professor c

Bonus Image of him smiling into his jacket.

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)

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)

@yearningforsolitude dearest cas i said this in my response to your comment BUT: i shall say it again. what an honor it is to make a writer as brilliant as you are hurt. my sincerest apologies for the knife And twisting of said knife. i wanted to blow my shit smoove off while writing this, so know you're not the only one in pain 🫶🏻🥹 thank you for reading and reblogging, you're the best 🩵🩵🩵

“now what were you sayin’?” his voice is rough, matching the meanness of his hips as he fucks himself into you. you’ve gone boneless beneath him, one of your legs is hooked up around his hip and one of your hands is grasping at his skin. your nails are no doubt leaving scratch marks against the skin of his ass as you desperately try to pull him in deeper. your brain has grown fuzzy with the all-consuming need for him, and when you open your mouth to talk, all that comes out is a broken sob.

“can’t even speak now, huh? you just needed me to fuck those stupid little thoughts outta your pretty head. isn’t that right, baby?” he sounds so smug, he’s incredibly pleased with himself as he watches you unravel beneath him. he watches your face, sees the way your brows knit together in pleasure and how your jaw has gone slack. he knows you can’t properly answer his question when you’re this full of him. his hand moves to your jaw, cradling it in his grasp, and he uses the leverage to nod your head for you to answer his own question.

“there we go.” he actually laughs, his hot breath fanning out across your face. his grip around your jaw then loosens, long enough so that he can use his fingers to lightly tap against your cheek. he uses just enough force to get your eyes open and your attention zoned back in on him before he speaks again.

“now tell me thank you, baby. thank me for fucking some sense into you.” his blue eyes bore into yours as he speaks, his own pupils blown wide with that same aching desire that you’re completely full of. his hand moves from your jaw to your throat, though there’s no pressure behind his grasp, he’s just holding it as he waits for your verbal gratitude.

“thank you—” one deep push of his hips stops your sentence halfway, a gasp clawing its way out of your throat instead. “thank you, luke.” you manage to finally choke the words out for him.

“for?” he hums, leaning down and pressing open mouthed kisses against your jaw. he hasn’t shaven recently, so his scruff is scratching against your soft skin as he works his way down to your chin, where he nips at the bone with his teeth. the movement of his hips has slowed, allowing your brain to return to you just a little bit, but he’s still not letting you off easy. he wants to hear you say exactly what he has asked of you.

“thank you for fucking some sense into me.” you are able to get the sentence out, giving him exactly what he wants. you feel the way he smiles against your skin as he registers the words. his hips start to regain their momentum as well as he begins to properly fuck himself into you again.

“that’s my girl,” he whispers, a light groan leaving his throat as you dig your nails into his skin once again. he finally moves his lips up to yours, placing a wet kiss against them before he speaks once more into your open mouth.