summary: with fall semester in motion, you have no idea how you're going to keep up living with ryland. he's (shockingly) easy to like and your feelings for him are growing exponentially. (part 2/???)
pairing: ryland grace x gn!reader
tags: (set in grad school, ryland and reader both in their early/mid-20s!) slow burn, more domestic fluff, mutual pining, roommates-to-lovers, friends-to-lovers, developing feelings, rom-com logic, unresolved romantic tension, cocky!ryland, jealous!reader, linda cameo if you squint, gn!reader
cross-posted to ao3 / previous chapter here!
a/n: ty for your patience guys... fic writer = employed — also thanks @sinsilk and @corinthianism for keeping me company and letting me use them to screen my fics LOL <3
It’s almost past midnight and you’ve already gone through the motions of laying all of your things out on the coffee table. You’ve been liking the living room more and more—for a wholly unacceptable reason. There are, as you’ve noticed, acceptable and unacceptable things to think about Ryland to prolong your ability to live together. Acceptable things: he does his laundry promptly, he’s clean, he knows when to be quiet. Unacceptable things: he’s attractive even with the sass, the graphic t-shirts are… kind of cute, and you like seeing him read in the living room with his body laid out across the couch.
Neither of you have talked about that night after the bar since it happened. It’s a good thing, because there’s no normal way for that conversation to be carried out. Ryland doesn’t have to acknowledge that he thinks you’re “observationally” pretty, any more than you have to acknowledge that you liked laying that kiss on his cheek. All appears well the next morning when you two are slightly sluggish and fail to talk it out. Breakfast like normal, on the quieter side—and you and Ryland agree with certainty, and without a single word exchanged, that if you want to keep living together, it’s better to just sweep an incident like that neatly under the rug.
You couldn’t be more thankful for the start of Fall semester. Your schedule, paired with Ryland’s, results amicably in the apartment being a little more empty than it was during the summer. He’s in class or working, you’re in class or working—and the two of you barely have the opportunity to see one another aside from late nights or early mornings.
Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. A text from him: Grading running late, camping library till closed. That crosses out your late night sighting. A good thing, you think. Ryland won’t have to see you torturing yourself over heaps of computer work. And you won’t have to have that passing, heartwarming feeling you get when he asks you what you’re working on—and inevitably decides to sit and work with you.
You wake up on your side, arm draped down and fingertips nearly brushing the rug. From this angle on the couch, you realize you must’ve fallen asleep doing your work. Everything’s still as you left it—laptop half-open, notebooks, and a favorite pencil. Except, there’s a blanket strewn over you and a memory-foam pillow slotted just beneath your head. The pillowcase is a dark-blue, smells like dryer sheets—not yours, and there’s only one other option in the house.
Ryland must’ve tucked you in after coming home from the library. The thought of him unlocking the door, slowing at the sight of you knocked out in the living room, and tiptoeing to grab you a warmer, comfier setup makes your chest tighten.
You have to find your phone somewhere by you on the couch; it’d been at your side when you fell asleep, and when you find the cold glass screen, it’s nearing being wedged between the cushions. A click of the side-button, and the lockscreen reads: 7:36 A.M. You don’t have to get up for another hour or so, but Ryland should be up by now. It’s best practice, you think, to return the pillow and blanket back to its owner, before wandering back to your own bedroom. So, you get up on wobbly, half-asleep legs. The blanket gets folded as neatly as possible, with the pillow stacked on top, and you carry them with both arms over to his bedroom.
You give a soft couple of knocks on Ryland’s door. “Hey, you awake?” There’s a thud, a muttered curse, and footsteps padding over on the other side of the door. Definitely awake. “Sorry,” you say, “I just wanted to make sure you get your bedding before you head out for the day. And I also wanted to say—”
Ryland’s opening the door with one hand and tugging his shirt over his chest with the other. You get a good look at his bare stomach while pushing out a meek, “Thanks.” You don’t know how you’re going to get that image out of your mind for the next twenty-four hours. He’s… more toned than you would’ve expected—abs soft and tight. That’s an unacceptable thing to think. You give your attention over to his eyes instead, the usual murky blue, twinkling with amusement.
“Well, you were fetal positioned on the couch,” he considers, “I would’ve woken you up, but you seemed pretty comfortable where you were.” It doesn’t help that Ryland’s hair is wet—having just gone through his morning shower, blonde hair all damp and unstyled. He takes the folded blanket and pillow off your hands with a small grin, before turning around to drop them on his bed.
The wide crack of the door Ryland leaves open allows you to peer into his bedroom uninhibited. You’ve rarely gotten a good look like this in the past couple of months you’ve been living in the apartment, considering how private he is and how little you want to pry. But now, you’ve got a great picture: his gridded sheets, the PC display on his desk, a bedside table with a small, ceramic lamp, a rack of sweaters on the side. It’s all tidy, and a little plain—save for the few posters. You can pick out… a big periodic table? “Is that…?”
Ryland turns back to you with a couple steps, nearly chest-to-chest in the doorway of his room. He’s turning over his shoulder to trace your gaze, then peering down at you with a lightly dazed look. “Yeah,” Ryland says, picking at his nail, trying to feign disinterest—but it’s very apparent there’s some kind of sentimental value in the poster. It’s placed conveniently over his headboard.
“Hm.” You nod, completely unsurprised. It’s perfectly him. “Do you count floating molecules to go to sleep, too?”
“Okay. You—” he stammers. “You could do with a little bit more manners. I made sure you wouldn’t catch a cold last night, and suddenly you’re coming to my room and taking a shot at the decor.”
“I’m kidding. Don’t get butthurt,” you tell Ryland. “It’s super cute.” He seems even more worked up by your choice of words, already beginning to shut the door on you. “Okay—it just goes. You’re, like, the most science-y guy I know, and I like it.” ‘I like you’ seems like a more fitting translation of the words, and the pointed way in which you let them slip out of your mouth.
Ryland keeps his door open with a small crack left for the two of you to peer at each other. He murmurs, eyes softened, “There’s extra coffee in the pot. Don’t waste it.”
As the weeks pass, you find yourself in an odd back-and-forth with Ryland with the matter of favors. It’s a good thing on paper. He leaves you coffee in the pot, and you make sure to charge his laptop if you find it left on the dining room table. He restocks your snacks, and you make sure to make him an extra portion of your dinner on his harder study days. It’s a fully functional exchange that exceeds cohabitation. You’re both so programmed into the care that it's second nature.
Like, now, when you’re staring at the metal thermos in the fridge—having been in search of milk for your morning cereal. It’s his. Ryland is supposed to be between classes for the rest of the day, with a fifteen minute break to eat. And his lunch is wedged between your leftovers from last night and your communal carton of eggs. He’s a grown-up. He can fend for himself, probably grab a quick bite to eat at the student union. But you know he’s been trying to meal prep more, cut down on costs. You should take his thermos to him; you’d be a crappy roommate if you didn’t.
You slot your phone out of your back pocket, trying to check for his location. He’s on campus—and you’re sure that you could fit in dropping his lunch off before your class. With a soft breath, you pick the metal thermos up off the shelf of the refrigerator, and toss it onto the counter next to your breakfast. You’ll pack it with the rest of your things—the laptop, the notebooks—and Ryland will probably be very thankful for you later.
You’ve never been to this building before, let alone up to the third-floor and over to the student labs. It takes a fair bit of navigating, seeing as the hallways—all decked out in research posters and flyers for student job opportunities—are laid out essentially like a labyrinth. It’s strange to think that your roommate spends the larger part of his time on-campus in this hall. He probably has a certain air of authority weaving past these offices and labs, having earned it on the way to his Masters degree. Ryland is smart—cocky, of course—and walks with his head far too high. But he works hard, stays here even when he’s allowed to go home. You like that about him.
You’re very sure you’ve made a full loop of the third floor before you actually get to where you’re supposed to be. This is the room, as clinically white and void of decoration as it is. There’s a bunch of undergrads here, all in white lab coats and lab glasses. They look at you with an undercurrent of stern judgement. You don’t seem like you’re supposed to be there, because you’re not. They’re watching you, baby-faced and all, like curious, wide-eyed hawks. “Sorry, is Ryland here?” you ask them.
A girl with tied-back, coiled ginger hair answers first: “He’s grabbing a fresh set of agar plates from the fridge.”
Then, another girl, her lab partner, pipes up next: “Are you his—?”
“Roommate!” Ryland coughs out from right behind you. It’s difficult not to flinch at the exclamation, and your shoulders are still tensed up tight as he continues to speak. “This is my roommate who’s supposed to be at home until 2:00PM. What are you doing here?” Ryland is quick to drop the stack of agar plates off onto the nearby countertop space. The small cohort of students in front of him are clearly trying not to snicker at you both. You can practically see his right eye twitching just beneath the lens of his glasses. He’s not embarrassed, per say. But it’s deathly apparent that he’s getting worked up.
“I have your lunch in my bag. Here.” You’re just about to pull that small thermos out of your shoulder bag, but he’s putting his hands up to stop you.
“Wait, wait. C’mere.” Ryland takes his bright-blue medical gloves off and snaps them into the trash can with a foot on the pedal. Then, he’s shrugging his lab coat off, hanging it up, and making his way over to the sink. You stand a good distance away, watching him lather his hands carefully with soap, scrub them together, and rinse them clean. You rarely get the opportunity to see him like this.
Then, you’re following him out of the lab. He takes the thermos out of your hands gingerly, palms brushing unnecessarily over your fingers. “You didn’t have to drop it off,” he tells you, hands clinging around the cold metal of his thermos. You wish he’d stop looking down at you with that look about him. He has his jaw clenched, and there’s a light dusting of blush across his cheeks.
“It’s not a big deal.” You look away, shooting your gaze anywhere but his face. In the hallway outside, there’s a bookcase with an index card reading “free textbooks” taped to its top. He sets his thermos down on the top of it, before leaning on the expanse of wall right beside it. “I hope it isn’t weird for me to pull up to your work—” you tell him.
“Oh, no. I don’t mind it at all,” Ryland says. There’s a hesitation in his voice and makes you squint. “It’s just that they’ve been spending the entire semester so far trying to pry into my private life. And I’m pretty sure one or two of them have crushes on me, which is a no-go.” Ryland takes his glasses off with one hand and massages the bridge of his nose with the other. “Zero boundaries, very territorial—because I happen to be a pretty decent teaching assistant.”
“You think that’s why they have crushes on you?” you scoff loudly.
“...Yes?” he murmurs. He looks pensive. There is no good reason for you to doubt his claims—but, he’s acting absurdly clueless. There are particular reasons for why this cohort might be fascinated with Ryland, and you don’t think it’s his teaching skills.
“Hm.” You give him a curt nod, trying your hardest not to give yourself away. He takes your silence uncomfortably, hands first held behind his hack in a tight clasp of his long fingers.
He can’t hold it in. “They’re going to think that you’re—we’re—” Ryland gestures between the both of you in some haphazard way, an altogether efficient means of stating the obvious. Seeing each other. Screwing. Dating. Whatever he’s trying to say, it’s all very unanimous and completely unnecessary. You raise your hand up, nearly brushing against the center of his chest—a wordless means of telling Ryland to not even try. His jaw tightens. “Okay. I’ve got a lab waiting on me.”
“Right,” you say warily. “I’m gonna go grab something to drink before class so… see you at home.” The half-smile you give Ryland—all nerves, and only half-genuine—is matched by his own.
Ryland nods, “See you. And thanks for the lunch,” before turning on his heel and traveling back through the doorway you both came out of. You make sure not to linger around, walking in wide steps toward the nearest elevator. Even halfway down the hall, the little giggles and murmurs are audible. It sounds like a middle-school class in there, and the same couple of undergrad students are chirping away. Out of the overlap, you can hear mimicries of your voice—“I have your lunch bag, Ry.”—that are certainly inaccurate and a little bit rude.
Then, Ryland’s stern tone cuts through the noise. “I’m still your TA.” It must work at least a little, because the ceaseless giggling seems to tire. In your head, you can imagine him shrugging that lab coat back over his shoulders, then crossing his arms over his chest in an attempt at being strict. The thought of him being flustered about all this teasing—you’ve never seen him this red before—makes you giddy. You have to get into the elevator with a hand tight on the strap of your shoulder bag, choking down a grin.
You’re the first to get home that day. Torturously, you’ve had him on your mind throughout all of your classes. His messy hair and his lab coat and the way he attempts some semblance of strictness as a graduate teaching assistant. All unacceptable. There’s no good way to excuse the way in which you’re picturing Ryland now. It’s all muddled with your own uninhibited attraction. Hormones, you try to tell yourself, and proximity. You know that any other reasonings would be nothing but trouble.
This festering conflict lasts through the afternoon. You hang around the living room with your laptop, legs crossed over the cushions of the couch as you type away. There’s work here and there, a couple e-mails to send—and you think you’d like to finish these up slowly so you might catch a glimpse of Ryland before he sequesters himself away in his bedroom.
According to schedule, Ryland can be heard plonking his Converse soles across the narrow hallway of your complex. Hearing the familiar, low jingle of his keys and the turn of the doorknob makes you straighten up a bit on the couch. You’re about to give him a soft greeting, maybe mention that you’re about to cook dinner, when you see that Ryland has a shadow. A sweet-looking girl shuffles in behind him through the front door—your front door—with honey-blonde hair tied into a soft ponytail. You can feel your throat dry up at the sight.
“You’re home. I was trying to ring your cell,” he says. “Sorry. Hope the visitor’s okay.”
You can feel your eyes shutter, a few rapid blinks interrupting your otherwise relaxed composure. “No, of course! It’s totally fine,” you say, a bit of a nod programming itself onto your reaction. It’s instinct and embarrassment all coalescing together, from the way you run your hair into your scalp to the way your fingers grip awkwardly at the corners of your laptop. “Hi,” you say sheepishly to the blonde.
She has a little bit of a glow to her, all too excited to be peering around into the apartment and getting a good look into Ryland’s everyday. Her gaze practically breezes over you. You know that look all too well. Ryland introduces you first, then her, before they’re quickly escorting themselves down the hall and to his room. This feels like punishment for enjoying him too much earlier—and the doting from his cohort of undergraduate students. The girl is pretty; you didn’t quite catch her name. Something starting with an L. All you know is that this is definitely a matter of the universe keeping your ego in check.—
You don’t know what to do with yourself after the door to his bedroom closes. The best course might be to go to your room—or out to a bar. You’re on the verge of closing your laptop and getting off the couch when you hear a light set of footsteps. Suddenly, you’re leaning back on the couch with your laptop balanced on your knees again. Ryland comes out of his bedroom with a gentle open-and-close of the door. You have an acute feeling of dread as he travels over to the cupboard to grab a glass. Then, the fridge for your shared pitcher of filtered water. “Stop staring,” he says. You huff. He can’t even see you. There’s no possible way for him to know—
“Thought we agreed on no hookups?” you say with a hushed tone. The best you can do is try to keep it light. It’s a good attempt.
“That’s not a…” Ryland guffaws. He turns around to face you, glass in hand. “We’re in the same grad cohort, nosy.”
You hum, “I’m pretty sure she wants to get in your pants.” Ryland is exasperated with the implication, placing the glass down on the counter with his hand still wrapped around it.
“She is my… colleague! She wants me to read over her research proposal.” You’re praying it’s not a girlfriend from Canada kind of situation. Ryland reads the skepticism on your face easily. He reiterates, “It’s a real proposal. We have a conference in Spring and she’s prepping the submission. I have one, too. We’re trading.”
“Well, if you end up accidentally trading proposals in bed, I’m just telling you now that I’ll have my headphones on. Noise-cancelling, just blasting straight rock,” you say, shrugging your shoulders slightly. Ryland picks the glass back up with a shake of his head, padding back down the hall and towards his room.
“I’m still not like that, but great,” he tells you, “Good to know.” You’re still settled in on the couch as he opens and closes the door. You can’t even see the girl anymore. You wonder if she’s sitting at his desk or on his sheets. It’s probably better not to think about it.
As promised, you have your earbuds stuffed tightly into your ears—music a good few decibels louder than they should be to be considered healthy. You’ve been tucked away in your room for the last hour and a half, still typing away on your laptop. It’s difficult not to imagine what’s happening in the room over—but it doesn’t seem to last long. What you do eventually hear, past your blasted music, is a slam of the front door. You have to tiptoe from your bed to your door, then crack the door open a good inch.
You peek outside into the hall, the wire of your earbuds hanging over your neck. The girl is gone. Ryland is at the front door, head hanging low. He turns with a miserable blush peeking out from beneath the rims of his glasses. He seems to catch your eye almost immediately, and you realize it’s virtually pointless to conceal your prying. Ryland confesses briskly, “She tried to kiss me. On the mouth.”
You let out a breathy laugh—and curse yourself for feeling relieved. “Didn’t I tell you? Couldn’t be more observant.” You let your door swing open wide. He hangs his glasses off his face and scrubs his face with his palms. Ryland groans, and then he’s walking over. He leans against the closed door of his bedroom, parallel to your own. Your socked feet are facing each other as Ryland pushes his glasses back up, hands locked together over his head. His t-shirt is riding up, and he doesn’t seem to mind it much. You try not to pay any mind to his arms, either. This stressed posture he’s holding up is doing wonders for his biceps. Another unacceptable thing to think about him.
Ryland grumbles under his breath. “And here I was thinking you were getting jealous. Obviously, I know now that you’re just looking to be right.”
“And I am,” you say. “—right. I’m right.” You cling sheepishly to the frame of your bedroom door, fingers jutting against the jamb. You can’t believe he thought you were jealous. You were, a little. It couldn’t have been that obvious, and obviousness aside, you don’t know how he could bring it up so easily. Ryland does have a pretty full-of-himself attitude. A change of topic is probably best. “So, she tried to kiss you, and you…”
“Practically fell off the bed,” he nods. You can’t help but clasp your palm over your mouth, holding back a guttural laugh. Ryland drops both of his arms, mirroring your lean with his arms crossed over his chest. “It’s really only half as funny as you think it is. She was really embarrassed—said she had to go meet a friend downtown for dinner.”
You can feel your eyebrow tick up a bit at the thought of this girl dismissing herself from Ryland’s room and straight out to the front door. Aside from your very expected qualms with the entire situation, she did seem pretty sweet. You’d be embarrassed, too. Ryland seems just as unnerved, and he wasn’t even the one to make the move. You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth. “You weren’t feeling it?”
Ryland tilts his head, “Well, last time somebody tried to kiss me, I had a kind of similar reaction. Total stasis—” You. He’s talking about you, that night out with Marissa and Co., the hourly allegations of possibly-dating.
“I kissed you on the cheek! Don’t be weird,” you shoot back vehemently. Now, he decides to bring it up. After weeks of no resolution, Ryland decides that this is the perfect opportunity to play it all out. You’d expect nothing less. He really is a strategist.
Ryland blurts, “Nobody kisses their roommates on the cheek. I’m just saying.” Now, you’re feeling heat crawl up your neck, and Ryland’s looking a little bit more relaxed at the sight of this levelled playing field.
“Yeah, I think I’ll maybe think it through the next time an opportunity arises,” you retort sarcastically. He couldn’t be more on your nerves. You’re just about ready to retreat back, shut the door in his face with a hasty goodbye. The second you step back, Ryland steps across the hall, hand placed flat over your door. Your eyes flit from his face, down his arm, to his hand, and back again.
Ryland lowers it slowly, biting down against the inside of his bottom lip. “Sorry.” There’s plenty that you’d like to say—maybe, that it’s Ryland’s fault for calling you nice things, his fault for letting you room with him. Or, maybe it's your fault for deciding to reach out. It’s certainly nobody’s fault for the two of you residing within the same-enough social circles to connect. You wonder if you would’ve ended up on each other’s radars regardless. “To answer your question, no. I wasn’t feeling it. She’s not really my type,” he admits.
“Oh.” You can feel the exasperation on your face melt into something more sobered. You can’t tell whether or not Ryland knows how it’s coming across. It’s certainly dangerous waters. Ryland looks more serious than you’ve ever seen him, and the lump in your throat tells you that you’re on the more excitable end of hearing what he has to say.
He murmurs, “And I’m a dissertation-first kind of guy.” Right—that makes a little bit more sense. You straighten up, narrowly avoiding his chest with your own. With your soles sliding against the wood floor, you start to slip into the hall, out of his proximity. You can hear him shuffling behind you in a quiet trail.
“Obviously,” you say tightly. You’ve got to tick that off on the more acceptable things about Ryland. He’s scholarly. It’s a really good thing. You’re scholarly, too. Decidedly, you’re thinking of being wholly scholarly together, and nothing else. Roommates-friends-study buddies will likely be for the best. “You should probably shoot her a text or something. Courtesy and all,” you say to Ryland, a little more of a tease livening your tone.
He seems to think about it for a moment, running a hand through his hair. Then, Ryland murmurs, “You’re good at e-mails, aren’t you? Would you maybe help me draft it?”
You make an exerted effort to wander into the kitchen and make it to the fridge in search of leftovers. This leaves a good distance from him for you to think this all through. The opened fridge shoots a soft gust of cold air against your warmed face. You mutter under your breath, “It’s a sorry text, not a cold app.” You take the opportunity to peek over the door of the fridge at him.
He’s got a bit of a pout on his face, something you’ve really never seen before. His blonde hair casts a blurry shadow over his forehead. It conjures up a twisting feeling in your gut. You hate how easy it is for him to make you feel so obligated. You opt for taking a cold can of soda from the fridge instead (though you barely want to drink it). The condensation makes it slippery in your hand, and with a sigh, you shut the fridge. “I’ll proofread it. That’s all you’re getting out of me.”
“You’re the best,” Ryland says, shortly and simply, clapping his hands together in a bout of success. He’s far too proud of himself, and you have to keep a strong will slipping past him, out of the kitchen and straight for the couch. “While you’re at it, my research proposal could use a second look-over.”
