I saw a post about Shane and Ilya being sad that they can't thank each other in their acceptance speeches like other can with their spouses and it got me thinking:
Ilya wins his first awards and hes got nobody he really wants to thank after his team and coach cause he he hates his family but he knows his speech is too short so on impulse he goes "And I want to thank Shane Hollander for being slightly worse than me this season". Everyone knows it was going to one of those two, so everyone thinks hes an asshole to say that but whats new so it works for him. But from then on it then becomes a bit for both of them to thank each other in their speeches in a snide way as a reason they won.
Shane winning the Art Ross Trophy (Awarded to the player who leads the league in total points at the end of the regular season). and going "special thanks to Rozanov for missing at least 5 shots this season, he was a huge help"
Ilya winning the Conn Smythe Trophy (Awarded to the most valuable player for his team in the playoffs.) "Just want to give a quick shout out to Hollander for getting knocked out in the second round this season. Must hate to see me up here."
They find a way to mention the other in their speeches every time all the time.
I knew i was going to like sheep detectives but I did not expect it to get me thinking about my own mortality and the value of remembering things, even when it's painful.
The Winter Lamb in The Sheep Detectives latched onto my heart and still has not let go. 🥺
I thought I was just going to watch a cute movie, not a thoughtful reflection on death, memory, the pain of loss, and the importance of loving the “Other.”
*Light, but potential spoiler in the next paragraph*
In the Winter Lamb, I saw every outcast character I have ever loved or been fascinated by and a poignant representation of an innocent purity, soft and uncorrupted, before the onset of a hardened and jaded perspective that comes through repeated cruelty, as seen in Sebastian the ram.
I could only see my comfort characters (Sad Men, of course) and mourn for them. ❤️🩹
For many reasons, I highly recommend the movie! Watch it with a soft heart and prepare for all the feels. Also, sheep and lambs. 😭
So like, all I’m saying is that there’s nothing in the Hugh Jackman shepherd’s backstory that /excludes/ him from being some iteration of a retired Wolverine. And it just never comes up because the sheep think all humans can produce shearing scissors out of their hands.
♡ lee know is the emotionally unavailable dance major who becomes quietly obsessed with taking care of his accidental roommate. he doesn’t say “i care about you.” he changes your lightbulbs, cooks for you at 2 a.m., and gets irrationally angry when anyone else gets too close. “we’re not dating” — except everyone on campus thinks you are.
☆ genres: accidental roommates | domestic tension | slow-burn yearning | emotionally constipated minho | acts of service | “we’re not dating” but we act married | subtle possessiveness | campus romance | hidden softness
☆ warnings: explicit nsfw (18+ / MDNI), heavy detailed smut scenes, domestic sex, marking/hickeys, light choking, possessive talk, praise kink, teasing/edging, semi-public risk, multiple orgasms, emotional intimacy during sex, hurt/comfort
☆ playlist: darl+ing - seventeen | angel or devil - txt | not for sale - enhypen | unplugged boy - tws | dear my darling - boynextdoor |
“Due to a system error in the off-campus housing portal, your assigned apartment (Unit 412) will be shared with one other approved tenant for the remainder of the semester. We apologize for the inconvenience.”
You had laughed when you read it. Laughed because it felt like a joke. Laughed because you were exhausted from moving boxes up three flights of stairs in the August heat. Laughed because what else were you supposed to do?
Then you opened the door to Unit 412 and stopped laughing.
Lee Minho was already there.
He stood in the middle of the living room like he owned it — black hoodie, sweatpants, arms crossed, expression unreadable as he watched you drag your last suitcase inside. His hair was slightly messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His eyes, sharp and dark, flicked over you once before returning to the suitcase like it personally offended him.
“You’re the roommate,” he said. Not a question. A statement. Flat. Annoyed.
You straightened up, wiping sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, and gave him your brightest, friendliest smile.
“Hi! Yeah, I’m y/n. Housing mix-up, right? This is awkward but I promise I’m clean, quiet, and I don’t throw parties. We can make a chore chart or something if you want.”
Minho stared at you for a long second.
Then he turned and walked into the kitchen without another word.
You blinked.
Okay. Not a talker.
You dragged your suitcase further inside and looked around. The apartment was surprisingly nice — open layout, big windows, two bedrooms on opposite sides. One door was already closed with a small “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging on the knob. His room, obviously.
Minho reappeared from the kitchen holding a glass of water. He set it on the counter near you without comment.
You stared at it, then at him.
“…Thanks?”
He shrugged, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed again. “You looked like you were about to pass out.”
His voice was low, almost bored. But he didn’t leave. He just stood there, watching you with that unreadable expression.
You took the water and drank it, suddenly aware of how thirsty you actually were.
“So,” you said, trying to keep things light, “which room is mine?”
He tilted his head toward the open door on the left. “That one. I took the one with the better window. Sorry.”
He didn’t sound sorry.
You smiled anyway. “No problem. I’m easygoing.”
Minho hummed, like he didn’t quite believe you, then pushed off the counter.
“Dinner’s in the fridge if you’re hungry,” he said as he headed toward his room. “Leftovers from last night.”
You stared after him.
He cooked?
Before you could thank him, his door clicked shut.
The “Do Not Disturb” sign swayed gently.
You exhaled, looking around your new (shared) home.
The first week was a careful dance of avoidance and accidental domesticity.
Minho was gone most of the day — dance practices, classes, whatever mysterious schedule a dance major kept. You were busy with your own classes and part-time photography gigs. You barely saw each other.
But the apartment started showing signs of him anyway.
A perfectly folded stack of your laundry appeared on your bed one afternoon (he had “accidentally” mixed it with his and refused to admit it was intentional). A pot of kimchi jjigae was left on the stove with a sticky note that just said “eat” in neat handwriting. When you came home late from a shoot one night, the living room light was still on and Minho was on the couch, pretending to watch a drama while clearly waiting for you.
“You’re late,” he said without looking up.
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re not my dad.”
He finally glanced at you, expression flat. “You forgot to eat again. There’s leftovers.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Then he stood up, walked into the kitchen, and silently reheated the food for you.
You ate at the counter while he leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching you like it was his job to make sure you actually finished the bowl.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” you said between bites. “We’re just roommates.”
Minho shrugged. “You’re bad at taking care of yourself. Someone has to.”
His tone was annoyed.
But he stayed until you finished eating.
And when you thanked him, he just muttered “whatever” and disappeared into his room again.
The “Do Not Disturb” sign never moved.
But you were starting to think it might as well say “Do Not Fall For Your Roommate.”
Because Lee Minho was already becoming a problem.
The weeks after that were a masterclass in quiet chaos.
He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t messy. He was just… there. Always in the periphery, always doing small things that made your shared apartment feel less like a temporary mistake and more like something dangerously comfortable.
It started with the ramen.
You came home from a long photography shoot at 2:14 a.m., exhausted, starving, and too tired to cook. The apartment was dark except for the soft glow of the kitchen light. Minho was standing at the stove in black sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, hair slightly messy, stirring a pot like it was the most normal thing in the world.
You stopped in the doorway.
“…Are you cooking?”
He didn’t look up. “You forgot to eat again. Sit.”
You blinked. “How do you know I forgot to eat?”
He shrugged, sliding a bowl of kimchi jjigae in front of you as you sat at the counter. “You always do when you have shoots.”
You stared at the bowl, then at him.
He leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, watching you eat with that same unreadable expression. He didn’t say anything else. Just stood there until you finished.
When you thanked him, he muttered “whatever” again and disappeared into his room.
The next morning, your laundry was folded neatly on your bed.
You knew you hadn’t done it.
When you confronted him in the kitchen later, he was making coffee, back to you.
“You folded my clothes,” you said, half-amused, half-confused.
“You did it wrong,” he replied without turning around. “Everything was wrinkled. I fixed it.”
You leaned against the doorway, smiling. “You’re strangely domestic for someone who acts like he hates people.”
Minho finally glanced over his shoulder, expression flat. “I don’t hate people. I just don’t like most of them.”
You laughed. He turned back to the coffee maker, but you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
The pattern continued.
He started leaving sticky notes on the fridge:
There’s leftover tteokbokki. Eat it before it goes bad. - Minho
Your plants are dying. Water them. - Minho
Stop staying up until 4 a.m. editing. Sleep. - Minho
You teased him relentlessly about it.
“You know you’re acting like a worried husband, right?” you said one evening while he was silently reheating food for you again.
Minho didn’t even pause. “Eat your food.”
But his ears turned pink.
Your friends noticed before you did.
One weekend, you invited a couple of them over for a casual movie night. Minho was supposed to be out at dance practice.
He wasn’t.
He walked in halfway through the movie, took one look at the group on the couch, and immediately went to the kitchen. Ten minutes later, he emerged with a tray of perfectly cut fruit, homemade ramyeon, and drinks — placed it on the coffee table without a word, then sat on the floor beside your legs like it was his assigned spot.
Your friend Jisoo stared. “Wait… he lives here?”
You nodded. “Roommate. Housing error.”
Jisoo looked between you and Minho, who was now quietly watching the movie while occasionally glancing up to make sure you were eating the fruit he brought.
“…Looks like y'all are married,” she whispered.
You laughed. “We’re not. He’s just… like this.”
Minho didn’t comment.
But later that night, after everyone left, he lingered in the living room while you cleaned up.
“You can go to bed,” you told him. “I’ve got this.”
He ignored you and started helping anyway, silently drying dishes while you washed them.
When you bumped shoulders accidentally, he didn’t move away.
Neither did you.
The clinginess showed up in quieter ways too.
One night you came home late and freezing from a shoot. Minho was on the couch, pretending to read. The moment you walked in, he stood up, disappeared into his room, and came back with one of his hoodies.
“Put this on,” he said, tossing it at you. “Your room’s heater is shit.”
You pulled it on without arguing. It smelled like him — warm, clean, faintly like his cologne.
You caught him staring for a second too long before he looked away.
“Thanks,” you said softly.
He shrugged. “Whatever.”
But he stayed on the couch with you until you fell asleep watching a drama, a blanket mysteriously draped over both of you.
When you woke up the next morning, he was gone.
But the blanket was still there.
And so was the faint scent of him on your hoodie.
You told yourself it was just roommate stuff.
Minho was practical. He was helpful. He was… Minho.
But your friends were starting to look at you like you were the only one who couldn’t see what was happening.
And deep down, you were starting to wonder the same thing because, the domesticity didn’t stay small for long.
Minho’s care started slipping into your life in ways that felt too personal to ignore — quiet, practical, and impossibly consistent.
One rainy Thursday, you came home from a long outdoor shoot completely soaked and starting to sniffle. Your nose was running, your throat hurt, and you were too tired to do anything but collapse on the couch.
Minho took one look at you and disappeared into the bathroom.
He returned with a towel and your hair dryer.
“Sit,” he said, voice flat.
You blinked through your exhaustion. “What?”
“You’re dripping everywhere. Sit.”
You sat.
He stood behind the couch and gently dried your hair with the towel first, movements careful and efficient. Then he turned on the hair dryer, fingers combing through your damp strands with surprising gentleness. The warm air and his steady touch made your eyes flutter shut.
“You don’t have to do this,” you mumbled, voice hoarse.
“I know,” he replied.
But he kept going until your hair was dry and you stopped shivering.
When he finished, he placed a blanket over your lap and disappeared into the kitchen. Ten minutes later, he returned with a bowl of warm porridge and medicine.
“Eat,” he said, setting it on the coffee table. “Then sleep.”
You stared at the bowl, then at him.
“…Thank you.”
He shrugged like it was nothing and retreated to his room.
The “Do Not Disturb” sign stayed up.
But you noticed he left his door cracked open that night — just enough to hear if you needed anything.
He also started remembering things.
Your coffee order (extra shot, oat milk, one sugar). The days you had early classes. The exact brand of snacks you reached for when stressed. When your period was coming and you needed chocolate.
He never announced it. He just… did it.
One morning you woke up to find your favorite coffee and a small pack of painkillers on the kitchen counter with a sticky note that simply said:
Don’t forget to eat lunch.
No signature.
But you knew it was him.
-----
The jealousy started subtle.
You were in the shared living room one evening when a guy from your photography class, Jisung, stopped by to drop off a lens you’d lent him. He lingered in the doorway, chatting and laughing, standing a little too close as he complimented your latest shots.
Minho was in the kitchen, pretending to make tea.
But you felt his eyes on you the entire time.
When Jisung reached out to brush a stray hair from your shoulder, Minho’s spoon clattered loudly against the mug.
Jisung startled. “Oh, sorry — I didn’t know you had company.”
Minho didn’t look up. “She’s busy.”
His voice was calm. Almost bored.
But his knuckles were white around the mug.
Jisung left quickly after that.
The second the door closed, Minho set the mug down harder than necessary and walked over to you.
“You let him touch you,” he said, voice low.
You raised an eyebrow. “It was just my hair.”
He stared at you for a long moment, jaw tight.
Then he reached out and gently fixed the same strand of hair himself, fingers lingering against your cheek.
“Don’t,” he muttered.
You blinked. “Don’t what?”
He didn’t answer.
He just turned and went back to the kitchen like nothing had happened.
But that night, when you went to bed, you found one of his hoodies folded neatly on your pillow.
No note.
Just the hoodie.
The obsession grew quieter. Deeper.
He started waiting up when you had late shoots.
You’d come home at 1 a.m. to find him on the couch, pretending to watch a drama, eyes heavy with exhaustion but refusing to go to bed until you were safely inside.
One night you tried to tell him he didn’t have to.
Minho just looked at you, expression unreadable.
“I know,” he said.
But he stayed on the couch anyway.
You told yourself it was just roommate stuff.
Practical.
Convenient.
Nothing more.
But your friends were starting to look at you like you were the only one who couldn’t see what was happening.
The domestic routine had settled into something dangerously comfortable.
Minho still acted like he didn’t care. He still left the “Do Not Disturb” sign on his door. He still muttered “whatever” when you thanked him for the late-night ramen or the perfectly folded laundry.
But the small things kept piling up.
He started leaving the living room light on when you had late shoots. He started buying the exact brand of tea you liked when the old box ran out. He started sitting on the couch with you during movies instead of retreating to his room.
You told yourself it was just roommate courtesy.
Your friends told you you were delusional.
The tension finally snapped at a house party thrown by one of your mutual friends.
You hadn’t planned to go, but Minho had been unusually quiet that day, so you dragged him along, hoping it would loosen him up.
Big mistake.
The party was loud, crowded, and full of people who knew you as the friendly photography girl and Minho as the intimidating dance major who rarely spoke.
You were in the kitchen getting a drink when a guy from your department — Hyunjin — approached. He was charming, talkative, and had been flirting with you casually for weeks.
“Hey,” he said with an easy smile, leaning against the counter beside you. “You look good tonight. Finally taking a break from hiding behind that camera?”
You laughed lightly, friendly as always. “Trying to. You?”
Hyunjin stepped a little closer, eyes sparkling. “Better now that you’re here. Want to dance? Or we could go somewhere quieter and talk about that project you mentioned—”
A hand landed on your lower back.
Firm. Possessive.
Minho appeared at your side like a shadow, his body pressed close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him.
“She’s busy,” he said, voice low and flat.
Hyunjin blinked, surprised by the sudden interruption. “Oh… sorry, man. I didn’t know you two were—”
“We’re not,” you started.
At the same time, Minho said, “She’s with me.”
The words came out calm. Controlled.
But his hand stayed on your lower back, fingers pressing slightly into the fabric of your shirt like he needed the contact to stay grounded.
Hyunjin raised his hands in surrender and backed off with an awkward laugh.
The second he was gone, you turned to Minho, heart racing.
“What was that?”
Minho didn’t look at you. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the crowd.
“He was too close,” he muttered.
You stared at him. “You’re acting jealous again.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“You literally just told him I’m with you.”
Minho finally looked at you. His eyes were dark, conflicted, something raw flickering beneath the usual unreadable mask.
“I don’t like it when people touch you,” he said quietly. “Especially when they don’t know you.”
The honesty hit harder than expected.
You opened your mouth to respond, but Minho was already pulling you gently by the wrist, leading you out of the noisy kitchen and toward a quieter hallway.
The moment you were alone, he stopped.
Turned.
And kissed you.
It wasn’t soft.
It was frustrated. Hungry. Like he’d been holding back for weeks and finally lost the fight. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as his mouth moved against yours, deep and demanding.
You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers gripping his shirt.
For a moment, it felt like it would escalate — his body pressing you against the wall, thigh sliding between yours, breath ragged against your lips.
Then Minho pulled back suddenly, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “We shouldn’t—”
“Yeah,” you agreed, equally breathless, hands still fisted in his shirt. “We’re not… we’re just roommates.”
He nodded once, but didn’t move away.
Neither did you.
The hallway felt too small. The air too thick.
Minho’s thumb brushed your bottom lip once, almost reverently, before he forced himself to step back.
“Don’t let him touch you again,” he muttered, voice rough.
Then he turned and walked away before you could respond.
You stayed leaning against the wall for a long time, heart pounding, trying to convince yourself the kiss hadn’t meant anything.
It had felt like everything but it changed nothing on the surface.
Minho still acted like the same emotionally unavailable roommate — quiet, practical, and annoyingly competent. He still left the “Do Not Disturb” sign on his door. He still muttered “whatever” when you thanked him for the late-night food or the perfectly folded laundry.
But underneath, something had shifted.
The domesticity became heavier. More intimate. Harder to ignore.
It started with the laundry again.
One morning you woke up to find several of Minho’s hoodies and shirts mixed in with your clean clothes. You knew you hadn’t washed them. When you confronted him in the kitchen, he was making coffee, back turned to you.
“You put your clothes in my laundry again,” you said, holding up one of his black hoodies.
He didn’t turn around. “They were mixed. I fixed it.”
“You didn’t have to wash mine.”
“I was already doing a load.”
You stared at his back. “You’re doing my laundry now?”
He finally glanced over his shoulder, expression flat. “You do it wrong. Everything ends up wrinkled. It’s practical.”
You pulled his hoodie closer without thinking. It smelled like him — clean, warm, faintly like his cologne. You told yourself you were just borrowing it because it was soft.
You wore it for three days straight.
Minho noticed.
He didn’t say anything, but you caught him staring at you in it more than once, ears faintly pink before he looked away.
Movie nights became dangerous.
One Friday, you suggested watching a new drama together on the couch. Minho agreed with his usual noncommittal shrug.
Halfway through, you fell asleep.
When you woke up hours later, the TV was still on, but you were no longer sitting upright. You were lying down, head on Minho’s chest, his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His breathing was steady, but you could tell he wasn’t fully asleep.
You stayed very still, heart racing.
After a moment, Minho’s fingers brushed lightly up and down your back — slow, absentminded, like he didn’t realize he was doing it.
“…You’re warm,” he muttered sleepily when he felt you stir. “Stay.”
You didn’t move.
Neither did he.
You fell back asleep like that — tangled together on the couch, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
The next morning, he pretended it never happened.
But his hoodie was still on you when you woke up.
The care kept creeping in.
When you had a bad day, he showed up at your door with your favorite takeout without being asked.
When you mentioned your favorite tea was running low, a new box appeared on the counter the next day.
When you complained about the cold in your room, he “fixed” the heater — which somehow meant he started leaving his own blanket on your bed every night.
You tried to call him out on it.
“You’re spoiling me,” you said one evening while he was silently reheating food for you again.
Minho didn’t look up from the stove. “It’s practical. You forget to eat when you’re stressed.”
You smiled, leaning against the counter. “You’re acting like a worried boyfriend.”
He froze for half a second.
Then, voice flat: “I’m not.”
But his ears were red again.
Your friends were the first to say it out loud during a casual hangout at your apartment.
One of them watched Minho quietly refill your water glass without being asked, then disappear back into the kitchen.
“…You two are basically married,” she whispered.
You laughed. “We’re roommates.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Roommates don’t look at each other like that.”
You brushed it off.
But later that night, when Minho fell asleep on the couch beside you during another movie, his head eventually ending up on your shoulder, and you didn’t move him.
You just sat there, heart beating a little too fast, wondering when “roommates” had started feeling like something more.
Minho, still half-asleep, mumbled something against your shoulder.
“…Don’t leave.”
You froze.
He didn’t say anything else.
But his arm wrapped around your waist a little tighter.
And for the first time, you realized you didn’t want to leave either.
-----
The jealousy started escalating the week Seojun entered the picture.
Seojun was a confident, charismatic dance major in Minho’s department — loud where Minho was quiet, outgoing where Minho was reserved. He had been friendly with you for a while, but lately he’d been showing up more often, especially when you were around the dance building dropping off photos for a project.
One afternoon, you were waiting outside the practice room when Seojun spotted you.
“Hey!” he called, jogging over with an easy grin. “You here for Minho?”
You smiled back, friendly as always. “Yeah, I promised I’d bring him the edited shots from last week.”
Seojun leaned against the wall beside you, standing a little too close. “You’re too nice to him. He doesn’t deserve it.”
You laughed lightly. “He’s not that bad.”
Seojun tilted his head, eyes sparkling. “You know, if you ever get tired of dealing with his grumpy ass, I’d be happy to take you out sometime. Coffee? Or dinner? No pressure.”
Before you could respond, the practice room door opened.
Minho stepped out, hair slightly damp with sweat, towel around his neck. His eyes landed on Seojun’s proximity to you immediately.
His expression didn’t change much.
But you saw the way his jaw tightened. The way his hand flexed at his side.
He walked straight over and stopped right beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours.
“She’s busy,” Minho said, voice flat and low.
Seojun raised an eyebrow, amused. “With you?”
Minho didn’t blink. “Yes.”
The tension was instant.
You tried to laugh it off. “Minho, it’s fine—”
But Minho was already gently grabbing your wrist, pulling you toward the exit without another word to Seojun.
You let him pull you along, heart racing.
The second you were outside, you turned on him.
“What was that?”
Minho didn’t look at you. “He was too close.”
“You literally told him I’m busy with you.”
He finally glanced at you, eyes dark. “You are.”
The possessiveness in his voice made your stomach flip.
You stared at him. “We’re not dating, Minho.”
“I know,” he said, voice tight. “But I still don’t like it.”
He didn’t elaborate.
He just started walking you back to the apartment, staying closer than usual, his shoulder brushing yours with every step.
It kept happening.
Whenever Seojun was around, Minho’s reactions became sharper.
During a group hangout at the apartment, Seojun sat next to you on the couch and casually rested his arm along the back of the seat behind you. Minho, who had been in the kitchen, appeared seconds later and sat directly on your other side, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours.
He didn’t say anything.
He just reached over and fixed the collar of your shirt, fingers lingering against your skin.
Seojun eventually moved.
Later that night, after everyone left, Minho was quieter than usual. He was washing dishes when you walked into the kitchen.
“You’re being weird again,” you said, leaning against the counter.
He didn’t look up. “I’m not.”
“You literally sat between me and Seojun like a guard dog.”
Minho’s hands paused on the plate. Then he continued washing, voice low.
“I don’t like when he touches you.”
The honesty made your breath catch.
You stepped closer. “Minho…”
He turned off the water and finally looked at you, eyes dark and conflicted.
“I know we’re not dating,” he said quietly. “But I still hate it.”
The air between you felt thick.
You didn’t know what to say.
So you didn’t say anything.
You just reached up and gently fixed a strand of hair that had fallen into his eyes.
Minho closed his eyes for a second, leaning into the touch like he was starving for it.
Then he pulled away, muttering something about needing to sleep, and disappeared into his room.
The “Do Not Disturb” sign never moved.
But you were starting to realize that the sign wasn’t for you.
It was for him.
Minho still kept his “Do Not Disturb” sign up like a shield, but the walls between you were crumbling faster than either of you could pretend otherwise. He was louder in his silence now — the way he’d linger in the kitchen when you were home, the way his eyes followed you when he thought you weren’t looking, the way his hoodies kept mysteriously appearing in your room.
You tried to act normal.
You failed.
One Thursday night you came home from a brutal editing session, shoulders aching, eyes burning. The apartment was warm and smelled like something delicious. Minho was at the stove again, stirring a pot of samgyetang with focused precision.
“You’re back,” he said without turning around.
“Yeah. Smells good.”
He hummed. A few minutes later, he set a steaming bowl in front of you at the counter, along with a glass of water and painkillers.
“Eat,” he ordered quietly.
You sat down, suddenly too tired to tease him. The first spoonful made your eyes flutter shut. Perfect, as always.
Minho leaned against the counter across from you, arms crossed, watching you eat like it was his personal responsibility. The silence felt heavier tonight. Charged.
When you finished, he took your bowl without a word and started washing it.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” you said softly, standing up to help dry.
“I know.”
But he didn’t stop. His shoulder brushed yours as you worked side by side. Neither of you moved away.
Later that night, you were on the couch scrolling through photos when Minho came out of his room in a black t-shirt and sweatpants. He paused, then sat beside you instead of retreating to his usual spot.
You glanced at him. “Movie?”
He nodded once.
Halfway through, your head ended up on his shoulder. His arm slowly slid around you, pulling you closer until you were curled against his chest. His fingers traced slow, absent patterns on your arm.
“You’re warm,” he muttered, almost to himself.
You tilted your head up. His face was inches from yours, eyes dark and unreadable in the glow of the TV.
“Minho…”
He swallowed hard. Then he leaned down and kissed you.
This time, there was no hallway. No party. No interruption.
It started slow — hesitant, like he was still fighting himself. But the second you kissed him back, something in him snapped. The kiss deepened, turning hungry and desperate. His hand cupped the back of your neck, tilting your head as his tongue slid against yours.
You climbed into his lap without thinking, straddling him. Minho groaned softly into your mouth, hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips. “This is a bad idea.”
“Probably,” you whispered, rolling your hips once.
His grip tightened hard enough to bruise.
He stood up suddenly, carrying you like you weighed nothing, and walked straight to his room. The “Do Not Disturb” sign stared at you mockingly as he kicked the door shut behind him.
The second your back hit his bed, Minho was on you.
He kissed you like he’d been starving for months — deep, messy, possessive. His hands shoved your shirt up, mouth latching onto your neck, sucking a dark mark right below your ear.
“Mine,” he growled against your skin, so low you almost missed it.
You pulled his shirt off, nails dragging down his toned back. He hissed, grinding his hard cock against you through your clothes.
Clothes came off in a blur. When he finally pushed inside you, slow and deep, both of you moaned brokenly.
“Shit— so tight,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes were dark, intense, completely focused on your face as he bottomed out. “Look at me.”
You did.
He started moving — deep, rolling thrusts that made your back arch. Every stroke felt deliberate, like he was trying to memorize how you felt around him. His hand came up to wrap gently around your throat, not squeezing hard, just holding you there as he fucked you.
“You feel so good,” he whispered, voice rough. “Better than I imagined. Fuck— been thinking about this for weeks.”
You moaned his name, legs wrapping tighter around his waist. He angled his hips and hit that spot inside you perfectly, drawing a sharp cry from your throat.
“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing you messily. “Let me hear you.”
He fucked you harder, one hand slipping between your bodies to rub tight circles on your clit. The pleasure built fast and overwhelming. When you came, clenching around him with a broken moan of his name, Minho cursed and followed right after, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you.
For a long moment, the only sound was both of you breathing hard.
Minho didn’t pull out. He collapsed on top of you, face buried in your neck, arms wrapped around you like a vice.
“Don’t say anything,” he whispered against your skin. “Just… stay.”
You stayed.
He fell asleep still inside you, holding you like you might vanish if he loosened his grip even slightly.
The next morning, he was already in the kitchen when you woke up. Two plates of breakfast waited on the counter.
He didn’t mention the sex.
But when you reached for your coffee, he gently fixed the collar of the hoodie you’d stolen from him — his hoodie — and his fingers lingered against your neck, right over the hickey he’d left.
You didn’t mention it either.
But the line between roommates and something more had been completely, irreversibly crossed.
“Morning,” you said softly.
“Sit,” he replied, voice low. He slid a plate of perfectly cooked eggs, rice, and grilled spam in front of you, along with your coffee — exactly how you liked it.
You ate in silence for a few minutes. The tension from last night still hummed between you, thick and unspoken.
“You’re not going to say anything?” you finally asked.
Minho paused, chopsticks hovering over his food. “About what?”
You raised an eyebrow. “About the fact that we had sex last night.”
He shrugged, ears turning faintly pink. “It happened.”
You stared at him. “That’s it?”
He finally looked up, expression carefully blank. “We’re still roommates. Don’t make it weird.”
But the way his gaze lingered on the hickey he’d left on your neck said otherwise.
The denial didn’t last long.
Over the next week, Minho’s care became almost suffocating in its intensity. He cooked every night. He waited up every time you had a late shoot. He started doing your laundry without even pretending it was an accident. And at night…
He stopped pretending he wanted space.
One evening you came home exhausted. Minho took one look at you, walked over, and pulled you into a slow, deep kiss right in the middle of the living room. No words. Just his hands sliding under your shirt, mouth claiming yours like he’d been thinking about it all day.
He carried you to his bed again.
This time, he took you apart slowly.
Minho laid you down gently, stripping you piece by piece with patient hands. His mouth followed — kissing down your neck, sucking marks across your collarbones, tongue teasing your nipples until you were squirming beneath him.
“Minho…” you breathed.
“Shh,” he murmured against your stomach, lips brushing lower. “Let me take care of you.”
He ate you out like he had all the time in the world — slow, filthy licks and gentle sucks on your clit, two fingers curling inside you until your thighs shook around his head. He didn’t stop even after you came the first time, just kept licking you through it, groaning softly like your taste was addictive.
When he finally crawled back up and pushed inside you, it was devastatingly deep. He fucked you with long, rolling thrusts, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked on your face the entire time.
“Look at me,” he whispered when your eyes fluttered shut. “Want to see you.”
Every thrust felt heavy with meaning. His hand came up to wrap around your throat again — light pressure, possessive, grounding. The other rubbed your clit in perfect rhythm until you came again, clenching hard around him.
Only then did Minho let himself go. He buried his face in your neck and fucked you harder, chasing his own release with broken, quiet moans of your name. When he came, he stayed deep inside you, hips twitching as he filled you up.
Afterwards, he didn’t pull away. He rolled onto his back and pulled you on top of him, still connected, arms wrapped tightly around your back.
“You’re staying here tonight,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question.
You smiled against his chest. “Okay.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, fingers tracing slow circles on your bare skin. For once, he didn’t run back behind his walls. He just held you.
But the denial still lingered during daylight.
He still muttered “we’re not dating” when your friends teased you. He still put the “Do Not Disturb” sign on his door when other people came over. He still got prickly and quiet whenever Seojun texted you or when someone flirted with you on campus.
One afternoon Seojun stopped by the apartment to drop off dance footage for a project. Minho was in the kitchen, but the second Seojun leaned in a little too close while laughing at something you said, Minho appeared like a shadow.
He didn’t say anything. Just wrapped an arm around your waist from behind and pressed a slow kiss to the side of your neck — right over one of his many marks — while staring directly at Seojun.
Seojun got the message quickly.
When the door closed, you turned in Minho’s arms.
“You’re being possessive again.”
Minho’s jaw tightened. “I don’t like him near you.”
“You keep saying we’re not dating.”
He stared at you for a long moment, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes before he buried it.
“I know what I said.”
Then he kissed you hard, like he could avoid the truth if he just drowned it in physical closeness.
That night he fucked you against the kitchen counter after dinner — rough, desperate, and possessive. One hand around your throat, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints as he pounded into you from behind.
“Say my name,” he growled against your ear. “Only mine.”
You came moaning his name. He followed right after, spilling deep inside you with a broken groan.
Afterwards, while he was carefully cleaning you up with a warm towel, he kissed your shoulder softly.
“…Stay in my room tonight,” he whispered.
You smiled. “I thought we weren’t dating?”
Minho froze, then buried his face in your neck, arms wrapping around you from behind.
“Shut up,” he mumbled against your skin, voice muffled and embarrassed.
But he didn’t let go.
And you were starting to realize that Lee Minho’s version of “we’re not dating” was beginning to sound a lot like “I don’t know how to admit I’m falling in love with you.”
Minho no longer waited for you to fall asleep on the couch. Most nights he simply pulled you into his room after dinner, wordlessly stripping you down and burying himself inside you like it was the only way he knew how to say the things he couldn’t voice.
One particular night, you came home after a long day of back-to-back shoots. The apartment was quiet, but the moment you stepped inside, Minho was there.
He didn’t speak. He just walked up to you, cupped your face, and kissed you slow and deep, like he’d been waiting hours for this exact moment. His hands slid under your shirt, thumbs brushing your ribs as he backed you toward his bedroom.
“Missed you,” he muttered against your lips. It was the closest thing to a confession he’d ever given.
He took his time with you that night.
Minho laid you out on his bed like you were something precious, mouth mapping every inch of your skin. He spent long minutes between your thighs, licking and sucking until you came twice on his tongue, fingers buried deep inside you, curling against that spot that made you see stars. He groaned every time you clenched around his fingers, like your pleasure fed something starving inside him.
When he finally pushed inside you, it was devastatingly slow. He held your gaze the entire time, forehead pressed to yours, one hand gently wrapped around your throat while the other pinned your wrist above your head.
“So good for me,” he whispered, voice rough as he rolled his hips deep. “Always so fucking perfect.”
Every thrust was measured, intentional, like he was trying to carve himself into your memory. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him impossibly closer, and he let out a broken sound that made your chest ache.
When you came again, clenching hard around him, Minho followed with a quiet, shuddering groan, spilling deep inside you while whispering your name against your neck like a secret.
Afterwards, he didn’t move. He stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tightly around your body as he rolled you both onto your sides. His face stayed hidden in the crook of your neck, breathing you in.
You gently ran your fingers through his hair. “Minho… what are we doing?”
He was quiet for a long time.
Then, barely audible: “I don’t know.”
But his arms tightened around you like he was scared you’d pull away.
The next few days felt like borrowed time.
Minho’s care became almost overwhelming. He started waking up earlier just to make you breakfast. He left sticky notes on the mirror after you showered: “Drink water.” “You looked tired. Sleep early.” He even started doing your photography editing backups “because your laptop is old and slow.”
You caught him staring at you more often — soft, unguarded looks when he thought you weren’t paying attention. But the second you turned toward him, the mask would slip back into place. Flat expression. “Do Not Disturb” energy.
One afternoon, while you were both in the kitchen, you decided to test the waters.
“I found a new apartment listing,” you said casually, stirring your coffee. “It’s available next month. Closer to campus, cheaper rent…”
Minho’s entire body went still. The knife he was using to cut vegetables froze mid-air.
“You’re moving?” His voice was carefully neutral, but you heard the strain underneath.
“Yeah. The housing error gets fixed at the end of the semester anyway. Thought I should start looking.”
He didn’t respond. Just went back to chopping vegetables with a little more force than necessary.
That night, he fucked you like he was angry.
Bent over the kitchen counter right after dinner, your shorts shoved down, his cock slamming into you from behind with deep, punishing strokes. One hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks.
“You’re really leaving?” he growled against your ear, hips snapping harder. “After all this?”
You moaned, pushing back against him. “You said we’re not dating—”
He pulled your head back by your hair and bit down on your shoulder, sucking a dark hickey as he fucked you even deeper.
“Don’t say that right now,” he hissed.
He made you come twice before he finally let himself go, filling you up with a low, broken groan. Afterwards, instead of his usual quiet aftercare, he carried you to his bed and held you so tightly you could barely breathe.
“Don’t look for apartments yet,” he whispered against your hair in the dark.
You didn’t answer.
But you didn’t pull away either.
The next morning, Minho was quieter than usual. He made your coffee exactly how you liked it, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes. When you tried to tease him about burning the toast, he barely reacted.
You hated how much it hurt.
Because the truth was becoming impossible to ignore: you didn’t want to move out. You didn’t want to leave this apartment. You didn’t want to leave him.
And Lee Minho, for all his emotional constipation and “Do Not Disturb” signs, was starting to look like he felt the exact same way.
But neither of you knew how to say it.
Yet.
-----
The argument finally exploded in the kitchen on a random Tuesday night.
You’d been putting it off for days, but the new apartment listing had been confirmed. You set your phone down on the counter and took a deep breath.
“I found a place,” you said quietly. “It’s available at the end of the month. I think I’m going to take it.”
Minho was stirring rice in a pan. His hand stilled completely.
For a long moment, the only sound was the faint sizzle of the food.
“You’ll survive,” you added, trying to keep your voice light. “You lived alone before me anyway.”
Minho slowly set the spoon down and turned to face you. His expression was tight, jaw clenched, eyes darker than usual.
“I know I will,” he said flatly.
You nodded, heart aching. “Then why are you acting like this?”
He stared at you for a long second, something raw and frustrated breaking across his face. The “Do Not Disturb” mask he’d worn for months finally shattered.
“Because I liked living with you!” The words burst out of him, louder than you’d ever heard him speak. He immediately looked away, ears burning red. “More than I should’ve.”
Silence filled the kitchen.
Minho gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white.
“I know I’m bad at this,” he continued, voice dropping. “I don’t say things. I just… do things. Cook for you. Wait up for you. Fold your stupid laundry. But every time I think about you moving out, it feels wrong. Like the apartment’s going to be too quiet. Like I’m going to be too… empty.”
He finally looked at you, eyes vulnerable in a way that made your chest tighten.
“I don’t want you to leave.”
You stepped closer until you were right in front of him. “Then ask me to stay, Minho.”
He swallowed hard. Then, barely above a whisper:
“…Stay.”
You smiled, soft and warm. “Okay.”
The tension snapped.
Minho pulled you into him almost desperately, kissing you like he’d been holding back for years. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as the kiss turned deeper, slower, full of everything he’d never been able to say.
He lifted you onto the kitchen counter, stepping between your legs. But this time it wasn’t rushed or possessive. It was tender.
Clothes came off slowly. He kissed every inch of skin he revealed, murmuring quiet praises against your collarbone, your stomach, your thighs. When he finally slid inside you, it was gentle and deep, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, rolling his hips in a slow, steady rhythm. “I’m not letting you go.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, holding him just as tightly. The pleasure built gradually, sweet and overwhelming, until you both came together — quiet moans and trembling breaths, bodies pressed impossibly close.
Afterwards, Minho carried you to his bed (your bed now, too), cleaned you up with careful hands, then pulled you against his chest. He buried his face in your hair, arms locked around you.
“No more looking at apartments,” he mumbled against your temple.
You laughed softly. “No more ‘we’re not dating’ either?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then:
“We’re dating,” he said, almost shyly. “If… you want.”
You tilted your head up and kissed him. “I want.”
-----
The next few weeks were sickeningly cute.
Minho still acted annoyed when your friends teased him about being whipped, but he no longer denied it. He started introducing you as “my girlfriend” in the most casual, deadpan way possible — like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
He took the “Do Not Disturb” sign down permanently.
Now the only sign on his door (your shared door) was a small handmade one you’d made together that read: “Do Not Disturb… unless you’re y/n”
Domestic life continued, only now it was openly affectionate.
He still cooked for you at 2 a.m. when you forgot to eat, but now he’d pull you into his lap afterwards and feed you bites while pressing kisses to your neck. He still folded your laundry, but now he’d steal kisses every time he passed you a stack of clothes. He still waited up for you, but now he’d greet you at the door with a hug that lasted way too long.
One lazy Sunday afternoon, you were both on the couch watching a drama. You were wearing his hoodie (as usual). Minho had his head in your lap, eyes half-closed as you played with his hair.
“You know,” you said softly, “I never thanked the housing office for their mistake.”
Minho hummed, turning his face to press a kiss to your thigh.
“Don’t thank them,” he muttered. “Thank me for not letting you move out.”
You laughed and leaned down to kiss him.
He smiled against your lips — small, genuine, and completely unguarded.
Lee Minho still wasn’t great with words.
But he didn’t need to be.
He showed you he loved you every single day — in the meals he cooked, the hoodies he let you steal, the way he held you at night like you were the only thing that mattered.
something something glass onion being set on a greek island, andi's full name being cassandra, like the trojan princess who prophesied the fall of troy, but whom no one ever listened to, and her sister being named helen, like the greek princess who actually ignited the war and brought about the fall of troy in the end
“You look nice,” Ryland says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit.
in which: You need a date to the wedding you foolishly agreed to attend, luckily your co-worker is a willing sacrifice. Extremely willing.
[warnings: eventual nsfw 18+, a bit of fluff, excessively drawn out flirting]
wc: 14.2k (Whoops) [ Masterlist ] [ ao3 Link ]
Woe finds you on a Tuesday at the staffroom lunch table.
Picking apart the leftovers of a miserable thrown together attempt of fried rice that came to be after realising there were no better dinner options with the ingredients you had in the fridge two days ago and the determination to not get take out more than once a week that would surely fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on.
Eat take out once a week, maximum. Read one book a month, minimum. Sleep more. Stop turning down social invites
The last one is what leaves you particularly perturbed, as your lunch goes lukewarm and your thumb flicks about on the social media profile.
“I just… I can’t say no.” You lament. “It would be weird.”
“Weirder than going?” Margot asks, pulling her own container of lunch from the oven. It’s also leftovers, but slices of impeccably cooked roast with what looks to be red wine sauce and vegetables- no doubt made by her smokeshow of a house husband (he just works from home, she insists. You’re pretty sure the pair are sitting on a lofty investment profile because no man ‘works from home’ cooks roasts bi-weekly and buys his wife diamond earrings for her birthday).
“I don’t know. Maybe.” You manage, the next bite of fired rice tasting like loneliness packed into an over-salted flavour profile.
“What’s weird?” Ryland asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.
The staff room of E-Block is near abandoned. Of the ten-odd teachers with rooms in the little block of aging brick, most tended to eat in their classrooms. Save for you, Margot and Ryland. Occasionally there will be another visitor, but most days, it is just the three of you.
“Wedding.” Margot supplies, sitting down and shuffling her chair in with a sense of poise so rarely found in Middle-Schools. She’s older, somewhere in her early fifties, and still manages to approach the job with the same level of discipline as before ipads made their invasion into the classroom.
Ryland frowns. “You’re already married.”
He’s… well, Ryland's… actually you’re not sure how to put him into words, which is saying a lot considering the literature degree collecting mildew in the filing cabinet of your apartment.
He’s in the same boat as you in terms of finding yourselves with a teaching career. Studied something else first, got your passion and love for it soured by morons and went back to college for a second round, dishing out more cash for a masters in teaching that has you trying to tame fourteen year olds all day. Delightful, truly. Although, Ryland had certainly lasted a lot longer with that first degree than you had. A doctorate. He hates the kids knowing that though. A handful of them had called him ‘Doctor Grace’ last year, after digging about online and getting their grubby fingers on his linkedin profile.
‘Mr Grace’ as he is now known, is awkward. A little socially inept at times, but not enough to come across as anything other than endearing. Now is one such time, as he looks over the frames of his glasses at Margo, the stack of pop quizzes he’d brought to mark and keep himself occupied momentarily forgotten. His eyes darted from her face to the ring on her finger.
“Mm mm.” She hums, shaking her head as she chews, then levels her fork to point in your direction.
“You’re not getting married.” Ryland states when he turns to look at you, like it’s a scientific fact, one he’s so assured of.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr Grace.” You reply, still sort of wallowing at the photos on your phone.
His gaze flickers, a little less sure as the corner of his lips fall and, like he had with Margot, settles his eyes on your hands. Your lack of a ring. “You aren’t, are you?”
“No. My ex is, though.” You sigh, despondent. The reminder glares back at you from the overly-bright phone screen.
“Oh. That sucks.” He manages, clicking open a red pen to start circling and ticking the first sheet on his pile. “Happens to the best of us.”
The kettle rumbles away on the tiny kitchenette. You look at him for a long moment. The best of us. Like it’s happened to him. Ryland’s not one to discuss relationships beyond the occasional quip about quitting to be a house husband like Margot’s. He’s never mentioned past romances, you don’t think he’s been in a relationship in the three years since he started at Grover Cleveland Middle. It’s such a bizarre glimpse at his life, that he doesn't even seem to register what he's revealed, marking as he waits for the boiling water to cook another lunch of instant ramen.
You sit up a little straighter in your chair, weary of knocking your shoes against where his long legs sprawl under the small table. The staff room is meant for ten but is cramped even with the three of you, nothing more than a little kitchenette and big whiteboard in the corner. There’s a shelf against one wall, just far enough away from the doorframe that the door doesn't crash into it when pushed open. There’s a long window the length of the wall on the door’s other side, a good view of the eighth-grade outdoor lunch area. The other staff call it the fishbowl, it’s why they opt to eat in their classrooms, not keen on the kids' eyes on them when it is supposed to be one of the fleeting breaks during their day.
Thank god the door is closed- if the kids heard you whining about this, a wedding, they’d never let up. “I’m considering the pros and cons of skipping it.”
“You were invited?” He baulks, dropping his pen.
You try not to smile, focusing on your self pity instead of the three shoddy attempts Ryland takes to catch his pen from dropping out of his hand, rolling off the stack of paper then off the table. “I already said I’d go too.”
“Why?” Ryland sounds appalled, like that one time you’d caught him trying to explain that the five second rule is not an effective barrier against bacteria to a student.
“It’s complicated.” You say, biting at your cheek.
“Bullshit.” Margot aptly calls. Looking over with the same expression she used to call students on their bullshit. You're not a big fan of having it directed at you.
“We went out for maybe two months in college.” You sigh, setting your phone on the table face-down to stare at your lunch, contemplative. “He’s engaged to one of the girls from my sorority. We’re… friends.”
Margot watches. “With your ex or the sorority girl?”
“Sorority girl. Daisy.” That's the better option of the two at least. You think it is, not that there is much left to save you from the impending train wreck of discussing the relationship woes of your late teens and early twenties with the only two coworkers who care to eat lunch in a communal space. The company is nice, Ryalnd had said once, when you’d asked, gets me out of the classroom.
Margot screws her face up for a second, muttering it again under her breath as if the name offends her.
“You were in a sorority?" Ryland asks, face a little blank as he looks at you from across the table.
It makes you falter, the way his thoughts seem to be buffering like the school's slow wifi. “I… Yeah? That’s the interesting part?”
He shakes his head, looking down at his marking sheets and pushes his glasses up from where they’re slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose. “No, I just can’t picture it.”
You purse your lips, consider pulling up some photos from your sorority days, then remember the kind of outfits the lot of you wore and think better of it. “Well Daisy and I were roommates for a year and a half. She’s nice. Works in PR now.”
“But she’s marrying your ex?” Ryland asks, still kind of baffled.
You dismiss it with a lazy hand wave. “I mean, she asked before they went out and everything. I just think it’s a little weird. I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s going to be embarrassing.”
Margot tuts twice, done with her lovingly made lunch that symbolises how successful she has been in the department of marriage when you have all but failed so far. “Why is it embarrassing? Two months is nothing.”
“I was a little head over heels for this guy.” You admit, sheepish.
Ryland stands up, clears his throat as he turns away. “Yeah? How so?”
His back is to you, as he peels the lid off his cup ramen and wrestles with the flavour packet. You come to the conclusion it’s easier to confess this sort of stuff with only one set of eyes on you. “I was sort of convinced he was my soulmate. He was doing pre-law, witty too.”
“Hot?” Margot asks, always straightforward.
You feel a blush rise on your cheeks as you remember the early days of your sorority experience, flopped back on the bed as you made little love sick sighs at your ceiling. “God, his jawline. And his hair- it was so… ugh!”
The thud is dull when your forehead lands on the table, to the right of your now abandoned lunch. “I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s dumb.”
You hate how you sound- petulant like the kids you prod for not searching for better words in their assignments, moping like your world is ending over something so trivial. It’s not even the new years resolution that has you mulling this over so intently. You’d agreed to go months ago- six months ago- and said yes to the offered plus one, adamant to yourself that you’d have someone by then, a partner or something. Someone of importance.
Attending alone is going to be even worse than if you had just RSVP’d for yourself in the first place. It’s one thing to watch your college friend and ex-sort-of-boyfriend exchange vows alone, and a whole other monster to do it with a pointed empty seat beside you.
All of it tumbles out your lips in a hurried hurl of word vomit, followed by a few moments of silence that has you cautiously raising your head to peek over the wall of your forearms. Ryland is staring at you, cup noodles steaming in his hands where it hovers over the sink, like he’d been about to pour out the excess water. Margot is looking at you with a frown, the same one she wears when teaching senior mathematics and the children have drawn up an equation for her to solve with the foolish belief they could stump her for more than ten seconds.
And just as in class, Margot is not phased for more than a handful of moments. “Then find someone with a better jawline and better hair to go with you. You can borrow mine.”
You blink at her, mulling the words over before asking, “Are you trying to pimp your husband out to me?”
“Only for aesthetic reasons, of course. It’d be nice to have the house to myself for once. Not like you have better options.”
It would sting more if it wasn’t so true. There were very few options and with the wedding only two weeks away, that was certainly not enough time to squeeze in enough dates with someone to justify taking them to a damn wedding.
“I mean, how good is his jawline?” Ryland finally says, walking over with his little cutlery box, plastic chopsticks he washes and reuses almost everyday, to set his lunch down on the table and settle back in across from you. “Are we aiming high?”
There is no way to un-dig this hole, not now that they’ve both decided to put their two cents in. You concede with another sigh and reach for your phone, arms and chin still on the table as you fish about Instagram for a photo. It’s the one that had reminded you of this awful upcoming event, posted by Daisy. You all but toss your phone on the table between your coworkers, sinking a little lower into your folded arms, awaiting judgement.
The photos must be from a walk though of the venue, the pair of them posed together between some old marble arch where they were having the ceremony at. She was laughing, hand on his chest, showing off the ring on her finger while he looked at her, besotted. The caption made it worse. Only two weeks left till I get to marry my man on these very steps.
You like them both, you really do, but the thought of showing up by yourself, as the lonely friend who’d never found ‘it’, your own version of the love they were celebrating, well it was just nauseating.
Margot looks the photo over critically before humming in a sort of so-so tone. “You can do better.”
Ryland looks kind of at a loss. “This is your type?”
As if to emphasise the point, he lifts the phone up and turns it around to show you the image you were already being haunted by. “This is the hair that had you all…”
He doesn't find the words, just waves the hand with his chopsticks around in a messy motion, looks at you critically over the rims of his glasses.
“He slicks it back now. It used to be… I donno. Messy? Fluffy? Good to run my fingers though.” He scoffs a little to himself, dissatisfied maybe with your excuse.
The only forgiving factor is that the photo does highlight the sharp cut of his jaw, which even Ryland concedes to. “He does have a good jawline...”
Yours is better, you want to say. Immediate and impulsive, because it kind of is. Especially when the shadow of his stubble stretches a few extra days between shaves. Your ex is clean shaven- you used to think that was sexy, at least sexier than the patchy beards boys in college had back then. Now you’re kind of obsessed with the so-called ‘5-o’clock shadow’ Ryland sports on Fridays.
It’s not something you’re likely to tell him though, especially not when you glance at the clock and realise you have a duty across campus in three minutes. Saved by the bell maybe, either way you’re able to liberate your phone from the pair of them and their conspiratory whispers, bin the scraps of your lunch and haul ass out of there.
By the end of the school day, you have reached the conclusion that you will blame it on work. That some mandatory day of ‘professional development’ as it is called nowadays, has come up and you will just have to miss the wedding, truly you’re devastated about it all.
Then Ryland corners you in your classroom. The bell’s long gone, as are the students. He’s dressed like he’s on his way out, his green backpack tossed over one shoulder and bike helmet hanging by the strap in one hand. You’re halfway through explaining your plan and the wording you’re going to use in the tragic text message to Daisy when he cuts you off.
“I’ll go with you.”
He’s a little breathless with it, like he’d been saving up all his oxygen to get the words out, leaving him in one big rush as they topple though the doorway of your classroom and splatter onto the linoleum floor between you both.
“I know that I’m not Margot’s husband with a ‘better jawline and better hair’ but we can go and eat nice wedding food- If he’s a lawyer it’s gotta be fancy, right? And we can make fun of his stupid slicked back hair together and you don’t have to be alone or make an excuse and feel guilty about it.” Ryland’s big speech is as flawed as it is heartwarming
Because he does have a better jawline and better hair. And Margot looks between you both during lunch hours and staff meetings like you’re her personal romance drama, there to occupy her during the day.
But the wedding food will be good, your ex will shill out for the best and Daisy has always had a taste for the finer things in life. Ryland is the best company you can think of to have by your side and he knows you well enough to understand how guilty lying about something makes you feel, how it churns your gut.
“Yeah. Okay.” You smile, something warm and fuzzy in your chest.
His eyes don’t move, maybe widen a little before he speaks again, still a little breathless. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
It isn’t a hard thought to come around to, taking Ryland to a wedding. As a date is something that goes unsaid between the pair of you, not sure whether it could be classed as such for real, or if this is simply a favour between friends-slash-coworkers. It is certainly a date for show, to the many college friends you’re about to reunite with after a few years, for your Ex, Jack who’s obsessed with his wife, for Daisy who you’d told years ago to ‘go for it, he’s a nice guy’ working under the assumption that she’d only last a few months by his side too.
You’re not sure which answer you’d prefer, honestly; a date or a favour.
He texts you a lot- after school, on the weekend- asking about what he should wear, what you’re going to wear, how he should prepare for this sort of thing. It’s sweet, cute in a way that has little butterflies flapping around in your stomach.
“Okay, I’ll show you. Wait, hold on.” You placate, setting your phone down on the bed, screen up.
“It’s a lovely ceiling fan, but I doubt it fits the dress code.” Ryland drawls, and you can hear the smile there.
“Ha ha.” You reply, a little echo-y as you lean into your closet to pull the dress out.
He’s up in arms about what to wear, says he needs to know what you’re wearing too so he can match. The invite’s dress code called for formal attire in ‘dark colours’. On the facebook page she’d made for the event, Daisy had a full post going into more detail, about how she’d love any and all dark tones- forestry green, navy, even burgundy was fine. You had taken a firm stance against burgundy considering there’s some old wedding traditions that state wearing red indicated you’d slept with the groom. Which you had, but you were not about to advertise that.
So navy it was.
You’d sent Ryland a picture of the invite, where it was stuck to your fridge with letter magnets spelling out ‘woe’- it had felt fitting when you’d stuck it up there- and several screenshots of the lengthy dress-code post Daisy had made that went into excruciating detail. He wasn’t satisfied though.
Even your attempts to describe the dress you’d bought didn’t work well enough.
“I mean it! you expect me to know what any of those words apart from ‘floor length' means?” he bemoans from your phone speakers, face time call crackling. “I need all the data.”
“Oh listen to you, Mr. Science,” You drawl with a smile, pulling the dress out. It’s too long to hang from a door knob so you have to stretch up on your tip toes to hang the coat hook over the curtain rod of your bedroom window.
“I was thinking of changing my name. Very to the point, don’t you think?” He replies, still smiling as you collect your phone. His eyes are sparkling with something cheeky when you appear back in frame.
Ryland’s dressed down, in one of those dumb science t-shirts he wears on ‘Casual Fridays’ as it is called in staff meetings. This one’s dark blue and has the periodic table on it in worn down white transfer ink. You’ve seen it enough to know the punch line sprawled over his lower stomach even though it’s not in frame. I wear this shirt periodically. He finds an extra layer in humor that the shirt is factually correct as well, that he does in fact, wear the shirt in regular intervals as he’d explained to you during a free-period on one of those casual Fridays.
He’s at his kitchen bench, phone propped up against something, while he taps away at his laptop. You’ve not actually been to Ryland’s apartment before, but it sorta feels like you have, the cramped studio always on display in the back of video calls like this one.
It’s just one long rectangle. Kitchen by the front door, a bench, a gap that is probably intended for a kitchen table but he’s stuck a desk there instead, his bed that’s almost always unmade with a tv wall mounted across from it, and a balcony. Like this, you can see the expanse of it behind him. The stacks of paper piled up on his desk, the extra monitors and little trinkets gifted from students, the sage green sheets of his bed, peeled back on one side, sun shining in through his big glass balcony doors. Honesty, you kind of want to see the view from his apartment in person, he’s a little higher up than you are, in a better part of the city too.
Ryland’s not brushed his hair, it’s all spiked up in different directions and you wonder if the mug he’s been sipping from, periodically, is his morning cup even though it’s just past ten. He’s blinking slow behind his glasses, sitting a little too still for his brain to be fully functional yet.
“I’m sure the kids will love it. Harder to spell on their assessment sheets, though.” You can imagine it, the staff badge, the name on his board in fun bubble writing where it would stay untouched for a whole school term.
You flip the camera, showing him the dress he’s been complaining about not understanding for the last half hour over text before he gave up and called you.
It’s cute, how his head tilts and he leans towards his phone for a second before just picking it up and holding it close enough so his eyes and forehead are just about all that is in frame. “Is that velvet?”
“It’s fake satin. I think.”
“Fake satin?” He repeats, confused.
The dress was one you already owned, bought a year or so ago for another friend’s wedding that you had attended alone but not felt crappy about, even if it did seem like everyone your age was getting married nowadays. It’s got a fitted bodice, but there fabric is a little drapey, looks like it pools over the chest and down towards the fluid skirt. "Wasn't expensive enough to be real satin.”
“Okay, I know what you mean by delicate straps now.” That had been his main hang up, whining about, What do you mean delicate straps? Like they’re about to break?, swearing that the shit he was googling was just not helping the mental image considering there were about six different results for everything.
“Yeah, and here, the lace up back.” You say, stepping up to twist the dress away from where it sat flush against the curtains to show the corset style back, with thin cord lace just a little thinner than the straps.
“Isn’t that going to be a nightmare to put on?” He asks, squinting still.
“There’s a zip.” You say, dragging the little hidden zipper down, showing him how the dress fabric parts and slips open. “So it’s fairly easy to get on. The cords are about as tight as they should be anyway, it isn't hard to pull to fit.”
You fumble a little trying to get the zip back up but eventually just conceded to leave out like that until you put the dress away. When you glance down at your phone, Ryland has moved, no longer sitting down and if you had to guess, is now walking the length of his apartment instead. He looks a little distressed.
“Come on, you’ve got the easy part.” You try, a little concerned he’s about to say he shouldn’t go. “You just have to put on a suit.”
“I can’t just ‘put on a suit’.” He whines, flopping down onto his bed like the world is ending. “I’m supposed to be like, your big ‘fuck you’ to the girl who got with your ex. I’m supposed to look good with you. I don’t know if I have a suit nice enough for that dress.”
“Ryland. It’s not about saying ‘fuck you’ to Daisy, or pulling some revenge stunt. I just didn’t want to go alone like a loser when I said I was bringing someone.” You can’t really help the little breathy laugh that weaves its way though his name, because he sounds like you did four days ago acting like the world was about to end, face down on the lunch table. “You don’t have to come.”
“No, I’m coming. I just need to go through my wardrobe.” He’s cute, you decide, in a round-about sort of way. The determination to play this self elected role well, to perfect it and give it his all, like he does with everything else in his life. The whole situation was elevating your ‘aesthetic appreciation’ of Ryland that you’d been attempting to suppress, to a new sort of level.
You flop down on your own bed, roll over on your side and let him derail the conversation towards lesson planning, listen to him talk about the plans he has for the next weeks worth of classes, a couple of activities he’s got in the works. All while you consider the pros and cons of having him beside you instead.
Ryland was probably the teacher you got on best with at work, despite being from two very different teaching areas. When he’d first arrived, you’d assumed he would be a little pretentious, with his Phd and professional experience beyond the classroom. You weren't expecting him to be so awkward. The children took to him so quickly, and Ryland had told you time and time again that he doesn't understand why they think he’s cool.
Over the years you’ve found that he can be cocky, in certain bouts of confidence seemingly appearing via divine-intervention. A local bar had run trivia nights for some six odd months, and it had unleashed a beast within him.
On Monday afternoon he sent you a photo. A little black bag with a logo you’d googled, realising it was a menswear store before the second photo had come though. A tie, sleek navy like your dress, rolled up neatly with a matching pocket square beside it, both nestled in a box that screamed expensive. You’d sent back a random string of praise, imagining him lulling it over in the store. It was nearly five in the afternoon, he’d left work pretty much on the final bell. You wonder how long he spent comparing the seemingly endless ties the shop’s online store offered, considering what would match best to your dress.
It makes you a little giddy, to be honest, has you dreaming of a situation where you’d asked him to come to the wedding, or where you’d already been together long enough that it was simply a given when the invitation turned up in your mail box.
Neither of you mention it during school hours, not keen on the kids hearing whispers of you and Ryland doing anything outside work hours- students will take anything and run with it.
But he messages you about it constantly. Makes a plan; he’d come to your apartment and you would uber from there to the venue, it was a sunset ceremony and evening reception. He lived close enough that it was a brisk walk or quick bus trip. He pointedly mentions that he would not be cycling- ‘In a suit? God, never’- and makes sure you know that the uber would also drop you both back to your flat and he’d walk home or take another separate uber.
There’s talk about your ‘backstory’, which he takes as seriously as he does exam periods. You tell him it’s not super necessary, that saying you met at work is more than enough exposition for the gaggle of college friends you’d not seen in years. But he was never one to do things in halves.
“We obviously would have met at school.” He says, like it’s a given. Ryland is laid out on the reading rug at the back of your classroom, staring at the ceiling. And the fake clouds that are actually just a hobby-fill glue gunned to paper and taped to the ceiling, he’d turned the fairy lights that are threaded though them on before he’d decided the floor was his resting place. “Maybe trivia is where it happened. We liked trivia.”
“We did like trivia.” You agree, pointedly.
It’s almost impossible to not just sit there and watch him, the student folders that you’re sorting worksheets into acting as a very inefficient distraction.
He’s got a button down on, some pale blue that looks nice under his grey wool blazer. The pale wash jeans and white converse are a bit more casual, but he wears the combination well. Too well. Laid out like this, with one knee up, he looks far too attractive for you to swallow. Glasses pulled down to hang off his jaw, sitting there catching the afternoon light as it came through the windows, casting rainbow refractions onto the back wall.
“Maybe trivia was a date. What would you have done?”
“If you’d asked me to trivia as a date?” You glance up. He’s already looking at you, head tipped to the side, something soft, tentative there in his eyes.
“Yeah.” You can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his chest rises with each breath.
Ryland sounds… nervous, in a way that does remind you of the first trivia night you’d gone to. He’d been dressed similarly there, you remember thinking he looked nice, polished up a little more than he did in the school day with dress shoes and what smelt like cologne. Handsome where he waited by the entrance, backlit by the bar’s warm lighting. He’d been a little twitchy for the first hour or so, but settled into himself by round two.
With the way he’s looking at you, now as he plans out the false scenario that’s beginning to sound a lot more like a confession, you’re starting to get the idea that trivia could have been a date. If either of you had put it into words.
“Enjoyed it, probably.”
“Really?” He looks shy, a bit of a flush working its way up his cheeks.
You smile at him, thinking about how nice it would have been to kiss him in that bar with a sweet cocktail on your lips, dizzy from his flattery about your trivia skills. You hum, nodding a little as you look at the folders and sheets spread out over your desk, feeling a flush rise to your own cheeks.
He knocks when you’re halfway through lacing up the back of your dress, holding the cords with one hand as you open the door. Ryland’s not been to your apartment before, something you’d failed to realise until he called you and asked during his walk over, if you’d have to buzz him in.
He was appalled to find out the front door to your building was sporting a broken lock and had been tied back with a length of rope for the last two months while the landlords procrastinated fixing it.
“See,” You say, opening the door for him, keeping it propped open with your foot as he shuffles in. “My door locks.”
“Still one less lock that you’re supposed to have.” he grumbles, stepping out of his very nice dress shoes. They look expensive- black leather shined up propper.
Actually, Ryland looks expensive.
“You look nice,” he says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit. It’s the only thought spinning around your head. It’s a proper one, tailor made no doubt. Blazer, slacks and undershirt, all three of them a deep inky black. The navy tie he’d sent you a photo of is done up around his neck in a knot neater than you’ve ever seen him wear to work. The pocket square is folded too, fluffed up with a little volume that suggests he did so intentionally.
Suddenly you’re reminded of all those times he’d complained about all the formal conferences and charity gala’s he’d attended during his days in academia. You realise you have made a grave error.
There have always been little parts about Ryland that oozed wealth, the glasses he wore for one, that he told you were antique when you’d asked. The watch on his wrist that you thought looked like some practical sporty thing but found out was actually worth three months rent when you’d googled it out of curiosity. These little things fall out of the spotlight and become footnotes that are often ignored when he’s in his classroom, or tiny apartment.
Dressed in such a nice suit, here in you apartment definitely wearing cologne- the same from that very first trivia night, something a little warm, woodsy like oaky bourbon, sharp and contrary to the fresh nothingness he smelt like at work- Ryland seemed so far beyond you.
“You look good.” You manage, letting the door slip shut and dropping the lace of your dress, it loses its tension a little but stays in the same spot for the most part, to run a hand over the lapel of his blazer. “How long have you had this?”
“Ages. Dug it out of the back of my closet. A little tighter than when I last wore it, but it will do the trick. Right?” He tacks that last bit on, like he’s waiting with baited breath for your approval.
“I’ll say.” You slide your hand down the lapel a little bit, down over the press of his chest. The tightness just shows the subtlety of his build, lean muscle that comes from idle exercise and good diet, maybe even a splash of genetics. He’s tidied his facial hair up a little, slid the electric razor over all of it to make sure it’s the same length, no doubt. Ryalnd’s still got his glasses on, you were a little worried he might have opted for contacts and are very relieved you get to see this outfit complete with the lenses that frame his face so well.
With a realisation you might be getting a little lost in your head, you drop your hand, turning to walk further into your apartment, towards the couch where your shoes for the night sat on the floor. “Right, we'll, I'm nearly ready. The uber will be here soon.”
“Do you need a hand?” Ryland asks, and you’re about to turn, ask him, ‘with what’ when you feel his fingertips against the small of your back. It sends a jolt though your skin, he’s cold. From the outside air, where as you’ve been nice and cosy with the heat on while you’d done your hair and make up.
Goosebumps rise under his hands as they gather the ties for the back of your dress. Something low swoops in your gut, like the dip of a roller coaster, free falling as he chuckles a little behind you. “Sorry, cold fingers.”
You swallow. “It’s.. it’s okay.”
“How tight?” He asks, giving the strings a gentle tug. You almost sway with the moment, feeling a little swept off your feet already.
“Bit tighter.” You manage, as he presses a flat palm against the small of your back, over the criss-crossing cord, and gathers both ties in one hand to pull slow and firm. It tugs you back into his hand, a steadier hold than you’d expected.
“There?” He questions when the dress is pulled in to sit flush with your skin but not dig in. You get the feeling he might have done some research, when he plucks at each string to even them out and make sure none of them are too tight, on how these dresses are supposed to sit.
“Yeah, perfect.” It leaves you like a sigh, as his palm dips, brushes where the zipper sits before pulling back to tie a neat bow, tugging the cords out carefully so both loops are even.
All of it has you lightheaded, directing more effort than necessary to get yourself to the couch and pull your heels on, black mary janes that are comfortable enough to walk in. As you fiddle with the buckles, you eye him.
Ryland’s hair is tousled, intentionally a little messy, not combed or slicked back. Looks like it would be nice to run your fingers though, and you find yourself wondering if that’s why he’d opted for the style, if he’s here, dressed up as the guy with ‘better hair and a better jawline’ that Margot had pitched, unaware that he already was exactly who he’s trying to be.
He holds an arm out for you to loop yours though, walking down the stairs in steady but slowed steps. You smile. “Wow, full gentleman experience.”
“I told you, I can't just ‘put on a suit’. It’s more than that.” He chides jokingly, and you pity the version of you that didn’t realise this was an option.
He opens the door for you- the car door, the door into the building door tied back by a rope (he glares at it when you pass it)- then rounds the back of the little toyota that’s polished up to try and seem fancier than it was. You don’t talk much on your way to the venue, comfortable silence that the driver thankfully settles into.
It’s nearing sundown when you pull into the driveway, a big circular road that’s already crammed with other cars and guests climbing out.
“You can just let us out here.” Ryland says to the uber driver, unbuckling his seatbelt to hop out, then rounding the car again to open your door, hand held out like it’s necessary, when the car is nowhere near low or high enough to warrant such assistance.
You place your palm in his anyway, letting him pull you from the car, no more temperature disparity in your hands since you’ve both been in the car for fifteen minutes, but it still makes your skin tingle. He’s got cufflinks, the same pale gold as his glasses, in the shape of atoms. You flick one lightly. “I like these.”
He smiles, something a little smothered like he’s trying to stamp it down from a grin as he threads his arm though yours again, beginning the small walk to the venue's front steps. “Well I like your dress, so I think we’re even.”
It’s a ballroom, with these big stained glass windows in the room they hold ceremonies in, you’d seen some lovely shots on the venue’s website of sunset light streaming through them. Imagining Ryland in the warm sunlight has you in a good mood, he’s always suited it, even if the city’s never had much to offer.
“Not too much for our first date?” You tease.
Something like a laugh tumbles out of his lips, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “First date was trivia- and you were underdressed. Keep up.”
You flush, crowding a little closer to his side to make it through the entryway without shoulder checking anyone. Had you been? It was so long ago you could hardly remember anything other than jeans, tight ones that dug into your waist when you sat down- tight jeans hardly felt like being underdressed, they probably meant you wanted him to stare at your ass. Either way you let him have the win, as minute as it is.
Doesn't really matter what you wore back then when you’ve got him like this now.
Together you sit about halfway down on the bride’s side, the pew’s nearly empty, only someone on the other end you don’t know but looks vaguely enough like Daisy, that's you’d guess extended family.
“So why’d you like this guy so much?” Ryland asks, quiet enough for it to just stay between the two of you. He’s glancing around, but his eyes keep bouncing back to Jack at the front of the venue, where he’s talking to gaggle of similarly dressed guys, his groomsmen.
“What?”
“Him,” Ryland says, tipping his head a little to gesture at Jack. “What had you talking about soulmates? Couldn't just be the hair, tons of guys have good hair.”
“They do.” You answer, raising a hand to tangle one of the longer stands where it’s dangling over his forehead around your pointer finger and give it a light tug. Ryland’s eyes settle on you, like there’s nothing else to look at. “He made me feel like the only girl in the world.”
“That’s a cliche.” He refutes. “And a song lyric.”
You smile. “I’m serious. He’s like that with every girl he went out with. He’s like it with Daisy. He just loses sight of every other woman, so attentive.”
Ryland stays silent for a moment, eyes searching for something in yours. Maybe permission, or a want, for him to keep digging, it’s almost as if he’s scared what he might find. “What'd he do? To make you feel like that?”
It’s cute, how nervous he is, despite the fact it feels as though all week, the pair of you have been laying this ground work, a path to follow that will lead you somewhere inevitable, like a trivia date, or the messy sprawled sage green sheets or Ryland’s bed. You smile at him, wondering if he’s thought about you in them. You wonder if he knows how easily you could be, that you might just follow him to the edge of the universe.
Still, you answer his question, offering a peek into your brain, the way you used to operate when teenage giddiness was closer than adult yearning. "Took me dancing. Kissed me slowly, cared about how I wanted things to go. It was like he just couldn’t stop looking at me, for me. It was intoxicating.”
“I can’t.” Ryland blurts out, all reckless abandon, and he’s looking at you like you’ve already kissed him breathless just by being here. You let your leg shift to press the length of your thigh against his, warm even through the layers of fabric.
You breathe in deep through your nose, the scent of his cologne sticking dizzyingly to the air, a scent you think is enough to get drunk on even without the assistance of wedding champagne. "Can't what?”
“Stop looking at you.” He clarifies, eyes darting down to your lips. “I can do the other things though.”
A flutter knocks about your chest, unsteady and uncoordinated. “Yeah, you like dancing Doctor Grace?”
“If it’s with you.” He amends.
“And slow kissing? You like that too?”
“Yeah I do.” He’s not even trying to hide it now, gaze settled on the dusty pink line of your lips, his own a little slick with spit when he darts his tongue out to trace one quick line along them.
You almost asked him to prove it, but in your peripherals, down the aisle and pausing at the sight of you, was Macey, another one of your college friends, smiling. So you place a hand on Ryland's thigh, just above his knee. “Good. Really good.”
Ryland looks dizzy with the praise, like it’s all rushed straight to his head.
“Hey Macey, good to see you.” You greet, using your hand on Ryland's knee to tip his legs towards you, making room for Macey to shuffle into the pew.
“Oh my god, good to see you too! It's been awhile, hasn’t it?” She leans down a little awkwardly to wrap you in a hug as you half stand, and it’s good to see someone after so long, to look at them and remember times when things were simpler and you were allowed to be a little stupid, a little dangerous. It’s nice to see her here, for her to sit next to you- Macey’s always encouraged you to be a little wild, and with the way Ryland’s been looking at you all night, you might need her ego-bosting tonight.
“I’m Macey, nice to meet you.” She extends a hand to Ryland over your lap and he shakes it curtly, offering his own introduction.
There’s a big rock on her finger, and you remember seeing it on an instagram post, some dreamy forest scenery with a ‘coming soon to a theatre near you’ caption under it.
“I suppose it will be your wedding next then,” You tease, “Where’s Jamie?”
“Oh she had a work trip, couldn't avoid it. She wanted to come though.” Macey waves off. Her and her fiance met on some film set, both camera operators, at the time, although you faintly recall reading something about Jamie’s name working its way up to director for some upcoming project, amongst the throws of social media posts from people who once knew everything about you and now you only see once every few years.
“So Ryland,” Macey starts with a glimmer in her eyes, something evil and mischievous that throws you back to seeing her in the living room with a bottle of tequila and monopoly board. “How’d you two meet?”
“We teach at the same school,” He grins, a hand sliding to your knee, just along the inside of it, where your dress fabric hangs low with slack, enough for his palm to press there, thumb drawing slow lines back and forth. “A little cliche but I don’t mind.”
Macey smiles, fans her face a little like that’s just soooo romantic. “What do you teach?”
“Science, opposites attract I guess.”
“Please tell me you used that line.” She practically swoons.
Ryland huffs a little laugh. “No, the kids threw that one at me actually.”
“Really?” You question, a raised eyebrow because that was not part of the backstory he’d been cooking up all week.
“Oh yeah. You should hear them. “Mr. Grace, you and Miss are ,like perfect for each other. You should ask her to the spring dance. They’re relentless, I swear.”
He pitches his voice a little, lazy tones and improper grammar leaking out in the way it did when he did impressions of your students and you can’t help but giggle a little.
“Their heads might explode when they find out.” Macey laughs too, then like a stroke of inspiration, slaps her hand against your arm a few times in pure, unrestrained excitement. “God- remember when we found out Professor Morisaki and Professor Collins were married? Holy shit it was like our heads exploded.”
You bark a laugh, muffling it under your hand considering the rather low level of idle chatter in the venue. “Oh my god, I forgot about that.”
“Professors of yours?” Ryland asks, this soft smile spread across his lips still.
“Yeah, we were doing a car-wash fundraiser! They were kissing in the background of one of our photos!” Macey still whispers gossip like she did in college, like your students do now.
Ryland looks a little red in the face when he asks. “A car wash fundraiser?”
Macey smirks, always too good at picking things up from others' words and you kind of want to stomp your heel over her toes to tell her off before you remember how this evening had been going so far. “Oh? Don’t you know? We were a little wild in college.”
You scoff. “A little?”
“Okay, a lot.” She corrects. “The car wash was an annual thing. White tshirts, bikinis. There’s definitely pictures. I have pictures.”
“Macey.” You scold, mostly joking.
She shrugs, straightens up and sits to face the fronts, pointedly not looking at you with a smirk on her face. “Hey- I’m just reminiscing on good times. Don’t you remember the kissing booth we ran? Of course you do you were the most requested-”
Now you stomp your foot onto hers, although she doesn’t do anything but laugh to herself.
Ryland is back to that dazed look, like he’s on some far off planet in his mind, when he murmurs, "Kissing booth?”
You glare at Macey, for a sharp moment. Before patting one hand on Ryland’s chest, leaning in close when you say, loud enough for Macey to hear. “Tell you about it later, handsome.”
He ducks his head a little close to you, a tiny little movement that stops as soon as it starts. His cheeks are the reddest you’d ever seen, looking a lot like he’s about to kiss you now, when there’s a music cue somewhere further up the aisle and a hush falls over everyone. He doesn't look away at first, eyes glued to yours for a long second before he bites his lower lip, to stop himself saying something and reaches a hand up to lace his fingers together with yours over his chest. He pulls it gently to his lap, smothering it in between his warm palms, fiddling with your fingers as the ceremony starts.
It’s beautiful, truly. The light lowered through the stained glass windows, reflecting and casting colour across the whole room, gentle music and teary vows. Picturesque really, and it reminded you of that time you’d all made ‘vision boards’ as a bonding activity, and Daisy had a little corner on hers that outlined the life she’d like to live, from a small sunset ceremony to the little white picket fence outside a cottage. You’re happy she’s finally arrived there, that she has a man who’s willing to give her everything she’d dreamed of.
You tell her as much, when you catch the pair of them in the reception hall. A warm hug for each of them and a firm hand shake between Jack and Ryland. It’s a lot less daunting than you had thought it would be, seeing them with the knot tied, no bad blood lingering or awkwardness about what once was. Just contentedness, with where your lives had led you each.
The food is good and the atmosphere is better, seeing people from a previous life chapter all reunited, laughing and catching up. The reception is held in a ball room, with gorgeous polished hard wood floors and lovely low lighting that hangs from the ceiling in delicate chandeliers. There’s a classical band, a memento board for people to take polaroids and write well wishes on them, a corner with photos from Both Daisy and Jack’s lives, in albums and tacked up on walls, showing where they meet and things bleed together into their future. All of it’s beautiful.
It’s heading into the later part of the night, when some people have excused themselves and cake has been cut, a hefty supply of the champagne depleted, that a nice slow song comes on.
You aren’t really paying that much attention to it, until you see Ryland shift beside you, rising and holding out one hand, palm up, towards you. “Care to dance?”
Something warm spreads over your face, a flush probably, as you lay a hand in his and he ever so gently pulls you to your feet, right in close to him. He leans down again, lips pressing feather-light to your temple before he leads you towards the dance floor.
It’s littered with other couples, celebrating the love they have for each other as well as the bride and groom.
All of it has you a little dizzy, settling a hand on Ryland’s shoulder as his palm slides around your waist, fingers slowing around the lace up back of your dress, pressing into your skin with gentle intent. He’s warm, firm against you, breath fanning across your cheek as you look up at him. “I know this isn’t the kind of dancing you meant, but it’s the best I can do for now.”
You humm, feet shifting in time with his, a slow waltz you weren’t even aware he knew. “I think I prefer this kind of dancing nowadays.”
Ryland’s lips tick up into a smile. “Yeah?”
He looks as good in the warm lamp light as he does in sunlight, kissing across his tanned skin and stubble, showing off the highlights of his hair. You want to run your hands through it, press a kiss to the scruff of his jaw. You settle on talking instead, worried he’s not one for such public displays of affection. “Left my wild nights behind in college.”
He sighs, like this is a devastating blow, hanging his head slightly, glasses slipping a smidge down his nose. “A shame. I was looking forwards to an appearance.”
You purse your lips, lifting the hand from his shoulder to cup his jaw, tilting his head back up a little, the pad of your thumb pressing his glasses back up to where they're supposed to sit. “Might do a private showing. Just for you.”
“You going to wash my car?” He asks, teasing. Eyes following the movement of your hand as it slips back down into place on his shoulder.
Your forehead falls, pressing against his collar bone as a furious blush blooms over your face, the worst it has been all night, murmuring, “You don’t have a car.”
He must have known what you were going to say, or some semblance of it because you certainly weren’t speaking loud enough for him to catch all of it, but he still sighs, a little dramatic. “Guess we’ll have to go with the kissing booth then.”
You lift your head a little, to look up at him where he’s smiling down, mirth dancing about in his eyes. “Oh, what a shame.”
The drawl has him crack a grin, cheeks flushed as he looks away. Fingers dancing slowly along the skin of your back, between the cords he’d tied up so perfectly for you.
For you, all of it. His nice suit he’d dug out from the back of his closet, the smart shoes nudging against yours with every step of the waltz. Ryland would do a lot for you, the realisation comes a little late, considering everything. You lean forwards a little, resting your cheek on his chest, as the song slows right down, indulgent.
“You got plans after this?” You ask, and it sounds so cheesy, so bland once it’s left your lips.
Still, when he answers, the smile is audible in Ryland’s voice. “Thought I was getting a private show. Is that offer off the table?”
“Think I can manage it,” You murmur, listening to the final few chords echo about the ball room, basking in the way his voice had rippled and rumbled through his chest, low against your cheek.
He lingers for a few seconds in the quiet, holding you close against his chest. You wonder if he, too, is basking in it. The closeness, the idea of having something that you’ve both been pretending couldn’t happen, wasn’t there in the air of exhaled breaths and weighted stares.
When he pulls back, there is nothing but adoration in his eyes, hand that holds yours falling low, but not releasing it, palm soft against your waist, almost as if he doesn't want to let you go just yet. “Wanna get out of here?”
“Bit forward, Ryland,” You tease, “we’ve not even taken photos yet.”
His eyes follow yours to the polaroid board in the corner, considers it for a moment before he’s pulling you gently by the grasp of his hand around yours, towards it.
The polaroid camera is a little hand held thing, there’s a stand for it, and poster board instructions on how to set a timer delay.
Ryland insists on taking one of just you, and while you’re grinning, trying to convince him to join you against the black fabric backdrop, the shutter goes off.
He rolls his eyes, but lets you drag him in beside you for the next photo. The timer is set, and just as you’re preparing to smile, something a little sweet and knowing, he gets one hand around the small of your back, knocks one of those very smart shoes against your heel and tilts you into a dip. It leaves you a little breathless, as he smiles, nose almost touching yours, shutter flashing off to the side.
He lets you choose which photo goes on the memo board. “Whichever one you don’t put up there, I’m keeping.”
You look a little silly in both, at least you think as much, caught off guard, and laughing a little out of breath. Ryland insists you look amazing in both. Something a bit selfish pulls at your gut, as you apprise both photos, and eventually, hand the one of you and Ryland to him- liking the idea of getting to see it again, of having a physical reminder of the night you two have spent together.
He grins like he’s won something, pulling his wallet out from his jacket pocket- a crisp brown leather that looks worn but well cared for- and to your mortification, tucks the photo into the clear slot. The one most people put their licences, or photos of loved ones, like heart-shaped lockets back in the old days. Ryland says nothing on the matter and he folds his wallet back up and slides it back into his pocket, waiting for you to write your message on the other polaroid’s back.
You scrawl some comment about happy endings and humble crazy beginnings, Signing your name on the bottom under the image of your laughter, and tack it up on the board next to the one Macey’s left.
Ryland’s got his arm out, hooked there for you to loop yours through again.
You manage to catch Daisy by the bar on your way out, and give her a tight hug, telling her again how beautiful the wedding has been, how happy you were for her.
The night air is crisp and the second you’re outside, waiting for the uber that’s just a few minutes away, Ryland strips off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a lack of hesitation that makes it seems as if he’s been waiting to do it all night.
You look at him and raise a brow, but don’t say anything when you catch sight of his pleased smile. It’s almost devastating to realise he looks even better in just the black button down and tie than he did in the full suit.
Again, the drive is mostly silent, but you notice pointedly, that you’re not going back to your apartment. And when you tilt Ryalnd’s phone and tap the screen awake, you recognise his street name in the trip’s destination.
“Presumptious.” You smile.
He grins back, lets a warm palm wander to the curve of your knee, fingers curling around it then venturing to settle a little higher around your thigh. “How are you going to wash my car if we don’t go to my place?”
“You don’t have a car.” You repeat, curious where all this teasing confidence has come from, if perhaps your very clear signals have finally given Ryland the means to throw out all of that unnecessary nervousness and doubt.
“Right,” He hisses, patting his other hand on his leg, as if to say ‘drat, there goes that plan’. Then he leans in close, whispers to you, “What was the back up plan again?”
“You are much bolder after a few glasses of champagne.”
He hums, a considering sort of sound that rumbles in the minimal air between you. “More so when I know I'm right.”
“And what, pray tell, are you right about?”
“That you like-like me.” He teases, like a child on the playground and if you were a little less level-headed, you might have kissed him right there, leant across the middle seat to lock lips with him in an uber.
But you don’t want the first time you kiss him to be viewed through a rear view mirror by a driver who looks very unimpressed by the conversation happening in the back seat. “You gonna prove that hypothesis in your apartment?”
“That’s very forwards of you.” He teases, head tipping down like he is going to kiss you.
Expect you turn your head, and his lips brush against your cheek, as you tut. “All scientists say experiments are supposed to be conducted in controlled environments.”
He leans back, still close enough for his warm breath to fan across your face. “You’ve been seeing other scientists? I’m heartbroken.”
“Give yourself some credit, your classes are very interesting.”
“Earsdropping, huh? Didn’t think you were the type.” He looks far too pleased by the idea that you’ve listened to him teach, like he doesn't know that when you come for something during class hours that you linger by the door and wait for him to finish whatever he’s saying, as if you could look at anything else when he was so captivating.
“I’ll Tell you exactly what type I am in,” You glance down to tap his phone awake, checking the ride estimate. “four minutes.”
He nods and you wonder if he’d get that head-rush distant expression on his face if you praised him for the patience. It’s something you want to save for later, you decide, for private. Just for you.
Ryland manages to wait, even keep his hands to himself, once you’re both out of the car, leading you though his building with a sort of reverent silence, that you get the impression wouldn’t return once broken. You stand across from each other in the elevator. With both his hands braced on the bar at hip height, Ryland fixes you with a look that echoes in the space, though the mirrors surrounding you and over the idle hum of machinery. You’re still wearing his jacket, over your shoulders, a slight barrier between the handrail and the curve of your back, as you stand with your arms crossed smiling at him.
The giddiness that bubbles up and about inside you, as you huddle in close behind him through the hallway, as he unlocks his door and lets you squeeze in past him, is something you’ve not felt in a long time. There’s not much room for childish excitement in the modern dating landscape, it feels as though everyone is in a rush, trying to get where they want to be with a relationship before it’s too late.
Ryland though, he’s here. You watch him latch the door, before he turns, standing there to let his eyes run up you again.
“Soooo,” He says, pursing his lips and tangling his hands together in front of him, like he’s suddenly nervous.
“So?” You ask, taking a few steps forwards to run your hand down the plane of his chest again, feeling it under your palm just like you did when he’d turned up at your apartment that afternoon.
“It’s been four minutes.” He swallows, and this close you can see how his adams apple bobs. Your other hand reaches up to scratch feather light against the stubble of his jaw, hand on his chest catching on the silky soft fabric of his tie, the one he’d picked out just for you.
Rylands hands are slow, one moves to the dip of your waist, landing where it had during your waltz, if not a little more firm as it presses you close against him. He catches his jacket by the collar, lets it slide back off your shoulders and hang from his grip as it slides to settle on the curve of your hip.
“It has.” You lick your lips.
Tuggin on his tie was not supposed to be a demanding thing, more so a gentle tease like you have been doing all night, stepping around that first move like it was a pitfall trap you’d never make it out of. Expect he pitches forwards much easier than you expected and Ryland's lips are pressed against yours.
Soft and still a little honeyed by the champagne, he moves slowly against you. He takes one step back, then another, pulling you with him and not letting his lips leave yours as he backs himself up against his apartment door.
Your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and a sharp inhale escapes him, almost a gasp, before he melts into the wood at his back, parting his lips and slipping his tongue up against yours.
It’s slow kissing, it’s dizzying and it’s want. Everything he’d promised you hours ago, in the afternoon sun of that venue, looking like a dream come true.
For what could be hours, you stay there, pressed up against him, kissing at his skin, until he shifts his legs, just slightly, enough to press one somewhere between yours, a soft presence halted by the fabric of your dress.
Breathless, you break the kiss and he lays a sweet peck against your temple, an echo of earlier, before he begins to nose at the line of your jaw, your neck. Kissing then sucking at the divot along your collar while you pant. “Ryland,”
He says your name, just as breathless against your skin, his hand dropping the jacket to pull at the chord of your dress.
“Is your doorway where you take all the girls?”
“There are no other girls.” He murmurs like a confession, far more earnest than you’d been prepared for.
“Just me?”
He pulls back, pupils blow wide and face flushed blotchy and red. “Yeah.”
Ryland leans forwards, crowds impossibly close until your feet begin to shuffle, back, back, back into his studio apartment. It passes in a blur as he presses in to kiss your lips again, glued to them until he deems it’s been enough backwards paces and presses another kiss to your jaw. Using his grip on your sides, Ryland turns you around, folds in around behind you.
His bed’s unmade, messy sheets splayed out in front of you, a pile of sage green cotton that feels like a promise, a sight you’ve dreamed about far too many times.
There’s pressure there, against your ass, a hard length that’s tight against his slacks and it makes your stomach swoop to know he’s so turned on by the slow kissing you’d been thinking about all night. His shuddering breath rushes like wind by your ear, as his fingers pull at the bow he’d tied himself. “Been thinking about this for too long.”
“Yeah?” You shudder when his lips find their place against your neck, sucking and biting at the skin there in a way that will probably result in a lasting reminder. “Since you laced it up?”
“Since you showed me this zipper." He pulls at it and the fabric gives, parting to sit low on your hips. Ryland kisses at the juncture of your throat, biting, and nipping.
The dress doesn’t fall, not with the straps still hanging loosely from your shoulders, but it’s a damn near thing. One of Ryland’s hands winds around your waist, dragging you back against him as he presses up with one slow grind that has him choking on a groan. His cock, still trapped in his slacks, drags between the zip and against your underwear in a tease that’s maddening with far too much still left to your imagination.
You try to turn but he’s got you wrapped up so firmly in his arms that it’s not plausible, so instead you reach a hand back, over your shoulder to tug at the knot of his tie, fingers slipping against the silky marital, catching in the bulk to it to tug. A particularly hard tug has him whining.
“Okay,” You huff out as he sucks a little harder just under your jaw that will definitely result in a hickey if you let him continue for much longer. “Come on, don’t you wanna fuck me?”
You punctuate this by groping around between you both until you get a hand over his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Need to remember this bit.” He mumbles, hand around your waist retreating to slip inside your dress from behind, curving back around so his fingers can skate over the soft skin of your stomach, tips slipping just under the waistband of your panties.
It has you clenching down on nothing and you become actually aware of how uncomfortably wet you’re beginning to get. You squeeze your thighs together, squirming in his grasp.
“Next time, Ry-” He splays his hand over your stomach, using it to press you back into him. “Ryland, come on. Need you.”
It tumbles out in a breathy whine, and it’s like you’ve said the magic words. He’s turning you around in his grasp, hands reaching up to slip the straps off your shoulders and marvel at the sight.
He swallows as you reach for his tie again, loosening it gently now you can get your fingers into the knot properly. Ryland’s hands hover nervously before settling against your rib cage, fingers brushing anxiously against the underside of your breasts.
Your dress was not one that lent itself to a bra, so you’d gone without. You had assumed that he’d figured that one out, given how he’d both laced and un-laced the back of it, but now that it’s out of the way, he’s looking at your chest like he hadn’t expected to see it so quickly.
“You mean it?” He manages, sounding all tongue tied as you pry the tie off, letting it fall onto the floor, blending into the puddle of your dress- a perfect shade match. “I.. I get a next time?”
“Yeah.” You breathe, working on his shirt buttons, one after the other, coming apart as easily as Ryland did under your gaze. “As many as you want.”
When you get to the bottom of his shirt and reach for the belt buckle, Ryland’s hands move from where they’ve been gently nudging your breasts, to your wrists, snagging them gently as he pulls them back. His shoes nudged against yours, another one of those silent signals to step back that you didn’t know you understood so well until tonight.
“Let me.” He says, one hand coming to your hip to push you gently back and down onto his bed.
You land softly, mattress springing underneath you as you shuffle back, leaning on your elbows to gaze up at him as he toes off his shoes and pulls off his socks, a little off balance like the whole path from the door has altered his centre of gravity.
Ryland is a sight, heaven-sent.
His hair’s spiked out in six different directions, and you want to scratch at his scalp and pull at the strands all over again. He slides his glasses down his nose and sets them on the nightstand. The skin of his chest is just as tanned as his arms, a wide expanse that’s begging to be marked up with your teeth and nails.
The belt buckle clinks softly in the empty air as he slips it open, unbuttoning his slacks before he shrugs the black dress shirt off. God, you want to bite his shoulders.
Your teeth clamp down on your tongue at the thought, kind of wishing the tie was in the picture so you could pull him down on top of you. Just when you’re about to reach up, aiming for his shoulder or maybe even his cheek, Ryland surprises you by taking a knee.
His fingers are a little clumsy as they wrap around the heel of your left shoe, pulling it up onto his bent knee as he fumbles with the buckle. He’s gentle with it, more careful than he was with his own shoes that are certainly worth more than your cheap pair, right shoe, then the left.
Still, it has your stomach tied up in knots to witness with just how much reverence he’s treating you. And the sight of Ryland between your legs is certainly one you could get used to.
He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before blinking up at you. “Are you… Can I-”
Ryland cuts himself off and that same unwarranted nervousness from before takes over his face, fingers curling tightly around your ankle, as if to ground himself. You smile at him, something that feels a little too giddy and a little too much like your 20 year-old self from college, fumbling and laughing your way to bed. “What is it Ry? You’ve already got me on your bed, no need to be shy.”
He bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth as he considers the words. “If you say so.”
Then he gently leads your leg, by the ankle that’s still gripped tightly in his palm, off his propped leg as he drops it to kneel, and hooks it over his shoulder. Ryland kisses a path up your calf and along the inside of your leg and with an overwhelming flood of realisation, you fall back against the bed, bracing for the moment where he presses a soft kiss on your clit, through the fabric of your underwear.
Despite his earlier hesitance, Ryland does not dilly-dally. Once he hears your shuddering breath that sounds more like a moan than anything else, he hooks a thumb though the crotch of your panties, pulls them to the side and presses another slow kiss against you.
It’s maddening, has you gasping out his name as he licks a stripe up your cunt, sighing into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He’s been teasing you long enough that when he presses two fingers along your folds, teasing the resistance of it, they sink in easily. He hooks them up, pressing up against the spongy wall and pulls another moan from your lips.
You're not sure how long Ryland spends between your legs with your hands in his hair and name on your lips, but it’s got you dizzy, clenching around his fingers as he strokes them inside you, languid and slow as he lays gentle kisses over your clit. His stubble scratches against your thighs in a way you’d expected to hate, but are getting rather fond of.
It’s a slow build that crests with you moaning his name and clenching around his fingers as his tongue slows, your hips twitching a little with overstimulation post-orgasm. He moves his kisses to the inside of your thigh, the one not hooked over his shoulder as you catch your breath and it’s highly plausible that he’s leaving another hickey there.
When he does pull back, Ryland is just as breathless as you. Cheeks flushed and chest stuttering as he licked his lips clean. His pupils are blown wide, so much so you can hardly see the blue as he gazes up at you. “You said I could fuck you, right?”
“Yeah,” you swallow, throat scratchy and dry. “You can.”
With your head still spinning from the attention and care he’s taking with you, it’s a moment before you realise his hands are back at your hips as he shuffles you around the bed, up until he can fit his palm behind your head and lift it onto a pillow that smells like him.
Ryland’s above you, propped up on one elbow and a knee to keep his weight off your body. You can feel each heavy exhale on your cheek. “Like this?”
“Just like this.” You say, nodding hand reaching up for his cheek to pull him down into another slow, languid kiss.
He leans in close, whining against your mouth as you part your legs for him to set his between and get a hand on the small of his back, pressing until he gets the hint and grinds downs. It has you both moaning and panting against each other.
You’re getting impatient, and while he must have ditched the pants somewhere between eating you out and repositioning you right side up on the mattress, he’s still got his briefs on and you’re still wearing your underwear.
“Off,” You grunt, hand pulling at the waistband of his briefs.
Ryland’s head drops to the space beside yours, just above your shoulder as he reaches a hand down to pull his underwear down over his cock and down his legs, kicking them off somewhere at the end of the bed.
He gasps, a shaky exhale hitting your skin as you wrap your hand around the length of him.
Warm and heavy in your palm, he’s bigger than you’d expected. When you slide your hand up, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, there’s so much precum that it pools on your thumb pad. You give him a slow pump, slide eased by the wetness.
Ryland mouths at the skin of your shoulder, and the hand he’s not using to keep himself above you finds its way to your hip, slipping under your panties, pulling at them.
“Condoms. I need-” He cuts himself off with another groan, biting into your skin then kissing it softly like an apology. “I need a condom.”
His hand slips out from your underwear and he gets his knees up either side of your hips to reach over, straining for the nightstand. You take the moment to kiss along his collarbone, using the hand that’s not wrapped around him to tug your panties down, wriggling them off and down your legs.
It doesn’t go unnoticed, and he drops the condom wrapper somewhere beside your head as his gaze whips back to your face. “I was going to do that.”
He sounds a little bit thrown, like he’d really been looking forwards to pulling your panties off.
“You were also going to fuck me.” You prod, giving his cock another languid stroke, watching his face contort with pleasure as he groans. He eases himself back over you, legs between yours and his weight pressing down in a way that has you sighing in contentment.
“Not fair.” He pants, forehead dropping against yours. A hand, so gentle and far too tender comes up to brush the hair by your temple, away from your eyes. “Next time, you let me take my time, okay?”
You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We’ll take turns.”
The condom wrapper crinkles in your fingers and you pinch the edge of it between your teeth and rip the corner off, splitting it open with your thumb. Ryland whines, louder and needier than you’d heard him all night, when you roll it over his dick, hips bucking into your hand and cock bumping against your stomach.
He gets his hand down between your bodies, runs three of his fingers through your folds, making your breath hitch. Then he nudges your hand out of the way and runs his cock though them next. You whine, high pitched and stuttered.
It’s a slow steady push when he slips inside you, one that draws out a long moan from your lips. Ryland moans your name, panting and kissing at your throat.
“God,” he pants. “You feel so good, baby.”
A broken whine sneaks past your lips, one hand reaching up to slide around the back of his neck, to lead his face back to yours so you can kiss him all over again.
This type of slow kissing might have been your new favorite, Ryland’s tongue teasing the seam of your lips before you slip them apart, tracing the line of his teeth with your own tongue. He rolls his hips, grinding down in a slow motion. The curve of his cock drags along your walls, along that spongy spot before bumping so deep inside that it must hit your cervix.
You hook a leg up around his waist and it has his stomach pressing up against your clit when he moves again. Moaning into his mouth, you see stars. “Fuck, that’s perfect- so good.”
Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling in a way that earns you a whine and a jerky thrust of his hips. “Y-yeah?”
“Yeah Ry- perfect. Feel so full.” The praise kicks him into gear and his slow occasional grinds turn into a building pace, hips pushing against yours and he buries himself to the hilt with every thrust.
You kiss at the line of his jaw, mouthing and biting at the stubble there. He moans, sharp exhale hitting your cheek. “‘M not gonna last much longer, sw-swetheart.”
“S’okay. Let go, baby.” You murmur by his ear, free hand slipping down to press against your clit.
The pressure alone is almost enough to tip you over the edge, pussy spasming around him. Ryland groans, loud and unrestrained, his rhythm falling apart as you do.
When he does come, he manages a couple more thrusts, shallow as they nudge up against that perfect spot inside you. Ryland whines, shaking a little with over stimulation.
“Couple more.” You moan, fingers winding tight little circles over your clit. “Almost there.”
Your spine goes stiff and a drawn-out whine slips out as you cum, clenching around the weight of him. Ryland stills inside, buried deep as he pants.
Slowly, he eases himself down over you, the gentle pressure of his weight relaxing. Ryland only takes a few moments there though, before sliding an arm under you and around your waist, slowly rolling you both, so he’s sprawled out with his back on those sage green sheets with you draped over him.
He kisses your temple, mumbling your name like a prayer. “‘S a good kissing booth. Might be a repeat customer.”
You push up a little to look at him, hands either side of his chest, and a hitched breath sputters out of his lips as you shift, his cock still inside you. “Might? What happened to ‘next time’?”
He smiles at you, hands reaching for your hips as he draws slow lines up and down your skin with his thumbs. “Well, I don’t wanna push my luck.”
“You’re not pushing anything.” You murmur, leaning back down to kiss him proper.
Once the aftershocks of your orgasm have faded and the idea of being empty no longer pulls painfully at your chest, you raise your hips up and let Ryland’s now soft cock slip out. He exhales heavily, and you lay beside him, eyes on the slow spinning ceiling fan.
He sits himself up not long after, slips the condom off and wanders off to the tiny door that you now know is his bathroom. He comes back with a damp cloth, smiling at you shyly as he cleans you up, gentle swipes over your core and along the inside of your thighs.
Ryland walks over and pulls some boxers on, then returns to the bed to slide a pair over your hips too. “You want a shirt?”
You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to smother a grin. “Only if it’s one of your nerdy ones.”
He kisses the smile off your lips and wanders back over to his wardrobe, throws a shirt in your general direction then goes about fixing the sheets.
You admire the sight. It had never occurred to you how nice his arms were, you want them around you again. He pulls the sheets straight, then up over you before he crawls in beside you.
“This okay?” He asks, pulling you over to lay up against him.
“More than okay.” You snuggle closer, cheek pressed against the warm plane of his chest. “Been thinking about this.”
The confession slips out in a rush of endorphins, like you’re so happy to be wrapped up in his arms and sheets, smelling like him, that you just can’t help but let him know.
You can hear the confusion in his voice when he speaks. “Having sex with me?”
No. You almost say, even though you had. It wasn’t where you were trying to go with this though. “Sleeping in your bed. With you.”
The rise and fall of his chest, of a heavy exhale, moves beneath you. “Oh.”
“I think our next date should be trivia.” You declare, a quiet sort of smile on your lips as his fingers trace slow little circles on your back between the waistband of your borrowed boxers and the ridden up hem of the shirt. “So we can get it right this time.”
“Deal.”
[ Masterlist ]
baby's first Goose fic? more proabaly on the way, although next fic published will proabaly be an oc one, with either Ryland Grace or Holland March from the nice guys.
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