#gosling

2005, JANUARY The rain was the same as always: thin but relentless, turning the narrow streets into mirrors of grey sky. You’d stepped onto the fire escape for some air, stifled by the pre-storm humidity in your eighth-floor apartment, when you noticed him already there above you, leaning mindlessly against his own fire escape with a cigarette burning down between his fingers.

Henry Letham, the brooding artist from upstairs whose grungy nineties music sometimes bled through the walls at 3am, not that you minded: you liked knowing someone else was awake if you couldn’t sleep.

Henry snapped out of his trance as his cigarette burned his finger. As he looked down to take a drag, he caught sight of movement below, and the unusual sound of footsteps on metal. His hair flopped into his eyes as he peered down at you. You nodded politely up at him, giving him a cordial smile and a small wave. “Ok if I sit down here?” He eyed you cautiously, then returned his gaze ahead of him, watching the cars pass like he didn't care if you lived or died. “Do what you want.” You didn't reply, almost taken aback by how rude he was— even for a New Yorker. You scoffed and turned away to sit with your back to your flat. With your knees drawn up, you opened the book in your lap and began to read.

The silence stretched lengthily, the sound of light traffic and wheels on wet concrete making you forget there was anyone near you at all. Until, after a few minutes, the man above you exhaled sharply and you saw a cigarette butt fly over the edge of the fire escape. “You’re new." He said it like a statement rather than a question, though you were certain he was looking for a response. You stopped reading and dog-eared the page, twisting around so you could speak to him without craning your neck. “I guess," you replied. He just looked on ahead at the road as if he'd never spoken in the first place. "I...moved in last month?” You were unsure how he didn't know somebody was occupying the apartment below him. He glanced back down, blue eyes sharp and guarded like he was waiting for something else.

You learned then that Henry didn’t do platitudes: he grunted and returned to his apartment; you stayed out and read.

FEBRUARY You never pushed to speak to Henry after that— he seemed depressed, self-loathing, a bit of an energy vampire— but at the very least he knew you were there. Since January, you had spoken to him twice: that one time on the balcony, and the one time you offered him soup after you heard him coughing for three straight days.

You told yourself it wasn’t your business: he was a grown man that chose to smoke a pack of day, and who was also kind of an asshole, if you were being honest. You almost talked yourself out of it, but the coughing continued as you began to turn around, raw and miserable, and something stubborn in you won. Some people aren't happy enough to be kind; others just don't know how. You weren't sure which category Henry fit into, but you knew that the only way to combat either of them was to be kind in turn.

If all other philosophy failed, at least the soup would stop him from coughing so madly late at night that it woke you up.

Thus, you found yourself standing in front of his apartment door on the ninth floor, tupperware warm in your hands and feeling increasingly heavy. You knocked: it took a long time for him to answer. When the door finally opened, Henry looked better than you expected, even as pale and unshaven as he was. He was wearing a long-sleeved jumper and dark jeans, hair falling once again into his face. He blinked at you like he was trying to remember who you were. "What?" You cleared your throat. “I, uh, heard you coughing from downstairs.” You lifted the container to his eye line. “Thought this might help." Henry stared at the Tupperware for a moment, expression unreadable. You furrowed your eyebrows, confused by his silence. "My coughing interrupting your beauty sleep?" he accused. You weren't sure how to reply to this. You were a little annoyed, but you don't know what you expected based on your first interaction. “You don’t have to take it,” you scoffed, “I just figured... better than coughing up a lung. Whatever."

As you began to turn away, Henry grabbed the container from your hands, eyes never leaving yours. His long fingers brushed your own: they were surprisingly warm. Then, he stepped back into his apartment and slammed the door, the frame rattling in its wake. You stood there, stunned, staring at the peeling paint on his door. Right. Of course. You turned to leave, sighing, when the door opened again. You spun around to find Henry stood there, one hand on the knob, looking forlorn. "Thanks,” he said, voice hoarse, chewing his bottom lip. You blinked. “Sure." He closed the door again, gently this time.

Henry thought that he hated your small kindnesses at first, your pitying glances and delivering of his mail when it got posted through your letterbox instead of his. He hated even more the fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about you, and how much he looked forward to seeing you. He found himself on the fire escape more often, smoking more often as an excuse to be out there. He felt sick when you didn't come out; he felt sick when you did.

On the afternoons where you did venture onto your make-shift balcony, you rarely exchanged more than a few words with Henry. A week after you'd visited him at his door, you asked how the soup was. He had said "good," and handed you back the tupperware. You'd leaned up to grab it from his fire escape, and he'd taken great pleasure in the brushing of his fingers against yours. He wished he had more stuff of yours to give back.

You didn't know it, but this tiny bi-weekly conversation acted as a dog-ear in the story of his life, a sort of oiling-of-the-engine that kept him going for days between seeing you.

MARCH In the dim light of his apartment, surrounded by half-finished canvases and scattered sketches, Henry found his hand moving across the page without permission: your profile on the fire escape, the way your fingers curled around a mug, the quiet set of your shoulders when you were holding your own. Something about drawing what was around Henry gave him control over it— that's what he told himself.

He also told himself that he despised your behaviour, and that's why he couldn't stop thinking about it: the way you refused to flinch at his oddities, or run from his awkwardness, or— even worse— fill the silence with empty optimism. You just took everything in stride. It unsettled him more than any fake cheer ever could because it felt real, and it wasn't safe to get attached to real.

APRIL The day things shifted, you had locked yourself out of your flat at 1am. You sank to the floor with your back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing measured, enduring the fact you'd done something really stupid. Fuck. You'd never thought to buy a mobile phone, so you'd have to wait hours until you could ask a neighbour to use their phone and call a locksmith.

Henry, ever the night owl, came up the stairs an hour afterward, and stopped short at the sight of you crumpled by your own doorway in your pyjamas, looking rather pitiful with your head in your hands, asleep. You didn’t realise someone was there and he suddenly felt quite protective, then irritated: who the fuck falls asleep in a hallway in New York? You're just asking to get mugged.

Henry stood frozen for a few minutes, fists clenching and unclenching, unsure whether to wake you up and tell you to move, or to invite you into his apartment and offer you his bed. The sharp retort of his thoughts died on his tongue as he opened his mouth to speak, and something like a friendly quip came through instead. “What's with the endurance act?” Your eyes shot open, surprised you'd managed to fall asleep in such an uncomfortable place. You blinked up at him: he towered over you, so you once again craned your head up to see him. You really weren't in the mood to deal with Henry, tonight. “Locked myself out,” you sighed sleepily, letting your head drop back onto the door behind you. "Need me to move so you can get past?"

Henry hummed, stalling, then slid down the wall beside you. You tensed up: he was closer than he’d ever been to you before. Your shoulders brushed but you didn’t pull away, and the contact sent something odd through his chest— fear, maybe relief. He wasn't sure anymore. He hadn't felt anything but anger in a while. "That blows."

You opened one eye and peered at him out of your peripheral vision. Was this actually Henry? Keeping you company? Empathising with you? You turned your head fully to look at him, unsure whether he was being serious or not. You couldn't help but smile when you saw that he was soaking wet, hair dripping into his eyes. "Jesus, where've you been?" you scoffed. Henry completely ignored your question and swiped the hair out of his eyes, pushing it back over his scalp. “I’ve been a dick to you,” he muttered, charcoal-stained fingers flexing at his sides as he looked down at his knees. “On purpose. Every time you came around. I hate being pitied, and I know I don't help myself." You kept your gaze on his side profile, wishing he'd meet your eyes. "I don't pity you, Henry," you smiled, turning away. "I actually kind of think you're an asshole."

You swore you could see a grin tugging at Henry's mouth, so often down-turned or pulled straight in anger that you barely recognised it. "Yeah, well," he began, "I'd still rather that than pity."

You sat together chatting about your lives for the first time ever until you fell back asleep. Your head lolled onto Henry's shoulder, and he wasn't sure what to do. Henry didn't want you to see his depressive flat, covered in dirty dishes and take out bags, so he didn't invite you back. Instead, he stayed with you until the sun came up, disappearing at 5am when light came through the hallway windows and he was sure you wouldn't get mugged.

MAY After that, the walls came down quickly. He started painting on the fire escape instead of just smoking and wondering whether he'd die if he jumped. You’d sit below him, on your fire escape with your book as he sketched, no expectation of conversation there. Henry would glance over and feel the knot in his chest loosen just a little.

One afternoon, Henry got brave. You'd been doing this little routine for a few weeks now, and he found himself craving the contact of your shoulder that he'd felt that one night. "Can you... come up here and tell me if this line is straight?" he called down, so quietly you weren't sure if you'd really heard it. You smiled up at him, dog eared your book, and made your way up the half-flight of stairs to his fire escape: you'd still never been up here, yet, let alone into his apartment to see his art.

Henry stepped back, fiddling in his pockets for a cigarette and a lighter as you peered at the canvas facing the street: a beautiful charcoal sketch of the landscape before you— tall buildings, taxis, people below all effortlessly on paper. You couldn't help but gasp. "Henry.... that's— that's fucking fantastic!" Henry preened quietly next to you, practically purring with the attention. He hid it well, smiling to himself into his cigarette as you leaned forward to view every detail of the canvas. "Is it— is it straight?" "Oh, right, sorry. Which line?" you squinted at the page.

As you admired his work, he admired you; he absorbed the profile he'd drawn so many times, the downstairs neighbour he found himself drawn to without explanation. As you turned back toward Henry to give him your feedback, he felt like time had slowed down: your lips were moving but he couldn't hear you speaking. "I think it looks fine, but maybe I'm—" Before you could finish your sentence, Henry had plucked the barely-smoked cigarette from his lips with a pop, flicked it over the fire escape, and strode forward toward you to grasp your face between his charcoal-smudged palms. He kissed you with something like a fury, a passion driven by confusion and curiosity for why he felt this way.

Before you could even begin to lean into the kiss, to part your lips to make way for his tongue, Henry pulled away, resting his forehead against yours. "Henry—" you began, chest heaving as you gripped his jumper. He stayed close, thumbs still brushing over your cheeks, charcoal smudges streaking your skin. His eyes were almost frantic as they searched your face. “I don’t know why I did that,” he said, “I just… fuck. I needed to try.” He swallowed hard. “Don’t ask me to explain it because I can’t. I just know that when you come around, I feel a little less like eating a bullet.” Henry’s breath trembled against your lips as he leaned in again, slower this time, giving you the chance to pull away. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, “and I will.”

You didn't dignify that with an answer.

JUNE Weeks blurred together, but losing time with Henry was always welcome. Henry sought you out on the bad nights, and so you learned all about his near-fatal car crash, his survivor's guilt, and the therapy he'd been trying to make work.

He never seemed to use the front door, perhaps worried that it'd throw your routine off balance. He'd jump down the fire escape, cigarette hanging between his lips, and knock softly at your window, worried that he was bothering you. Every time, he would end up with his head in your lap on the worn couch in your apartment, your fingers threading gently through his hair while the static in his mind quieted. He’d close his eyes and whisper things he’d never told anyone. “You scare me,” he admitted one night, voice muffled against your thigh. "Yeah?" you whispered back in the darkness. "Yeah. I think it's easier to want to die for someone than want to live for them."

As you mulled it over, your fingers stopped tracing in his hair. He peered up at you, snapping you out of his trance when he softly took your hand and placed it to his chest, instead. "You're a good guy, Henry. You're really good." You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.

Nowadays, he’s completely undone; he’s putty in your hands, soft in ways he never thought he could be. He takes your suggestions to eat more, to take his medication, to cool it on the smoking, and he runs with them; his apartment isn't a shithole, most of the time— not in the way it used to be, anyway. He feels like you freed up some space inside of him, and now he's got the bandwidth to care about something bigger than his past: his future.

When your own issues come knocking, he doesn’t hesitate to pull you into his apartment and wrap his arms around you from behind, burying his face in your neck. “We’ll sit with it,” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. "Hmm? We'll just sit with it."

You’d been a middle school English teacher for about a year now, settling in down the hall from Mrs Martha James and Mr Scott Adams, who were both lovely. It was by chance that you bumped into Dr Ryland Grace. During your first week, Noah’s dad came in with his lunchbox, interrupting your little tea break in the staff room. “I’m so sorry, Miss (L/n), we were late to school as it is”, he said.

You gave him a reassuring smile and took it off him, “No problem, I’ll go give it to him now” Noah’s dad nodded and thanked you before walking back down the hallway and out past the office. You sighed to yourself. “Right, Noah, where are you?”

After searching through all your schedules and calendars, physical ones and the online ones, you couldn’t find Noah’s schedule anywhere. Hence, you poked your head into Mrs James' classes, “hi, sorry”, you said, ducking as you walked in. The kids were doing some silent reading, but all looked up at you with curious eyes. You leaned over Mrs James' desk “You don’t happen to know where Noah S. might be right now? Lunchbox delivery”

Mrs James was newly pregnant. You’d actually become good friends in the week you’d been here. She was about your age, but had a high school sweetheart, which was why she was married. She typed away on her laptop and then turned it to show you the screen. “He should be with Dr Grace. Do you know where his classroom is?” She pointed at the screen showing you. This new system confused you; your old school used something else entirely. You thought for a moment, Dr Grace? You’ve never come across him, not even in the staff room. Mrs James stood, “Kids”, she clapped. “Five more minutes of reading and then we can continue, Miss Taylor, watch them for me”, she nodded to her teaching assistant, who winked back. “Come”, she smiled.

You followed Mrs James down a few halls while she told you about Dr Grace, he’d been here a while, turns up early on a bike and leaves late, doesn’t really come to the staff room unless he’s out of sugar for his coffee, apparently the teachers think he’s either married or single, single because no ring but this is the behaviour of a married male teacher. But she gushed about him, “Oh, the kids love him! And apparently some of the ta’s, but I don’t see it? Maybe because I’m married”, she trailed off.

In the science wing, she stopped and pointed, “Second door on the left” She smiled and turned, heels clicking down the hallway. You stood still; it wasn’t like you to be nervous, but you could hear a male voice faintly through the walls. You looked over Noah’s lunchbox, stickers of Transformers littered on it. You took a deep breath and drifted towards the door; two knocks, and you opened it.

Some kids perked up, “Miss (L/n)!” They whispered. You shhh’ed them. Dr Grace was standing at the front of the class, showing a diagram of some plant cells, which was covered in projector lights, not doing you much justice.

“Uh, sorry to interrupt, Dr Grace. I have Noah’s lunchbox; his father brought it in” You smiled towards Noah, a sweet kid; he jumped up.

“Wait!”

A small green sack flew towards Noah, and he caught it surprisingly well. Dr Grace moved out from the projector lights, giving you a proper look at him. Oh, you see what these teaching assistants are on about. Dirty blonde, short stubble, glasses hanging from his ear, resting on his chin and beautiful blue eyes. He was wearing a grey suit, a duck egg blue shirt, and a red tie. He was leaning back on a table, looking right back at you.

“Noah, roughly how long does it take for the sun's light to reach Earth?”

“8 hours?” The kid said.

Dr Grace's head dropped. He chuckled, “No, toss it back, get your lunchbox” Noah tossed the sack back and left his chair with a squeak. He thanked you for his lunch box.

“Miss (L/n)”

You brought your attention back to Dr Grace, who was motioning to him, throwing you the sack. You opened your hands, and he gently tossed it to you. The kids were watching eagerly.

“Which Apollo moon mission was the first to carry a lunar rover?”

He smiled so endearingly. It’s been years since even the thought of being attracted to someone crossed your mind. You were so focused on school and teaching. Well, if you’re going to do this, may as well try to impress him. You secretly hope he is actually single and not secretly married.

“Uh, Apollo 15”, tossing back the sack, it hit in the square in the chest with an ‘oof’. With that, you winked at him and quickly waltzed out the door.

He stood there for a while, smiling to himself. He hadn’t met the new teacher, but he heard of her. Mrs James caught him in the hallway once when he was opening his classroom “Oh, Dr Grace, you really must say hello, she’s such a pretty thing” She was right.

“Wow, Miss (L/n) is smart”, whispered the kids.

Which brings you to now. You’re sitting in your car outside your apartment, double-checking that it is World Book Day. The weather is dreadful, you’ve never seen rain like this, it’s almost hailing. Your book, tucked neatly in your tote bag, is The Princess and the Pea. Dr Grace had kindly lent you his green sack as the pea. You are dressed in blue check pyjama pants, a pink princess dress with milkmaid sleeves and a tiara. You would’ve worn the dress on its own, but it’s a school. And what’s more fun than wearing pyjamas?

Oh, Dr Grace. He’s going to be soaking. You tap your steering wheel thoughtfully. You fish your phone out of your tote bag and find his contact. “Dr Grace 🧪”, he’d labelled himself as. The only message history was general questions about school days off and teachers' meetings.

“Fuck it”

You pressed call. You sat, listening to the pounding rain, as your phone rang. You wondered if this was a message from a higher-up. Don’t go to school as a princess, no other teachers will be dressed up! It whispered.

“Uh, hello?” A voice came through the phone, you jumped, and I put it to your ear.

“Oh, Dr Grace! It’s (Y/n) I was just wonde-“

“Ryland”, he said.

“I’m sorry?” God had you offended him? Was calling him like this a bit unprofessional? Did you scare him off?

“I asked you to call me Ryland, and you still call me Dr Grace”, he mused.

“Right, sorry.” You tapped your foot on the accelerator pedal of your car, hearing her hum. “Look, it’s pouring down, and I’m just down the road from you. I was wondering if you wanted me to pick you up for work?” It was bold for sure.

“No, no! I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way,” he said.

Slightly deflated, you thought for a second. “Can I bribe you with coffee?”

“Deal.” He said quickly. You giggled, telling him you’d be there in 5.

Pulling up on what you think is the right road, you set your car into park and start moving your tote bag into the back seat. It was still hammering it down. Fuck. You just realised what you’d done. You were dressed as a princess, with a pea. See, when you asked Ryland for the green sack, you didn’t specify what for. You groaned and hit your forehead on the wheel. He’s so going to laugh at you.

The car door opening made you jump. And in slid Dr Grace. Who was dressed differently? He put his book bag in the footwell of your car, and you both stared at each other. He was wearing smart olive-green pants, a pale green shirt, a knitted olive jumper, and a green headband with eyes on it.

“You’re a princess?” He chuckled.

You blushed deeply and rolled your eyes. “Well, it’s better than… whatever you are!” You laughed.

He scoffed and pretended to look offended. “I’ll have you know I am a frog!”

You both laughed. “From what book?”

You watched as he reached into the footwell, rummaging through his bag for his book. He pulled it out and handed it to you. It was a book version of Disney’s The Princess and the Frog. “See, I am the frog”, he said, pointing to it.

You blushed even deeper now, peering up at him through your eyelashes. He knotted his eyebrows together in confusion, and then you watched, seeing the cogs in his brain turning. A deep flush settled on his cheeks, and you think he got it.

You were the princess. And he is the frog.

The turnout at school was better than you expected. Kids in comic book character outfits, and most teachers were dressed up this year. Before the kids settled in, you rushed in to see Mrs James. She was dressed as a tiger, a very pregnant one. Her favourite book was The Tiger That Came To Tea.

“You set me up!” You whisper-yell. She was sitting at her desk, nibbling on some toast. She was nearly crying from laughing so much.

“You’ve seen him then”, she said once calmed down, wiping her eyes.

“Seen him! Martha, I gave him a ride to school!” She belted out laughing, and now you were holding your head in your hands.

She rubbed her belly as she took in some breaths to help her stop laughing. “Listen, it’s time you did something about those longing looks”, you tutted and rolled your eyes. “I’ve seen it! He never used to come to the staff room, but now there he is! Cuddled up next to you,” She wasn’t lying.

You two often shared a sandwich or some toast during morning break, and you felt comfortable with him. He was always close, knees touching or shoulders touching. You’d always told yourself it was because the staff room was small, he didn’t have anywhere else to sit! But then he started bringing you coffee, in front of everyone, asking how many sugars, making it right in the staff room in your favourite mug, and bringing it to you with a soft smile.

The rest of the day went quickly. Kids usually can’t settle on a day like this, so teachers do small, fun tasks instead of actual work. The bell rang for the end of the day, and the room turned into a tornado of young fairies and superheroes running out the door.

“Knock knock.” Ryland was leaning in the doorway of your classroom. Halfway through the day, you realised that since picking him up, he didn’t have his bike to get home. So you could only offer to take him home.

“Ribbit”, you playfully said back. You slung your tote bag over your shoulder and faced him. He looked different. There was a look in his eye. Mischievous. More sure of himself, almost.

The ride back was filled with general work talk, how Mrs James was getting along with her pregnancy, what kids are causing you grief, etc. The rain had cleared up, but because it was winter, the sun was slowly setting.

“Listen about today”, Ryland started. Oh no, he was going to have this dreadful talk with you about how you’ve gone too far and embarrassed him, he’s married, of course, and you shouldn’t have overstepped that boundary-

“I’m sorry, " you cut him off. Focusing on parking. After you parked, you unbuckled your seatbelt and looked at him. “I understand today may have crossed a professional boundary, I may have voiced a silly schoolgirl crush to Mrs James about you and totally embarrassed myself-“

“No, (Y/n)-”

“Mrs James played along and maybe pushed too far-“

“(Y/n) stop.” He took your hands in his, causing you to fall silent. You met his eyes, and he looked bashful. “I may have asked Mrs James to set this up.” Your jaw dropped, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “How could I not, you’re the prettiest woman I’ve ever met, and since working with you I’ve just….come to like you a lot more than friends.”

He whispered the last part. You were blushing deeply. This man, whom nearly every teacher’s assistant has had a crush on, has gravitated towards you. “Well”, you started. “I may or may not have a little crush on you” you blushed and looked away.

He chuckled. “Well, that’s good to know.” He squeezed your hand.

You both sat there a while. Holding hands and sharing looks. There was a slight patter of rain now, the sunset turning the sky completely orange, casting a golden light onto Ryland's face. “Can I ask you something?” He spoke.

You nodded. “Since I’m a frog”, he sat up now, pointing to himself. “And you’re a princess”, you nodded again. “I was wondering if you would be so kind as to turn me into a prince?”

You blinked. A prince? You studied his face to get any clues as to what he was talking about, and it was only when a deep flush settled on his face that it clicked. Of course. His book. In The Princess and the Frog, she has to kiss him for him to become a prince.

You leaned in towards him, your hand freeing from him and reaching towards his knitted jumper. Ryland watched with his mouth slightly open as your fingers curled around his jumper and pulled him closer.

Your lips ghosted his, and then you planted a soft kiss. It started softly at first. A small peck. Your eyes fluttered closed when you felt his hand settle on your jaw, deepening the kiss. Your hand reached up and settled on the back of his neck, feeling his soft hair. You tested the waters by opening your mouth a bit more, letting his tongue in. It was slow and sloppy. He made a noise, you barely caught it, and he pulled you away.

He was a vision. His eyes were blown, deep pink settled in his cheeks, and your lipstick smudged all around his mouth. His forearm was awkwardly pressed into his lap, and you realise what the noise was about. “I need to take you on a date.” He spoke. “I can’t be doing that before I date you, " he looked out the window now, shaking his head and laughing.

You giggled and started using your thumb to wipe off the lipstick around his face “Doing what?”

“You got me a bit excited there.” His voice was now gravely.

Your heart fluttered. You didn’t dare meet his eyes; you knew exactly what he meant. It was strange hearing it from him. This charming gentleman, who flirted with you through corny science jokes, had a hard-on. And you liked it. More than you expect. He leaned over and kissed your cheek. “Let me take you on a date. A proper one”

“Okay, handsome, when?” You met his blue orbs with a smile. And it was his turn to blush now.

“I’ll FaceTime you later, and we can set a date?” It was more of a question; he was rummaging around in the footwell now, grabbing his books and bag. You nodded, feeling excited but slightly sad he was going.

He stepped out of the car, and you watched him wave as he walked up the steps to his apartment. You sat there with your foot on the brake, feeling like a little girl again. Before you could pull off, you saw a blur of green running around the back of the car. Ryland was standing at your window, asking you to roll it down.

You slid down the window and spoke, “What are you do-“

Before you could finish, he cupped your face with his hands and brought his lips to yours. Sparkles flew as he sloppily kissed you, hands running through your hair. You savoured him as if you couldn’t get enough.