You closed the laptop, not even thinking of a reply.

The desert wind blew the tarps on your research tent wild, and it flapped up and down as you escorted yourself away and toward your dig team. 

They were standing over a square of dirt marked with white rope, measuring around 6 feet each way. 

The dirt was shoveled enough away to show some promise, and you suspected there were human remains underneath, considering there was an ancient city nearby, but you couldn’t figure it out until you had your chance at brushing. 

Even if they weren’t human remains, maybe you’d find the remains of a plant or ancient medical equipment you could swab and bring back home for chemical testing.

“Hey, can we get a set of brushes over here, and a tape measure?” You asked, shouting in the general vicinity.

You heard footsteps scraping against the dirt, behind you.

“This what you’re looking for?”

You thought, what a dumb question to ask, everyone here knows what a dig kit looks like, and once you turned around to grab the toolbox from the outstretched hand you jumped at the familiar face.

“Dr. Grace–what are you doing here? When did you arrive?”

He answered without hesitation.

“Just now, they’ve been expecting me. I didn't want to ruin the surprise.” 

You grabbed the toolkit from his hands and he shrugged, like it was obvious this is where he needed to be.

“Your email didn’t prepare me enough.” You murmured.

If he heard you, he ignored you, and how could you blame him after all he was the one who advocated for your success in the program, the least you could do was let him see you at work.

“I wanted to see what bioarcheology looks like, since we’ll be analysing and conducting chemical tests on the samples you guys collect here together in just a few days.” He explained. 

He sent you a smirk, adjusting his signature glasses, a smirk that he’d often send you in a way you couldn’t read. 

It was always a smirk you were unsure of…on the one hand he was notorious for being smug in academic settings, you knew about his reputation. He’d smirk at any scholar at any chance he could get, and mostly because he was right. 

However, on the other hand he could be smirking in a way that meant he was attracted to you in ways he could never admit, and you could never ask, and you could never do anything about anyway if you felt the same. 

And then there was the possibility that his smirk was overcompensating for his awkwardness with his students in particular that you witnessed just as much as his smugness.

You had to stop yourself from smirking back.

You shrugged, opened your tool kit and grabbed a few scraping tools and brushes.  

“Well I could walk you through it, but I’m mostly just excited to get back home and conduct tests on all of it.” 

“Really? Homesick already?” He asked.

“Not really.” You lied. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.”

It’s actually the loneliest you’ve ever been. But you weren’t going to admit that to a professor you were working on research with. 

He followed you as you stepped down into the dig site, walking swiftly down and in between various holes avoiding stepping in the white ropes and finally to the site your team was on. 

The rest of your team hopped out of the hole toward the tents mumbling something about taking fifteen, patting you on the back as they left you alone with Dr. Grace. 

When you reached the specific cubic square of the dig site, you laid down on your stomach, and Dr. Grace — or professor Grace, sat down in front of you.

You grabbed a scraping tool, and started scraping tediously in between the dirt and hard stone (or bone) you felt with your finger tips.

“This is pretty boring stuff, but we do it this way to preserve its shape. We don’t want to damage anything by working too quickly. Otherwise we can’t get an accurate testing in the lab.” 

When you looked up for a moment from your work at Dr. Grace, his head was shifted to the right away from you. His jaw line being cut perfectly by the descending sun, his hair flowing in the wind. 

You rolled your eyes for a moment before looking at what he was looking at.

His gaze was fixated heavily on your dig team from before. They were passing around a soccer ball and laughing. Even your archeology expert — a very stubborn archeology prof named Dr. Catherine Hicks and also a mother of three — was playing. 

“So you dig and they play soccer.”

“Well, that’s just now. Not always.” You shrugged.

“Do you play?” 

“No, I never have time, I’m kind of trying to finish a thesis here.” 

“Would you live a little?”

He said it in a way that implied he was going to force you to play soccer, but when you looked up, he was the one running toward the team of soccer player archaeologists. You couldn’t believe what you were seeing.

The sun was setting now, and you heard everyone switch on the battery operated lanterns around you illuminating the camp in a soft warm hue.

You followed him up out of the dig site onto the main terrain beside the tents and stood watching him kick around the soccer ball with Dr. Hicks. He was bouncing around like a golden retriever, awkwardly fumbling the ball around, missing kicks, and when you met your gaze with his, there was something about pride and determination that knocked the wind out of him as he turned around to kick the ball again. Dr. Hicks let out a genuine laugh for the first time in weeks.

“What’s so funny?” You asked.

Hicks just gestured at Dr. Grace.

“If you had told me two years ago that Dr. Ryland Grace, our leading expert on molecular biology in the entire faculty was playing soccer with archeologists, I’d think you were lying. He went through…a tough phase, something about his relationship with his brother. But something new is driving him. I think, to be more involved in the faculty.”

You just firmly nodded, a dozen questions circulating in your head like: what was Dr. Grace like two years ago? and Why hasn’t he ever talked about his brother?

Your conversation was slightly interrupted as the group let out a howl of laughter, and you heard a loud shifting of sand and a thud hit the ground.

You turned your gaze toward Dr. Grace, you noticed he was on the ground, he was rubbing his back in pain.

“Oh god, let's pull out the instant ice packs.” You instructed.

Dr. Hicks nodded, reaching around you into the tent, handing you the icepack unpopped.

You fumbled toward Dr. Grace, and you popped the ice pack, kneeling on the ground to assess his state fully. His glasses were now off of his face clipped to his shirt. He groaned, and reached out, both of your hands sliding against each other awkwardly, your eyes focusing in on each other in a way that you were unfamiliar with. Maybe in embarrassment? 

He pulled the icepack from your hand and pulled it toward his lower back.

“This is exactly why I dig instead of playing soccer.” 

He let out a short laugh.

“I guess I’m getting too old for this kind of thing.” 

You had to actually think about his statement. Because yes he was probably around 45 — not that you’ve had the courage to ask — but it never really felt like there was much of an age difference between you two. It was almost like the sudden remembrance that the gap was there at all distressed you. 

“Maybe, or maybe you just went too hard.” You tried, reassuring.

Your first name slid off his lips in a sarcastic way, and you realized you’ve never heard him say your first name until now. There was always something overly academic about the way he’d call all his students by their last name.

“I know how old I am, you don’t have to reassure me.”

You reach your hand out to help him up, and you start leading him toward a spare tent. You knew he needed rest and knew full well you’d be up all night digging if Dr. Hicks allowed you to use her head lamp and her stationary LED lamps.

Only when he was on his feet did you both acknowledge that you were holding his hand for a little too long with the tilt of his face toward your hand. You let go abruptly, embarrassed.

You gestured at the tent.

“So uh, this is the spare tent, it’s usually for our funders who come to visit…but seeing as there are none on sight tonight…”

“Then it goes to me, how special.”

You opened the tarp doorway and walked in behind him, closing the tarp behind you both. The mere idea of being in an enclosed space with him wasn’t unfamiliar, you’d been in labs alone with him, in his office discussing your ideas — admittedly shifting your conversation to things a little more casual like your shared interests — but you had never spent a night in the same camp as him.

“So this is it, I guess.” You said, turning on the battery powered lantern. “I guess I’ll leave you to–”

“Wait, stay a little, let’s talk about your progress.” He said abruptly. 

“Oh.”

“Unless you wanted to dig more, but I have a feeling you’ve been overworking yourself enough already.”

He sat down on one of the two foldable cots in front of you, you reluctantly sat in front of the cot across from him. Not because you didn’t want to talk to him, but because you could feel a ‘Dr. Grace talk’ about to start. The kind of talk where he’d give you unprompted advice because he could read you so well and somehow knew you needed it, even though every time you were stubbornly reluctant about said advice. Something about it always bothered you, you didn’t know what. 

“I mean…I kind of have to if I want to do my master’s.”

“What’s the rush?” He asked. “Why not travel the world and fall in love–”

You couldn’t believe what kind of conversation this was turning into, you didn’t know whether to be mad or confused. Your instinct reaction, words slipped out,

“Why is there this inherent rule that you can’t fall in love and pursue your career? I mean maybe I don’t get it because I’m not that kind of person–”

“What kind of person?”

You thought for a moment, rewinding your train of thought. You wanted to ask him about his brother, but you couldn’t, he had never told you about his brother in confidence before. But you knew exactly what he was trying to get you to say, and the conversation wasn’t about that anyway.

There was something about the way Dr. Grace could read you and talk at you that made words fall seamlessly out of your brain and out of your mouth into mid air without having to think. 

“The kind of person that prioritizes love over career, the kind of person that falls madly in love that it becomes self sacrificing I guess. Maybe I’m too young to understand. I don’t know.”

“How old are you again?”

You realized it was the first time he’s asked.

“I’m twenty-five.” 

“Right…”

His gaze drifted elsewhere as he moved to shift the ice pack away from his back, to toy with in his hands. You were staring a little too long at the way his hands moved, comparing the size of them with your own in your head.

There was a silence just then that for you solidified a difference between you and him that was untouchable. It solidified another idea: that you were aimlessly waiting for him to excuse that difference, to make it feel okay for thinking there was something less academic there. Instead you talk,

“Dr. Grace?”

The formal title seemed to knock something back into him, and he looked back up at you, unclipping his glasses and putting them back on his face. He mumbled a soft ‘hmm?’.

“Were you ever that kind of person when you were my age?”

You were expecting a cringe at the reminder of your difference, but it didn’t come. He just leaned forward toward you, placing his hands on your thighs, his gaze looking at you hesitantly.

You felt your body freeze up and as if he realized who he was talking to he pulled his hands back leaving you embarrassingly desperate for them to be back on you again.

“I think I used to be so against being that kind of person, but now I envy people who are capable of being that kind of person and succeed. Like maybe they were right all along.”

This time, you reach over and place your hand on his knee, rubbing there with your thumb comfortingly. You try and not magnify this fact, just try to touch him like you’ve now just realized you’ve always wanted to. He swallowed loudly, and he looked at you, a blush now spreading across his cheeks.

“Maybe they were wrong all along.” You shrugged. “My ex was like that. He wanted to settle down and I wanted to well…do this. I just think maybe there can be both. But especially this.”

You lifted your hand from his knee and gestured around the room, signifying that this was the moment you were in right there.

“I think there can be both.”

And when he said it he looked at you like he was an option, and you cleared your throat as you stood up suddenly at the revelation. 

“I’m gonna–um–”

“Uh yea–you have work to do.”

You turned toward the door, before turning abruptly back to face him again.

“Uh, when do you leave?”

“Tomorrow morning.” He spoke.

“Oh–”

“Yea, well I just wanted to see you before you head to Antarctica.”

“Right. To monitor my research.” You said plainly, your excuse for what had just happened.

“Right.” 

You shifted on your feet for a moment, your heart now racing at the implications of the interaction. 

“Well, I’ll come say goodbye tomorrow morning, and I’ll send you an email updating you…to let you know what we’ll need in the lab when I get home.”

He nodded, and you both said nothing and you headed back out toward your dig site feeling like you were in a very strange dream.

The next morning was cordial. You said goodbye to Dr. Grace, unable to make any kind of meaningful eye contact, and loaded him back into the shuttle toward the airport.

 And when you finally completed your dig a total of five days after Dr. Grace’s visit you received another email just as you were about to head to the airport yourself for your next dig site. You found yourself excited to read it, your heart racing again.

August 20 — from: [email protected]

I am so sorry for you having to witness me throw out my back, but I hope the rest of your next program in Antarctica goes smoothly. 

I have to admit, there was something about you that made me realize how lonely you must be without that one friend I assigned as your lab partner three years ago.

I hope to see you in the lab soon.

Dr. Grace

PhD Molecular biology

Associate professor in the faculty of science

***

August 25 — to: [email protected]

Dr. Grace,

It was quite a joy actually, witnessing your age show. I hope you don’t mind that I’m teasing you about that. I was definitely less lonely after seeing you, pardon my bluntness.

My Antarctica program is going smoothly…I’ll tell you more once I’ve settled in.

Yours

Bachelors of archeology and biology

September 1 — to: [email protected]

Dr. Grace,

I am finally settled into Antarctica. The team and I managed to find Dr. Delaware’s old bottle of whiskey, we stole it from his side of the outpost. Anyway, we managed to get caught sharing the whiskey drunk out of our minds, and instead of chastising us, Dr. Delaware grabbed the bottle and joined us. This is a secret you must not tell anyone!

He kept asking about you. My best friend back home keeps asking about you. And admittedly, mostly, I am here in this email asking about you.

It’s way too cold here, I hope you’re warmer back home.

Yours

Bachelors of archeology and biology

September 20 — from: [email protected]

These requests seem too stealthy to answer with my university email, so I’m replying with my personal. You can feel free to use this. 

I promise to never tell Dr. Delaware that you stole his whiskey. 

I have to resist myself from asking anyone who will listen about you.

P.S I owe you a hot chocolate to make up for the cold down south.

Ryland Grace.

PhD molecular biology

September 25 — to: [email protected]

Dr. Grace,

Thank you for keeping my secret.

I have finally finished my research down south.

As for the lab…I am planning on flying back home to finish our lab work next week. 

Unfortunately, I am in Los Angeles to visit that friend you were talking about in your last email. She ended up having a stroke, so I’ll be in LA for the next couple days.

I’ll take you up on that hot chocolate next week.

P.S it’s flattering to hear you ask about me as much as I ask about you.

Yours

Bachelors of archeology and biology 

***

You were in LA when you received a reply to your email — an email you sent five days ago — you’re sitting by the pool behind your shitty motel, it’s nearly midnight and you had your earbuds in, and your feet in the water. 

The only light in sight came from the vacant sign. The shitty motel, the only one you could afford off of your limited student loans you had left. The pool is the only thing illuminated now too, behind the hotel, no doors in sight, nothing to bother you, just your own thoughts.

You had to admit you were being unusually flirty with someone you had assumed to not want to cross the boundaries of. But Dr. Grace was right, you were lonely, and he was giving you something you hadn’t experienced in a while — someone who genuinely listened. The chime of the notification interrupted the Sara Bareilles song you were listening to, and you fumbled to open it. You paused your music and took your headphones out.

September 30 — from: [email protected]

Don’t worry about it, your friends come first. A stroke at 25(?) seems a bit young and I’m so sorry! I’m actually in LA too to see my brother who managed to fall off a building and break his back. I'd tell you more, but I’m arriving at my motel in a bit.

And let’s be honest this doesn’t seem like the academic talk you need right now.

P.S Get your first draft of your thesis into Dr. Morgan’s office by Wednesday and we will regroup.

Ryland Grace.

PhD Molecular Biology

You hoped the world was forgiving for wanting to use Dr. Grace’s personal email for much more than academic rigour. You couldn’t seem to get the thought out when you heard a familiar voice rounding the fence, and you knew who it was without looking.

Dr. Grace was pacing on his phone, talking loudly, angrily, before he saw you, and he reacted as if he had done something horrible. He managed to hang up the phone and he freezed on the other side of the fence. You discarded your phone to the side.

“Are you following me, Professor Grace?” You asked, a smirk appearing on your mouth experimentally.

He walked through the gated door.

“Wow this looks extremely unprofessional doesn’t it?” He grumbled, he lifted his glasses to rest on top of his head, pinching his nose in between his fingers. “I swear to god I had no idea you were here, I just came back from the hospital and this is the only motel–”

“You could afford it. Yea it’s tough out here. Sit.” You instructed, patting the edge of the pool, the area next to you.

Dr. Grace lowered himself next to you cautiously, forcing about a foot of space next to you. You let out a laugh at him, and at yourself for wanting him to be much closer than he was. How ridiculous was this?

You both looked out into the pool, silence overcame you both, you cleared your throat. You may as well talk, you invited him to sit…and you so desperately wanted to know what this dynamic change meant.

“Your brother fell off a building?” You asked.

He flinched at your words, as if he was consumed by his own inner thoughts. He relaxed when his eyes met yours, and he barely laughed, a tilted smile sent your way. 

“He’s a stuntman. I guess something went wrong with the rig.” He said, he was untying his shoes now, discarding them so he could put his feet into the water.

“Oh.”

“Yea.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

You traced your mind back to the email, to the questions you wanted to ask but could never before…because you were just a student and he was just a professor overseeing your work. But this fact was becoming lose as the emails went on so you spoke,

“Dr. Grace?”

“Ryland, please. I think it’s time, I mean you’re graduating in four months.”

“Right. Ryland, are you and your brother close?” You asked. 

He shrugged, and you watched as he moved the question around in his head, considering your words.

“I think we used to be…before he dropped out of university. He said he wanted to do stunts, and I took that as a failing. I was too involved in my own success that I found myself comparing him to me.” He admitted.

“Stunts sound cool.” The only thing you managed to say. “I’m sorry he got hurt.”

“Yea well, it happens…I guess in that line of work.”

You frowned.

“How was Antarctica?” He asked.

“Cold, lots of whiskey, lonely. We found so much less than we did in Mexico, but, oh well.” You shrugged.

“I still cannot believe you got drunk with Dr. Delaware.” He laughed.

“Me neither to be honest. I wish you had been there.”

And that honest fact had an edge in the conversation, but it didn’t halt it enough for him to stop laughing at your candor. He shifted closer to you, you wondered if it was a conscious choice or not.

“How’s your friend? She’s too young to be having a stroke.”

“You didn’t manage to catch some hot chocolate on the way did you?” You asked.

Ryland sent you a look, his expectation that you answer…oh the professor in him peeking out. You cringed at the thought, you weren’t in the classroom, you were sitting beside a pool with a very attractive man who happened to have been your professor one time and it frustrated you that you didn’t know how to navigate the fact that you’ve both been sending signals back and forth for weeks.

“Do you have to be so noble?” You asked.

You were never much for vulnerability. You had a deflection in mind.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

You rolled your eyes at his fake obliviousness.

You just shrugged, forgetting it, and stood up, you shrugged off your shirt, leaving you bare chested.

“Woah, hey–”

“Would you live a little?” You asked, the same question from Mexico he had asked falling off of your lips.

You looked down at his face, he paused, lifting his head upward toward you. It took everything in you not to bring your hand down toward his face to run your hand over his stubble. His mouth hung agape, his eyes fighting between shifting to your chest and to your face. 

You looked away, shrugging your pants and underwear off next, before jumping into the pool. When you surfaced, Ryland was sitting there still, his clothes slightly splattered with water droplets that flew toward him during your plunge. Water droplets slipped down the lenses of his glasses too.  

You wondered why you didn’t feel embarrassed, you had no idea what his intentions were. But maybe it was the fact that you had been awake for more than 12 hours, and the fact that it felt like your world was crumbling and you just needed to feel something…that helped you give no shits. 

You swam closer to Ryland, your feet barely touching the floor, you peered at him in between his opened thighs. You placed your hand on the same knee you had your hand on weeks ago, wetting his jeans with the water running from your skin. 

“Your turn.” You whispered.

You reached forward, taking his glasses off of his face and placed them on the edge of the pool.  

And you were shocked, when Ryland wordlessly stood up, his eyes still wide in shock, and threw off his own shirt. You heard his breath hitch when his hands stumbled toward his belt and the zipper off his jeans.

When you saw the zipper un zip, and watched him discard his belt, you turned to look away, drifting in the water, the seriousness of the situation coming back to you. 

“You can–you can watch.” You heard Ryland say.

And it pierced through you, your heart picking up speed at the idea of seeing professor Ryland Grace naked. 

You had moments during labs when you’d catch yourself staring at his biceps for longer than you had intended, and moments like in Mexico when you couldn’t help but categorize every moment you thought he was even the slightest bit attractive into a folder in your mind. But this was different.

You turned your body back around to face him, a blush rising to your face.

Ryland pulled his jeans off, leaving him in only white boxer briefs. You followed your eyes down his chest toward his V line, trying your best to keep a straight face. When he hooked his thumb into his boxers, and you looked at his face, you caught something like hesitation there…as if he was about to put all of it back on. Instead, he pulled them off too.

You caught a glimpse of him well enough to see him smirk at the way your eyes traveled, before he jumped into the water after you. The splash shocked you and a laugh escaped your throat as he surfaced from the water too, he gasped for air.

“What the hell was that?” He asked, bewildered.

“I honestly don’t know.” You answered.

You experimentally drifted in the water toward him, surprised to have his hands land on your waist under the water as you gripped onto his bare shoulders.

“This is a compromising position.” He whispered.

And yet neither of you managed to protest even a little. He lifted his hand to swipe away the wet hair from your forehead and you gasped at the casual contact.

“Professor Grace–”

“Ryland.” He corrected.

“Ryland,” You murmured, and tilted your head closer to his.

He pulled back clearly in protest with himself, you let out a frustrated groan. 

“What happened with your friend?” He asked. “Please.”

It came out as a beg, like he needed the distraction, his grip on your waist tightened, and he held you at an arms length distance, your feet now both touching the ground of the pool as he led you to push you against the wall. Apparently, nakedness was also a forbidden thought, your most vulnerable parts so close together, not something you’d dare to bring up.

You caught his eyes, the glance between your mouth and your eyes.

“Well…I used to always compare myself to her. She was doing excellent in your labs, in every class really…and one day I asked how.”

“And?” 

“She had a cocaine habit, and apparently an adderall habit too. Anyway, it got bad and she was forced to move back home and she ended up having a stroke at work. I mean, I tried to help her so many times, and I thought it was my fault, but–”

Ryland moved his head down to graze his mouth against your lips, and you both stood there for a moment doing nothing about it. 

Your lips both moved close enough for a second to engage in a very small feathery light kiss, nothing more, his mouth breathing heavily into you, he whispered your last name softly, you corrected him, instructing him to use your first name, and he did in a way you had never heard anyone say your name before.

His forehead fell onto yours desperately, and you whined.

“It wasn’t your fault.” He whispered, the vibrations of his voice hitting your face.

“It wasn’t your fault either.” You breathed. “Your brother will be fine.”

This time you try to tilt your head in a way that would land your mouth on his more meaningfully, more concretely, in a way that would count. But he dodged it and you sigh at his avoidance.

“I don’t know what this is.” You admitted.

And that got him off of you immediately, lifting his forehead fully. He unclamped his hands off your waist and pulled away abruptly. His eyes widened in sheer panic.

“I can’t–I’m too old for this, for you–”

“Ryland–”

“Dr. Grace.” He corrected.

And you watched as he descended out of the pool, putting back on his clothes, leaving you literally naked and confused in the motel pool.

***

October 5 — to: [email protected]

Ryland, 

I’m so sorry for putting you in such an awkward position when you were most vulnerable…I guess I was feeling a little vulnerable myself.

I hope your brother has a speedy recovery.

Yours

Bachelors or archeology and biology

October 25 — from: [email protected]

Just checking in on how your thesis is going, are you in need of more lab time?

Ryland Grace.

PhD molecular biology

***

You avoided Ryland like the plague when you got back home, but it became abundantly clear that you could no longer avoid lab time like you so desperately wanted. 

So when you received Ryland’s overly professional email, you were checking your email on your phone one evening as you were about to leave your apartment to the university, to use the lab offered to you by a different professor. That professor exclusively promised you that you could work in his lab after hours, like now — 6:00pm — since you told him you worked better at night.

You were just about to grab your laptop and start heading out, until you heard a horrible crashing sound. 

You ran toward where the sound was coming from — your bedroom — and gasped as you watched water spew out of the ceiling in huge heaps straight onto your bed comedically, flooding the entire room. Your laptop was completely destroyed, along with your other things.

Not only were you avoiding the one person you respected the most at the entire university, you were running on two hours of sleep trying to finish your thesis, your best friend had just recovered from a massive stroke, and now your laptop was damaged.

You grabbed your soaked laptop, and your tote bags — one containing research samples you definitely should have put in the lab chamber and one containing your charger and notebook — and dialed your landlord's number. 

When he picked up, he told you he was going to send people to shut off the water coming from upstairs, but that you should find somewhere else to go while they do maintenance. 

So instead of staring at the pouring water continuing to flood your apartment, you got into your car and drove to the university, sobbing hysterically on the drive then up until you tried pushing the door open to the lab.

When it didn’t open, you realized you'd made a horrible mistake. Because you looked up through the locked glass door and made eye contact with Ryland. You had instinctively walked toward Ryland’s designated lab.

You caught Ryland’s eyes, he was wearing one of his science pun shirts, the lab safety goggles pushed to the top of his head, his glasses firmly on his face, those stupid glasses that were the first thing you’d ever realized was what made you attracted to him in the first place.

He rushed over to you, opened the door swiftly, and when you panicked going to turn around, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you inside.

“Ry–Dr. Grace, I’m sorry I meant to—”

“Woah, hey, hey,” He grabbed your shoulders, pulling you into the light of the lab. “What’s wrong?”

You laughed through your hysterical sobbing, dropping your bags on the floor.

“My apartment flooded!” You shouted.

“How long have you been awake?” He asked.

“Four days, but I had a 20 minute power nap…yesterday.” 

You sobbed again, harder this time, and Ryland looked at you just as panicked as you felt. Your mind drifted toward your laptop in your bag, drenched in water, and you gasped at the realization.

“My thesis is on my laptop, and it's destroyed.” 

You pushed away from him, pulling your laptop out of your bag. You shoved it in his hands, the water still seeping in the sides of it. That was also when you registered that the bottom of your pants had been soaked in water, and you hadn’t managed to even bring a jacket. You had managed to walk to your car in the windy conditions, as well as through the university campus without even feeling the chill.

His silence was deafening and you didn’t have the nerve to look into his eyes, not since your last encounter that had managed to change things drastically. He placed your laptop down on a lab bench.

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled. “I don’t actually know why I’m here–well I do, I was going to do work in Dr. Delaware’s lab, but then I—and then you–”

“Hey, come here.” He interrupted, signalling you over with two fingers.

You crossed your arms over your chest, assessing his face, his body.

“Really?” You asked.

And he nodded, like it was the easiest interaction he’s had with you in weeks. He opened his arms, and you walked over wrapped your arms around his neck, and you nuzzled your head into him, his biceps securing you strongly to his chest.

You both stayed there for what felt like forever, and you listened to his heart beating. The tapping of it against your head regulating you, and he breathed slowly in and out leading you to breathe too. 

“That’s it, that’s perfect.” He praised, when your breathing began to match his own. “It’s going to be okay.”

He pulled you back enough to raise your face with his hand, and you thought for a moment — in the silence and in the way he was looking at you — that he might finally kiss you like he meant it, that he’d finally kiss you like he could care less about rules and conventions. But instead he said,

“Grab your things, we’re leaving.”

“Where are we going?”

“To my apartment, you need food and sleep, not research.”

“You know I’m not fragile, I’m actually quite strong.”

“You have your fragile moments, this is one of them.”

For once, you didn’t feel the energy to argue.

“Take my car.” You responded, drained.

You grabbed your bags off the floor beside your feet, and this time, surprisingly, Ryland was the one to grab your hand, intertwining your fingers, his panic turning into shyness as you walked out the lab and toward the parking lot.

As you walked through the dark campus, no eyes on either of you, you wondered what it would be like to have him like this in the daylight. What perceptions would people have of you both, what would his reputation turn into? His thumb rubbed softly against yours. 

“I don’t know what this is either.” He admitted.

You managed only an ‘Okay’, when you reached your car in the upper campus lot. He opened the door to the passenger seat, a silent agreement that you were in no condition to drive. 

You slumped into the seat and you let him buckle you in, he grabbed your car keys and he closed the door quickly to get into the driver's seat, adjusting the seat so it pulled back for his long legs and his mirror height.

The drive to this apartment was quiet, a different kind of silence, one that was comfortable. A comfortable silence you often found in places like the lab with him, or in office hours when you were secretly staring at him when he proof read your research drafts and research proposals. This was just like that. You stared at him as he drove. You followed the arch of his nose, the clench of his jaw, and your eyes ran down to his hand as he reluctantly placed it on your thigh, rubbing you with his thumb, his hand staying firmly in place.

When he parked the car he managed to get to your door quickly enough to open it for you as you unbuckled.

You chuckled.

“Were you this sweet when you were my age?”

He cringed then shook his head.

“Tried to be…I think.” He simply responded.

You grabbed his arm as he closed the door leading you into his apartment complex. In the elevator you felt yourself getting drowsy, your head fell onto his shoulder in exhaustion. In response he moved his arm to wrap around your waist, steadying your collapsing body.

When you got to his door you waited as he unlocked it, and grabbed your bags from you as you stepped in. It was surprisingly organized — small — but organized.

Everything had a place, all his books on an ikea shelf, his CD’s in a shelf on the wall, his blankets folded on the small green couch, even his shoes and jackets were hung up nicely.

You noted the sci-fi posters and the posters of the cellular structures of plants and animals, the coffee rings on the table, a book he must have been currently reading on the coffee table, a photograph of a man you assumed to be his brother — who looked identical to him — and a plant he seemed to take tedious care of in the corner thriving.

You turned toward the kitchen, a simple kitchen with granite counters and wooden cabinets. Nothing too special, it flowed easily into the living room.

It was like looking into a version of him you never got the privilege of seeing because he was just another professor. But you were a different version of yourself now standing in his living room too and you couldn’t take that as solid evidence that being there and being with him was allowed, but it surely counted for something.

“Huh.” 

“What?” 

Ryland closed the door with his foot, locking it, and hung his keys on the key rack beside his jackets.

“Nothing, I just–like it.” You said, signalling to the room.

Ryland ducked his head in embarrassment, his gaze shifting toward his feet.

He mumbled when he was nervous and you noticed it often when he had forgotten the instructions to a lab test you were asking to do, or when he was giving any kind of public seminar.

“It’s not the best for a professor, but I think my salary is about to increase–”

“Ry,” the nickname caught his attention, and he looked back up at you. “I like it, really I do. Thank you for letting me stay.”

He bobbed his head in a simple nod and then he walked toward you, leading you — with his hand on your lower back — into his bedroom. 

“Your pants are covered in flood water, you can uh–you can pick out some sweatpants and a shirt if you need, they’re in the bottom dresser drawer.” He explained, and you noted the blush rising to his cheeks.

“Okay.”

“Okay. I’ll–I’ll let you change. I’ll make you some food and by food I mean heating up leftover Chinese from my grading session with my TA’s.”

Ryland left the room back into the kitchen and living room situation. 

You leaned down to open the wooden dresser and pulled open the bottom drawer. You picked a pair of grey sweats, and closed the door to undress. You pulled off your wet jeans, and stepped into his pants, they were baggy, but comfortable and you sighed at how relaxed you suddenly felt. 

You slipped your shirt off too instinctively, and picked the first shirt you saw. A shirt that said “UM the element of confusion”, and you laughed at how accurate the feeling was right then before pulling it over your head. You heard the microwave beep as you dropped your old shirt to the floor.

You walked back into the living room, and into the kitchen area. When Ryland glanced at you, he smiled, he smiled at you just entering the room with teeth and all. You witnessed his chest relax, his shoulders fell and you relaxed in part.

“Thank you for the clothes.”

“You’re welcome,” He rubbed the back of his head, and he stepped toward you tugging on the shirt you wore. “You look good in my clothes.”

You blushed, unsure of what category the relationship you had was falling into. 

“Thanks.”

Ryland walked back toward the microwave, and handed you a white bowl of leftover Chinese noodles and rice — along with a metal fork — and popped his bowl into the microwave. You resort to sitting on top of the kitchen island in front of him, your legs hanging off the edge as you ate.

He pulled his food out of the microwave and stood in front of you eating. Neither of you were sure how to navigate that. You ate in silence, and when you were done, you put your bowl down on the counter. You watched as he ate silently, and you tried to be logical, to not feel the thing you feel right then, but you did. Because you were sitting in his apartment, wearing his clothes, eating his leftover food, because your apartment flooded and he so nobly offered you a place of refuge. 

There was something about that, that had to account for something…had to mean that this was okay now, this was easy, you could stop pretending you were just a student to him.

His mouth opened and shut, and you took it in yourself to speak first,

“For some reason I have this fear that you don’t think about me unless I’m right in front of you. I feel like I’m running around in figure-eights around you. And you’re the one who sent the first email!”

He stepped closer to you, in between your legs his face looking at you directly at the same height, and you thought, this is the most eye contact we’ve done for weeks.

He placed his hands on your clothed thighs, and this time he didn’t pull back, and you experimentally placed one hand on top of his. You had been right previously, his hands were much larger compared to yours.

“I try not to think about you, but I can’t stop, that’s the truth.” He threw his hands up agitated. 

You watched him back away and he started to pace across the hardwood floor.

“I get so anxious and nervous around you, I can’t stop thinking about your mouth, and how incredibly talented you are, I always want to tell you all the new fun facts I learn — I mean did you know that penguins have a gland above their eye that converts saltwater into freshwater,” He looked at you, his eyebrows perking up.

You laughed at his adorable rant, the Ryland you knew coming out.

“It’s called a supraorbital gland,” He clarified, solidifying the fact with a downward motion of his hand. “I’ve been wanting to tell you that one for weeks when you mentioned seeing the penguins at the zoo two months ago! I mean—I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“What if it’s just gravity? We just keep falling toward each other, and maybe this doesn’t have to mean anything more than that?”

“And what if it’s timing? I mean, I didn’t ask to be a renegade when I met you.”

“Is that what's stopping you, anxiety?”

He didn’t hesitate when you pulled him down by the collar of his shirt so his face was a mere inches in front of yours. His lips grazed yours again and this time, he was the one to finally press a firm kiss to your bottom lip, your lips parted as you kissed him back just as firm, lifting your hand to the back of his neck…running your fingers through his hair there. He shivered at the feeling, and pulled back, gasping for air.

“We can’t–I can’t–”

“I’m graduating in four months,” You reached toward him, lifting the glasses off of his face and pulling him down again by his shirt firmly, you kissed him again, and he groaned into it. “And you’re not even my professor anymore.”

He placed his hands on your body, running them up your thighs, and up to your waist, before pulling them under your shirt and running them up your bare back.

He pulled you closer to the edge of the counter, against his body. His mouth desperately parting in hungry kisses, his tongue for the first time grazing yours — which you welcomed with the tilt of your head to the left — for a second before his mouth landed on your upper lip.

He pulled back only, to drift his mouth to the right side of your neck. His mouth sucked and kissed along the skin there, and your head fell back instinctively in response, and a whine left your mouth and you were surprised it came out at all — his mouth making your body surrender and pull down all your defenses and tendencies to stay quiet out of embarrassment.

You didn’t care, he was there, making you feel good.

“You are trouble.” He groaned the last syllable.

“I know.”

He kissed you again, your mouths fighting for dominance. He pulled his hands back to your thighs and instructed you to wrap them around his waist.

He lifted you off of the counter and you separated from his mouth, his lips chased yours as he walked backward toward his bedroom. You smiled at his desperation, you lowered your head to nip at the skin below his jaw and he whimpered. It shocked you, how fragile he was at the whims of you.

He didn’t even bother closing the door as he lowered you onto the bed, the blankets already a mess, neither of you caring as he used his hand to open your thighs, you stopped him and grabbed his hand lowering it to the elastic waistband of the sweatpants you wore.

“You just put these on.” He whispered.

His tone implied that this was his way of taking care of you, his eyes shone in empathy at you and you brought your hand up to his face, rubbing the stubble with your thumb.

“Professor Grace, please, I have been begging for you to touch me.”

Ryland groaned, dropping his head at the formality and it took him less than a few seconds to take his sweatpants off you.

“Okay.” He whispered, a blush creeping up his face to his ears.

His sudden shyness made you curious, you wanted to understand how his smugness shielded it.

You laid your head against his pillow, and you looked at the ceiling waiting in anticipation for him to touch you in any way. You felt his hands travel to open your legs, and he kissed up your neck again. His fingers ran down your left thigh, up and down, until he swiveled them to graze closer to your center.

When you felt his fingers graze up and down the fabric of your underwear, finding your clit circling it through the fabric, your hips stuttered and you sighed.

You relaxed in the idea of his fingers on you, making you feel good, the same fingers he’d use to adjust your microscope in the lab or graze against yours when you grabbed a glass jar of chemicals. This was less sterile. This was different.

His mouth that was still on your neck formed into a smile.

“Hmm, you want more?” He asked.

“Please.” You begged.

“I’ve been wanting to taste you.” He admitted.

And you sat up a bit, to watch his reactions. He paused, and he looked at you for the go ahead. You were so shocked at the idea of your professor having thought about you like this before.

You gave him a nod. So he cautiously, as if you were fragile — and you were this was becoming a fragile moment — hooked his finger into your underwear and pulled them down your legs. His eyes stayed on your as he discarded them to the side.

He watched wordlessly as you sat up and took off the shirt in one fluid motion too.

He kissed you then, a firm peck, before he began kissing down your chest. He sucked and paid close attention to how you shivered, and how your body arched in anticipation.

He began kissing down your stomach and when he paused and looked up at you his eyebrows furrowing in your direction you were worried you had done something wrong, but all he said was,

“You’re perfect.”

And continued down to your thighs. When finally you felt his tongue find you, you felt him lick a straight line from your entrance up toward your clit, the contact shook you.

Your hands immediately locked onto his head, pulling at his hair. And his mouth began to move, his tongue circled your clit in agonizingly slow motions. And his mouth moved to latch onto it fully, you felt his tongue drift up and down and when he licked into your entrance his nose rubbed against your clitoris perfectly.

“Oh god, Ryland, so good.” You whined, writhing.

He groaned when you began rocking your hips, grinding against the bridge of his nose. The nose you always found so attractive, his side profile you’d stare at subtly in labs.

“Fuck, that’s it, you taste amazing.” He moaned.

His voice was muffled by you as his mouth moved over your core.

It felt like every worry in your mind about what this was was nowhere to be found.

You gripped the bedsheets with your free hand, your grip on Ryland’s hair getting tighter as you rocked over his nose. Your legs opened further and your feet planted themselves on the mattress.

You could feel the pressure building, you were already getting close, and that’s when he inserted a finger inside of you, rubbing that perfect spongy spot firmly with the pad of his finger. You moaned pornographically, and only then — for the first time in the entire night — were you embarrassed.

“You’re going to come, aren’t you?”

He asked, and he titled his head up, to watch you writhe and then back down to let you continue your rocking. You nodded incessantly.

“Yes, Ryland, please.”

“That’s it, that’s perfect, come for me.”

And you did, hard. Your back arched and you felt the pressure built into a radiating pleasure that flew up your body, and the sound that came out of your mouth echoed through the room.

He laughed. Actually laughed when you relaxed. You let out a content sigh, your body going lip under his hands.

And instead of pausing, he licked you again, drinking up your cum, and you whined at the feeling, letting him do his thing, until you tugged on his hair and you pulled him up toward you.

His mouth was covered in your wetness, and his nose glistened from your slick as well.

“You laughed at me.” You accused.

He lifted his hand to cup your face, looking down at your lips, not a smirk, a genuine smile being sent in your direction.

“That’s just the most relaxed I’ve ever seen you.”

This time you smiled genuinely, and you kissed his cheek.

“Thank you.” You murmured.

When you pulled your mouth down to nibble at his skin, your tongue licking there before sucking, it was his turn to crumble. And when you felt him scotch up toward you, and you ran your hand down his chest, and to his jeans, you felt how hard he was already.

You ran your hand over his clothed cock, and his hips bucked forward, you laughed at him this time as he groaned.

“You laughed at me.” He accused this time.

“It’s just. you’re not as strong as I previously thought.”

“I want to be inside of you.” The words came out faster as you ran your hand up and down his clothed length. “God I’m gonna be in so much trouble.”

“Nobody will find out.” You said, bringing your mouth back up to kiss him.

He leaned forward, kissing you, guiding you to lay back down on your back.

You watched as he stood and threw his shirt off, his toned chest once again making you drool. He slowly took off his belt, and this time when he unzipped his jeans, and pulled them down along with his boxers, you took in the sight of his hard cock already seeping with precum. He smirked at your reaction, and slowly crawled back toward you on the bed.

When he found your mouth, he lowered himself, so that his arms were on either side of you. He kissed your button lip once, then your top lip before parting his lips to slip his tongue against yours.

And you opened willingly, grazing your tongue against his in one big fluid motion, tilting your head to deepen it before you kissed him again harder.

You felt Ryland bring his hand down to his cock, and you pulled back to watch him stroke himself. He whimpered, his head falling back at the feeling of his own hand, his eyes shutting momentarily.

You brought your hand down to his cock, and paused his own motions, you bit your lip as you guided his length through your folds.

“Mmm, fuck you’re gonna kill me.” He moaned.

And you rocked your hips, just relishing in the friction of his cock sliding against your wetness, the tip of it hitting your clit.

When his hips tilted back, he grabbed himself, and lined up to your entrance. And he paused, his eyes slightly wider than before, yet still drunk in you.

He scanned your face, and you scanned his face back and he asked,

“Is this okay?”

And you nodded, and you let him thrust forward and sink inside of you. The feeling was just as you imagined, and when he bottomed out, his hips close to yours, he fell forward his chest against your chest, and he kissed you softly.

“Fuck, I’ve imagined this way too many times before.”

“For how long?”

“Since August.” He whispered.

You only rocked your hips in response and he let out a moan you only heard in pornographic audio book readings or in erotica audio subscriptions.

He thrusted forward to meet your motions, and you scanned his face, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes closed so much you worried he’d strain his forehead.

“Move your hips just like that, good.”

The humour of his instruction sounding academic did not miss you, in fact it turned you on even more.

You clenched around him unconsciously, he whimpered at that fact. He lowered his head to kiss at your collarbone.

“Yea? You like it when I praise you? When I instruct you? The whole professor thing works for you?” He was babbling, moving his hands to grab so hard onto your waist it would cause bruising.

Your cheeks flushed in embarrassment because he was right.

And if you knew Ryland, you knew he was marking that down for later.

But you had no chance to respond as he raised himself away from your chest, to piston into you as he threw your leg over his shoulder.

He was hitting that one perfect spot over and over again, and you struggled to reach, to graze your hand against his sweaty abs. And you whimpered as you felt him reach forward to rub your clit in circles with his thumb, the firm pressure there making your orgasm come to your horizon. You matched his thrust, lifting your hips perfectly.

“Oh fuck, you’re gonna make me come.” He gasped.

You threw your head back.

“Come inside me please.”

And it only took a couple more thrusts for your orgasm, to arrive. You clenched around him and Ryland moaned your name once, his hips stuttered, and he thrusted again.

“I’m coming, oh fuck-”

And he collapsed on top of you, his cum shooting inside of you as he thrusted. He grabbed onto you desperately, and sighed as he fell on top of you.

You both let out a deep breath, and when Ryland pulled out of you, suddenly everything was back. The fact that you had just slept with a professor on your research team, for your undergrad thesis, shot its way through your brain once again.

Ryland rolled off of you, and you both looked at the ceiling, then at each other, your disheveled states hilariously present and you asked,

“So…what does this mean?”

Ryland’s breathing leveled out, and you felt his hand reach for yours, and he answered,