professor c

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."

But…there's a new cafe on Main. And it's only a couple minutes away. A quick walk down the street from school. A chance at a coffee stronger than the watered down mess of grounds he can get in the teacher's lounge. A drink he'll enjoy instead of a drink he'll be forced to stomach.

What's the harm? Seems like the universe is telling him that he should go, anyway—he woke up on his own 10 minutes before his alarm went off this morning.

He's never been superstitious. Maybe he should try it today. Take something as a sign for once.

So, here he is. Parking his bike in the spot he claims every day but taking a left and going down the block instead of a right and going into school.

The walk is nice. It's short. Fall is in full swing, so there's a chilled breeze nipping at his fingers. Shoots shivers down his spine and forces him to shove his hands in his pockets. He only has to turn the corner to get where he's going, but the wind is threatening to freeze him solid.

This isn't a sign that I'm doing the wrong thing. I'm not superstitious. It's just cold outside because it's always cold in October.

Self-soothing reassurance. Just enough to keep him walking forward instead of backtracking. The coffee will help his iced hands defrost, and he's already here, and…he wants it. He comes to terms with all of that and tames the nervous thoughts in his mind as he reaches the door, pushes it open, and crosses the threshold into the building. Trembling fingers and all.

He takes his surroundings in at a distance. While he's standing right next to the trashcan these places always put near the door.

It's warm in here. Warm enough for him to feel confident taking his hands out of his pockets, although they stay at his sides. His fingers immediately begin picking for threads to pull at his jeans. It smells really nice, as was expected. Definitely better than the way the coffee in the lounge smells.

Unfortunately for his routine-driven brain, though, the line is long. Full of people just like me, he thinks to himself, who wanna squeeze in a visit here before work. How can we all be so irresponsible?

Sometimes his brain's anxious thoughts win. Especially now.

These are people just trying to get their hit of caffeine before getting locked away in an office building for eight hours. Impatiently tapping their feet, or distracting themselves on their phones, or drumming their fingers against their thighs, or staring at the ceiling with tensed jaws, or releasing a heavy sigh through their flared nostrils.

Because the line they're all standing in is moving quickly, but everything else is quite slow. He's been here for less than a minute, and while that line's moving fast, he can't ignore the massive crowd of people waiting for their drinks off to the side of the register.

He tries to ignore it, though. Looks up at the massive clock on the wall behind that very register that reads 7:00 AM. Really stares at it. At the second hand that's steadily ticking and taking his minutes away from him.

This is fine. Maybe I'll only be in here for 10 minutes. Only takes five to get back to school. Forty five minutes of quiet is just as good as an hour, isn't it? I can grade some of those papers during my planning period, can't I?

Okay. Maybe this was a bad idea.

Being superstitious for one day means that he notices the good signs, sure. Comes with the bad ones, too, though. His morning routine is ugly-screaming I TOLD YOU SO at him in the back of his head, but he gets in line anyway and hopes for the best.

Hopes it'll quiet that screaming, at least. And for a brief moment…it does. The line moves fast. He asks for a simple thing: Black coffee that he'll add his own creamer to. Simple and effective. Also allows him to get his order quicker than almost everyone else in front of him, which he'd feel bad about if he had the time for it.

Even though it's 7:08 AM and he's still not at his desk, Ryland's brain is shockingly calm. Calm enough to allow himself to smile while he's walking out of the cafe.

There's a saying about hindsight, though. It's always 20/20. Even for someone with bad eyesight like Ryland Grace.

Perhaps he should have listened to his brain's shouting about sticking to the routine. Should have listened to the way his fingers tensed around his bike's handlebar a little harder when he told himself he'd turn left instead of right today. Should have listened to the hesitation in his steps, and the way he almost couldn't open the door to the cafe, and the angry chatter of all the frustrated customers who were pissed that everything was moving so slowly.

Because as soon as he steps out of the cafe at 7:08 AM, he knows he won't be getting to school with 47 minutes to spare before the bell rings.

He steps out of the cafe, one foot on the pavement, and runs into you while you're clearly about to walk into it. It was foolish to think he'd have 47 minutes. He bit off more than he could chew. He ignored too many bad signs. Suddenly, he's the most superstitious person in the world.

"Ryland?" you excitedly call out. You've got the biggest smile on your face. The kind that adds a pretty little melody to his name when you say it. A melody he hasn't heard in months. A melody he misses more than anything.

"I can't believe this! It's been so long! How are you?"

God, you're so excited. It's like you're over the moon as soon as you recognize him. The corners of your eyes are scrunched, and your irises are so bright, and you're high-pitched in that way you'd get when he'd trudge through your formerly-shared apartment's front door in the afternoon. You're looking at him like a person looks at their bed after a hard day. Lovingly. Relievedly.

Why are you so excited? Why are you so relieved? How aren't you hurting like he still is?

"I—" he stumbles over himself immediately and nearly trips over his own two feet. Almost drops his coffee because his hand aches to ditch the cup. His fingers still want to intertwine with yours. After everything that happened, after how long it's been, after how miserable things were, they still just…want you.

He blinks. Roughly. Quicker than is probably necessary. Had to make sure you were still there, that this isn't a dream. His smile falters. Then, with all of his might, he conjures just enough energy to step out of the way of the door and toward the sidewalk. Toward you, although every synapse in his brain is firing and telling him to run away.

But he breathes your name, anyway. Forces a fake smile on his face and retightens his fingers around his coffee cup. Tells you hi.

"I'm just on the way to work," is his almost whispered and absolutely pathetic response to the question you asked. It barely even made sense. What the hell is he doing? Should he be worried about the tightness in his chest?

"You're out of your way, then," you chirp. Smile still on your face. Voice still sweet and excited.

"Unless you're not at Grover Cleveland anymore?"

"No, I—yeah. I'm still there. Stayed after you left," Ryland mutters. He gestures toward the cafe he just walked out of, the one you're rearing to walk into. He clears his throat. He's not sure if it was to make his voice louder or if it was to force the lump forming away.

"I just wanted to try this place. Are you still at Ridgeview?"

"Yeah. Trying to leave, though. I'm almost finished with my book, so...fingers crossed."

"That's nice. I can't wait to read it."

You hum. He looks down at the concrete in the space between you. At his favorite beat-up pair of Converse he's wearing contrasted with your borderline squeaky-clean brand new pair. Funny. You told him you'd get him new ones one day.

Apparently you got them for yourself, instead. Did you think of him when you bought them? Do you ever think of him as often as he thinks of you?

"Anyway. This place is good. I've been here a few times since they opened," you offer. Then you clear your own throat and gesture toward his hand. He can't help but wonder if you saw the way his muscles tensed when you did it. If you saw every God damn cell in his body react to you and tighten.

"What'd you get? A black coffee that you're gonna add your own creamer to?"

The laugh he punches out is a weak thing.

"Yeah," he confesses. He allows himself to look at you a little longer when he lifts his gaze to meet yours again.

"I knew it." The smile you give him after you say that is softer. Lacking teeth, but still lovely in all the ways you always are.

Of course you knew it.

"If it's not broken, why fix it?" he jokes. You nod and laugh through your nose.

Things fall quiet for a moment, and in that moment, you just…look at each other. A soft, unwarranted jealousy bubbles up in his chest when the sunlight peeks out through an overcast cloud and illuminates your face.

Who gets to see you like this now? Beautiful and glowing in the sunlight that Ryland's convinced was made for you to bask in? Is that new person good to you? Better than he was?

"You look good," you softly coo. In that silence, you must have been taking him in. Taking him in in the same exact way he was taking you in. Again, he's not superstitious, but…that has to mean something, right?

"Speak for yourself."

Smooth. Every single atom in his body is set ablaze with anxiety and pain, but that was a smooth response. He's a little proud of himself for that one. Proud enough to put the wind back in his sails.

"I'm glad you're doing well, Ry."

And, just as quickly as the wind appeared for him, it's taken away.

His arms ache with the weight that's been on his shoulders since you left him. His fake happiness crashes and burns, replaced with a little frown that he couldn't fight off of himself if he tried. Replaced with a furrowed brow and an inability to look at you. It's like he deflated right in front of you.

Why'd you have to call him that?

"Do you wanna come inside?"

A simple question. One that requires a simple answer. Either a confirmation or a rejection. Yes or no. Hell, he doesn't even have to open his mouth to answer it. Could be as simple as a nod or a head shake.

So Ryland's not exactly sure why he's struggling to answer it when you ask.

"I don't wanna be a burden," he mumbles. Managed to get that one out after he had spent a couple seconds staring at you for too long.

Way to go, Ryland. Complicated the easiest question in the world to answer.

You laugh at him. What a pretty sound. The prettiest sound in the world, maybe.

"A burden? How could you be a burden? I'm literally inviting you in, Ryland."

"I just," he trails off to a heavy pause. Wrings his hands in front of him. Shifts on his feet.

He's nervous. Of course he wants to go into your apartment, but…is three dates even enough to be invited into an apartment? Will he be too eager if he accepts your offer? Is this some sort of test?

"You don't have to invite me in."

"I know I don't have to," you counter. Your voice softens to a gentle whisper, a siren song, when you finish, "But I want to."

Then you reach over and grab onto one of his hands. Your grip is as gentle as your voice. The soft curl of your fingers as they intertwine with his is enough to make him weak in the knees, so…thankfully, you've got a solid hold on him. He swallows down a groan as soon as you begin brushing your thumb back and forth against the back of his hand.

How on Earth could he say no?

"Okay," he caves. "I'd love to."

It's breathy and pathetic and embarrassingly relieved, but the shame he'd feel over that gets struck down. Completely overshadowed by his own happiness when you flash a big, bright grin at him.

He made the right choice.

He realizes that as you tug him into your apartment and throw your arms around his shoulders. As you lean up to press your forehead against his and nuzzle your noses together.

Your invitation into your place was all he needed, apparently. You might have made first contact, but he's the one who kisses you for the first time. Deep, needy, a little quicker than he wanted it to be.

He's the one who kicks your front door shut, wraps his arms around your waist, and lifts you up with an ease that makes you whine into his mouth. He has to choke down a whine of his own when you tangle your hands in his hair and yank on it.

Before he even realizes it, he's stumbling into your living room and dropping himself down on your couch. Of course, he takes you down onto it with him. Plops you down in his lap and relishes in the feeling of your hips pressing down onto his.

He hasn't done this in a while. Doing this with someone he's actually in love with? Even longer.

So, when you let yourself lean into him and deepen the kiss despite how forward he's being, he feels an absurdly large wave of pride swelling in his chest. It'd take up all of it if you hadn't already settled in beside his heart.

That pride leads to a couple things. First, him burying his face in your neck after pressing a line of messy kisses down your jawline. Second, and more importantly, a rather bold move of him sliding his hands down from your waist to your ass.

"Shit," you groan as soon as he gives it a rough squeeze. When his teeth gently nip against the side of your neck, when his tongue laves against that little bite before he sucks on it, he earns a moan.

"That feels so good, Ry," you whimper while you dig your nails into his shoulders and roll your hips against his.

He stops in the middle of sucking a soft pink hickey on your neck. He just…pauses. Completely stops in his tracks and lifts his head. You blink a few times. Furrow your eyebrows and, while you're still panting, you concernedly ask, "Are you okay?"

"What'd you call me?"

A question for a question. It's only fair.

Your lips quirk up into a little smirk. A facial expression he's learning that you only make around him. When you know you've got him caught in some kind of compromising situation. He's never focused on just how much you do it. On how much you come out on top of him. On how you've been doing it for over two years while you've worked at Grover Cleveland with him, and how he's only just now picking up on it being a thing.

So much for being attentive. He really needs to fix that. Needs to take his head out of the clouds.

"Ry," you purr. He shudders and lets his head fall forward onto your shoulder. His hands return to your waist, arms tightening around it so he can pull you closer. This was only your third date, and you've already got a nickname for him. The intimacy behind that might end this party before it even starts.

"You like it?"

He smiles. Presses that smile into your skin before he lifts his head to flash it at you. It's probably crooked. Probably a little dopey, too, judging by the way you giggle at him when your eyes flit down to his lips.

"Yeah. I like it."

He hates to admit it, but he still likes it. Maybe even more now than that first time you said it.

"If you're doing well, at least. You look like you are."

"I—uh," he squeaks out. Stops to shake his head and squeeze his eyes shut. Tilts his head down because he can't fathom looking at you after that memory came back to him in full force. Feels disrespectful to both of you.

He reopens his eyes and glues them to your shoes, then promptly hates himself for it, because they make him tear up. Maybe he can blame those tears on the chilly breeze that's still attacking him. He can blame his reddened cheeks on it, too.

All he can do now is pray. Pray, for a silent, quick second that his voice won't crack when he speaks up again.

"Yeah, sure. Thanks. You look like you are, too."

He isn't looking at you, but he knows you shrugged. He saw the way your arms lifted out of his peripheral. Heard the shuffle of your jacket. Felt the change in your demeanor almost as heavily as the change in his own.

It was a gentle, hesitant move on your part. Seems like every part of this conversation is gentle and hesitant now that the initial adrenaline and shock has melted away.

"I've been better. I'm okay, though," you admit.

He doesn't have to see you to know you weren't happy when you said it. It was lacking confidence. Lacking the smile on your face that he can always hear in your voice. Lacking the soft melody your tone adds to every word that's lucky enough to leave your lips. Lacking everything he still loves about you.

Maybe you are just as miserable as me.

There's a beat. A silence that shouldn't be very comfortable, but is. He knows better than to take solace in your misery. But when he's just as miserable, if not more…

Well. Everyone knows misery loves company.

"Sometimes 'okay' is all we can be," he finally rumbles. A desperate need to break the silence. To hopefully pull your voice out of you so that he can hear it again. Even a few seconds without it is too long.

"Always so levelheaded," you reply. Then you chuckle. And his heart aches and races all at once. Maybe this is a heart attack.

"I miss that about you. Glad that you kept it."

Ryland goes quiet. Even quieter than he already was. His fingers tighten around the cup in his hand.

What's he supposed to say to that? Is he supposed to agree? Beg you to give him another chance if you miss him so much? Tell you he's never been less levelheaded in his entire life now that you're not in it?

You miss me. I miss you. What are we doing?

He opts for an awkward laugh instead while he rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. Opens his mouth and spews something he's not even sure he believes for himself when he says, "Gotta stay levelheaded if you wanna be a good teacher."

You nod. The smile that accompanies it is…melancholic.

His chest tightens. The last time you smiled at him like that was the last time you walked out of his life. Why stay here and continue making each other miserable? Why live through this a second time?

That's why he tells you, "I should get going. Need to set up for the day."

Your eyes widen. Your hands twitch when you let them fall at your sides. Are you reaching out? Is each cell in your body reaching out to him like his are to you?

"Yeah, I get it. I'm sorry I kept you, but it was nice to see you, Ry. Really," you concede.

You're not reaching out. You're letting it happen. You're letting him walk away. Why does that hurt more than anything else he's been through with you this morning?

"Yeah. You too," he half-heartedly returns. A lie that he pushes out over the bile in his throat and through his teeth. You give him a tiny laugh combined with an eyeroll. You picked up on that lie. You always laughed like that when he told a bad one.

But you tell him bye instead of calling him out on it. And you watch him as he starts to move backwards, unmoving from your spot. So much for focusing on the coffee you wanted.

Ryland continues to walk backwards, but not for long. It's just enough to memorize what you look like before he hopefully never sees you again. He spins on his heel when he's had enough of that sad puppy dog look in your eyes as you watch him leave. A face he was hoping he wouldn't have to see more than once.

His gait is slow as he walks away from you and back toward school. Unmotivated. Miserable. You'd think that when you're miserable all the time, you'd get used to it.

He wonders about whether or not he can just call in today. He's bitten off way more than he can chew. Been inundated with way too many bad signs on the one day he's decided to be superstitious.

Thinking about it would only make it even worse for him. For his brain. So, thankfully, he doesn't have to.

Because you're too busy stealing his attention. Again.

"Hey, wait!"

He doesn't want to stop walking. He doesn't want to turn back around and see you again. He's had enough of it; of the bad signs he can't ignore anymore and of the good memories he can't ever go back to.

But he does stop walking. How couldn't he? At the end of the day, he still belongs to you. He'll still do what you say. So he turns around, too.

When he does, he sees you coming his way. You're jogging to him. Past the cafe and all the way down the street. Waving and staring at him with a pleading look in your eyes.

Why do you want to do this? Why won't you just let him go like he's desperately trying to do to you? Seeing you here was enough. It was closure. Of course, he feels worse—but it's closure. You're okay. That's all that matters. He'll deal with his pain over all of this on his own time.

He gnaws on the inside of his cheek. Sighs, then defeatedly says, "I'm sorry. I can't do this. School's starting soon, so I really have to go."

"I know, Ry, but—"

"Oh, for Christ's sake! Can you…" he groans and shuts his eyes. Hangs his head. The ache in his jaw reminds him that he should probably unclench it. He doesn't even remember clenching it in the first place.

"Can you stop calling me that?"

It was rude, the way he shot you down and cut you off. Frantic. Brash. A little hateful, even. A flash showing of a temper that he desperately tries to hide, but can't always hold back when he's frustrated.

You frown at him. Guilt never feels good.

"Sorry," he whispers when the guilt threatens to drown him. "Just…I can't. Stop calling me that. Please."

"I didn't know you didn't like it anymore," you brokenly admit. You avoid his eyes and look down at your hands. You only do that when you're about to cry.

I like it too much, actually.

More guilt floods his senses. Has anyone ever drowned without touching water?

"Hey," Ryland breathes. Laughs to himself. It's awkward. Stilted. But he continues, anyway.

"Don't worry about it. How could you have known? We haven't seen each other in…" he trails off and waves one hand dismissively, "a while."

A while. One year, four months, and seven days. That's a lot of time. A lot of time for two people to change. A lot of time for him to stay the same.

"Yeah," you agree, quiet and solemn. A tiny nod of your head to match before you look back up at him. "Definitely a while."

He hums. When he turns his head to the right, he gets a glimpse of the street ahead of him. Big and empty. Lacking any sort of life. Dull. Almost like a prison sentence. What he has to do instead of what he wants to do.

When he turns back to you, he sees life. What his life could have been had you not both called it quits. It's as bright as the sunlight still bouncing off of your face and the tears glistening in your eyes.

He drops his mouth open to say something, then closes it. What could be said?

You sniffle and punch out a stilted laugh. Something of necessity. To ease the tension here, although all it does is make him feel worse. He put you here in this situation. Why'd he have to branch out from his routine?

"Did you wanna say something?" he asks.

"No," you answer. "I just had a question."

Ryland's brow quirks up.

"A question?"

"Yeah. If you have the time for it."

He nods.

"I can spare a couple minutes."

You smile. It's as weak as the trembling hand coming up to swipe a stray tear off of your cheek. A shaky sigh leaves your chest; tumbles out of your lips, makes itself known with the fragile little cloud within the cold air around you both.

"Are you really okay?"

That's probably the worst question you could have asked him. It stalls in between you both. Hangs in the air and demands to be answered even though he doesn't want to. Although, this entire morning has consisted of shit he didn't really want to do, so…

"I—Yeah. I mean…yeah. I am," Ryland answers.

That wasn't even convincing to him. Definitely won't work on you. He's sure of that.

Or, at least, he was sure of that. Because after you hear his response, you smile at him. Another weak smile, but it's genuine. A soft upward pull of the corners of your lips. That's all he gets.

"Good," you murmur. You punctuate that one little word with a relieved sigh. How did you not know he was lying? Has it really been that long? Do you not know him anymore?

Does he not know you?

"Are you?" he asks.

"Mhm," you answer.

You clear your throat and gesture back toward the cafe.

"Alright, I need to get in line if I want to be on time, so I'll let you go now. Have fun shaping the youth of San Francisco," you muse. You wave at him and start to backtrack.

"See you around, Ryland."

Ouch.

"Yeah. See you."

And, with that, you're off. You turn around. You don't look back at him while you jog back to the cafe and into it.

Ryland mirrors you after he stops himself from staring at your back. He turns around, too. Starts walking down the street and back to Grover Cleveland Middle.

Back to real life.

author's note: i said i'd never hurt ryland grace but unfortunately i did end up hurting him real bad. im sorry to him but not sorry that i wrote this because i think it may be my most favorite thing i've ever written. thank you so so so dearly to my beautiful beloved @clarkscolumn for helping me with the editing on this, for it would not exist without you. and thank you to my brilliant fellow writers @thceseus and @icykentss for beta'ing this and approving it for me! i love all of you so dearly. thank you one million billion times. you're the best (but you all knew that already)

taglist: @clarkscolumn @thceseus @clarknsun @sparklingsin @notebookmixup @frivolousimagination @qardasngan @aerixae @snoopysupe @pinksplace @soniayonce @yearningforsolitude (I TAGGED YOU BC YOU RESPONDED TO MY POST EARLIER BUT IF U WANT ME TO REMOVE IT PLS LMK <3)