that sound?" Lars nodded gratefully, a wider smile as you waved. "I'll send ya some release papers then you can call someone to pick ya up?" He nodded again, voice small but much steadier than when you walked in and so heavy with sincerity something in your chest ached.

“Dad, Miss [Y/LN]’s here! C’mon, get up already--”

You could hear Holly’s high-pitched voice from behind the front door, and a low groan from Holland right after.

The door opened to reveal Holly standing in the entryway, a big smile on her face and her school bag thrown over her shoulder. In the background, Holland could be seen leaning against the kitchen counter, a lit cigarette hanging lazily from his lips.

Holly stepped aside for you to enter the home, and you gave her a warm smile.

“Hey, kiddo. You ready for the big math test today?”

You gave her shoulder a light, endearing squeeze, and she nodded. Holly mentioned to you last week about this big, scary math test coming up, and you had helped her with her homework and checked in on her every once in a while to make sure she’d been studying, instead of getting into trouble.

“Should be! I stayed up late studying… but not too late! Dad didn’t even drink last night, either, which was a bonus.”

“What a thoughtful guy.” You said dryly, a smirk forming on your lips as your gaze fell on Holland’s slouched figure in the kitchen.

Holland pretended as if he took offence to your sarcasm, scoffing as he tapped his cigarette into the ashtray.

“I’m really trying over here, alright? Gimme a break,” Holland grumbled, clearly a bit frustrated from the alcohol withdrawals. He’d been on and off with drinking lately, but hadn't picked up the bottle in the last couple of days, so his patience was wearing thin.

“Dad of the year award goes to…” Holly muttered as she rolled her eyes.

You gave Holly a gentle nudge with your elbow and gestured with a nod for her to head out to the car.

“I’ll be out in a sec, hon. Just gonna have a quick chat with your dad.”

Holly bobbed her head cheerfully and skipped down the front steps to your car.

You strutted across the room to where Holland was, and he straightened his posture as you got closer. You drew in a deep breath, mostly out of habit, to see if you could smell the scent of whiskey on him. But this morning he smelled like tobacco and day-old cologne, mixed with his usual musk.

You looked up at Holland, a smug grin painted across your lips. You watched as the cigarette dangled from his trembling lip.

You had this effect on Holland; you were a dominant woman. Cunning, gorgeous, independent. You knew what you wanted and always got it. But you were also kind, loving, and so genuine. You made his head spin and the front of his trousers tent.

“How’s my baby doing today?” You asked with an eyebrow cocked and a freshly manicured hand on your hip.

Holland gulped. He could already feel his cock straining against the zipper of his pants.

“G-good. A l-little shaky today, b-but… good.”

His hands gripped the kitchen counter behind him. You were standing close, your body almost flush against his. He felt trapped by you, and it drove him nuts.

Your hands reached up to fix one of the buttons on his wrinkled dress shirt, and Holland’s breath caught in his throat as your fingers grazed his chest.

You couldn’t help but smile at the way you had this man wrapped around your finger.

“Good, sweetheart. Put those shaky hands to good use later, okay?” Your voice was low and velvety in Holland’s ear.

You caught Holland’s eye twitching nervously, and your gaze lowered down to his groin. There was an impressive tent in his trousers.

Your hands raked down his chest and grazed the outline of his cock, which strained against the fabric of his pants. Holland let out a short, high-pitched whine.

“Well, we don't want Holly waiting too long. She’s got a big day ahead of her. She’s gonna ace that test, I can feel it.”

You stepped back from Holland, and he looked as if he was ready to collapse. His breathing was laboured, and he stamped his barely lit cigarette out in the ashtray.

As you made your way to the front door, Holland called out behind you.

“Y’know, I, uh… I really appreciate what you're doing for Holly. She really needs s-someone like… like you in her life.”

You stopped at the door, your hand grasping the door frame as you casually looked over your shoulder, meeting Holland’s eyes.

“Oh, don’t kid yourself, March. You need me just as bad.”

And with that, you got in your car and drove Holly to school, leaving Holland behind in the kitchen, feeling faint from his hard-on for you.

On the drive to school, you and Holly went over the test material that would be on her math quiz later that day. You made sure to mention how proud of her you were, that she was really turning her grades around and taking her education more seriously.

“Y’know, Holly. There’s nothing more dangerous than an educated woman.” You'd say to her.

You pulled up to the school drop-off zone, putting your car in park and turning to say goodbye to Holly. But Holly interrupted you.

“Miss [Y/L/N],--”

“Please, hon, just call me [Y/N]. You’re makin’ me feel old.” You tutted while checking yourself in the rearview mirror, using your middle finger to soften the harsh line of your lipstick.

Holly drew in a deep breath before continuing.

“Dad said I have to call you Miss [Y/L/N], to be respectful. Anyways, I just wanted to say… Thanks for always being there for me. I know it's only been a couple of months, but… I really like you. You’re not like the other women my dad’s been with… after my mom died.”

You glanced at Holly with an inquisitive eyebrow raised.

“What do you mean, ‘not like the other women’?”

“Well, you’re not a whore. You’re really nice and smart.”

“Hey, don’t discredit whores. You never know when you're gonna need one.”

Holly let out a half-stifled giggle.

“But I appreciate that, Holly. You’re a good kid,”

You both paused for a moment.

“I just want to make sure you get ahead in life.”

Your fingers fidget with the leather on the steering wheel. This was the first tender moment you and Holly had shared since you came into her life. However, her kind words settled the anxiety you had around your role in her life. Albeit short, it seemed like you had made a good impression on the young girl, which was what you had hoped for.

Holly reached for the door handle to exit the car, and you met her gaze. She looked a bit nervous, probably about her test later, so you gave her another heartfelt smile.

“You got this, hon. You’re gonna kill it. I’ll be back later to pick you up, okay?”

Holly gave you a big grin, nodding cheerfully as she exited the car. She gave you an enthusiastic wave as she walked through the doors of her school, joining the crowd of students.

You gripped the gearshift and put the car into drive and sped off down the road, back to the March residence.

Inside, Holland had been waiting impatiently for your return. He felt like he was seeing double; his cock was so hard, it made him feel like he was going to pass out any minute.

He paced his sunken living room, nervously running his fingers through his hair. He itched for a drink to calm his nerves, but he knew he definitely wouldn't be able to stay hard if he did.

Holland’s ears perked up at the sound of your key turning in the lock, and he spun around to see you walking through his front door. He felt his dick twitch in his pants at the sight of you.

“Miss me?”

The words dripped from your lips like honey.

God, did Holland miss you.

And you were only gone for, what, fifteen minutes?

“Fuck yes, I did.”

Holland rushed you where you were standing, his lips making contact with the tender skin under your jaw. His facial hair prickled against your soft skin as he nipped and sucked at your neck, his hands grasping at your hips and ass.

Your hands travelled up his back and neck, and found their way into his dirty-blonde hair. You gripped a handful of his hair with your fist, yanking his head back so he could look you in the eyes.

His pupils were blown with lust, but there was a hint of fear in his eyes.

And that only made you wetter.

“So needy already, sweetheart.” You tutted in a disapproving tone and tightened your grip on the fistful of Holland’s hair.

Holland let out a pathetic whimper at the burning feeling on his scalp.

“Please, baby. I-I’ve been so good, I--”

Holland’s voice cracked pathetically.

You let go of the fistful of Holland’s hair, and he whined as he stumbled. You steadied him by using one hand to grip his shoulder and the other to palm his hard-on through his pants.

“You think you deserve to be fucked by me?” You questioned in a low, harsh tone.

Holland swallowed nervously, but you felt his cock twitch against your palm.

“No, n-never. Never in a million years--”

“That’s right. Good boy,”

Holland could feel his knees start to buckle under him. His hands were shaking; he wasn’t sure if it was from the alcohol withdrawals or his animalistic desire for you.

You pushed Holland towards the bedroom, letting the man stumble around as he began unbuttoning his day-old dress shirt and unbuckling his pants. His hair was messy, his eyes half-lidded with lust, all while his fingers trembled with anticipation.

Oh, it was a pretty sight.

Holland perched on the bed, on his hands and knees, his shirt half-unbuttoned, and pants unbuckled as he looked up at you with his big, puppy dog eyes.

You could see Holland’s straining cock trying to push free from his zipper. His chest rising and falling with every anticipating breath, ready for your next command.

You slowly began stripping in front of the pathetic man, teasing him with every layer you peeled off (painfully slow, I might add).

Every time his hand reached out for you, to feel your soft skin, you’d slap it away.

“Did I say you could touch me?”

Your tone was harsh.

Holland would rather die than disappoint you, so he sat back on his heels. He was looking up at you with needy eyes, the vein in his forehead pulsing as he tried to restrain himself.

Soon, you were completely nude in front of Holland, and his jaw flexed as he gritted his teeth. His pupils were blown wide with lust as his gaze washed up and down your figure.

Holland could feel saliva starting to pool under his tongue.

“Please,” his voice croaked. “Please, can I taste you?”

You couldn't help but smile at his bedroom etiquette.

God, Holland was desperate.

You took a couple of steps toward him, and his head fell back to keep eye contact with you. His hands were fidgeting with his belt buckle, and you glanced at the large print of his cock under his briefs, peeking through his unzipped pants.

Your hand found purchase around Holland’s pretty throat and gave it a light squeeze before your lips made contact with his. He groaned against your mouth, his voice vibrating against the pressure of your palm against his windpipe.

The kiss was hot, sloppy, and passionate, and when you broke away, a string of Holland’s saliva connected your lips to his own.

Your fingers made quick work of unbuttoning the rest of Holland’s wrinkled dress shirt and tossing it to the side. You gave him a not-so-gentle push backwards, making him lose balance and fall back onto the soft bed with a ‘oof’.

“I guess you’ve been good enough. Right, darling?”

Your tone was teasing. Holland gulped, appearing almost frantic.

“I-I’ve been real good, baby, I swear--”

“Then get to work.”

With one leg on either side of Holland’s ribcage, you looked down into Holland’s wide, blue eyes as he nodded desperately. He shimmied under you to line his face up with your wet, slick core, his hands inching up your soft thighs and spreading them even wider.

Without hesitation, Holland hooked his strong arms under your thighs and pulled you down towards him. In seconds, you were sitting on top of his face as his lips feverishly licked and sucked at your bud of nerves. You could feel his prickly mustache and stubble rubbing against your pussy, creating eye-rolling friction against your wetness.

Your fingers grabbed hold of his tousled, dirty-blonde hair, tugging at his scalp as his tongue explored inside of you. You could feel Holland’s prominent nose rubbing and bumping against your clit, driving you crazy.

You let out a soft moan, barely audible, but it only made Holland work harder. He derived immense pleasure from hearing your moans, knowing that he was pleasing you how you liked. He was desperate for your praise, to make you feel good.

You began rocking your hips against his tongue and chin, revelling in the feeling of his facial hair rubbing against your core.

Suddenly, you felt the pad of Holland’s thumb pressing against your clit, rubbing quick, unforgiving circles against the swollen bud. You tossed your head back in ecstasy, eyes rolling back as unmistakable moans of pleasure tumbled out of you.

You could feel Holland whimpering and crying against your pussy, the vibrations of his whines sending shockwaves up your core. He couldn’t help it; he could barely breathe, but he knew this was the way he wanted to go out. He would die a happy man with his face buried in your pretty pussy.

With the combination of the feeling of his tongue dipping into your wet heat and his thumb circling your clit, you couldn’t hold back your orgasm any longer.

You let out a choked sob as your climax came crashing down. You had no strength to hold yourself up, and you found Holland’s hands gripping your sides, trying to steady your body as he clambered out from under you.

You fell back against the pile of soft pillows, eyelids fluttering as you tried to regain your energy after your intense orgasm. You felt the weight of Holland next to you in the bed.

Holland rubbed your thigh, trying to soothe you and bring you back to reality. You reached out for him, grasping his wife-pleaser by the collar and pulling him toward you for a sloppy, passionate kiss.

“Did I do alright?” Holland asked, with big, pleading eyes. His lips, mustache, and stubbled chin were shiny with your wetness. You could see his erection was still pressing against his trousers, but there was a large wet spot from him leaking his pre-cum.

“Oh, Holland. Don’t ask stupid questions and just fuck me.” Your voice was high and fluttery, a stark contrast to your usual low, teasing tone.

You helped Holland peel off the rest of his layers, and he settled himself between your legs, hips pressing against yours as he lined up his large cock and sank into your aching core.

Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, he filled you up with his impressive cock and began to pump in and out of your pussy. The noises that were coming from you two were wet, sloppy, and downright sinful.

Your fingernails raked down Holland’s back, leaving bright red lines behind, marking your territory. You wrapped your legs around Holland’s hips, pulling him closer to you as he bottomed out. His large hands gripped your waist hard, as if he was worried you’d disappear on him.

He let out a pathetic whimper as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, muttering something inaudible. You knew he was trying his very best not to come fast; usually, if he looked you in the eyes while inside of you, it was game over for Holland.

In between thrusts, he kept blubbering in your ear, stringing together words that didn’t make any sense.

“Baby, I can’t hear you--”

Holland lifted his head from your shoulder and looked you square in the face.

“I-I love you, alright?” Holland exclaimed in between thrusts, and you could see tears forming in his eyes. Holland’s pace slowed for a moment as he blinked back tears, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“I-I’m sorry, I uh-I don’t know what came over me. Just forget I said anything.”

Holland started to backtrack and sped up his pace. Your hands cupped his jaw, forcing Holland to look you in the eyes again.

“No, no… It’s okay, Holland. I… I love you, too.”

Holland stopped thrusting entirely, his jaw slack with astonishment as he watched your face, looking for any hint of humour.

“You really mean that?”

“Yes, dumbass. I wouldn’t be doing all this shit for you if I didn’t.”

“I… Right, you’re right. I’m stupid. Can I… can I call you my girlfriend?”

You cocked an eyebrow, giving Holland a judgemental look.

“Since when is that how you ask a grown woman to be your girlfriend?”

“Fuck, shit. I’m sorry. Will… will you be m-my girlfriend?”

“God, you’re pathetic. Yes, Holland.”

There’s a hint of annoyance in your tone, but you can't help but smile up at Holland above you. A dumb, lopsided smile spreads across his lips before he gets back down to business, pushing your thighs to your chest and drilling into your aching pussy.

Not long after professing your love for each other, you're both cumming in unison, bodies spasming together as you both come down from your high.

Holland’s full weight was on top of you, softening cock still inside you as he brushed your hair away from your face. He nuzzled into your neck, kissing the sensitive skin under your jaw.

You can't help but let out a breathy laugh at the handsome man’s pathetic clinginess post-coitus.

“Holly’s gonna be so happy when I tell her the good news,”

Holland murmured as he pressed a long kiss to your temple.

“Great, why don't you tell her when you pick her up from school today?”

Holland let out a loud chuckle. You shot him an annoyed look.

“I was thinking about having a few drinks to celebrate.”

“Dad of the year, everybody.”

[the end!]

❅ lars sat very still, quietly listening to you moving boxes in your house for about forty minutes instead of offering help like a normal person. he’s was mentally grappling with the fact that he was going to start seeing a new face—a very pretty one—around town often. yet another pair of eyes were going to be on him.

❅ he avoids you like the plague for the first two weeks. from home to work, work to home, and church every week. he didn’t want you to pop up out of nowhere and watch him embarrass himself.

❅ he was still watching you though, not spying! just.. observing. he had memorised your schedule, 8 am your bedroom lights come on, 8:45 you leave for work and you’re back sometime before 4:37. good, now he knew when to avoid you, now he just had to figure out where to avoid you.

❅ the first time you see him fully, you’re both outside on a saturday. he was getting some mail, and as he’s rummaging through the mail box, he hears a cheerful “good morning!” he looks back for one second, and it’s you. and you watch the poor man quickly waddle back into his house, while a couple of letters fall out of the box with a small “oh…? uhm, okay…”

❅ after that, you notice him everywhere. a tall figure behind frost covered windows, his curtains slightly shuffling when your cars pulls out of your driveway. catching him through your window once, but he moves to quick you thought you genuinely imagined him.

❅ the second time you see him, it’s at a record store that recently opened. he was so excited to go buy some new albums after gus introduced him to a band that made ambient jazz, but when he walked in, his heart might as well have fell out his ass. there you were, the pretty girl next door, placing down vinyls and cds on the display shelves. he wanted to run away again, but he genuinely froze.

“hi! are you looking for a new album to buy?”

“…yeah… a… jazz band…”

❅ he stood there, internally panicking as you told him about what albums you had. he was sweating, even though it was freezing cold outside. you pick up the album he was looking for, but he couldn’t bring himself to say that it’s what he wants, instead blurting out a quick “i left my keys at home, sorry.”

❅ he locked himself inside his house for the rest of the day, but when he was about to leave for work the next morning, that same album was waiting outside his door with a small note on it. sorry about your keys! enjoy -y/n

❅ now he had a name to the face, and later that day, he told gus and karin about the gifted record, and karin tried to get him to talk to you. “i’ll bake you some cookies, why don’t you bring them to her?” but lars didn’t know the difference between seeing you again and being held at gun point. he insisted on the fact that you probably wanted privacy.

❅ on your way out to work the next day, your driveway was shovelled and freshly salted. and when you looked across the street, he was standing by the his window, yet again. but this time, when you waved at him and smiled, he nodded and stood there for one second, before quickly walking away.

❅ something in him relaxed just a little bit when he realised that you didn’t find him to be a complete freak weirdo. you kept waving at him every time you saw him, you would flash him that gorgeous smile, even left a couple more records from the band just because you wanted to. well, now he obviously had to pay you back, right?

❅ your rubbish bin would be dragged back up your driveway after collection day, your porch light would mysteriously be fixed after flickering for a whole week. you had no proof, but you knew it was him.

❅ he became obsessed with the sounds of your routine. the sound of music through your open window when he’s chopping wood in the evening. the sound of you struggling to open your car frozen car door in the morning.

❅ there’s this one horrible moment where you knock on his door (knowing damn well that boy is not opening up) unexpectedly to introduce yourself after months of silently watching each other from a distance. lars completely panics and freezes, he can see you through the window and he stupidly decides to pretend that he’s not home, despite the fact that you can literally see him standing there.

❅ but afterwards, he felt so guilty, he literally couldn’t sleep. but you had walked away quietly giggling because this man looked absolutely petrified of you.

❅ your first actual conversation lasts less than a minute. it happens when you catch him outside while he’s shovelling snow, thanking him for clearing your driveway. he muttered “it was in the way,” despite the fact that it objectively was not. that’s when you finally get his name.

❅ you start lingering outside longer after that. taking your time to open your front door, watering plants that the freezing weather had killed weeks ago, anything to see him appear near by again.

❅ and he somehow always does.

❅ there was an odd chemistry between you at this stage, and it’s unbearable because it’s built on restraint. longing looks through windows, tiny acts of care neither of you acknowledged. you feel his eyes on you before you you see him, and he spends everyday convincing himself that he needs to stay away while unconsciously orbiting you like a planet.

❅ lars grew very obsessed with this chemistry because it was only interesting thing going on for him. between small talks in the morning, you would mention minor inconveniences because seeing him so focused to get something done just because you mentioned it in passing was kind hot. it was clear that he was a very attentive man.

❅ a loose cabinet hinge? he’s on it. snow shovelled before dawn. your heater is making a weird noise? he’s outside your house before he’s even fully put on his gloves.

❅ it was ridiculous because after a while, it was you watching him from afar. maybe you had a massive little crush on your shy neighbour. watching him chop wood and shovel snow just because seeing him breathing hard would get to you a little. you would ask him to pick up a heavy box just to hear him groan or whimper a bit.

❅ you quickly figure out that he likes routine, so you’d appear in predictable ways to see him relax, maybe even give you that adorable awkward smile of his. same time everyday at the mailbox, same overly sweet wave through the window.

❅ you couldn’t tell if it was the proximity, or the fact that he always seemed to be there when you had an issue with your house (no matter how small it was), but you had your eyes on him now.

❅ you’d lean against the doorframe, gently teasing him while he’s red-faced, gripping a mug of tea so tightly it might break, looking like he’s seconds away from going into cardiac arrest.

❅ lars hadn’t even realised that you’ve been flirting with him until karin pointed it out. because “what do you mean she asked you to change her bedroom lightbulb three times this week?”

❅ oh? is this what intentional flirting was like? when you’d call his hair perfect, while brushing snowflakes off of his sweater even though touching him felt like it needed medical approval? looking at him with that hypnotic gaze while he accidentally rambled about carpentry? oh.

❅ this poor baby would go back to hiding for days in his house, but he’d always have his eyes on you. he didn’t want to be outside unless he looked perfect, he’d put on his best sweater just to look good for you. combing his hair in different sides to hear you say which side you liked better, showing up to the record store just to say hi and buy nothing.

❅ one night the power goes out after a particularly violent snowstorm, and you show up at his door, wrapped in a blanket asking if you can stay with him because your house kept making scary creaky noises. you sit together in candle light, drinking terrible hot cocoa. one point you fall asleep next to him with your thighs touching, and he terrified of moving because he doesn’t want to wake you up.

❅ lars tells gus and karin, and they’re immediately invested. thank goodness, it’s a human girl this time! gus trying not to laugh every time lars “just happens to be” outside your front door again, and karin watching you to talk to lars even though he’s one touch away from falling to his knees.

❅ he’s hyper focused on everything you say. when you mentioned that you had a favourite candy that you used to eat as a child, he’s suddenly giving them to you with a quiet “i saw these in the store and they reminded me of you…”, even though he ordered them from a different city. you genuinely had to look away because it had affected you so badly.

Last you heard from Karin, his girlfriend had passed away—Bianca, the sex-doll turned town treasure. You didn’t know Lars well, but there’d been a dull ache in your chest when she called to tell you she and Gus had spent a few solid hours in the hospital sleep-deprived, and Lars was devastated. You grieved for him, the stranger that he was.

Karin’s still beaming. “It’s perfect. The crib is in our room, and Lars is in the pink room. The garage is still set up like a studio, minus Gus’ workout gear, but it really is a nice setup. And if you’re staying with us, I could talk with the front-desk ladies at the elementary school, see if they have room for you.” You can already see it in her eyes; she’s formulating plans for you in her head—when she’s going to get you newer sheets, the best restaurants to take you to in town. 

Most important of all, though she won’t say it to you until you move in, you’re going to make a very good Plan-C babysitter. After all, you are one of two godparents. Karin made sure you knew that at the baby shower, too. You and Lars are the backups. The thought of that kills you, too. Your hands come up to rub your eyes, trying to take in the offer in totality. Is even this a good idea? Karin’s painting it out to be, but she’s also got a bit of a plague-like optimism about her. “I don’t know, Karin. You should probably have a deeper conversation with Gus about this kind of thing—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, would you just say yes?” Karin cries out. She’s grabbing for mitts to pick up the large pot of pasta. “It’s not like we haven’t all roomed together before, and this house is way bigger than our old apartment.” Karin sleeves the mitts over her hands, before picking the pot off the red-hot burners. Once she’s pouring it out into a strainer in the sink, you can see her peer at you over her shoulder. The steam rises up out of the metal basin in wisps past her short, brown hair. “Won’t you just accept the favor and move in for a little while?”

“Karin Lindstrom, you are an unconventionally kind person,” you start. She tosses the pasta from the strainer back into the emptied pot, before whipping around to get a good look at you. “I’ll live with you, okay? You win.”

Karin squeals with delight, throwing her mitts onto the counter and jumping to give you a clambering hug. She’s squeezing your shoulders so tightly you think you might bruise. You can hear a handful of loud footsteps, creaking along the ceiling over your heads. She doesn’t pay it any mind, so you decide not to either. That is, until Gus comes stepping down the staircase. His voice is stuck between this delicate balance between whispering and shouting. “Hon, is there a fire? What’s going on?”

Bless his soul. He has a little blankie over his left shoulder, and the same thick, stern brow as usual. Little Elinor Bianca is tucked to his chest, bleary eyed. They named her after Gus and Lars’ mother and Lars’ girlfriend who you’d known for such a short time. She looks, really, so much like Karin. Especially her eyes. You can hardly believe it—your old friends as fully-functional parents. Gus is trying to cradle her soft despite the quick burst of movement. You really don’t remember him looking so fatherly.

Karin lowers her voice into the same, quieter shout. “It’s going to be just like college all over again!” She pulls away from you to take your hands into her own. Her thin, warm fingers wrap around your palms. It doesn’t seem so outrageous to Gus, seeing as he’s giving you a tight-lipped smile and letting his shoulders relax. Not a fire.

“I was telling Karin it might be best if you both agree on this. I’m not trying to move in on a whim,” you try to tell Gus, ladened with sheepishness.

He’s already jumping back up the stairs, to return to that critical process of putting baby Beth down for her nap in the crib upstairs. “You won’t hear me complaining,” he murmurs, halfway up the staircase, “It takes a village.”

—

Both you and Karin talk through the rest of the afternoon about your move-in. You still have to get your affairs in order—close up your current sublease, pack your things into a reasonable amount of moving boxes, ship over to the small town Karin now calls home. In the meantime, she thinks it’s best for you all to have one of those Lindstrom family dinners (these happen every other week, she assures you), so the four of you can chat it over. They still have to run it through Lars, which she assures you should be fine. And now, Karin has you worrying over the mushroom risotto, wondering if you should’ve told her “no” more stubbornly. You’re not necessarily high-wired, but you do think it’s a little intrusive to start living out in the garage. It means you’re going to be around a lot more often.

You can feel your shoulders tense at the sound of tires rolling over the dirt road outside a couple good hours later; the grating sound floats in through the kitchen window, and makes your grip on the wooden spoon stutter slightly. Karin jumps into action, while you’re feeling yourself sweat. “Oh! He’s here, he’s here! One sec—” She jogs over to the back door, opening it on its rickety hinges and watching as Lars gets out of his low-to-the-ground Toyota. He’s bundled in a beanie and a puffer, briefcase held tight in his hand. Karin shouts, “Lars! I just took the chicken out of the oven, and the table’s all set.”

He seems to squint at her from across the yard, just over the hood of his car, letting out a soft, ragged breath. The far-and-wide announcement is a little more ostentatious than he’d like it to be. He approaches in wide steps, snatching his beanie off his head and running his hand through his slicked hair, tidying it as best as he can. Karin, watching him with soft eyes, seems to be nearly buzzing with excitement seeing him approach the back porch. You crack a soft, shy grin. “Lars! We met—”

“—at the baby shower. I remember.” He brings his mitted hand up in front of you, and you have to take a quick moment of confusion and recovery to shake it. He’s still warmed up, having been tucked into the car for the entirety of the ride back, heater fighting to stay on amidst the evening chill. So, Lars remembers you. You don’t know why you thought he wouldn’t. He has a grin playing softly on his face, eyes blinking as he looks down to your shoes. “You’re a librarian in the city.”

“Well,” you purse your lips, “Until the end of next month.” You did really like this job, rolling your book rack down the aisles and seeing who was checking out what. Bummer to lose a gig like that.

“Which is why we’re having dinner tonight,” Karin says, tugging you aside by the sleeve of your sweater so Lars can shuffle inside past the both of you. You can feel your back brush against the wall of the entryway just slightly, straightening out your back.

You feel a bit flushed seeing how Lars shuffles through the threshold of the door, shoulder nearly brushing with your chest. You’d forgotten how tall and how burly he was at the baby shower—and right now, he seems to tower over you. You’re trying your best to keep a steady smile, but you’re becoming acutely aware that you’re still quite attracted to him. Gus’ brother. Karin’s brother-in-law. You have to remind yourself two or three times over just looking at him. It’s just too close. You wish he was a stranger.

Lars peeks up the staircase, then down at you. You have to swallow down that flustered feeling you get when he turns his gaze down to you, his well-kept mustache curving as he shoots you a few blinks and a polite smile. “It’s poor management,” he assures you, “Their loss.” You nod shyly, trying your best to peel your gaze away from him and towards the open front door. Karin’s still holding it open, letting in the draft—just staring at you both. She seems to shut it in a hurry, before shooing you both towards the dining room. She makes the both of you sit down while she calls for Gus to bring baby Elinor downstairs.

So, all five of you are sitting at the table.  The high-chair is right between Karin and Gus at the head of the table, and you and Lars are placed conveniently across from one another. They seem to fall into the usual motions—Gus is making miniature portions for his daughter from each of the serving plates, using a small, plastic spoon to scoop it into Elinor’s bowl. Karin serves Gus’ plate, and then her own. There’s a small exchange between Karin and Lars in passing serving bowls. You only realize a moment or so later that Lars is looking down at your plate.

“Potatoes?” he murmurs. You let yourself glance over at Karin and Gus, who are still well-occupied by the baby and their own plates. You offer Lars a polite, “Yes, please.” He hurries to finish scooping his own portion onto the ceramic plate in front of him, before reaching to offer the bowl over to you.

“So, I would’ve called you earlier, Lars, but I know you had that busy day today at the office,” Karin eases in. “We’re wondering if you’d mind a new addition to the house.”

Lars’ eyebrows seem to raise incredulously. He lets out a hushed whisper to Karin, “You’re pregnant?” Gus nearly flubs the tiny baby-spoon in his hands, Elinor babbling mindlessly as her father lets out a loud and unabashed snort. Karin’s just about to protest, when you let out a soft, attention-calling cough.

“They want me to move in,” you wince, taking the bowl of mashed potatoes off of his hands. You’re hovering it awkwardly over your own plate now, a little too anxious to pull the spoon out and start serving yourself. Lars is quiet. You’re trying to gauge the kind of reaction he’s having to the proposition, and he’s not giving much.

“In the garage?” he asks, attention pulled to Karin and Gus. “We should buy a couple fresh blankets. Maybe a heater.” So, it’s a yes. Lars is completely fine with you moving in—even hospitable about the whole ordeal. There’s something sort of endearing about his lack of a solid “yes.” To Lars, it goes without question. Already, he seems to be going through the mental math of getting you settled in.

But you have to protest: “No! I mean—you don’t have to go buying anything nice. I have a lot of sweaters in my place that I’ll bring over. The heater’s overkill.”

“Well, he’s kinda right. I can probably drive out to the hardware store in town. They sell them for cheap,” Gus admits, taking another generous scoop of pea-mush and floating it towards Elinor’s mouth. Karin gives him a firm nod of agreement, arms crossed over the table. You could practically melt at how sweet all three of them are about the whole move-in. Finally, you can carry out those gentle motions of serving your own plate, eyes softened as you stare down at the pretty lace trim of your placemat, the stark-white of the glossy plate placed above it. It might not be so bad with the Lindstroms.

—

You wouldn’t have expected for Lars to call off sick on your move-in day. But somehow, while you’re pulling up to the driveway after that long drive from the city—he’s there. With a creme-gridded flannel and a pair of black work boots. You swear under your breath at the sight. You pull slowly into the driveway, braking right beside him. As soon as you’re out of the car, Lars is shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Karin, Gus, and Elinor are at the supermarket. Buying for a big dinner,” he tells you, “Probably not the welcoming band you were wanting.”

“No, this is perfect! I’d rather move the stuff when it’s quieter, anyways. Less of a bother.” You round your car, clicking the little latch-button on your trunk and pulling up the lid. Inside the back, there’s a generous lot of your belongings packed into moving boxes and luggage bags. He sweeps up one of your bigger boxes with one arm. “Oh, Lars, you don’t—”

“I wanna. You’re a guest,” Lars says, adjusting the cardboard underneath his arm. Then, he digs into the front pocket of his puffer and drops a keyring into your hand. “Gold is for the garage, silver’s for the house.” Before you know it, he’s grabbing your suitcase, too—and nodding for you to walk ahead of him down the driveway.

He lets you unlock the door for the both of you. It takes a lot of effort for you not to fumble with the keys. You can hear Lars shuffling in slowly behind you, then peeling off to place your box and luggage down in the corner. As soon as he straightens back up, he’s already turning towards the door. Lars mumbles, “I’ll be back.” He doesn’t wait for an answer from you, just pivots on the soles of his boots and walks out of the garage. You peek with a tilted head outside the door. He’s already jogging back out to the trunk again.

You explore the place on your own while he takes in your things from the car. He’s having minimal trouble lifting everything and stacking it up in the corner. It makes you bashful; you’d struggled even bringing them out the door of your old place. The garage is stocked with everything you could need—laid out similarly to a studio you’d see being leased in the city. There’s a small dining table with a sixties, diner-style metal rim—two chairs to match. A kitchenette and a small bathroom. A twin-bed in the corner. You can picture Lars here—and even feel that there’s a lingering aroma of oak and cinnamon clinging to corners of the studio. It used to be his.

He comes in with your last two boxes stacked one atop the other, placing them carefully atop the kitchen counters.  “The sheets are new,” Lars points. “Karin told me you’d like the color.” You do, though you’d also take literally anything they offered to you. “Everything should be set up fine. Only thing’s the bathroom. If the water doesn’t get hot, just give me a call. With the pipes, it’s—” Iffy, he wants to say.

You shoot out a soft “okay,” hands wringing together. You don’t mean to cut him off, but Lars is really chipping away at your ability to keep cool. The thought of Lars kneeling down with a wrench and working away at the bathroom pipes sends a tight feeling to your abdomen.

Lars grabs for the knob of the front door, eyes crinkling. “I’m gonna go. You probably want to settle in.”

“Oh. Thanks,” you murmur. You have to make up for your silence. “Thank you, Lars. Really,” you say again, more earnestly. Though you keep your hands glued to your sides, you can feel yourself pushing down that unforgivable desire to squeeze his hand. He gives you a curt nod, before making his way out. He makes sure to shut the door as gently as he can behind him; you can hardly hear it click closed. Past the translucent film of the white curtains, you can see Lars hurrying across the yard and into the house, boots plodding against the short grass. You have to pinch yourself for letting your lips quirk up into a smile.

— You’re grateful for the way Karin has fought to get you an entry-level desk job. A little higher than minimum wage, generally simple. You answer the sick calls, sort the staff mail. What you aren’t so keen on is Karin’s idea of getting you acquainted with the rest of the school staff. The very-small PTA has a bake sale going on in the evening. So, the Lindstroms have to attend—for your sake.

The gymnasium has been fitted with a few rows of tables, identical black tablecloths laid out over the top. It’s a good mix of staff who you’ve only shaken the hands of once or twice, more who you’ve never even seen before, and the families of current students. All across the gym, there’s a good mix of baked goods. Gus is acting like he’s struck gold, and in the meantime, Karin has swept you away and started parading you around the room.

It seems a little targeted the way she walks you over to this particular corner of the bake sale, where there’s a taller guy around your age, dressed in a windbreaker and joggers. You already don’t like the look of it as-is. “Coach T,” Karin says, hand hovering over his right shoulder. “Travis. Sorry—we are off the clock. This is my best friend from college.” She murmurs your name to him, and you have to fight the urge to roll your eyes. It’s a setup, clearly. This Coach Travis takes your hand quickly into his own with one tight-squeeze. You can barely call it a handshake.

“You’re at the desk, right? Think I saw Lynn teaching you how to pick up the phones,” he nods. Polite, you remind yourself, be polite. Karin’s watching you with a tight, toothy grin on her face. So, maybe you would’ve liked this Travis guy in college, when you were nineteen. She’s not wrong in that sense, but you’re not exactly nineteen anymore. Now, he lacks appeal and you’re utterly bored being dragged through the small talk. You stick to it only for Karin’ sake—though you need to make sure she doesn’t hear the end of it later.

What you do find your mind drifting to is Lars. Sweet, attentive Lars who you’ve sometimes seen peeking towards the garage from the kitchen windows before ducking behind the frame. Lars, who always seems to want to serve you at those Lindstrom family dinners. And Lars, who’s across the gymnasium now, rolling little Elinor back and forth while Gus buys a couple of saran wrapped brownies. He seems to be zeroed in on your conversation—only looking away when you try to give him a little wave from the side.

Lars murmurs a couple words to Gus, before wheeling up to the three of you, stroller handles still clutched. You can see his eyebrows knit together, all pensive and brooding. Karin chuckles. “You remember my brother-in-law Lars?”

“Of course,” Travis leans down. “And this is Elinor, obviously. Just adorable.” Karin is about to give him another little laugh when she sees Gus flagging her down on the other side of the gym. He’s holding a couple of cookies now, balanced in one hand, and brownies in the other. Clearly indecisive.

“Jeez. I’ll be back,” she huffs to you—barely Lars and Travis—before making it over to her husband in a hurry. With just the three of you, there’s a little bit of a stall in the conversation. You can tell this elementary school PE teacher wants to talk to you, but there’s still Lars and Elinor babbling in her seat. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Lars so effervescently annoyed. He’s deadpanned just looking at Travis, on the near-verge of sizing him up. He picks up Elinor with both of his hands, bringing her into a soft cradle just over his shoulder. She cooes softly. All the while, you’re trying to keep a normal stream of thought about how stern he looks. Lars shrugs with his free shoulder. “We’re the godparents.”

You can’t swallow up that heat coming off your face. Travis nods, “Oh. That’s… cool, man.” It couldn’t get any worse than this. We. As in you and Lars. It almost sounds like you should be partnered up—a whole married couple waiting in line to care for this baby girl. That concept alone threatens to send you into a downward spiral. You try to let out an obligatory laugh, but it comes out more like a gentle wheeze.

—

After a good couple months living out in the garage, this is the very first time you’ve had to look over baby Elinor. Karin and Gus have this elaborate date night planned out for the both of them—something about a candlelit dinner and a splurge on some wine tasting. It leaves you and Lars in charge, which should be okay considering the circumstances. You’re essentially roommates. You’d like to call him a friend. After the way he spoke to that PE teacher at the bake sale, all pouty and inflexible, you’re not sure how to pin down the relationship. Odd, for starters.

This sounds more appropriate: you’re a couple of godparents babysitting. While your friends take a little evening out for some quality time, you don’t mind hanging out in the living room. While you’re seated on the floor with her on one end of the couch, Lars sits on the other. Elinor is grabbing at your finger and squeezing nightly around the nail of your index finger. She’s absolutely adorable.

She also has the grip of an infant. The second you seem a little bit dismayed by the way Elinor is holding onto you, Lars is taking up one of her plush rabbits and sweeping one of its paws softly over her nose. Elinor giggles. It’s a good enough distraction for her to let go of your pointer and surrender her attention over to Lars. You let out a quiet sigh and Lars is still very focused on putting on a good puppet show with the stuffed animal. Elinor’s big, brown eyes wonder at the sight of the rabbit doing what appears to be an Irish jig on the cushions of the couch.

While she squirms in your lap watching the performance, you’ve got a trained eye on Lars’ canines. He’s got a shy smile—one that’d maybe be wider if it were just him and the baby. You lift Elinor up and join Lars on the couch, seating her on your lap. She’s still trying to reach for that plush rabbit. “You’re really good with her, you know. You’re careful.”

Lars’ hold on the stuffed animal’s arms loosens and tightens up again. “Thank you.” You want to tell him that you think he’d be a good dad, but for fear of saying too much, you settle for a well-mannered, “You’re welcome.”

You have to apologize mentally to Karin and Gus for thinking what you are now. That you could picture yourself beyond the play-pretend of this living room—how it’d be to live in a house with Lars. To wear wedding bands. To have a newborn, a bunch of toys, a house. It’s not difficult for you to picture. He looks perfect on the couch in his button-up and patterned sweater, pulling Elinor off your lap politely and cradling her with a gentle support to the back of her head. What really makes you flushed is how he’s making Elinor look ten times tinier by comparison; it’s just so cute.

“I think she’s hungry,” Lars murmurs under his breath. He doesn’t happen to notice the dazed look his words shake you out of—attention trained down only on the baby.

“I can go cut her up some of those strawberries from the farmer’s market. Maybe a little bit of cereal,” you ponder. You’d seen Karin settle on that combination of snacks before. While Elinor isn’t a picky eater, you think she’ll probably enjoy it the most. She’s gibbering away as you get up off the couch and, padding across the wood floors, you hear Lars go, “You’re good, too.”

You give him a quick smile, before turning on your heels and making your way to the kitchen. Through the doorway, you can see him thud his balled hand onto his forehead. Elinor plants one of her small hands on the wool fabric over his chest, and he cooes quietly, “Well, I didn’t know what to say.” You dip your head down grabbing the box of fresh strawberries from the fridge, trying to wipe the grin off your face.

—

You’re just about to sneak into the main house with a basket of laundry when the two of you come face-to-face on the opposite sides of the back door. Lars is looking at you through the window, looking down at you with wide eyes. You take one step down. He holds the door open, stepping aside so you can shuffle inside. Once again, that sensation of his chest brushing up against your arm makes your stomach flip. “I was about to go for a walk,” Lars says to you.

You stammer, “I’ll, uh, leave you to it.” You know you’ve got to heave this laundry down into the basement where the washer and dryer reside. It’s going to be a pain, and Lars is still watching you with his hands stuffed in the front pockets of his puffer.

He’s taking his time, you think, in asking if you’d like to accompany him. Finally, he takes his gloved hands out of his pockets and tilts his head. With hands gripped at his sides, he asks,  “You could—?”

“Yeah,” you nod briskly, placing your laundry basket down at your side. “Okay. I could use a little outdoors.”

A softened grin peeks onto his face. “I thought you would be at the school all day,” Lars tells you. “There’s Little League in the evening.”

“I’d rather walk with you,” you admit. You don’t much care for baseball right now. At least, not the baseball going on down at the elementary school. Lars smiles, waiting for you to deposit your laundry into the washer and set it up before joining him out on the back porch.

The walk is short and sweet—a little bumpy. Lars is humming some oldies jazz song as the two of you descend down the path. You swear you can see his hands flinch upwards the second you stumble over a braided lock of branches. You only give him a breathy laugh, which you’re pleased to see gets returned with one of Lars’ own. It isn’t often that you get to see him laugh like that. You want more of it, you think.

When you arrive at the lakeside, Lars is unzipping his puffer jacket and laying it down neatly on the ground in front of you. He blinks tight, waiting patiently for you to sit down. Though you’re tempted to insist that you don't mind sitting on the ground, Lars seems really keen on covering it up for you. You crouch down soft and lean back onto the puffer with a murmured “thanks.” Lars plants himself down beside you.

The sun won’t be down for at least an hour, and there’s a quiet perfection to the way the sun blurs over the lakewater. It’s always slightly overcast in town, but out here, it’s nicer than usual. Cleared-up. Lars winces, slightly, hands curling together on his lap. You can see the wisp of warm air billowing out of his mouth against the cold. “I haven’t been here since…”

“Bianca?” His eyes look a little glossy, but Lars still smiles. Yes, Bianca. God rest her soul. “It’s a really nice spot.”

“I used to watch Gus make mudpies here. In the summer, he’d mix it all up with a branch, and feed them to his GI Joes,” Lars says, gloved hand pointing over to some larger shrubs by the water. You grimace at the thought of those old, plastic soldiers face-down in the wet soil.

You murmur, “That’s kinda gross.” 

“Yeah. It was,” he shrugs, looking down at the grass between you both. It’s dry and crisp, green blades leaned to one wind-brushed side. He reaches one hand to pull at the puffer below you, adjusting it neater at the corners.

“And you…?” You can’t picture Lars acting along with his brother. He’d play gentler, kinder.

“Watched the water. I liked to imagine I was fishing, but we weren’t allowed to touch the gear. Anyways, there were only ever minnows. Maybe a turtle, once…” Lars pulls at the ties of his boots, next. You tilt your head at Lars, trying to picture him with that younger version of Gus. Two boys on the lakeside, Lars’ brownish-blonde hair against his older brother’s pitch black. You've seen pictures before; he resembles his mother more. “Now,” he says, “I come here if the house gets a little bit loud.”

“A lot, then?” you wonder.

“It’s a good loud,” Lars smiles. He’d never think to speak against little Elinor or Karin or his brother, but you know there’s an inkling of truth to your suggestion. You’d deduced it easily within that evening of your first visit, and all those glimpses in the house afterwards. It’s no dig to anyone, just the way of the world.

You don’t know how long the two of you sit there, staring at the water ripple out in motion with the breeze. This—being outside, near the water—is an ideal source of calm. There’s so little expectation to it all. You, him, and the view. It’s dream-like. You’re not exactly sure how you end up kissing Lars in that gap of time. If he leans in, or you do. You’re simply aware of the fact that you’re leaned far too close together, and that your lips slide gently against one another in a soft peck. It’s over before you can even process it—hands cupped over your mouth with a gasp. “Oh, I’m sorry, Lars!” 

Once you’ve started apologizing, you can’t stop. It comes out in a ranted and unending string. You know touch isn’t his favorite thing in the world, that it hurts. And now, you’re wracked with the terrible guilt that you’ve overstepped. His soft cheeks are burning a bright pink, seeming nearly startled by your outburst.

“No, no. It was good,” he starts. Then, a whispered correction: “—great.” You watch as Lars scruffs his gloved hand over the back of his neck. “Could you do it again?” 

Suddenly, your apologies catch in your throat. You have to slow down for a minute, try to make sense of Lars’ request. “I don’t… you want me to?” you clarify. It’s really quite the opposite of what you’d expect from him. Still, he looks at you with his brows knitted together and his eyes fixed down at your lips.

“Would you let me…?” Lards tugs his wool gloves off his hands and stuffs them gently into his back pocket. Then, Lars reaches both of his hands out tentatively, fingers coming up to cup your jaw. He moves at his own speed, and you find your eyes fluttering closed with his touch. The second his lips come up against yours, you’re inhaling that woody scent raising off his knit sweater. His mustache tickles at your upper lip. You can hear the gentle laps of the lake, the beating of swallows’ wings far off on the other end. And it’s quiet. It’s the kind of calm that you could’ve only dreamed of experiencing when you were living in your apartment in the city. And you’re there together.

You’re taken out of the second he pulls back, a quiet, satisfied hum rising from his throat. Lars places a few polite pats on your knee, before drawing back and resting his elbows on his tucked-up knees. You do the same, face still flushed and lips slightly swollen from the way Lars  just tried to snog you. You don’t know how he can be so at ease after a kiss like that; he practically sucked your breath out of your chest, and now he’s taking in the scenery.

“I want Elinor to take the pink room. She’s gonna get bigger soon,” Lars says. “Told Gus and Karin I’d move back into the garage.”

“So, we’re gonna cram in there together?” you chuckle softly. It’s roomy, sure, but you don’t think it’s roomy enough. And you won’t be working at that small town elementary school forever.

Lars blinks. “Sure. Or… wherever.” It’s an easy insinuation to make. He’ll move out, maybe even follow you wherever you end up heading next. The thought of him being around indefinitely makes your chest tighten. A good, slow life with Lars is more than you could ask for. You stick your hand out for him to take; ungloved, his big hand wraps around your own—soft palms warming up your fingertips.

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.

It’s a concept he barely understands, because Eridians simply do not dream, so he focuses instead on the physiological signs that scream out to him, clear as day. “Heartrate elevated. Breathing rapid. Not fine. Rocky will go get Grace.”

You want to scream, please don’t do that, because he will know exactly what is going on, but you can’t, because Rocky is gone as quickly as he had appeared. Frustration bubbles in your chest. You had been close, so close, and now the feeling is already slipping through your fingers like sand.

Grace rushes in. “So, Rocky made it sound like you were dying. Are you dying?”

“No. I’m fine.” Your face is pressed into your pillow, because there’s no way you can look at him right now. “I’m fine,” you repeat. “Go back to—whatever it is you were doing.”

He does not. “He was pretty panicked. What’s going on?”

Sometimes, you muse, it seems like everything would have been a lot easier if you hadn’t survived the coma. “Like I just told him, it was a dream. A weird dream. Please go.”

“Like—a nightmare? I get them too, you know. It’s alright, a totally natural thing, given the circumstances.” Instead of leaving, he walks closer to you, and you can hear his feet pad against the floor. “It’s just your subconscious sorting through things you’ve experienced, if that makes you feel any better. I’m pretty sure I read an article, before we left—so maybe it’s outdated at this point, I don’t know—but it said that dreams are one of the ways that we consolidate memories.”

It was definitely not a memory, because you’re pretty sure the dream had taken place on the ship, but you do not tell him this. “Great. Thanks. I am properly comforted. You can leave now.”

He takes another step forward. Why is he so bad at following instructions? “You don’t need to be embarrassed.” He’s so close to you, now, and you’re fairly certain that he’s squatting next to you, about to lay a comforting hand on your shoulder. And then there’s nothing, and it takes you half of a second to realize that he must finally be taking you in, the way that you’re laying on your stomach, hips slightly lifted over the twisted blanket wedged between your legs. “Oh. I see.”

Rocky runs back into the room. “Grace make diagnosis. Tell Rocky. Now.”

There is a terrifying moment, where you think that he’s about to actually tell Rocky what’s happening, because Grace likes to do this thing where he explains human biology in excruciating detail in the name of cross-species communication. “It’s alright, Rock. Like she said, it was a dream. They can—dreams can really affect the person having them, because the human brain believes that they’re real. So they can produce physiological effects. Nothing to worry about.”

“Oh. Okay. Strange. Rocky does not like. But understand.”

This is, apparently, enough for him, because he skitters back to his workshop. The room is silent, and you are trying to become one with the flooring beneath you. “I—what I said still stands,” Grace says, lowly. “Don’t feel embarrassed.”

You would like to tell him that it’s too late for that, at this point, because the past five minutes have just happened and can’t be taken back. Instead, you settle for sticking up your arm and giving him a thumbs up, which definitely does not make any of this more awkward than it already is.

Finally, he leaves, and you cannot find it within yourself to keep going.

--

A few days have passed. Neither of them have said anything. You’re starting to let yourself hope that you’re in the clear.

“So,” Grace speaks into the quiet, because Rocky has finally decided to go to sleep, and it is immediately apparent that you are not, in fact, in the clear, just by that single syllable. “About the other day.”

It would be an interesting experiment, you think, if you launched yourself out of the ship while moving at ninety-two percent the speed of light. You do not turn around from the panel you opened up in the wall so you could tinker with some of the wiring. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

He huffs a little. “Sure.”

“Don’t—don’t do that. I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“If you want to, you know. Rest for a little bit. I understand.” You’re pretty sure he’s smiling, as if this is just a funny thing that’s happening, as if it wasn't about the fact that you hadn’t had an orgasm in almost five years. In all fairness, you weren’t awake for four of those, but—still.

You very purposefully continue staring at your hands, even though they have long since stopped doing anything meaningful, when you finally speak next. “I’m not doing—that—while Rocky is in there sleeping. That’s just. I can’t do that.”

“Fair enough. The cockpit has a door.”

“Why are we still talking about this,” you say flatly. But then you keep going anyway, because this is, frankly, ridiculous. “And I don’t—where would I even, like, position myself in there for that?”

He’s still smiling, and you can tell even though you still haven’t turned around, and why is he suddenly choosing to torment you like this? Is he truly just that bored? “I mean. You could just sit in the chair.”

You snort. “Yeah, because that sounds super comfortable. I don’t really like—god, why am I even telling you this,” you mutter, “I like to be. Horizontal.”

“I see.” There’s something to his voice that’s difficult for you to pin down exactly, but it gives you the impression that Grace has a million more questions and is, for once in his life, trying to slowly meter them out instead of letting them go all at once. “What’s wrong with verticality?”

Of course he is phrasing it this way, and of course you are still going to answer, despite the fact that you would like to melt through the floor. “It’s just, I don’t know, a little uncomfortable.”

“So…even when you’re, you know, on top? Of someone, that is. It doesn’t really work for you?”

“That’s different.” The fascinating thing about this conversation is that neither of you are looking at each other, still, as if that makes it easier to have it, like you were casually discussing a repair on the ship or one of the taumoeba farms. For all you know, maybe that is what this is like for him: just a totally normal exchange about human biology. “I don’t really have a better explanation, but it’s just different than when I’m. By myself.”

He makes a little thoughtful hum, and you are struck with the realization that he is genuinely turning this all over in his head, not simply messing with you. You are not sure if you feel flattered that he wants to help, even if it is a very strange thing to decide to assist you with, or if you feel like you’ve been squished into a glass slide and are currently being examined underneath a microscope. “No, that makes sense. So cockpit’s out. Screen room?”

“I don’t think I’d be cool with all the screens, either,” you reply, because this is, apparently, an actual brainstorming session now. “I’d feel like I was being watched.”

“And you don’t like that. Being watched.”

“Well, not like that. It would be like the panopticon thing, or whatever. Too impersonal.” You think if he had a pen and paper in his hands—maybe he does, you don’t know—he’d be taking notes. “So not there, either.”

“Okay. Process of elimination means there’s only one room left.” Which is the room that you are currently in. And the room where he is, too, in case you’d forgotten, which you certainly have not.

You swallow hard. “And. Where would you be. In this scenario.”

“I could go to the cockpit? Or watch Rocky.”

This is starting to cross the line again of being too weird, so you lift your hands back up to the wiring in order to try and distract yourself. “It’s really fine, I appreciate that you’re trying to help and all, but. I don’t. I think if I knew you were in the other room, and that you knew what was happening, and we were both trying to act like that fact didn’t exist, I wouldn’t be able to relax enough. It’s fine,” you repeat. “Seriously. I will be okay. I’m not going to, like, explode or something.”

He’s finally quiet, then, and you begin to let yourself hope that the conversation is actually done and dusted this time. Then: “I could stay in here, then.”

Your hands jerk in surprise, and then your fingers catch an unprotected wire. “Ow, fuck—”

“Oh my gosh, are you alright?” Grace rushes over, and for the first time since this conversation started, you turn to look at him. “Let me see.” He grabs your hand and peers at it closely, bringing his glasses up from where they must have been hanging, under his chin, the whole time.

“I’m alright, it’s not that bad, it just hurts like a bitch.”

He glances up at you, over the rims of glasses, and quirks an eyebrow but otherwise does not comment on your language. “I think Armando has some cream. I’ll be back.”

Grace walks down into the dormitory before you can tell him, again, that you’re fine, and after a few minutes he returns with a little tube of cream, a pouch of water, a bandage. He gestures for you to sit at the table in the lab, and you sigh before acquiescing. His hands are gentle on yours as he pours a little bit of water on your right middle finger. You suck in a breath through your teeth but stay still. He dabs it dry with his shirt—that doesn’t really seem sanitary, but whatever—and then carefully applies a bit of the cream before finally sticking the bandage on.

“There,” he says. He’s still holding your hand, his thumb pressing into the middle of your palm. “Better?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Sorry that I startled you and made you shock yourself.”

His thumb starts brushing little reassuring circles against your palm. It’s—it’s sending a different kind of electricity through you, arcing up your arm and down into the pit of your stomach. You shift in the chair. “It’s okay. I just—wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

Grace simply shrugs nonchalantly, although the tips of his ears are starting to redden. “It just seemed like the natural solution. To the problem.” Right. Because that’s really what he is, at the end of the day: a problem-solver, the kind that will obsess over the thing until it’s been resolved.

Two paths seem to branch out in front of you in that moment. Either you tell him to drop it, and then every time he looks at you for the rest of your life, you will wonder in the back of your mind if he’s still stuck on this, thinking about just how long you have gone without orgasming, or…

“We. I guess that. We could try.”

You had assumed that you would regret the words as soon as they left your mouth, but you find that you don’t, not when his eyes search yours and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Your body feels like it is dialed up to a hundred, and all of that energy is starting to collect between your thighs, and you’re surprised that you’re not trembling. “Yeah?”

“Sure. Just. Don’t make it weird.”

He laughs a little at that. “I will try my best.”

--

Grace has created a little blanket nest for you on the floor of the lab. He even unclipped one of the mattress pads from its platform to maximize your comfort. It’s very sweet, even though you kind of feel like you might throw up from anxiety.

He sits down in the chair that he’s dragged toward the edge of the room, facing the bottom end of the blankets. You stand there for a second. Right. Clothes are probably the first step here, you think, looking down at your jumpsuit. You look back up at him. “Um. Could you close your eyes?”

This makes him huff out a laugh, but he does it anyways. “This feels a little redundant,” he says as you slowly unzip your suit and shuck it off, leaving you in a tank top and your underwear, because pants always feel insanely uncomfortable underneath the jumpsuit. “Unless you want me to have my eyes closed the whole time.”

“No, it’s just—leave me alone, okay, I don’t really know what I’m doing here.” You lay down on the pad and take a few moments to adjust and try to get comfortable. For a split second, you consider drawing one of the blankets over your bottom half, but eventually decide against it. It’s—you’re not really sure why, but it just feels like it wouldn’t help. “Okay,” you whisper. He opens his eyes, or at least you think that he does, because you’re currently staring up at the ceiling of the lab. “Um. I don’t really know where to start.”

This is a point where you assume he’s going to poke fun at you, or something, but he doesn’t. “What do you normally do?”

You clear your throat and fidget a little on top of the blankets. “Well. Usually I have. A thing that I use.”

“A—A toy?”

The slight hesitation is the only hint you get that he’s, possibly, just as nervous about this as you are. “Yeah. I’m assuming we don’t have one of those on here.”

“Ah, no, I don’t think so. I mean…we could…if we used some of…” Is he—he’s thinking through how he might build a sex toy.

“Anyway. And sometimes I’m. Reading something. Or. Watching. Something.” You’re starting to think that you might not be able to do this, and that you should probably just call this whole thing off, because now you’re worried he’s going to suggest pulling up porn or something on one of the laptops.

He does not, but you still don’t expect what he does end up saying. “What was the dream about?”

You keep staring at the ceiling. “Um. It was just kind of a basic sex dream, I don’t know. Listen, maybe we should—”

“Close your eyes,” he interrupts you. “Think back on it.”

It is either very admirable or a little creepy that he is so intent on helping you with this. Regardless, you do as he says, letting your eyes drift shut and trying to recall the details of the dream that had landed you in this whole mess. “There was—I was laying down, and there was someone above me.”

Grace hums lowly. “What were they doing?”

“I remember…hands. His hands were sort of all over. And it was. Nice.” That heat you had felt when you had first awoken from the dream is starting to return, simmering just beneath your skin, as you recall the paths that had been traced fervently along your body.

“Start there, then.”

You nod wordlessly, still keeping your eyes closed, and your hands shake a little as you bring them up and hesitantly drag them along your sides, across your stomach, over your thighs. Grace’s chair creaks a little, but instead of the sound breaking you out of it, it makes you feel a little bolder, especially when you can hear him take in a long, deep breath as your fingers brush over your peaked nipples through the fabric of your shirt. “Now what?”

Another creak. You almost want to open your eyes and lean up on your elbows, to see what he’s doing that’s causing the sound, but that means stopping your hands in their movement. “Maybe—over your underwear?”

Jesus Christ, maybe you will explode. A little noise finds its way from the back of your throat and out of your lips. One of your hands leaves your chest and trails down, down, down, past the hem of your shirt, until it finally hovers just above the apex of your thighs. A few more circles with your other hand, and then you carefully, experimentally push down your fingers over your underwear. Your hips immediately roll to meet them, and another breathy sound leaves your mouth.

Grace clears his throat. “There are over ten thousand nerve fibers right there, just below your fingers. In case you didn’t know that.”

You smile and arch your back a little. Of course this would turn into an anatomy lesson. “I didn’t, but I—I’m getting the picture, right about now,” and the last word comes out with a whine as the movement of both of your hands start to fall in time together. Pleasure blooms and spreads through your body, and your eyes squeeze a little tighter, and you find that you don’t really need to think of the dream anymore, that what’s happening right now is doing it for you better than the memory of an imagined touch could.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is low and strained. “I think you could—if you wanted—you know. Skin-on-skin is probably more efficient.”

“Like this?” Your hand slips underneath the waistband of your underwear, and he lets out a choked mm-hm, and you cannot believe that you agreed to do this, and that he suggested it, and that you are already so wet just from touching yourself through the fabric of your clothes, from him watching you do it. You gather a little bit of your slickness on your index finger before slowly circling your clit. Screw the ten thousand, you’re pretty sure there’s a billion nerves right there, right at the tips of your fingers; you don’t bother holding back your moan, then, and your hips buck when you hear Grace’s sharp inhale.

You had assumed this probably wouldn’t take that long, but your hand is already starting to feel cramped underneath the fabric, so you slowly open your eyes and still your hand, drawing it out so you can drag your underwear down. You have to sit up a little to get them off all the way, and then you finally look at Grace to see him leaning forward, his elbows on his thighs and his hands clasped tightly together, his glasses hanging on for dear life as they dangle beneath his face.

He meets your eyes, then, and the look he gives you—it’s like there is simply nothing he would rather be watching, in this moment, and your thighs squeeze involuntarily at the thought. This is weird, this should feel so weird, because you’re half-naked on the floor while he watches you, waiting for you to start touching yourself again, but all you can feel is the headiness in your mind that spreads to your limbs, the ache in your core, the tight desire in your chest.

So you lay back down, but you keep your eyes open, half-lidded. “My hand was getting uncomfortable,” you sigh. Your fingers begin moving again, and it is so much better without the fabric pressing you down, with the cool recycled air of the ship brushing against your wetness.

“I bet.” He shifts in the chair, again, before continuing. “It looks like—you favor one side of it. Your clit.”

You wonder if his face warmed at saying that, if he’s hard in his sweatpants right now, even as he analyzes what you’re doing as if he needed to write a report on it later. “Mm-hm,” you gasp. Your other hand drags back up to your breast again, circling the beaded peak there through your shirt. “I don’t—know why—just feels better. The other side is, it’s, too sensitive.”

“Maybe the nerves aren’t evenly distributed? Like, they’re more concentrated—oh, my God,” he chokes out, because your fingers have just made an absolutely obscene noise as they swipe down through your slickness again, and your head has tipped back into the blanket. “Sorry, I’m, anyway, it’s possible that—that more of your nerves are concentrated on the other side.”

You laugh, then, and the sound is tinged with a whine. Your fingers move a little faster, because you think you’re almost getting there, not to the crest of it, not yet, but to the steady buildup that comes right before it. But the bandage keeps scraping against the sensitive skin there, and then you’re thinking about whether it’s unsanitary for the burn, and the buildup is gone as quick as it had arrived. “Fuck,” you groan in frustration. “Sorry, it’s the—stupid bandage—”

There’s a moment of quiet, then, and you think maybe you’ll have to wait until another day, when you can take the bandage off, but then he’s getting up out of the chair and kneeling down beside you. “Can you keep it to the side—like this?” Grace gently grabs the burned finger, careful not to touch anything else, even though you are starting to think that maybe you really, really want him to, and lays it to the side, almost to the crease of your hip. “Is that okay?”

“Um, maybe? Let me…” You do a slow circle over your clit while keeping your middle finger out of the way. With Grace now right next to you, you can see him, even with your head laid back, can see the way he tracks the movement with narrowed focus. “It’s—I guess it’s fine?”

“You guess?” He glances up at you, and the corner of his mouth lifts. It’s almost at odds with the flush of his cheeks, the flare of his nostrils as he breathes deeply. “We don’t want fine. We want good. Great, even.”

What an overachiever. You smile and roll your eyes playfully. “It’s just, I normally use that finger to, sort of, like, hold stuff out of the way.”

He nods and looks back down at your hand. “The labia majora?” The overly-clinical-speak should really be taking you out of it. It does not. You nod. “Okay. That’s an easy fix.” His hand slides over your hip, then, and gently spreads you open, still not touching you where you have decided in the last thirty seconds that you definitely, not maybe, would like him to. The feeling of his hand there, the comforting pressure of it, makes you shudder. “Try it now.”

There’s a joke somewhere, floating in the back of your mind, about how he is literally troubleshooting your masturbation—what’s next, is he going to tell you to turn it off and back on again—but you say nothing, instead dipping your finger down to lube it up again before pressing it against your clit. It’s—the sensation has doubled, tripled with his hand right there, and your head lolls to the side as you exhale shakily. “That did the trick, I think.”

“Good. That’s—really good. You are.” You look at him curiously, even though it strains your eyes a little with your face pressed against the blanket, when he doesn’t finish the sentence. Grace is simply looking with rapt attention at the way your finger moves, and his lips part slightly. “Sorry,” he apologizes again. His fingers flex against you, and your cunt squeezes at the feeling. “I think. I am hitting a point where the words are not working.”

“Never thought I’d see the day,” you laugh breathily. It turns into a moan as you adjust the pressure you’re applying, and you can just barely see the way his eyelids flutter and how the hand that’s not in use clenches into a fist against his thigh.

There is a new problem, now: it all feels so incredible, of course, but now his hand is right there, and he’s watching you so closely, and you are swiftly realizing that this is probably not going to happen for you until he actually does something.

You have to take a deep breath to gather yourself enough for this. “Grace. I need. Um.”

“Yes, yes, what is it? What can I do?” Something clenches in your chest at his fervor, that he is so desperate to help you with this problem.

“I’m just. Okay. I feel like whatever boundary we were pretending was there doesn’t actually exist, and I think that I really, really need you to touch me. More than you already are,” you tack on, before he decides to be pedantic about it.

He nods feverishly. “Yep, that sounds great, perfect, even, what should I—what do you want me to do?”

Your hips shift. It is insanely unfair that he is making you say all of this out loud. “Could you—your fingers? Inside?”

His eyes fall shut at that, and he groans quietly, still nodding. You expect that he’s going to say something, either a string of words that don’t really make sense together grammatically, or some anatomical explanation of your vagina, or even a description of the optimal angle and technique for this; but he surprises you, again, because he simply opens his eyes and nods, one final time, before unclenching the hand on top of his leg and slowly brushing his fingers over your cunt.

You shiver, even though he still hasn’t really done anything yet. This statement is immediately retracted when one of his fingers slowly presses inside of you. “So tight,” he observes. “How long…? I mean, not that—it’s a pretty elastic thing, you know, but.”

“Longer than, than the coma, that’s for sure.” You resume pressing circles into your clit, gasping and whining, because even just the one finger slowly dragging against your walls provides a delirious kind of fullness. “And. And you?”

He huffs. “Pretty much the same.”

In that moment, you resolve that once you’ve orgasmed, you are going to do everything in your power to make him come, because the tiny little noises he’s been making so far are addictive, and you want, need to know what the real ones sound like. And you want to give this to him, because he has gone out of his way to do this for you, and oh, now there’s a second finger, and you lift your hips to meet their thrust.

The friction against your clit has started to become a little uncomfortable, so you try to slide your finger down to gather up some more of your wetness, but it bumps into Grace’s. “Sorry, my finger’s just. A little dry.”

There is not a world in which you are prepared for the thing that he does next, when he dips his head a little and lets some of his saliva drip from his lips onto your slit. Your finger gathers it up greedily, and it’s exactly what you needed, and you clench around his fingers as you resume your own movements.

“So, holy shit, what the fuck was that,” you gasp, not even bothering to watch the swearing like you normally do, because it’s one of his favorite ways to mess with you.

He merely grins, never stopping the careful rhythm of his hand. “What? Saliva’s a great lubricant. It’s a coagulant, too, fun fact.”

“That doesn’t really—explain—you doing it like that. Could have used my own.”

“Nah. This is faster,” and then he lets a little more drip down, and you are fairly certain that image is now branded into your mind forever and will most likely revisit you in your dreams.

For a while, there’s nothing but the sounds of his fingers, and your moans, and every so often a little sound of his own, and your earlier resolve is strengthened. You are so close, so much closer than earlier, and your other hand starts grasping your breast again, tweaking the bud of your nipple, in an effort to get that final push you need.

Grace’s eyes flick up—it almost seems like he has to physically tear himself away from watching both of your hands moving in between your thighs—and he speaks up again. “I have an idea.” His fingers shift a little as he says it, and the new angle is heavenly, forcing you to really have to concentrate on his words. “And I think that you will be amenable to it.”

Does he have, like, a thesaurus memorized, or something? ‘Amenable’? “I don’t really need the play-by-play,” you nearly whimper, “Just do it, and I will probab-ly—”

He leans forward to replace the hand on your breast with his mouth before you can finish your sentence, lapping at the bud of your nipple through your shirt, because apparently moving that out of the way would take too long.

“Hah, yeah, definitely—amenable to that—Grace,” and the sound of his name falling from your lips makes him groan, but his tongue still doesn’t stop, and neither do his fingers. “Oh, my God, I am so—do not change anything you’re doing, please.”

You think he might be about to respond, but he doesn’t get the chance, because finally, finally the release is there, cresting and breaking and rolling through you, and you clamp down around on his fingers, and your free hand flies out to clutch at his shoulder. His head lifts from your chest, and maybe if you were still cogent, you would protest at this, but then you realize that he’s watching you with wide, glassy eyes, taking in the way your body shakes and your mouth falls open with a cry. His glasses, you manage to note, have vanished somewhere in the middle of all of this.

As the high finally subsides, you twitch from the overstimulation of your finger, because it’s still moving, and after a few more gentle brushes against your clit you move your hand up to rest on your lower stomach, breathing heavily. Grace pulls his hand back then, too, and after a beat you watch as he sticks his fingers in his mouth.

“I didn’t know,” you gasp in between breaths, “that you were kind of a little freak.”

He wipes his hand on his pants after he’s done licking them off. “To be honest. Neither did I.”

A surprised laugh is ripped out of you, and after a few seconds he starts laughing with you. When the two of you quiet, you slowly sit up. “Alright. Your turn.”

His eyes widen. “Oh, that’s not—it’s really okay, you don’t need to do that.”

You look at him flatly. “Grace. You just gave me what was, probably, the best orgasm of my life. Just let me—I would really like to return the favor. Please.”

“Yeah. Okay. I mean. I would probably be pretty insane to say no.”

Oh. That’s kind of a weird way to say yes. “Um. If you, like, actually don’t want to, we don’t have to. I can just go…clean up, or something.”

“No, that’s not. I’m sorry, this is not at all coming out the way I would like it to,” he rushes out. “I’m going to be so honest. Embarassingly honest. I am so hard, and I don’t think any of my blood is going to my brain at the moment.”

Both of you dissolve into laughter again, even while you gently grasp his shoulders and maneuver him to lay down, as you find his glasses on the floor next to the blankets and slide them onto his face. A realization pops into your mind as you look at him, your hands resting on his chest while you kneel beside him. “So. I know your fingers were literally just inside me, and so this might be a little bit of a stupid question, but. Is it alright if I kiss you? We just kind of didn’t that whole time, and I wasn’t sure—”

“Please,” he breathes. “Yes, please do that.”

You can taste yourself on his mouth when you lean forward and press your lips to his, when you lick into him and he groans. Meanwhile, your hand slowly slides down—you’ll have to use your left, because you imagine the bandage would not feel great for him, not with what you would like to do—and pauses at the hem of his shirt. You slip your fingers underneath it, just for a moment, so you can feel the skin there, before your hand keeps moving in its descent. As you palm him through his sweatpants, you are delighted not only to confirm his earlier admission, but also to discover that, yes, the real sounds he’s making right now are so, so much better than the little ones he was letting out earlier.

“Hah,” he gasps into your mouth, “just—a warning—this is not going to take me that long.”

You pull back a little and laugh, still stroking the length of him through his pants. “I do not even have the words to tell you how much I do not care about that.”

Grace simply gives you a small thumbs-up, which is so delightfully him, and then he watches as you sit up more fully to pull his pants down, and then his underwear. It is—he really was not kidding, because he looks almost painfully hard, and the tip is already red and leaking onto him, and then you’re imagining what he’ll look like with his cum on his stomach, so you drag his shirt up a little before finally drawing your fingers over his cock.

You watch, a little dazed, as he twitches and his abdominal muscles contract, and you think you understand a bit more now why he was so adamant on watching you. You glance at his hands, which are fisted in the blankets, and then at his face. It’s completely flushed, and somehow his glasses are already skewed again, and he’s looking at you with his eyebrows drawn.

Another idea pops into your head. You’re still not wearing any pants. Or underwear. This is very convenient. You make a whole show of gathering your lingering wetness on your hand, and then you spit into it for good measure, and Grace looks like he is about to combust. You grin and carefully spread the mixture of your saliva and slickness onto him, from the base to the tip, and the whine he lets out is so good that you consider abandoning this plan to just ride him instead.

But, well—you’re definitely not prepared for that, you realize as you start sliding your hand up-and-down, because two fingers is definitely not enough now that you’ve seen and felt the size of him. You let yourself hope, for a brief second, that there will be a next time for that, and then you turn your focus entirely on the task at hand. Literally.

His hips jerk up into your hand. “Holy, crap,” he groans, “this is—you are so—I meant what I said, I am not going to last that long.”

Your other hand draws his shirt up a little more so you can slide it against his skin, across his stomach, up to his chest. “And I meant what I said,” you parrot back, “I really do not care.”

Your hand does this little twist, and he bucks up, so you keep doing it, testing different rhythms until you find the one that makes his eyes squeeze shut and one of his hands release the blanket so it can grasp your arm instead.

“That’s it, Grace,” you coo. “You’re doing so good for me.”

“What—was that,” he gasps, pressing his face to the side, skewing his glasses even further, “about me being a little freak?”

You simply smile and say nothing, happy to take in all his sounds and the way his chest heaves underneath your hand. You are, apparently, full of ideas at the moment—maybe orgasming is just that intellectually stimulating for you—because then you slide a curious finger over his nipple, and—

You desperately hope that you will never forget the way he keens, then, the way he chokes out that he’s close and then keeps babbling, right up until the words run out and his cum is spurting onto his abdomen.

“That,” you breath, watching the way he twitches, because your hand is still slowly moving around his cock, “was probably the hottest thing I have ever seen.”

It takes him a few moments to get to a place where he could begin to string words together in a way that makes sense, but before he can, just to fuck with him, you swipe your finger through his spend and bring it to your mouth. You’re pretty sure he stops breathing as he watches. “You—you’re killing me here. I’ve passed. I have simply passed away.”

You giggle around your finger. “Before you can even say ‘I told you so,’ I will admit that this was not as bad of an idea as I originally feared. And I would also like to request that this is not a one-time thing.”

Grace looks at you, utterly surprised, because it seems like only doing this once was not an idea that had even crossed his mind until you said it. “I feel like you’re forgetting the ten thousand nerves thing from earlier. It means back-to-back orgasms are not just possible, but, like, probably necessary. I think I read somewhere once that record is somewhere in the hundreds.”

“Okay. Maybe we start with two.”

He grins as you lean forward to kiss him again. “Two is good. But can I bargain for three? This is very important for the experiment.”