gluing teacups back together

Ryland noticed of course. always zeroing in on you and your needs, and catching on hours before you had, to what was happening

it was likely just a common cold, overworking yourself and not wearing a jacket out into the cold (which he scolds you about, and brings one of his hoodies in preparation, you never listen) does that to a person

so you stumbling into your shared apartment had finally done enough for him, he had sprinted over immediately taking all of your bags and removing your shoes for you

ushering you into the sheets of your also shared bed and leaving you with a bottle of water and a cold compress, followed by him rushing out and the click of the front door shutting

to say it was a long 20 minutes would be an understatement, the sickness somehow hitting you in tenfold the second he walked out of the bedroom

and after what felt like an eternity (cutting yourself some slack because your nose is 100% trying to suffocate you right now) the front door rattles as he opens it, hurried footsteps accompany his appearance that’s now by your side

“Ryyyy” you whine out, grasping at him, mainly being dramatic, even if that’s becoming less true as your throat starts to hurt more and your snot tries harder and harder to make it impossible to breath

regardless, Ryland smirks at you, hand lifting up to pet at your hair

“I’m sorry, sweet girl. I ran to the store” he holds up a brown paper bag, its contents weighing it down as it sags in his hold

“I got you ginger ale, some snacks, an entire box of crackers…” he pulls out each item and he lists it off, the pile now accumulating on your nightstand

“I got you both dayquil and nightquil, a thermometer, tissues, a humidifier, cough drops just in case, and ingredients for homemade chicken noodle soup on the kitchen counter”

now with all of the bags contents covering the night stand he shucks the empty bag aside, a proud expression painting his face

he hears you sniffle, leaning over to start unwrapping the tissue before your hand is wrapping around his bicep to still him, he finally clues in and looks down

tears wetting your face as you look up at him, panic takes hold of him immediately, his hands coming up to cup your face and steady your gaze on him

“baby? what’s wrong? why are you crying??” he keeps his voice soft, not wanting to add anymore stimulation to the already overwhelming situation that is your body against this sickness

“sorry ry- it’s stupid.. I didn’t mean to start crying” your voice hiccuping as you try to breath through the sentence

“it’s just.. no one has ever done this much for me! never c-cared as much”

he listens intently, his eyes not once leaving your face, his thumbs now brushing the falling tears away

you’re gripping the front of this shirt now, head buried in his chest while he kisses the top of your head, nuzzling into your hair

“I would do this every day, for the rest of my life, if time allowed me, sweetheart.”

your heart skips a beat, he just pulls you in closer, his strong arms now spanning your back as he hugs you to his body

“I love you so much”

“I love you, Ryland.”

the look he gives you as you both pull apart is nothing short of the most amount of love and adoration, that you’re mirroring as his hand slides to the back of you neck

he leans down, inches away from your face, his breath fanning down on your lips

“you shouldn’t kiss me, Ry! you’re gonna get sick” you pout at him, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens and he pushes you forward

“it’ll be worth it”

Ryland’s lips now on yours, a gentle kiss saying a million words he doesn’t need to

never feeling more content than in this moment, even while sick and stuck in bed

never feeling more loved <3

"What happened then, go on."

"So, I got past security like it was nothing..."

"Sure."

A lie Healy does not believe. Holland hadn't convined the burly men on the door to let him through when he inisisted he was on the guest list for the exclusive club, so he had to climb through an open window at the back. If anyone sees it he'll pretend the bruise on his hip came from you, and not because he's getting kinda too old to be climbing up drainpipes any more.

"I picked the lock to get into the office."

Closer to the truth, but still not quite. It was unlocked, which is kind of the same thing.

"And then..."

And then.

And then he was rifling through papers in drawers, cursing the fact that he hadn't written down the specific file he was looking for, and suddenly there was a gun pressed into the small of his back and he was semi-hard (something he will have to examine about himself in depth in the future). Lips at his ear, a whispered grin as you spoke.

"Holland March? Your illustration doesn't do you justice."

Your voice sent an electric current down his spine. He could practically feel the shape of your cupid's bow at his helix.

He said your name with a whispered reluctance, and you confirmed his guess with a laugh. He was able to crane his neck just enough to get a glimpse at you and saw that the ad you'd taken out in the paper did do you justice: all mysterious eyes and paisley scarf tied around your neck.

"Any chance you wanna work together on this? You seem like a reasonable person, a professional," he tried, but there was that laugh again, and your gun dug deeper, and his cock got stiffer.

"Nice try, cowboy. Hand 'em over."

He passed the files back to you with a groan, and you tucked them away someplace he didn't get to notice.

He thought that would be it. But then the barrel of your gun started, well, for want of a better term, caressing him, and he knew in that moment he'd do whatever you wanted him to.

"Sweetheart, you're killing me..."

"Not yet I'm not, handsome."

And then, well, then he'd fucked you over the desk.

He knows his eyes go glassy in front of Healy as he recalls the warmth of you, the way he slipped so easily inside as he covered your body with his. You'd bent over the very desk you were both casing, allowing his chest to press against your back so you could feel the muscles in his stomach work as he rutted against you... but you'd held his tie in a vice-grip, like it was a fucking leash, controlling his every movement...

When you told him to bark like a dog when he came he had, much to both his shame and absolute ecstasy.

"So you lost the files and jizzed all over the scene," Healy sighs.

"That's about the size of it."

Healy grabs his coat.

"Where are we going?" asks Holland, because it is, it's always we, never just Jackson or Holland nowadays.

"We're going to your fuck buddy's office to take them back."