C

Still, the list continues to grow. He still checks your classroom when he’s about to leave, eyes drifting before he can stop them to check if the lights are still on. And if they’re off, the sense of relief he feels is just because he prioritizes the safety of all his co-workers.

And on times when they’re still on, the small conversation he makes is just to make your adjustment to the school faster. It’s not like he’s deliberately making small talk to find an excuse to talk to you. That’s simply impossible.

He knows you’re painfully attractive by his standards, but also painfully off-limits, so he keeps to noticing and excusing it as inherent behavior he had adapted in his years of studies.

What Ryland doesn’t know is that you notice too. You’ve noticed for a while now how his footsteps slow outside your classroom, how there is always a reason for stopping by, to justify a visit.

But you like it. You crave his attention.

“I thought I’d told you not to stay too long.” Ryland is leaning lightly against the door frame as you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of your classroom, surrounded by colored paper and tape. It’s Monday, and he’s assuming you’re preparing for tomorrow’s lab activity.

"Hm, shouldn't you be taking your own advice then, Mr. Grace?"

He laughs at your snarky response, at how quick you’d thought about it. "Different rules."

"How convenient."

"Benefits of seniority."

That makes you laugh in return, the sound makes him linger for just a few moments longer, asking familiar questions, what you were making, what you had planned for the next day, and he goes on, tries to make you laugh again on occasion, until he eventually excuses himself.

Alongside observations, apparently, was also spawning in conversations you’re in on occasion.

One afternoon, while he was on his way back from the exhibition hall, he’d heard your voice from the Faculty Lounge while he’d been heading towards his classroom.

Obviously not because he was always looking for you, or because he has talked to you enough to recognize the pitch enough to spike his dopamine. He was only passing by, and the door was slightly open.

You were practically inviting him in conversation.

The conversation was flowing along the lines of getting more students interested in science, converting experiments from being just requirements to something they actually want to do.

“I just want to be able to make them more engaged.” Your voice trails on, and Ryland slows down because it is a subject he is immensely passionate about. Doesn’t slow down for anything else, obviously.

“Seventh graders are just a little more interested in talking to their friends than learning at that age, I’m afraid.” The other teacher had chimed in, laughing a little.

“But aren’t they supposed to be naturally curious at that age, too?”

“They are.” Both of you suddenly turn at the voice that joins in, spotting Ryland, who is standing by the doorway and probably has no idea he had said that out loud.

“Mr. Grace?”

Now he’s aware he’d inserted himself into your conversation. He’s standing awkwardly, eyes darting around the room before landing on the papers in his hands.

“Sorry. I just meant…” He adjusts the papers, head leaning against the doorway. “People usually think curiosity disappears when they get older. It doesn’t. They just stop being encouraged to ask questions. Science is… it’s mostly just asking the right questions.”

That makes you smile, looking beyond amazed, really. He really does understand this school and the kids so well. “That’s actually… yeah. That was the perfect way to explain it.”

Ryland smiles back. It’s small, and a little embarrassed from suddenly inviting himself to a conversation, which he suddenly remembers because he’s already excusing himself from something he technically wasn’t even part of in the first place.

“Anyways.” He says, lifting the papers he’s holding slightly. “I should probably get these back to… yeah, uh, goodbye.”

So yeah, there are always reasons as to why he does what he’s doing. Because someone had done the same for him years ago, or simply that it would be rude not to check in, and he wants you to be able to adjust quicker and make you feel like you belong, because he cares about the wellbeing of everyone in the school.

Always reasons. So many reasons.

By November, around four months since you’ve been teaching, the evenings start to arrive earlier due to the changing season.

Classrooms and Faculty Lounges empty out earlier because everyone’s desperate to go home before darkness engulfs the sky. It’s something neither you nor Ryland notices because you’re both used to late hours at the school.

The sun has already disappeared for about an hour when Ryland packs his things up.

He has every intention of leaving. His messenger bag is slung over one shoulder and a stack of chemistry quizzes are tucked beneath his other arm. He’ll finish grading them at home, in the comfort of his couch, and with the company of coffee that wasn’t stale and cold.

He really had every intention of going home, until he spots the lights still on in the Faculty Lounge, and curiosity gets the better of him. Or concern that it might be you again. Lines are definitely getting blurry.

Ryland spares a second to peer through the doorway. It’s the same way towards the exit anyway, so it’s only convenient, but the sight that greets him stops him in his tracks.

There you are, the table in the center completely occupied by papers, highlighters, sticky notes, different colored pens, and a half-empty mug that's probably gone cold hours ago.

(With probably a shit ton of creamer again).

Of course it’s you. Of course, you’re still here like you always were.

You don't even notice him until he clears his throat. Instantly, your head snaps up.

“Mr. Grace. Hi.” You smile, that same tired smile you always seem to wear when the hours are starting to pass and the work doesn’t seem to dissipate.

“You’re still here, kid.” 8 shots of espresso in the way he speaks that your adrenaline rises for a second. The term of endearment smashes it down. You hate that he calls you kid.

"So are you."

"I was leaving." He motions to his bag, his get-up indicative of him telling the truth.

You can only nod before sheepishly explaining. "The heater in my apartment broke. So I'm kind of taking advantage of the school's heating while I finish these."

"Have you called your landlord?"

"He said he'll send someone tomorrow."

Ryland frowns. "Tomorrow?"

"Apparently I'm not the only tenant whose heater stopped working."

He laughs a little, shaking his head a little in disbelief before glancing at the empty chairs around you. His eyes dart back and forth between it and at the papers in his hands, like a table tennis rally is happening right before his eyes.

He shouldn’t.

The past four months of seeing you, being around you, especially in the late hours of the night, has been fucking him up. There is now a palpable tension he feels, a nudge in his heart whenever he sees you and he doesn’t know why.

So, no, he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t stay. It’ll only mess him up further.

"Actually." He adjusts the strap of his messenger bag, clearing his throat as he prepares himself for the next thing he’s about to say. Something about a goodbye, yeah. He should say he needs to leave. "I've still got a stack of quizzes to grade."

He taps the papers tucked beneath his arm. Perfect opportunity to get himself out of the situation, really perfect, until, "Seems a little pointless to carry them all the way home if I'm only going to do them the second I get there."

Apparently, his heart had taken charge tonight and had made the executive decision before his brain could finish its reasonable thought.

“Maybe just a little counterproductive.” You’re smiling, like you always did. And your tone is carrying a little bit of malice that you’re trying to mask.

You want him to stay, too. The thought sends him over the edge.

And Ryland reprimands himself in his head at wanting to be alone with you, at wanting to stay despite the comforts of his home that he’d thought of earlier, but against better judgement, he continues, "Mind if I sit for a bit?"

You shake your head frantically, already making space for him as you set a few of your papers and pens aside. "No, not at all."

Fuck, he’s an alarm clock, and you’re dazed at the way his hair looks so fluffy and messy, and how the outline of his chest is easier to see with the loose buttons of his dress shirt. You think of other scenarios he could look this way, maybe the morning after an interesting night while he’s making you coffee with your shit ton of creamers.

God is apologizing in heaven for the thoughts you’re not supposed to be having,

He sets his own stack down next to you, completely unaware of what lives inside your head.

Ryland is having a battle of his own, justifying why the fuck he’d just sat down on this table with you when he had a mind set on going home. I mean, it was cold outside anyway, and he’d be freezing while he rode his bike home. Besides, the coffee here wasn’t that bad.

So, just a few papers, just finish enough to lessen the load of papers he’ll have to bring home. Good, practical reasons, he thinks.

And you’re too tempting to deny. All alone in this room, looking so… cute.

The silence that follows and settles between the two of you is surprisingly comfortable despite the tension that was getting harder and harder to ignore, and quite frankly, resist. Now, at least it was tipping its scale to ‘comfortable’ and he was holding onto it as long as he possibly could.

The air is only really filled in by the sound of pens scratching across paper, the rustle of pages turning, and a sigh from one of you every now which elicits an amused laugh from the other.

“You know, I think the kids are actively trying to kill me.” You mumble after taking a short break from all the papers you’ve been checking, stretching a little to remedy the pain in your back. “They’re so hard to tame.”

Ryland circles an incorrect answer with his red pen, sparing you a quick glance lest he wants it to linger. “What grade?”

“Seventh.”

“Ah, the worst.” He nods sympathetically. “My condolences.”

You laugh. It's louder than you intended because you’re still not used to his dry humor, and Ryland smiles before lowering his head back to the papers he’s grading.

He realizes, then and there, that he likes making you laugh. But he chooses not to think about it because he’s still trying to hold onto that comfortable silence, trying to keep the scale tipped there so he doesn’t think of any form of desire.

So, immediately as the thought forms, he’s already shutting it down.

He can’t be thinking like this. He’s almost two decades older than you. He really can’t, even though he had willingly placed himself in this compromising situation. He had brought this upon himself.

Still, he tries to focus on the work before him. Well, up until he notices a few of the papers he needs to grade have been added to your stack by mistake.

"You've got—“ He gestures towards your pile. "A few of my quizzes."

You pause, looking over to where he’d just gestured towards. "I do?"

He reaches across the table just as you do. "Here—”

Your fingertips meet as you both reach out at the same time. It barely touches, a brief brush of skin and it’s almost nothing.

Almost.

Both of you instinctively pull back at the sudden contact, but the pair of you know what the other was thinking, what thoughts stirred up with the contact.

"Sorry."

"Sorry."

Both of your apologies overlap, and you’re suddenly laughing. A defense mechanism. It doesn’t sound fully genuine, it just sounds nervous.

Your face flushes with the red shade of embarrassment, and Ryland is looking anywhere but at you, and you’re trying to quickly pass him the papers you’d misplaced.

"Here. Sorry about that."

"It’s no problem at all.”

The room falls quiet again. Though, a little less comfortable than it was a while ago. Fuck, he’d let go of it. He couldn’t hold onto it anymore. It was tipping the other side now.

Ryland can do nothing but stare at the same question on the same quiz for nearly a minute.

And he’s trying to read, trying to gauge if the answer is correct, but he hasn’t really read a single word at all. He’s rendered himself incapable.

All he knows is his heartbeat feels strangely loud which is ridiculous because the brush of your fingertips on his was really nothing. People accidentally touch hands all the time. There is absolutely no reason for him to still be thinking about it.

"Mr. Grace?"

He looks up too quickly at the interjection of your voice. You blush at his immediate attention because it isn’t the first time he’s directed his undivided attention to you.

But somehow, every time his blue eyes settle on you, your heartbeat starts doing something stupid in your chest. Long enough that you forget whatever it was you were about to say.

It's embarrassing, really.

You've been feeling this way for longer than you'd care to admit. Maybe it started with the umbrella, or the printer (definitely the printer), or the evenings he'd appeared in your doorway.

You never really pinpointed when admiration had quietly turned into something very inconvenient and very inappropriate. All you know is that Ryland Grace is unfairly handsome with his messy hair, and the scruff along his jaw, and the glasses perpetually slipping down his nose, and the fuckass sleeves of his button-down rolled to his forearms because he insists they're more comfortable that way, exposing strong hands and bigger biceps that are fighting for their life.

You'd noticed all of it. You'd tried very hard not to.

(Not hard enough, apparently. Who could fault you? It’s not every day you are blessed with a painfully attractive co-worker.)

You tried not to because he’s older, way older. And because every time he called you kid with that easy smile, you were reminded that whatever ridiculous crush had lodged itself in your chest was destined to stay exactly that—just a crush on your proportionate, out-of-your-league co-worker.

You repeat those words to yourself every morning, but they become considerably harder to believe whenever he looks at you for just a second too long, like he always seemed to do.

"Everything alright?" His voice pulls you back, and you realize you've been staring. Your face grows warm at being caught.

"Yeah."

You clear your throat, forcing your eyes back down to your papers. You don't even know what you were going to say. "Sorry. I just— I forgot what I was about to say.”

He only laughs. “That’s okay.”

You’re still looking at him like you’re trying to remember the thought you lost, and Ryland realizes a second too late that he hasn’t looked away either. He really should, but he doesn’t.

You’re just so fucking cute.

The silence is stretching a fraction too long, and suddenly he’s aware of everything at once—the distance between the two of you, how you were the only ones left in this school, the way you’re still looking at him with a flicker of something he can’t quite place, but he knows it’s soft and a little unguarded.

Before he can stop himself, his eyes flicker down to your lips.

It’s nothing more than a second. Just a misplaced and misguided glance in the middle of waiting for you to say something. In that second, he’s desperately trying to capture the image of you, as if it might never be enough to just see you like this in chance encounters.

He’s trying to carve you into memory. He’s thinking really hard about what it might feel if he kissed you right now, if he pressed his lips on your waiting one.

But the brief second of looking at you and thinking about kissing you is also a second too much for his chest to suddenly tighten with something he still can’t name. A second too much that his brain is catching up to what his heart is doing, and has finally decided to intervene after leaving Ryland alone for way too long.

He looks away first, too quickly. He’s clearing his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly very interested in the stack of quizzes in front of him.

You don’t say anything at the sudden shift, until he starts to gather his papers into one neat pile. Albeit, rushed, and a ton reckless and messy.

"I should probably head home."

"So soon?" The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, and there is a tone of disappointment that’s hard to hide.

"I know." He smiles a little, still unable to look at you properly. “I've still got a bike ride home. Didn’t really account for... how late it’s gotten.”

You nod in understanding, but it’s hard to ignore the gut-punch heavy load of that disappointment that immediately settles when you think of the absence of him.

He slips the papers into his bag and pushes his chair in. "Don't stay too late, kid.”

"I'll try."

He nods in one swift motion, slipping out of the room as fast as he could manage. The moment he steps into the hallway, it’s suddenly easier to breathe, like he’s been suffocating and holding a breath inside that room with you. And he stays like that, even after a few minutes pass. He’s still just by the doorframe, almost glued in place.

The hallway is empty, the lights buzz overhead in a sort of static, and behind him, he can still hear you turning another page, still checking a few papers.

He glances back, and you’re still sitting where you were just a moment ago, eyes trained down on the work ahead of you, and Ryland watches for only a second.

But you look up and your eyes meet, and his breath hitches.

Ryland immediately unglues himself from his spot, desperately scraping his feet to hurry away before you can think of the connotation of his lingering.

He’ll have to be confronted with the consequences of what the hell just happened when he’s finally home and alone, and he’s in the accompaniment of maybe just a single drink because he can’t stop thinking about kissing you still, even now, when you’re no longer in the room.