jo-is-writing

[jo-is-writing]

Masterlist

Ryland Grace:

Balanced Forces

Being a kindergarten teacher comes with its fair share of spontaneity, something you've grown accustomed to. What you didn't expect? Falling for a certain Dr. Grace.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

[jo-is-writing]

Balanced Forces - Chapter 7

Chapter 6 -> Masterlist

Ryland Grace x f!Reader

Word Count: 5,998 (oops!)

A/N: so this is this most i've ever struggled writing something and i've gotten to the point with this chapter where i just have to post it so i stop overthinking. THANK YOU FOR WAITINGGGGG!!

Being a kindergarten teacher comes with its fair share of spontaneity, something you've grown accustomed to. What you didn't expect? Falling for a certain Dr. Grace.

Ryland doesn’t even wait a day before texting you.

Friday, 9:32 P.M.

Ryland: Hi

Ryland: This is Ryland

Your stomach flips as his name lights up your phone, and the term “butterflies” suddenly feels far too cute to fully encompass what you’re feeling right now. Like your insides are turning in on themselves, like your knees might buckle if he says another word. 

Like you have the worst crush of your life at 28 years old.

Ryland: Grace.

Ryland: In case that wasn’t clear.

Y/N: Believe it or not, I only know one Ryland.

Ryland: Right.

Ryland: Sorry

Y/N: Ryland

Ryland: Yes?

Y/N: Stop apologizing.

Ryland: Working on it.

Saturday, 6:55 A.M.

Your phone, which you’d fallen asleep holding last night, vibrates suddenly, startling you awake. You sit up with a disgruntled sound, squinting down at the annoyingly bright screen.

Ryland: Question

Suddenly, you don’t mind being woken up at all.

Y/N: I have a better one, why are you awake?

Ryland: Did I wake you up?

Ryland: I’m sorry

You can’t bring yourself to tell him.

Y/N: Shush, I’m messing with you. What’s the question?

Ryland: Are you sure?

You huff out a soft laugh, rolling your eyes.

Y/N: RYLAND

Ryland: Fine, fine. Are we wearing costumes?

Y/N: One second.

You force yourself out of bed, yawning as you make your way to your closet. There’s the costume you wore yesterday, of course, and…

Y/N: I only have Snoopy and a slutty sailor from college.

Ryland’s typing bubble pops up. Disappears. Pops up again. Disappears again. You smile down at your phone, watching in equal parts amusement and sympathy as he short circuits. Poor guy. 

Ryland: It might be a little cold for that.

Ever the gentleman. He just keeps getting better.

Y/N: Probably. I’ll see if I can throw something together.

Y/N: Where are we going, anyway?

Ryland: Surprise.

A surprise? That sounds like a date. Or maybe it doesn’t and you just want it to. You sigh, tilting your head back up at the ceiling when your phone pings again. 

Ryland: Unless you had something in mind. Sorry. I didn’t even ask.

Y/N: Third apology since last night, by the way.

Ryland: You’re keeping count?

Y/N: 100%

Y/N: And no, I don’t have anything in mind. 

You hesitate for a moment before typing

I’m sure whatever you have planned is fine.

Fine? God, you’re horrible at this. You smash your thumb against the delete button four times.

I’m sure whatever you have planned is good.

That’s…better. You think. Maybe not. Now that you read it again, it sounds a bit clinical.

I’m sure whatever you have planned is…

Is…

I’m sure whatever you have planned is perfect.

You sigh, catching a glimpse of yourself in a nearby mirror and glaring. A bumbling idiot stares back at you. With one final huff you press send, before promptly throwing your phone face down on your bed. 

What if that was too flirtatious? Perfect? Perfect? What were you thinking? Might as well propose alrea-

Your phone chimes, and you almost trip over your own feet to grab it. 

Ryland: I appreciate your confidence.

Your jaw drops in utter mortification. You were right. That was too bold. Way too bold.

Ryland: In me.

Ryland: I mean.

Ryland: That came out wrong.

Ryland: I’m really not great at texting.

Oh, thank God.

Y/N: Me neither.

Ryland: Good. 

Ryland: Do you want to meet at 11?

Ryland: A.M.

You snort, shaking your head. 

Y/N: I figured.

Y/N: And yes, 11’s good.

You check the time. 7:04. Three hours is, realistically speaking, more than enough time to get ready. In fact, it would be utterly and completely ridiculous to take longer than two, especially considering that this isn’t a date. 

Well, you think, technically he hasn’t said it’s not one-

“Stop it.” You snap, your words hitting nothing but the empty air surrounding you. 

Great. You’ve begun talking to yourself. You suppose it’s the kind of behavior that might come off charming in a romantic comedy, and the thought brings you a momentary sense of comfort before you remember that this is very much real, and your stupid crush comes with no promise of a happy ending.

With a groan you make your way to the bathroom, and by the time you get out of the shower, Ryland’s sent you an address. 24th Street in Noe Valley. You furrow your brows, wondering what he could possibly have planned. You’ve been there before, sure, but it’s just a bunch of overpriced boutiques, which seems lightyears away from his kind of thing.

Y/N: Permission to look up events there today?

Ryland: Nope.

Ryland: If you spoil it I make new plans.

Ryland: Which will kind of derail the whole day because this was my only idea.

Ryland: Please don’t.

You sigh, mercy winning out over curiosity as you type out, “Fineee.”

Ugh, gross.

You send it anyway.

The moment your message goes through you turn your phone off, throwing it on your bed and vowing not to touch it again until you’re ready to leave, a promise you’ll almost certainly break the moment you hear it-

BZZT

And suddenly it’s back in your hand again. Funny how that happens.

Ryland: Your patience is very much appreciated.

You blush, fighting a giddy smile and putting your phone back down. 7:40. The clock’s ticking, and you take far too long to think of even mildly witty responses to keep texting at this rate. You direct your attention to your closet instead, racking your brain to think of a costume. Ryland will go subtle, you’re sure; he doesn’t seem the type to willingly draw attention to himself. You run your fingers over the edges of your clothes, movements faltering atop a red cardigan. It was years ago, at this point, but you distinctly remember dressing up as a ladybug one year, later on in your student teaching. If you could just find the antennas…

You pull out the sweater and a tank top to go underneath, black with white polka dots. Will you be cold? Absolutely. Will you look significantly better than yesterday? Definitely.

You decide it’s a fair trade off.

Slipping into your clothes, you rummage around the dusty corners of your closet blindly, fingers brushing against what you really hope aren’t cobwebs. 

“Come on.” You mutter. Your calves are beginning to burn from the strain of standing on your tip toes, and you’re about two seconds away from calling it quits when you feel something distinctly similar to pipe cleaners. You grasp on immediately, letting out a noise of triumph as you pull the headband out. It’s dusty and a little worse for wear, but nothing unsalvageable. You sneeze once, then twice, groan in annoyance and let out a third before making your way to the bathroom. You brush them off on your jeans before sliding them atop your head. Two curly black antennas stick up from the crown of your head, and you can’t help but snort softly as they wiggle with your every movement.

You check the time again. 8 o’clock on the dot, which means you have at least an hour for both hair and makeup. You might even have time left over to eat, but you're not sure the nerves settled in the pit of your stomach will allow for it. Quickly, you grab your curling iron, plugging it in and drumming your fingers against the counter impatiently as you wait for the metal to warm up.

This isn’t a date, you remind yourself. No need to get so worked up over it. 

No need to curl your hair, either, but you choose not to dwell on that one. 

The next two hours pass all too quickly, and by the end of it, you’re left with–fairly decenently–curled hair, a minor burn on the side of your neck that you really hope he doesn’t mistake for a hickey, red painted lips that you second guessed for ten minutes before finally saying screw it (Is red too bold for a date-not-date?), and a pit in your stomach that won’t dissipate no matter how hard you will it to. You check your phone.

10:05.

Fuck.

Your stomach lurches and you dash to your living room, sparing one last glance at a nearby mirror.

“Okay, okay.” You mutter, mussing your hair with slightly shaking hands.

Not a date.

Not a date.

Your phone pings.

Ryland: Leaving soon?

Ryland: No pressure, just wondering.

Ryland: :)

The smiley face makes you snort, and you can feel a bit of the tension leave your shoulders. 

Cute.

Y/N: Right now

Y/N: :)

________________________________________________________________

By the time you finish parking, you’ve–mostly–pieced together why you’re here. It seems there’s a little street fair going on, something that comes off remarkably quaint for being in the middle of San Francisco. White tented booths line the street, offering various snacks and trinkets, and you can make out Monster Mash playing from a nearby speaker. You stop behind a booth selling what looks to be store bought brownies with some added decor and a much heftier price tag.

Y/N: A street fair? Very cute.

Ryland: I figured you might think so.

Your stomach flips at the idea of him thinking about you at all.

Ryland: Where are you?

Y/N: Overpriced brownie lady.

Ryland: I’m afraid there’s quite a few of those.

You round the booth, peeking at the banner atop it and offering an awkward smile to the owner.

Y/N: Mrs. Patty’s Pumpkin Patch Bakery

Ryland: Seems like a bit of a mouthful.

Y/N: She should’ve named it Carl.

Y/N: Or Bill.

Ryland: Are you making fun of our printers?

Your heartrate turns suddenly fluttery at the word our, and you have to swallow down a giddy smile before replying,

Y/N: I would never.

Ryland: Good. They’d be devastated.

Y/N: Where are you? Patty’s staring at me.

Ryland: Turn around.

Your eyes go wide at his message, and you allow yourself one last deep breath before collecting yourself and turning to face Ryland. He’s standing a few feet away, balancing two to-go cups in one hand and his phone in the other, with that slightly nervous grin on his face that you’ve come to adore. His glasses are well along in the process of sliding off his nose, and a bit of blonde hair has fallen to rest atop his forehead.

Gorgeous. 

He’s absolutely gorgeous.

“Hey.” You jog forward a little breathlessly, rushing to help him with the cups. Your fingers brush in the process, and you’re struck by how warm his are despite the weather.

“Thanks.” He murmurs, the tips of his ears turning a shade of red that has nothing to do with the cold. “It’s apple cider.” He raises a hand to fix his hair, and you find yourself wishing he wouldn’t. You thank him, eagerly wrapping your chilled fingers around the cup. 

His eyes dart upward, right above your head, and you quickly realize what he’s staring at. Your cheeks burn and you duck your head down, cursing the way the antennae wobble with the motion. 

“They’re stupid, aren’t they? Oh, Go-”

Ryland interrupts you with a soft laugh, “I was actually going to say that I like them.” His face flushes the moment the words come out, and he looks down shyly. Your eyes mimic the movement, taking in his clothes. Light wash, baby blue jeans, and a knit sweater in the same color. A small Earth pin is stuck to his sweater, but that doesn’t seem particularly out of the ordinary for him. You furrow your brows.

“I thought we were dressing up?”

He looks up, and the confusion on his face mirrors your own.

“I am?”

You laugh softly. “You’re wearing a sweater.”

“A pale blue sweater. And pale blue jeans.” He puts special emphasis on the color, as if that’s supposed to mean something to you.

“Um…yeah? It’s a pretty common color.” You tilt your head, brows knitted upwards.

Ryland’s shoulders slump in disappointment. “I’m the pale blue dot!”

You roll your lips together, trying to hide the amusement–and complete lack of recognition–on your face. He sighs, tilting his head back in faux exasperation, all while a smile still tugs at his lips.  

“It…okay, the term was coined in 1990. NASA took a picture about…” He pauses to think, “Six billion kilometers away from Earth, if I remember right, and Earth appeared as this tiny blue speck. You could barely even make it out. So they called it the Pale Blue Dot. Then in 1994…” He trails off, hands frozen midair as he pauses his explanation. 

“I’m boring you, aren’t I?”

You smile softly, shaking your head and wondering how the painfully adoring smile on your face could’ve possibly given him that impression. “Not at all. What happened in 1994?” You urge him to walk with a light touch to his elbow, one that makes his cheeks tinge pink.

“Um-” He clears his throat, eyes darting down to where your hand grazes his arm. You pull away, and you swear, there’s a flash of disappointment in his gaze. He meets your eyes for a moment before immediately looking away and sucking in a sharp breath. “Right. So…what was I saying?”

You laugh softly, looking down at your shoes. “Not a clue. Pale Blue Dot?”

“Right,” He repeats, raising a hand to scratch at the back of his neck. “In 1994 Carl Sagan wrote a book about the connection between humanity and space exploration, and he titled it Pale Blue Dot.”

“Have you read it?” You ask, almost subconsciously drifting closer to Ryland’s side until your shoulders brush, just barely. 

He lets out a quiet laugh, shooting you a shy sidelong glance and nodding. “Twice, actually.”

“Of course you did.” You murmur. Your voice is laced with something dangerously close to affection, whispers of it echoing off the edges of every word. 

“Predictable, I know.” He kicks a nearby leaf as he replies, and it makes a soft scratching sound against the road beneath your feet. You nudge his shoulder ever so slightly, 

“There’s nothing wrong with predictable.” You gaze up at him as you reply, and the thought briefly enters your mind that you’re bound to trip soon if you don’t look where you’re walking.

The corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile, and you decide that you’ll manage.

He stares for a moment longer before clearing his throat and looking away, his eyes darting from trees to booths, his own shoes and back again. Anywhere but you. 

“So,” he begins, fiddling with the lid of his cup. “Ladybugs.”

You smile, rolling your lips together to hide your amusement. He’s…not exactly smooth. 

Not that you mind. Quite the opposite, actually.

“Last I checked, there’s just the one.” You say, gesturing to yourself. Ryland laughs, nodding and taking a nervous sip of his apple cider.

“Right, that…” He clears his throat. “Yeah. It suits you.”

“Antenae?” You ask, earning a snort from Ryland.

“I was referring more to the whole…get up, but sure.”

“Ladybug costumes suit me?” You ask, voice strained by barely contained amusement. Ryland sighs, running one sheepish hand through his hair. 

“I-“ He huffs, “I don’t know. You look nice. That’s all I meant.” 

That gives you pause. 

Ryland Grace thinks you look nice in a crappy, last minute Halloween costume. 

Ryland Grace thinks you look nice at all. 

The thought makes your head spin. 

It’s not the first time he’s complimented you in such a way, but it sure feels like it as you stumble over yourself to reply, “Oh…um…thank you. You do too. Look nice, I mean. Yeah, um-” Ryland’s eyes dance with amusement he does a very poor job of hiding—though you can tell he’s trying for your sake—and you immediately scramble for a new topic to cling onto.

“I’m hungry. Are you hungry?” The smile you wear is visibly forced, but it’s better than letting him see the panic threatening to swallow you whole. What is wrong with you? He said you looked nice. Nice! That hardly warrants a reaction at all, let alone one this flustered. His expression turns sympathetic, which is somehow even more mortifying for you, but you’re grateful nonetheless when he hikes a thumb forward and says,

“There’s some pastries down the road.” 

You’re momentarily struck by the kindness of the gesture. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even address the utter and complete fool you just made of yourself.

He just smiles, waiting and letting you regroup. 

Grace.

He has grace.

Your shoulders slump, and you feel something deep within you being put at ease. Like that little voice always wondering why, when, where you’ll be judged has been silenced, just for now.

“Sounds good.” You say breathily, falling into step beside him once again. “How’d you know?” 

“Oh-” Ryland pulls something out of his back pocket, holding it out to you. It’s one of those trifold maps they give out at theme parks, laying out every booth on the street. The edges are a little bent, and there’s a few scribbled notes in the margins. Your eyes pause on one, accompanied by an arrow pointing to a “Booth #23”:

She might like is scrawled out in Ryland’s slanted handwriting, and your cheeks heat as you read another.

Flowers here 

Your eyes widen at the implication. 

He was considering getting you flowers.

You look up at Ryland, who walks blissfully unaware of your current realization. His head is tilted up at the sky, and he’s squinting to watch a plane fly over. 

Fuck, he’s precious.

You look back down, eyes scanning the edges of the map. There’s notes filling almost every inch of available space, and each one makes your stomach twist more than the last. You can’t remember the last time someone put this much thought into something meant only for you.

In fact, you’re not sure anyone ever has. Not like this. Carefully. Meticulously. Intentionally. You stop on another note:

Pumpkin bread here. Brought to work once.

Your lips part in awe at his sheer attention to detail. If you liked him before, he’s gone and made it a hundred times worse in one fell swoop.

Ryland seems to notice your sudden silence, throwing a glance at you over his shoulder. “You ok-?” His voice trails off as he looks down at the map in your hands.

“Oh.” He clears his throat, turning to face you. “Um…okay. So, that…” He sucks in a sharp breath, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans and looking down. “That probably looks…very odd. And a little stalkerish. I-”

“It doesn’t.” You interrupt, all earlier embarrassment forgotten in the face of his own. Your stomach drops at the look on his face. Guilt. He looks guilty, as if caring is something he should feel bad for. “You’re…”

Where do you even begin?

“It’s sweet, Ryland.” You step forward, holding the map out to him again. He looks down at your hands, cheeks ablaze as he takes it with slightly shaky hands.

“I…” He clears his throat, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “I forgot…I wasn’t planning on you seeing that part.”

You let out a soft laugh, watching as he fiddles with the paper. “Well, I’m very impressed, for what it’s worth.”

He smiles, looking at you over the brim of his glasses. “You don’t have to say that.”

Your lips tug into a small, amused smile as you reply, “I’m aware. Compliments are usually given out voluntarily.”

Ryland laughs, sliding the map back in his pocket. “Right. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. How’d you notice the pumpkin bread, anyway?”

He shrugs, looking down. “I saw it in the staff room.”

You hum approvingly, “Very observant of you. I’m starting to think you’re a scientist or something.”

Ryland laughs again, the genuine kind you swear you could get drunk off. “I don’t know where you’re getting that idea."

“Just a hunch.” The smell of baked goods begins to fill your nose, and Ryland gestures to a nearby booth.

“Alright, I think this is the one…” He glances at the number pasted on the table. “17. Yup.”

“You memorized the numbers?” You fall into line beside Ryland, reaching out and grabbing two saran wrapped slices of pumpkin bread from the table. 

“Um…most of them, yeah.” He replies, ducking his head down and retrieving his wallet, He pulls out a ten and a five, and your eyes flick down to the bills in his hand. You immediately reach for your card, nestled in your backpocket. 

“You don’t have to pay for me.” You say hurriedly. He smiles, pointing at a sign hanging above the table. 

CASH ONLY

“I actually do.” 

Your shoulders slump and you sigh, searching your pockets for cash you know perfectly well isn’t there. “I…” You huff, giving up. “Damn it. I’ll pay you back.”

Ryland’s face morphs into a look of confusion at your words. “Why?”

You let out a small laugh, quirking a brow. “Um…because you’re buying my food?”

“...Yeah?” He looks absolutely baffled by the notion alone. “It’s six dollars.”

“It’s not about the amount, it’s the…” You pause, searching for the right word. 

“Precedence?” He offers it up and you nod, pointing a finger at him. 

“Exactly. The precedence.”

Ryland pauses, seemingly considering your argument before he shakes his head. “Nope. I’m paying.” There’s a confidence, a finality to his tone you’ve never heard before. You smile, heat creeping up your neck at his insistence.

“Ry-”

“I’m the one who invited you here, I should be the one to pay. That’s just…” He looks down a little shyly. “It’s proper.”

His response renders you silent for a moment. You can’t remember the last time you met a man this insistent on common courtesy.

It’s jarring.

And–unfortunately for you–very attractive, a thought you try and fail not to focus on as he hands over the money. You follow Ryland out of the queue, suddenly very distracted by the way you can see the muscles of his back shift beneath his sweater. He rolls his sleeves up, completely oblivious to how much worse he just made your predicament as he turns to face you with a smile.

You manage to force your eyes back up to his face, but your thoughts remain stubbornly rampant. 

“Here.” You hold out one of the slices, immediately busying yourself with the unwrapping of your own.

“Thanks.” He murmurs, doing the same.

“So,” you say, taking your first bite. “Proper? What’s that about?”

Ryland tilts his head, and you can’t conceal the smile tugging at your lips when his glasses slip downward with the motion. 

“What do you mean?”

You shrug, falling into step beside him. He brushes your shoulder first this time, letting the contact linger comfortably. “I don’t know. It just seems so…old fashioned.”

“Oh,” Ryland pauses to swallow, his cheeks tinged slightly pink as he responds, “My mom was always big on that kind of stuff. Manners and all.” He shrugs. “I guess it just…stuck.” His eyes flash down to meet yours, an inkling of concern trickling in. “Sorry if I was too pushy. I wasn’t trying to force anything.”

You can’t help but laugh, tilting your head back in faux exasperation. “Ryland. Will you stop apologizing for being thoughtful?” You look back up at him to find an amused smile on his face.

“You said it was old fashioned!” He replies.

“That’s not always a bad thing!” You laugh out. “Would you prefer chivalrous?”

He mulls it over, tilting his head ever so slightly before nodding. “That sounds a bit better, doesn’t it?”

“Whatever you say.” You shake your head, throwing your hand up in a dismissive gesture. “What about your brother, then? Is he like that too?”

Ryland laughs, nodding and looking down at his shoes. “Definitiely. I think he executes it better than me, too.”

You quirk a brow. “What does that mean?”

He shrugs. “Colt’s…” He sighs, as if searching for the right words. “Charming. He always has been. It just…it comes naturally to him.”

You frown, your chest aching a little at the thought of Ryland not realizing that everything about him–his awkwardness, his mannerisms, how considerate he is, his tangents and his mind, all of it–is charming. Unbearably so.

“How so?” The question comes out gentle, your tone similar to the one you use while walking kindergarteners through math problems. Ryland’s shoulders visibly relax in response, and he runs a hand through his hair, already mussed from the breeze.

“I don’t know. He’s…” He blows air out of his mouth, squinting as he thinks. “Smooth, I guess. He always knows the perfect line, how to say it, all that.”

You shrug, not meeting his eyes as you say, “I mean, if that’s your thing, sure.”

Ryland tilts his head, “What do you mean?”

“Y’know. The suave guy.”

He huffs out a small laugh, “You don’t sound very impressed.”

“That’s because it’s not my thing. There’s more than one way to be charming.” You look up at him, willing him to use that big, genius brain of his and realize what you’re getting at. He blinks, mouth opening and closing a few times, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head. 

“I mean…I kno-” He cuts himself off, finally looking back down at you, “What?”

You smile softly, wondering how the smartest man you’ve ever met can be so dense. “Ryland. Come on.”

He smiles, sheepish and shy, “I’m missing something, aren’t I?”

“Terribly.”

“Help.”

You laugh, looking ahead. You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes when you say this, “I just…I’m not saying your brother isn’t…charming, or whatever. I’m sure he is. I just think you…maybe you should give yourself a little more credit, too.”

Ryland pauses, lips parted ever so slightly. Your gut twists, and you get a sinking feeling that you’ve taken it too far. That your words–vauge as they may be–were the final straw. That you’ve officially become the unfortunately forthright girl with the completely wrong interpretation of what could’ve been a great friendship if you hadn’t gone and ruined it al-

“Thank you.” His voice comes out quiet, but it puts an effective stop to your quickly spiralling thoughts.

You stare up at him. At the small smile tugging at his lips, the way his shoulders straighten ever so slightly. He stands a little taller under your praise, and you can’t help the way your lips curve up in response.

“You’re welcome.” It’s quiet for a moment, and you can practically feel him starting to squirm beside you

“So…” He clears his throat, his voice trailing off aimlessly, and you have to bite back a smile.

There he is. 

“What’s next on your map?” You ask, watching as he quickly pulls it out of his pocket, rattling off the various options, 

“There’s a flower stand down the road a bit, food, food, food, um…oh, there’s booth 23.”

“You still haven’t told me what that is.” You reply, chucking your saran wrap in a nearby trash can. He grins, folding up the map and glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

“Correct.”

You pause, waiting for an explanation that never comes. “Um…are you going to?”

“You’ll see.”

Your shoulders slump and you huff, “I want to know.” 

“We’re not far.”

“Ugh, you’re mean.”

“Sorry.”

You know he’s not being serious, but a tiny, paranoid part of your brain screams at you to make sure.

“I’m kidding. You’re the least mean person I’ve ever met.”

“That’s improbable.”

You give him a deadpan look. “Shush.”

He motions sealing his lips, and you laugh as he points wordlessly to a booth ahead.

“What is it?”

Silence.

You huff, rolling your eyes and looking at him. “You can speak.”

“Hand-bound books.”

Your jaw drops as your footsteps speed up almost imperceptibly. “You’re joking.” He shakes his head with a grin, and you’re quickly reminded of the note he’d scribbled next to this booth in particular,

She might like

“How’d you know?” You ask.

Ryland tilts his head, “Know what?”

“That I’d like it.”

“Oh-” His cheeks flush and he looks away, towards the sign reading Spell Bound Books. “I just figured, y’know, since you have a lot of book themed stuff in your classroom.”

You smile softly, because he’s right. You do. Cartoon pictures of all your favorite classics decorate the walls. You have shelves upon shelves full of books for the kids, and each cluster of tables is named after a March sister, a reference none of your students understand. 

You love books, and for the umpteenth time, Ryland Grace noticed. 

“Well, you figured right. This is…” You look down at the table before you, laden with novels. 

“Amazing. It’s absolutely amazing.” When you glance back up at Ryland, he’s got this smile on his face you haven’t quite seen before. Small and a little bashful, yes, but more than that. 

Warm. 

Affectionate, if you dare to call it that. 

“I’m-“ His voice comes out a little choked, and he quickly clears his throat, glancing away. “I’m glad.”

You smile, deciding to do him the mercy of looking away. He seems to get stressed with any eyes on him, yours worst of all. Your hand falters atop a copy of Little Women, and you let out a soft gasp as you pick it up. It’s designed to look like the copy from the film, red leather with a simply gold inlay. You run your fingers over the cover, circling the title once. 

“I love this book.” You murmur softly, keenly aware of the way Ryland leans over your shoulder to see. His chest doesn’t touch your back—though the space between is slim as could be—but you can still feel the warmth radiating from his skin. You swallow thickly, book momentarily forgotten as your spine straightens of its own accord. You look up, eyes tracing a line down his profile. The slope of his nose, one of your more favorite of his features, though it’s hard to choose. His lips, slightly parted, and the stubble surrounding them. You’ve begun to notice when he shaves, and it seems as if it’s been a couple days. It looks good on him, and you have half a mind to mention it before he says,

“Do you want to get it?”

You blink. 

Right. 

The book. 

You look back down, grimacing when you see the price tag. 60 dollars. It’s not unreasonable by any means, but you aren’t exactly swimming in expendable income. 

“Um…probably not.” You say quietly, placing it back down on the table. Ryland doesn’t reply, and by the time you look back, he’s already fishing out his wallet. Your jaw drops and you put a hand out to stop him. 

“Ryland, absolutely not.”

He pauses, his gaze faltering on your hand atop his arm. It takes him a moment, but eventually he manages to to tear his eyes away, meeting your own. 

“What?”

“You cannot buy that for me.”

He frowns, just a little. 

“Why not?”

“It’s sixty dollars.” You hiss quietly, not wanting to offend the merchant. 

“But I can afford it.”

You sigh, realizing you’re still holding onto his arm and removing your hand quickly. “Yes, technically I can too. I’m just not going to. It’s too much.”

His lips tug downward with a bit more intensity, and you can’t tell if it’s because of what you said, or the fact that you pulled your hand away. 

He glances down at his arm again, and you get a feeling it’s the latter. 

“What if we split it? Thirty isn’t bad.”

You laugh fondly, shaking your head. “That’s still you paying for me.”

“No, it’s me paying half for you.”

“Ryland.” 

“There’s a big difference.” He insists. 

“You’ve already spent too much money on me today.” 

“But I don’t mind. And the bread was only 12 dollars, for the record.”

You sigh, “I’m well aware, and this is very sweet of you, but I don’t need a book. I have plenty of books.”

“But you want it.”

“I want a lot of things. I want a round trip to Paris, but I’m not gonna do that either.”

“One of these things is far more feasible than the other.”

You deadpan, rolling your lips together in an effort not to laugh. “I’m serious. Put the wallet away.”

“Fifty-fifty. Come on. I can borrow it. I’ve never read Little Women.”

“I-“ You pause. “Wait, what? You’ve never read Little Women?”

He shakes his head and you gasp. 

“That’s inexcusable.”

“Exactly. So…” He gestures back to the booth. 

You catch your bottom lip between your teeth as you think. Thirty dollars isn’t absurd, you suppose. And if he gets some use out of it…

“Are you sure?”

Ryland’s face lights up at your relent, “Positive. Here.” He hands the book to you and retrieves his wallet, fishing out a twenty and a ten. 

“Thank you.” You say quietly, handing your card to the merchant as well as his cash. 

He smiles down at you, his expression undeniably fond as he murmurs, “You’re welcome.”

You exit the line soon after, book clutched to your chest. 

“Thank you. Again. I owe you.”

Ryland shakes his head with a soft laugh, “You really don’t.”

You tilt your head up to watch him, the way his lips pull back into a smile. It’s mesmerizing, really, but you’re unfortunately removed from the moment by-

Rain. 

It’s raining. 

Shit.

What starts as a drizzle quickly turns into a full fledged downpour, and you and Ryland quickly run to the nearest cover, a nearby awning. 

Could you be more cliche?

You look back up at Ryland, his hair dripping and stuck to his forehead. He’s busy at work trying to wipe his glasses clean, but the soaked material of his sweater only smears the water. 

“Here.” You take his glasses, tugging at the part of your shirt covered by your cardigan. The fabric lifts, revealing the skin of your abdomen, and you watch as Ryland quickly looks away, suddenly intensely interested in the awning. 

You can’t help the way you snort, though you feel a little bad when his cheeks tinge a darker shade of pink. 

“Thank you.” He mumbles, beginning to push his hair back awkwardly. It sends drops of water cascading down the sides of his face, and you’re momentarily struck by how gorgeous he looks right now. 

“Um…yeah.” You swipe off the lenses, handing the glasses back to him. “Where’d you park?”

He hikes a thumb over his shoulder and you grimace. 

“I’m the other way.”

“Oh, um…” He pauses, looking down at himself. “I can walk you, if you wa-“

You laugh, placing your hands on his shoulders. 

“You’ve done enough. Seriously. Thank you. I…”

I had fun doesn’t feel proper. Doesn’t feel like it covers it. 

Still, you’re not quite brave enough to say the thing that does. 

I like you. A lot. Embarrassingly so. And I hate the rain for cutting this short. And I hate myself for being too chicken shit to just tell you-

“I had fun.”

Coward. 

Ryland smiles, nodding and blinking as water trickles into his eyes. 

“Me too.”

“I’ll see you on Monday.” You say as you begin to back away. He echos the words back and turns around, shoulders hunched as he begins to jog down the sidewalk. He slips a little at one point and you wince, letting out a sigh of relief when he steadies himself. 

For longer than you’d like to admit, you stand in the rain and watch him go. You’re an idiot. A hopelessly smitten idiot, with only one thought running through your head. 

Fuck.

[jo-is-writing]

guys i pinky promise i am in fact working on chapter 7 of Balanced Forces. writer's block is very much not amaze amaze amaze. anyway, here's a little sneak peek in the meantime:

Your phone, which you’d fallen asleep holding last night, vibrates suddenly, startling you awake. You sit up with a disgruntled sound, squinting down at the annoyingly bright screen. Ryland: Question Suddenly, you don’t mind being woken up at all. Y/N: I have a better one, why are you awake? Ryland: Did I wake you up? Ryland: I’m sorry You can’t bring yourself to tell him. Y/N: Shush, I’m messing with you. What’s the question? Ryland: Are you sure? You huff out a soft laugh, rolling your eyes. Y/N: RYLAND Ryland: Fine, fine. Are we wearing costumes? Y/N: One second. You force yourself out of bed, yawning as you make your way to your closet. There’s the costume you wore yesterday, of course, and… Y/N: I only have Snoopy and a slutty sailor from college. Ryland’s typing bubble pops up. Disappears. Pops up again. Disappears again. You smile down at your phone, watching in equal parts amusement and sympathy as he short circuits. Poor guy.  Ryland: It might be a little cold for that. Ever the gentleman. He just keeps getting better. Y/N: Probably. I’ll see if I can throw something together. Y/N: Where are we going, anyway? Ryland: Surprise.

;)

[jo-is-writing]

Balanced Forces - Chapter 6

Chapter 5 -> Masterlist

Ryland Grace x f!Reader

Word Count: 2,822

Being a kindergarten teacher comes with its fair share of spontaneity, something you've grown accustomed to. What you didn't expect? Falling for a certain Dr. Grace.

Today has been–simply put–hellish. 

It’s the Friday before Halloween weekend, and you’re normally someone who enjoys holidays at work. Throwing parties, dressing up, the whole nine yards. But this year. This year.

You’ve never seen a classroom of kids that rowdy. And somehow, all that energy managed to last the whole day. Screaming, running around, hurting themselves and each other in the process. You administered more bandaids than you can count, and worst of all, you yelled at them.

Actually yelled.

On a holiday, of all days.

You know you had valid reasoning. They wouldn’t listen to a word you said, and you were about two seconds away from ripping your hair out if they didn’t stop screaming. Still, you have a rule for yourself. You don’t know what these kids are going home to, so you always make sure your classroom is safe. Comfortable. Happy.

Will they remember your outburst by Monday?

Probably not.

Will you?

Absolutely.

You press your lips into a line at the memory, blinking rapidly and trying to ignore the way your nose begins to sting. All teachers snap sometimes, it’s just a part of the job.

No matter how many times you tell yourself that, it doesn’t make you feel any less shitty.

You take a deep breath, shake your head, and return to your current task of picking scattered skittles off the floor. Your classroom is messier than you’ve ever seen it, candy and wrappers and popcorn strewn across the floor. You already found one piece of popcorn in your hair, and you’re almost certain there’s more where that came from. 

You sigh, sitting back on your haunches and bracing your hands on your thighs. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and damn near flinch. There’s something you’d rather not inspect too closely streaked on your cheek–marker, you hope–and bags under your eyes that definitely weren’t there when you left your apartment this morning. At the very least, your costume remains mostly intact. A very haggard Snoopy stares back at you, and you notice for the first time that the black dog nose you painted on this morning is slightly smudged. Your red scarf that you wore in place of a collar is far looser than you’d tied it initially, and the headband you glued dog ears onto sits askew atop your head.

Cute. Very cute.

The kids must’ve asked what you were dressed as about a million times, which became just as grating as the rest of their behavior around halfway through the day. And almost half of them dutifully pointed out that Snoopy is a boy, and you are not. 

When you reminded them that you’re not a dog, either, they didn’t seem very pleased with your logic. 

You’re quickly snapped out of your thoughts by a knock at the door, one which jolts your whole frame. You bite back an exhausted whimper, forcing yourself to your aching feet. The thought of one more thing being asked of you is enough to make tears spring at your eyes, ones which you quickly wipe away as you make your way to the door. With stiff shoulders you swing it open, bracing yourself for whoever’s waiting on the other side. 

When you see that it’s Ryland, you swear, you could cry out of pure relief. Your shoulders sag and you let out an exhausted sound that vaguely resembles the word “Hi.”

“Oh-” The smile on his face drops immediately, replaced by a look of palpable concern. His hands–which are holding onto something you can’t quite make out–fall to his sides with a quiet smack. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, tilting his head down at you. “You look…” He trails off awkwardly.

“Dazzling?” You ask dryly.

He grimaces apologetically, “Not quite.” 

“Ouch.” You walk away, leaving the door open behind you. Despite your exhaustion, you smile weakly when you hear his footsteps follow suit. 

“Sorry, I just…what happened?”

You throw your hands up, slumping in one of the kid’s chairs. 

“Halloween happened. They were just…” You take a deep, albeit shuddering breath and place your head in your hands. “They were so hyper all day, and I couldn't get them to calm down for a second, and then I yelled at the-” You don’t realize tears are brimming in your eyes until Ryland moves in front of you, kneeling on the ground to be eye level.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Your lips wobble at the softness in his voice, and you swear, you’ve never felt so pathetic as you do right now. “You had a rough day. It happens to everyone.”

“But I yelled at them.”

He smiles affectionately, tilting his head. “They’re kids. They’ll forget.”

“What if I ruined their Halloween?”

He shrugs. 

“Good thing it’s not Halloween, then.”

It takes a moment for his comment to register, but once it does, you can’t help the laughter that begins to bubble up from your chest.

“There you go.” He murmurs, gentle as ever as he rises to his feet and holds out a hand. “C’mon. I know firsthand how uncomfortable those chairs are.” That gets another laugh out of you as you take his hand, letting him lead you to your own, much more size appropriate chair. His hand engulfs yours, surrounding it with warmth and softness and all the things that make you want to keep holding on. 

You have the good sense to let go anyway. 

“Thanks.” You murmur, your voice a little watery as you finally take in his costume for the first time. He makes an unbearably handsome Clark Kent, clad in a white button down with the sleeves rolled up, the first few buttons popped open to reveal a superman t-shirt underneath. Around his neck hangs an undone tie, and for a moment you envision yourself yanking him closer by it. 

Your cheeks flush and you clear your throat awkwardly, looking down at your lap. If you felt ridiculous before, you certainly do now, clad in dog ears and a poorly painted nose while he looks like that.

The man is fucking stunning, plain and simple. And the worst part is, he truly doesn’t seem to realize. Not even as he leans back on your desk, shoulders hunched in a way that accentuates just how well built he is. 

It’s unfair, really. 

“Nice costume.” You manage weakly. He smiles, looking down at himself and shrugging. 

He shrugs. 

At that.

Ridiculous. 

“I almost went for an astronaut, but it felt a little impractical for work.” You find yourself grateful that he didn’t. Unless his spacesuit is as tight as the shirt he’s got on now, you much prefer this. 

“Probably.” You agree, fidgeting with the end of your scarf. He seems to notice your costume for the first time, and a soft smile begins to tug at his lips. 

“Snoopy?”

“Ding ding ding.”

He nods, and your breath catches in your throat when he murmurs a soft, barely audible “Cute.” in response. 

“What?” You ask, looking back up at him suddenly. He flushes, blinking and turning a rosy shade of pink. If the look on his face is any indication, you’d guess he didn’t mean for you to hear that.

“Nothing. Here,” He reaches back, grabbing what he’d been holding when he came to your door. “I saved you some.”

You reach out, tilting your head as you accept the small, brown box. 

“What is it?”

He smiles, shrugging and looking between your eyes and hands. 

“Nothing fancy. Just open it.” He sounds almost nervous, and you watch as his fingers begin to tap an uneven melody on the edge of your desk. 

You stare at him for a second longer before tearing your eyes away and opening it up. Inside you find one small slice of pumpkin pie. You’re suddenly reminded of the fact that you’ve barely eaten today, and you look up at Ryland with a smile. It shouldn’t mean much, and truth be told, you’re probably looking into things. But after the day you’ve had, the small gesture feels monumental. 

“You didn’t have to do that.” You say quietly. 

He shrugs, looking down at his feet. The rapping of his fingers doesn’t quite cease, but it slows. “I know. Just figured you might be hungry.”

“Well thank you, Ryland.” Your voice softens almost imperceptibly around the syllables of his name, and he looks back up at you, the corners of his lips tugging into a shy smile. “Where’d you get this, anyway?”

“I might’ve overestimated how much I’d need for all my classes.” He says sheepishly. You quirk a brow, smirking around another bite. 

“By how much?”

“…A pie and a half.”

You snort, swallowing the bite before replying, “That’s not that bad.”

“They’re big pies.”

You furrow your brows. “Well how many did you buy?”

He swallows thickly, looking away and mumbling a number you can’t quite make out. 

“What?” Surely you couldn’t have heard him right. He sighs and meets your eyes again. 

“Ten.”

Your jaw drops. 

“Ryland!”

“I know, I know. I just…I wanted to make sure there was enough for everyone.”

Your smile softens and you tilt your head. 

“Clearly.” You say, your voice coming out more affectionate than teasing. 

He doesn’t respond right away, but his eyes suddenly focus quite insistently on your hair. You immediately raise a hand to toy with the strands, face flushing. 

“What?” The thought of him noticing any little flaw on you is enough to make your stomach twist uncomfortably. 

“Um, nothing, I just…” He hesitates, eventually leaning in and reaching out a hand. Your cheeks turn an unfortunate shade of pink as his fingers graze your hair, and you find yourself mesmerized by the sheer focus on his face. His furrowed brows, the soft downward curve of his lips, the narrow set of his eyes. 

God, he’s gorgeous. 

“There.” He murmurs, a small, satisfied smile appearing on his face as he pulls his hand back. In it is one small piece of popcorn. You groan, covering your face with your hands. 

“I thought I got it all.”

He laughs softly, tossing it in the trashcan beside your desk. “It’s fine.”

“It’s gross.”

He smiles warmly and shakes his head. “It’s really not. You want me to check the rest?” 

You sigh, grumbling out your thanks before begrudgingly standing and turning around.

“How bad is it?” You ask, turning your head to peek at him over your shoulder. He gives you a smile that’s unmistakably fond, one that turns every bone in your body to putty. 

“Not at all. Turn around?” You roll your eyes, huffing just a little petulantly and doing as he says. 

“You’re lying.”

He laughs softly from behind you, beginning to part your hair as gently as possible. Your cheeks flush quite aggressively, and you’re suddenly grateful to be facing away from him. 

“Nope. I’m a terrible liar. You’d know.”

You huff out a small laugh despite yourself and the slightly mortifying situation you’re in. “I’m not surprised.” A few more kernels hit the trash can, each with a quiet tapping sound. 

The smile on his face is audible in his voice when he replies, “My brother used to get so mad at me for it when we were younger. I could never cover for him, especially not to our mom.”  

“I’m guessing he got in more trouble than you?”

He laughs again, fonder this time. “Substantially.” His fingers graze the side of your neck as he talks, and you swear, you hear his breath hitch at the contact. You wonder if he can feel the way your pulse thunders under his hands, how warm your skin has become. 

“What kinda stuff did he do?” You ask, eager to keep him talking. You’ve grown quite fond of the sound of Ryland’s voice, no matter the topic at hand. 

“Nothing major. He’d just sneak out a lot.”

“Parties?”

“Girls, mostly. He’d wake me up every other night climbing out our window.” He shakes his head with a soft laugh, retracting his hands and giving your shoulder a slightly awkward pat. “You’re all good.”

You turn around, suddenly realizing how close the two of you have gotten. Ryland flushes, trying to step back before promptly bumping into your desk. 

“Shoot.” He whispers under his breath, looking down and clearing his throat. 

“Sorry.” You step back, lifting a hand to rub nervously at your arm. 

“No, no, you’re fine. I…you’re fine.” He repeats, grabbing an eraser on your desk and beginning to fidget with it restlessly. “So, um…do you have any siblings?” His voice sounds unbearably strained, and you can’t help but feel a little pity for the man. He’s just always so nervous.

Sometimes you wonder if it’d make him feel worse or better to know you are too. 

“No. Just me.”

He frowns softly. “Must’ve been lonely.”

You furrow your brows at his response. Most people either tell you you’re lucky or feel full carte blanche to point out how spoiled you must be. 

“Um…” You hesitate. “Yeah. It…it kinda was. I had a dog, though, so…” You clear your throat. “Yeah.”

He lets out a laugh. Not at you, though. Never at you. It’s more of a sympathetic sound than anything. 

“That’s…not the same.”

“He was a really good dog.”

“That’s good.” The conversation dwindles off into somewhat awkward silence. You’re never uncomfortable around Ryland, per se, but this is about as close as you’ve gotten. 

“So-“ You both blurt at the same time. Quiet laughter fills the space, and you gesture for him to continue. 

“No, no. You go.” His chivalry is—while appreciated—ill timed. 

“I didn’t actually have anything to say.” You explain plainly. No sense in lying, and besides, you don’t really have the energy to make something up. He laughs and offers up a sheepish smile. 

“Neither did I.”

You laugh, looking down and shaking your head. 

“Can you think of something?”

“Uh…” He looks up and the ceiling, closing his eyes for a moment before reopening them and looking back at you. “What are you doing on Halloween? I mean, actual Halloween.”

Your heart damn near stops. 

Is he…? There’s no way. 

“Um…nothing.” You conveniently forget to mention the party your friend invited you too, one you’ll happily bail out on if this is what you think it is. 

“Oh. Cool.” He mumbles, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He waits for a moment before looking down and adding,

“Me neither.”

Your spine straightens of its own accord. “Yeah?”

“Yup.” He pops the p, rocking back and forth on his heels while staunchly avoiding your gaze. 

“Um…” He clears his throat. “If you…I mean, if you want-“

“Yeah.” You interrupt suddenly, face flushing bright red. What is wrong with you? You didn't even let him finish the question. “Sorry, um-“

“No, no.” He grins, taking a slightly shaky breath. “You’re good. Um. Cool. Okay. I’ll…find something for us to do.” He wiggles two finger guns at you, a motion you try very hard not to laugh at. 

A barely audible giggle slips out despite your best efforts. 

“Sorry.” You whisper, trying and failing to stop yourself from smiling as he lowers his hands shakily. 

“Nope, nope. You’re…yeah. That was bad. Okay.” He clears his throat, lifting his hand to tug at his tie before seemingly remembering he’s not wearing one. Not properly, at the very least. He looks down to where it’s hanging undone around his neck and frowns. 

“Great. Okay. I’ll call you?” He asks, beginning to walk away backwards. 

“Ryland?” Your shoulders shake with repressed laughter as you watch his desperate retreat. 

“Yeah?” His voice comes out higher than usual. 

“You don’t have my number.”

He freezes. 

“I…should probably get that.”

You nod, shrugging softly. 

“Probably.”

He lets out a shaky laugh, walking towards you again. “Sorry, I’m…I swear I’m not usually-“

“You’re fine.” You say, grabbing a sticky note and scribbling your number down. Your handwriting is visibly shoddier than usual, clear evidence of your shaking hands. You hold it out to him once you’re done, plastering on what you hope looks like a casual smile. 

You have a feeling it comes off impossibly strained. 

“Cool. Thanks.” He grabs the note, swallowing thickly when his fingers brush your own. The sensation sends shockwaves up your arm, dancing and sparking all the way to your chest. They settle there, warm and buzzy in a way you haven’t felt in years. 

“Yeah. I’ll…see you tomorrow, then.”

He smiles, nodding stiffly. “See you tomorrow.”

He turns around, immediately tripping over a rug and steadying himself on a nearby desk. He holds up one thumb, choking out an awkward “I’m good” before beelining for the door. 

You stare at the exit for longer than you’d like to admit once he’s gone, clenching your fist and trying to hold onto the warmth his fingers left behind.

[jo-is-writing]

Balanced Forces - Chapter 5

Chapter 4 -> Masterlist

Ryland Grace x f!Reader

Word Count: 2,979

Being a kindergarten teacher comes with its fair share of spontaneity, something you've grown accustomed to. What you didn't expect? Falling for a certain Dr. Grace.

On Monday morning, at exactly 7 o’clock sharp, you stop outside Ryland Grace’s classroom. The students haven’t arrived yet, they don’t start piling in until around 7:30, but you can see the man himself through the small window on his door. He’s sat at his desk, just beginning his day. A bright yellow raincoat–which you find impossibly endearing–lays draped over the back of his chair, undoubtedly soaking the blazer he’s wearing as he leans back against it. You can hear the rain beating against the windows from where you stand in the hallway, wind whipping every tree nearby. Normally you don’t mind the gloomy San Francisco weather, but today in particular it’s managed to inconvenience you quite grievously. 

You–for reasons you’d rather not examine too closely–chose to curl your hair this morning, which meant waking up one painstaking hour earlier than normal. All to have your work, mostly, ruined by the drizzle outside.

You sigh, stepping aside as to not be spotted through the window, and opening your phone’s camera for what feels like the millionth time. Your lipstick remains mercifully unsmudged, and your hair–while not nearly as curly as you intended for it to be–doesn’t look half bad, either. Your outfit this morning was selected with extreme care, and your stomach ties into knots as you steal another glance at the reason why. 

He’s chewing on a pencil, and you wonder for a moment if he’ll even notice the effort you’ve gone to. Quickly, your subconscious snarks back, Why are you trying in the first place?

What a bitch.

You knock twice on the door, softly enough that he might not’ve heard over the weather outside, and creak it a few inches open.

“Knock knock.” You say quietly. Any embarrassment you might’ve felt at your haphazard introduction is quickly masked by the way Ryland smiles at the sound of your voice. 

“Who’s there?” He asks, earning an amused grin and an eye roll from you.

“Funny.” You open your bag, retrieving something from inside. “Here.” You reach out, placing your finished rocket atop his desk. His legs, which had previously been kicked up on another chair, immediately swing down to the floor. He stands, reaching out and grabbing the rocket with a soft laugh. Not at it, but at the fact that you actually did it.

“You finished it.” He murmurs, turning it over in his hands with a smile. With the way he’s looking at it, you’d think it’s something far greater than your own shoddy craftsmanship. 

“Barely.”

“Hey, it’s a lot better than I expected.”

You quirk a brow and laugh, tilting your head just a smidge. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Ryland looks up, eyes widening slightly behind his glasses, brows raising in confusion as he replies:

“Yes?” It’s the way he asks that makes your stomach flip. The certainty behind the word, like he couldn’t imagine it meaning anything else. 

“Thank you, then.”

He smiles, eyes crinkling ever so slightly at the corners. 

“You’re welcome.”

You glance away, busying yourself with smoothing out the imaginary wrinkles from your clothes. When you finally work up the courage to meet his eyes again, you find him staring. His gaze is fixed on your hair, blue eyes slightly wider than usual. You blush, raising a hand to tug at the slightly frizzy strands. 

“It’s a mess, I kno-”

“It looks nice.” He blurts out, and his ears flush pink immediately afterwards. He waits a moment before adding on, quietly, shyly,

“You look nice.”

His words freeze you right where you are, your stomach turning in on itself as you will yourself to speak. To respond. To do anything but stare.

“Thank you.” You finally manage.

He nods stiffly, shutting his mouth as if he’s afraid of what might slip out next. After a few seconds he pipes up again, voice slightly strained. 

“You don’t usually curl your hair.”

You smile, shaking your head and wringing your hands together. Looking down, you note the slight tremor to your movements. You haven’t been this nervous talking to someone since high school. Even then, you’re not sure it was this bad.

“No. I don’t.”

“Right. Well.” He clears his throat and removes his glasses, swiping at them with the end of his tie. “It’s nice.”

Your lips tug up into a slightly amused smirk. 

“You mentioned.”

He huffs out a shy laugh, shaking his head.

“Yeah…um…”

You take pity, deciding to spare him from whatever sentence he’s trying and failing to piece together.

“So,” You point to the first thing that catches your eye. A small mirrorball, nestled in with the rest of the paper mache planets he has hanging from his ceiling. “Which planet is that supposed to be?”

Ryland looks up, sliding his glasses back on and breathing out a soft laugh. 

“Oh. That’s not a planet. It’s…” He glances at the clock, then back at you. “Here. I can show you.” He walks over to the lightswitches, flicking them all off before returning to his desk and reaching into one of the drawers. 

“So,” he begins, grabbing a flashlight and coming to a stop behind you. “It works best if you stand right…” He reaches out, hands hovering over your arms. 

“Do you mind?”

You look back and up, meeting his eyes and shaking your head. He stares at you for a moment before blinking and looking away, down at the floor. His hands land on you, warm and soft and large, and you swear your whole body heats up in an instant. He guides you backwards ever so gently, breath fanning slightly over your shoulder. A shiver runs down your spine at the sensation, and you’re vaguely aware of the way he swallows nervously behind you.

“There.” He murmurs, waiting just a second too long before letting go of you and stepping back. 

Not far, but back. Just a smidge.

“Okay.” He turns on the flashlight, aiming it up towards the mirrorball. It refracts instantly, sending light scattering across the whole room.

“Stars.” You whisper breathily.

You look back up to find him already staring down at you. The light reflects off his glasses, and there’s an unmistakably fond look in his eyes. 

“Yeah. Stars.” He murmurs back quietly. His gaze darts to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to your eyes, and he quickly looks away, cheeks tinged pink as he clears his throat. 

“Here.” His voice is barely above a whisper as he walks away, back behind his desk. You feel the loss instantly, cold air licking at the skin he’d just warmed. He reaches up, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he grabs hold of the ball and spins it. The lights move around you like flashes of glitter, and the sensation’s almost dizzying. You let out a giddy laugh, tilting your head up towards the ceiling. Smack dab in the middle is a painting of the sun, and it takes you a moment to realize why.

They’re orbiting the sun. All the stars, they’re spinning around it, twinkling and blinking before your eyes. It occurs to you that every inch of this room is designed to invoke as much wonder, as much awe as possible.

You look back down at Ryland, at the tiny flicker of pride in his eyes, watching you enjoy something he built.

He seems to stand a little straighter under your gaze.

“They’re orbiting.” You say, pointing upwards.

He smiles, looking down at his shoes. “It’s not the most scientifically accurate, but my kids like it.”

My kids. 

You could die.

“I can see why.”

He looks up again, and the lights curve off of his glasses, making his eyes spark beneath the silver frames. 

“How’d you come up with this?” You ask softly. He shrugs, picking your rocket back up and fiddling with one of the wings. 

“I figured it’d be a lot easier than painting hundreds of stars.”

You huff out a soft laugh, making your way back to his desk. The lights slow to a crawl around you, and you find yourself wishing he’d spin it again, allow whatever spell had been cast over the two of you to live on a little longer. 

“Probably.” You murmur, watching as he traces his thumb over the edges of the little American flag you’d painted on the side of the rocket. It’s missing more than a few stars, but he doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Did you name it?” He asks suddenly.

You blink. “Was that part of the assignment?”

He laughs, shaking his head and looking back at you. “No, no. I just…I was just wondering.” You feel your chest warm as he ducks his head, suddenly shy.

“I guess I should. They usually name them, don’t they?”

“Who’s they?” Ryland asks as he flicks the lights back on. 

You deadpan. 

“The astronauts, obviously.”

He smiles, laughing again. 

“I think that’s more the engineer’s job.”

“Same difference.”

He blinks, looking almost offended for a moment. “It’s really not.”

“Okay. What do I name it?”

Ryland shrugs, handing you the model. 

“Whatever you want.”

You tilt your head, giving him the most unenthused look you can manage with the persistent smile tugging at your lips. 

“I asked you for a reason.”

“It’s your rocket.”

“Actually, it’s yours, now. I gave it to you.”

He narrows his eyes at you slightly. 

“Semantics. You made it, it’s yours.”

“So if someone adopts a baby, the biological mom still names it?”

He furrows his brows. “Um…sometimes, yeah.”

You blink. 

Damn it.

“Whatever, bad analogy. Will you just name it?” You ask, thrusting the rocket back towards his hands. 

He sighs, relenting and grabbing it back from you.

“I could just name it after you.” He says, shrugging and looking up at you. He has to notice the way you blush. He has to.

“That…” You swallow down a choked sound. “That’s not very creative.”

“Neither is Bill.”

“Bill’s a printer. This is my rocket we’re talking about.”

Ryland’s jaw drops. 

“You just said it was mine.”

You smirk. 

“Semantics.”

Ryland’s lips curve into a smile, amusement winning over annoyance on his face. He looks back down at the rocket, thinking for a moment as he spins it in his hands. 

“They’re usually named after historical vessels, mythological figures, or astronomical bodies, so I suppose it’d be best to do something along those lines. Although they do homages to scientists, sometimes.”

You watch as he rambles, your eyes softening as he goes on. 

“Yeah?” You egg on, desperate just to hear more. 

He looks up, his smile widening at your expression of interest, however slight. 

“Yeah. In 2017 NASA launched the Parker Space Probe. It was named after Eugene Parker, he developed the theory of solar win-” He watches as you roll your lips together—a gesture he clearly takes to be a sign of boredom—trailing off and clearing his throat awkwardly.

“Um. Yeah. They do.” His words come out staggered and unsure as he looks down at his feet.

“No, no. Please. I wanna know.” And you mean it. Not out of some perceived obligation for niceties, either. No, you—who couldn’t have less interest in the naming of spacecraft if you tried—truly want to know whatever it is he was about to say. 

The realization is a little jarring. 

Your words give Ryland pause, and he meets your eyes over the top of his glances, head still tilted downwards.

“You don’t have to lie.” His voice comes out quieter than before, uncertain. 

You smile softly, tilting your head. “I’m not. Now tell me about the theory.”

A hesitant smile etches its way onto his face as he begins, “Solar wind.” 

You sit yourself on the edge of his desk, awaiting his explanation. Once he seems sure you aren’t messing with him, he continues on. 

“It’s a continuous, supersonic stream of electrons and protons, and they all extend outwards from the sun.”

You blink, raising your eyebrows. “That sounds…hot.”

He snorts.

“Yes, it does. 1.8 million degrees fahrenheit, to be exact.”

“You have that memorized?”

His cheeks tinge pink. 

“Maybe.”

You laugh softly, nodding along. 

“So the probe. They named it after the guy that discovered this?”

Ryland nods, a little more enthusiastic now that you’ve assured him he’s allowed to be. Your heart cracks open at the thought that anyone wouldn’t.

“Yup. It was actually the first NASA spacecraft named after a living person.” 

“Huh.” You nod. “Cool.”

Ryland looks disbelieving for a moment, and you deadpan. 

“I mean it.”

He smiles, putting his hands up. 

“Okay, okay. I just…most people don’t…yeah.”

Your expression softens as you reply, “Well, I find it very interesting.” Truth is, you wouldn’t have listened to a word he said if it wasn’t Ryland saying them. So maybe you’re lying, but you can’t bring yourself to regret it when he smiles, straightening his shoulders a little. 

Confidence, the tiniest inkling of it, coats him like a newfound sheen. 

“So, what are you gonna name it?” You ask, nodding towards the rocket he’s still holding. He looks down, as if just remembering how he set off on that little tangent in the first place.

“Oh, right.” He pauses, looking at the model, then at you.

You swear, you can see the very moment it clicks.

“Nova.” He replies softly, and there’s something almost shy in the way he says it. You tilt your head. 

“I’m not sure I actually know what that is.”

He smiles softly, walking over to his whiteboard. “No problem. Basically,” he begins drawing two stars, each a little slanted, but recognizable nonetheless. “This star,” he points to the one on the left. “Is what scientists call a white dwarf. The other is its companion star.” He scrawls out labels above the two drawings. 

“As they orbit one another, the white dwarf is stealing hydrogen gas from the other star.”

“Rude.” 

“Very. Now, all this gas piles up on the surface of the white dwarf, compressing it and heating it. Eventually, once the pressure and temperature rise enough,” he draws vertical lines around the white dwarf, “there’s a massive thermonuclear explosion.”

“So it dies?” 

Ryland grins at your question, pointing his marker at you, and you suddenly realize why his students seem to love his class so much. He’s radiating enthusiasm, buzzing with it in a way that makes your heart skip a beat.

Maybe a few beats, actually. 

“No. That’s the nice thing about a nova. It exudes this explosive light, but, unlike a supernova, the star doesn’t die. It just…glows.” He says it almost wistfully, and you swear, you’ve never seen something more attractive in your life than his palpable excitement over a star.

“The light, it extends indefinitely.” He looks back at you, eyes meeting yours with a new intensity as his hand falls back to his side. 

“It’s beautiful, really.” His words make your breath hitch in your throat, heat seeping from the deepest crevice of your chest out towards the rest of your body. 

Beautiful.

You’d have to agree.

“I bet.” You murmur, and your voice sounds somewhat detached, even to your own ears. You couldn’t care less about stars or novas or white dwarfs. But Ryland. 

Ryland.

You could listen to him talk about them all day.

He blushes under your gaze, looking down softly. 

“Anyway.” He lifts your model, shaking it slightly. “Nova. That’ll be her name.” He nods to himself, turning towards the shelf where his own model sits. He reaches up, placing it beside Newton.

“Newton and Nova.” You murmur, smiling softly when you hear him huff out a quiet laugh. He steps back, hands on his hips as he stares up at the two rockets. 

“Something’s missing.”

“If you make me repaint something I’ll kill myself.”

Ryland snorts again. It’s really starting to go to your head, how easily his laughter comes when you’re around. 

“I won’t.” He hesitates before adding, “And please don’t.”

You smile, cheeks warming slightly. 

“If you insist.”

He bends over to grab something from the bottom drawer of his desk, a muffled “I do.” coming from his position near the ground. He pops back up a second later, a piece of paper and scissors in hand. 

“What are you doing?” You ask, laughter grazing the edges of every word.

“You’ll see.” He replies, flashing you a ridiculously charming smile before getting to work. A few moments later he returns to the shelf, carefully placing something beside your rocket. You stand, coming to a stop beside him. 

Right next to your model, there’s a tiny namecard, similar to the one accompanying Ryland’s.

NOVA

And beside it, in parentheses, your name.

You pause, staring at the namecard wordlessly. His words from earlier echo in your mind, bouncing off the walls of your skull and settling somewhere deep inside your brain. 

It’s beautiful, really.

You turn to look at him, swallowing thickly when you find his eyes already trained on you.

“Newton is making mine look bad.” You force the joke out, butterflies setting your stomach abuzz when he laughs softly. 

“No he’s not.”

“He is.”

Ryland rolls his eyes, smirking and looking back at you right as the warning bell rings. It’s like a chord is snapped between the two of you, and you each step back in turn. 

“I should probably-” 

“Yeah. Yup. Good idea.” Ryland’s words verge on haphazard as they spill aimlessly from his lips into the space suddenly separating you.

“Okay. You…um…yeah. Okay. Bye.”

He nods, and you swear, he holds his breath until you get to the door.

“I like yours better. For what it’s worth.”

Your hand freezes above the doorknob, and you look at him over your shoulder. He stands perfectly still, his tireless fidgeting ceased for once as he awaits your response. 

“Thank you, Ryland.”

[jo-is-writing]

does this still count as scientific research if i did it for a ryland grace fanfiction?

(psst, chapter five of balanced forces out tomorrow)

[jo-is-writing]

Balanced Forces - Chapter 4

Chapter 3 -> Masterlist

Ryland Grace x f!Reader

Word Count: 3,057

A/N: coltland twins supremacy

Being a kindergarten teacher comes with its fair share of spontaneity, something you've grown accustomed to. What you didn't expect? Falling for a certain Dr. Grace.

Evidently, you are not smarter than a sixth grader. Class got out around an hour ago, and you figured you’d easily be able to start and finish the rocket you promised Ben you’d make. 

Apparently you were dead wrong.

You look down at the mess before you, various bits and pieces of cardboard scattering your desk, open scissors that you’d definitely scold your students for, and a paper towel roll. You’d even brought paint in the midst of your naivety, convinced you’d get to the point of decorating tonight. Truth be told, this is your fault for thinking you’d be patient enough to hold the pieces together while waiting for Elmer’s glue to dry. 

“Stupid…” You whisper to yourself, brows furrowed in concentration as you toss yet another piece of cardboard in the trash. You’re slowly running out of the cereal box shrapnel you’ve been using, and you’re about two mishaps away from saying screw it and hoping Ben forgets about the model altogether. You groan, opening a desk drawer and retrieving a stapler. 

It won’t exactly be pretty, but the glue you currently have stuck under your fingernails isn’t either. 

Alright. You’ve got the body of the ship, a piece of cardboard you think will make the top if you roll it right, and three wings for the base. Should be simple enough. You begin rolling one piece, forcing it into the shape of a cone. It comes together fairly painlessly. Uneven at the bottom, but you can fix that with some scissors later. You throw in a few staples, hold it up to the light and shrug. 

“Good enough.” You mutter, beginning to cut off the excess with a pair of scissors made for kindergarteners. Stupidly, you’d thought your extensive experience with craft-time would’ve made this easy. Clearly fingerpainting doesn’t exactly translate to model building as well as you thought it would. 

You prop the cone atop one end of the paper towel tube and press your lips into a line. It’s rocket…esque. Better than your first idea, which consisted of putting a ping pong ball cut in half on one end. 

Needless to say, that wound up looking like the world's skinniest penis. 

As you ponder how to keep the thing attached a knock sounds at your door, causing a slight jolt to run through you. 

“Door’s open!” You call out, not bothering to tear your attention away from the rocket. Not when you’re finally making some progress on the damn thing. Out of your peripheral you’re vaguely aware of a head of sandy, blonde hair peeking in your doorframe. 

“Hey.”

You damn near drop the whole thing. 

Your head darts up, and there he is. “Ryland.” You breathe out, immediately correcting the awful posture you’d just been sporting. “Hi.”

He smiles, standing up straighter and stepping halfway into the room, like he’s still waiting to be fully invited in. “Hi.” He swallows and looks around the room for a moment before returning his gaze to you. “I saw your light was on, so I…you’re busy, though. So-” He begins to step back.

“No, no.” You stand up, fidgeting with the cardboard in your hand. Deep down, you know there’s no logical reason Ryland should’ve been passing your classroom at all. In fact, it’s the clear opposite direction of the staff parking lot, which is where he ought to be headed right about now. Which means…your stomach flips at the thought of him going out of his way to see you. “Come on in.”

His smile widens just a bit and he steps in all the way, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. His eyes dart every which way, from the cursive itinerary on the board that you’ve yet to erase to the behavior chart hanging beside it. Twenty little clothespins hang off of the green section, each one inscribed with the name of one of your students. He points to it before asking, 

“Are they always this good?” 

You laugh and shake your head, “Not quite. They’re sucking up right now so I’ll throw a Halloween party.”

He huffs out a small laugh and nods, making his way to where you’re standing. You reach out, grabbing the first chair you can find and sliding it beside yours. It’s one meant for a kindergartener, and Ryland pauses for a moment as he looks down at it. He doesn’t complain, not a word, but his lips pull into a slightly amused smirk. 

“Sorry.” You say quietly. 

“No problem.” He replies easily, setting his bag down and sinking into the seat. You roll your lips together to hide a laugh as you look at him, curling into himself to fit on the tiny chair. He’s gotta be at least six feet tall, and he’s not exactly scrawny, either. Far from it, actually. The poor chair creaks as he shifts, and he looks up at you in mild concern.

“Please tell me I’m not going to break this.”

That does you in. You can’t help the laugh that spills from your lips as you shake your head. He smiles, broad and bright in the way he always does when he gets a laugh out of you, like he’s proud of himself for causing it.

“It’s sturdier than it looks.”

“Has this been tested by someone other than kindergarteners?”

You offer up a sheepish grin as you admit, “Not really, no.”

His lips tug into a ridiculously handsome, amused smile as he replies, “I’m afraid I’m significantly larger than the average five year old.”

“You’ll be okay.” You reassure. “Besides, even if you break it-”

“I thought you said it was sturdy.”

“If-” You repeat “you break it, I’ve got plenty more.”

“I’m slightly more concerned for myself than the chair.” 

You laugh again, watching as the smile on Ryland’s face grows. He finally averts his gaze, letting it land on your desk. “What’s this?” He asks, sitting up straighter to see the whole mess ahead. You sigh, running a hand through your hair. 

“I’m trying to make the model.” You admit, feeling a little sheepish right as the words leave your lips. Here you are, a full grown, competent woman, kept late because you can’t manage a damn cardboard spaceship. Ryland’s eyes soften, and he looks back at you.

“You didn’t really have to do that.” Even as the words leave his mouth he’s standing, gingerly picking up the unassembled pieces. 

“I know, but Ben asked me to, and...” You trail off, not particularly eager to tell Ryland the rest of your reasoning. That being that it would give you another excuse to see him. His hands, which had been piecing together the cardboard parts, halt for a moment. He looks at you, tilting his head ever so slightly. 

“And?” He questions gently. You swallow thickly, looking up into his eyes.

“I said I would.” It isn’t exactly what you were thinking, but it is the truth. You don’t like making false promises, especially not to kids. Not when their trust, their belief in you is given out so freely. No, you can’t stand the thought of shattering it for them. The idea that when someone says something, they really do mean it. 

They’ll figure it out one day, but not now. Not from you. 

Ryland’s eyes soften, his smile growing warmer at your response. 

“He’ll be thrilled, you know. He’s been asking about it all week. Wants to know what progress you’ve made.”

You smile, “I hope you’ve been lying to him.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I told him I’m sure you’re doing just fine.”

“Oh, so you did lie. Good.”

Ryland laughs again, a little louder this time, and places your cardboard fins back on the desk. 

“It’s not so bad.” He says, adjusting the cone atop the paper towel roll. His brows furrow in concentration, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “Here,” Ryland reaches for the stapler before looking down at you. “Can I?”

You smile, stepping back and handing it to him. “Please, you’re the expert.”

He huffs out a slightly shy laugh and shakes his head. “I’m hardly an expert. I’ve just had a lot of experience.”

You quirk a brow. “Isn’t that exactly what makes someone an expert?”

He pauses. 

“Partially.”

“Completely.” You retort. 

He neglects to respond, instead putting down the stapler and nodding to himself. “Okay. You need attachment points.”

“I caught that, believe it or not.” You say with an amused smirk.

He huffs out a small laugh, eyes flickering to you for a moment. “Do you have scissors?”

You hand them over. “Also kindergarten sized. Sorry.”

He laughs, forcing a few of his fingers in the undersized handles. Your eyes zone in on that particular motion, which only amplifies the already large size of his hands. You blink, shaking yourself out of some pointedly not school appropriate thoughts. 

“I’ll manage.” He murmurs, beginning to cut small, vertical lines into the bottom of the cone, going around in a circle. Once he’s done, he folds the newly made tabs inward, creating a small base for you to tape the tube onto. He holds it out to you, one finger tracing the new edge. “See? Attachment point.”

“Huh.” You murmur, finally looking up at him only to realize how close you’ve gotten. Your faces are inches away, shoulders brushing ever so slightly. You swallow thickly, looking down to his lips—which sit slightly open—and back up to his eyes again. 

“Thank you.” You manage, feeling heat creeping up your neck. Ryland quickly looks back to the cone, adjusting something that doesn’t require it before handing it over without meeting your eyes. 

“No problem.” He steps away awkwardly, pushing his glasses back up his nose and clearing his throat. There’s just enough distance between you now that if another teacher walked in, you wouldn’t feel the need to leap apart. 

Just enough. 

With shaky hands you reach for the tape, lining it up with the model and pressing it down. Three strips later, and you have a…somewhat decent looking rocket.

Somewhat.

You put it down, deciding the rest can wait for this evening when you have access to a hot glue gun. Swiveling in your chair, you turn to face Ryland.

“So…” You begin, shifting to sit criss-cross. “Can I ask?”

Ryland’s brows furrow into an adorably confused expression. “Ask what?”

For a doctor, he really can be a little slow. You smile, tilting your head and replying “Why’d you stop by? I’m not exactly on your way out.”

“Oh. Um. Yeah, that…” He nods, looking down and failing to hide the way his cheeks flush pink at your question. “I mean, I was already in the building, so…”

Your smile grows more amused, and a touch more affectionate as you respond, “You mean the multi-story building that our classrooms are on opposite ends of?”

He pauses, slowly peeking back up at you over the frames of his glasses. “...Yes.”

You nod, rolling your lips together to hide a smile. “Okay.” You say quietly, opting to spare him any further questions. 

“So,” Ryland clears his throat, eyes darting around the room. You get the distinct impression he’s desperately searching for a new topic to latch onto. He leans forward, grabbing a piece of paper off your desk. It’s filled with the near-illegible handwriting of one of your students, and Ryland’s brows furrow as he tries to make out the lopsided, misspelled script. 

“I’m very sorry for…” He begins reading it aloud, hesitating and tilting his head, “bitting you and Adam.” He looks up at you, a small, amused smirk on his face. “I’m assuming he meant biting?”

You laugh, nodding and replying, “You know the best part?”

Ryland leans back in response, waiting for you to go on. 

“I didn’t even know he bit Adam. Poor guy told on himself.”

He laughs, shaking his head and quirking a brow. “Does that mean you’re taking…” He looks down at the paper, “Tyler’s side?”

“Adam can be a real jerk.”

Ryland snorts. “What about you?”

“That one was completely uncalled for.” That earns you a soft laugh, one that makes your heart stutter for the briefest moment. 

“I’d imagine. What did Adam do to deserve bitting?”

You laugh, holding your hands up. “Pause. I did not say he deserved it. I just…understand both perspectives. And he told Tyler that Santa isn’t real, if you must know.”

Ryland winces and offers up a soft, “Ouch.”

“Right?” You laugh, leaning back in your chair. “What about you? When’d you find out?”

Ryland laughs softly and places the paper back on your desk, folding his hands in his lap. “I pieced it together myself in fifth grade.”

“How?”

He shrugs and looks down at his intertwined fingers. “I did the math once.”

You snort, “You what?”

He looks up, a sheepish smile on his face, “Well, how fast he’d have to move. How many houses. Time restraints. That sort of thing.”

A pause. 

“It came out to about 300 microseconds per house.”

You stare at him, a bewildered smile spreading across your face. “And you figured all this out at…what, ten?”

He shrugs, looking down and fiddling with the end of his tie. “Yeah.”

Your lips pull into a soft smile, something warm and a little disorienting settling in your chest. “How’d your parents react?”

He laughs fondly, shifting and causing the chair to creak. “My mom tried convincing me otherwise, but…well, I was a stubborn kid.”

“I’m not surprised.”

He huffs out a laugh and looks up at you, blue eyes reflecting the twinkly lights you have on the ceiling. God, he really is beautiful. “My brother stopped believing before I did, so I think he was just happy to stop faking for me.”

You sit up a little straighter, tilting your head. “You have a brother?”

Ryland nods, a warm smile on his face. “Yeah, a twin, actually.”

You make a mental note of the new information, squirreling it away and feeling a strange little thrill run through you. It’s as if you get a tiny rush out of every piece of him you’re granted access to. 

“What’s his name?”

“Colt. He lives in LA, does stunt work down there.”

Your brows raise slightly. “Wow. That’s…”

Ryland’s lips pull into a slightly strained smile, an expression that looks painfully rehearsed. “A lot more interesting than a middle school teacher, I know.”

You falter, your face falling at his reaction. It occurs to you that he must be used to this. The interest in his brother, and the coinciding lack for him. You frown, leaning forward slightly and hoping he’ll meet your eyes again. 

“That’s not what I was gonna say.”

Ryland looks up, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “It’s fi-”

“It wasn’t.” You insist. “I mean, it’s a little surprising, sure, but…” You hesitate, looking down at your lap and adding quietly, “There’s nothing uninteresting about your job, Ryland.”

He huffs out a small laugh. “It’s mundane.”

“And mine isn’t?” You ask, quirking a brow and looking back at him. You watch as panic descends on his face and he immediately sits up straighter. 

“That’s not-I didn’t…” He sighs, taking a breath. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it, then?” 

He sighs. “I just…You don’t have to pretend not to be curious.”

You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms. “I’m not pretending. What’s so amazing about it?”

Ryland gives you a look as if the answer is obvious and you’re willingly ignoring it. 

Which you are, of course. 

“It’s exciting.”

“It’s stupid.” 

He snorts, looking down at his lap again. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Quite the opposite, actually.”

“I’m sorry.” Ryland says, looking back up at you. “I didn’t mean to suggest…I don’t think poorly of your job.” He finishes awkwardly, ringing his hands together. You feel bad for a moment for feigning offense earlier. Then again, it’s worth it if it makes him even a smidge less insecure than he’s proven to be.

“I know. You shouldn’t think any less of yours, either.”

He smiles softly. 

“Thank you. I’m so-”

You cut him off with a soft laugh.

“You already apologized.”

“I feel bad.” 

You tilt your head, a smile tugging at your lips. There’s a pit growing in your stomach, one you’d rather not put a name to.

Affection. Gnawing and nagging and refusing to be ignored.

“Well I forgive you. Again.”

“Technically, you never said it befo-”

“Ryland.”

“Sor-”

”Ryland.” You repeat, laughing now. This is the first time you’ve met a man as apologetic as a woman. It’s refreshing, now that you think of it. 

“Okay, okay.” He says, putting his hands up and laughing right along with you. A moment later the overhead lights shut off, causing both you and Ryland to look up in unison. 

“Must be six.” Ryland murmurs, looking back down at you and adjusting his glasses with one hand. You hum, feeling your shoulders sag in slight disappointment. 

“Guess that’s our cue.” 

“Yeah…” Despite your mutual agreement, neither you nor Ryland make any move to leave, instead staring at one another for another moment. If it weren’t for the sudden darkness, you would be able to pick out the slightest flush on his cheeks. 

“Right-” You both spur to action at the same time, Ryland’s tiny chair squeaking abruptly against the linoleum flooring. He looks as if he’s about to apologize, but he shuts his mouth before the word can slip out. You huff out a small laugh and shake your head, collecting the scattered pieces of your model. 

“When’s this due, again?”

Ryland laughs, shrugging his messenger bag over his shoulder. “At your nearest convenience.” 

“How very considerate of you.”

He grins, a sheepish little expression, and looks down at the battered white converse on his feet. “I try.”

You swallow, hand flexing at your side as you resist the urge to reach out and touch him. A squeeze of his shoulder. His hand, maybe. You haven’t been able to stop thinking about how damn warm they are since yesterday.

“I’ll see you on Monday, Ryland.”

He looks up, clears his throat for the umpteenth time, and nods. 

“Have a good night.”

You have a feeling it’ll be spent thinking of him.

[jo-is-writing]

Balanced Forces - Chapter 3

Chapter 2 -> Masterlist

Ryland Grace x f!Reader

Word Count: 4,273 (I went a lil bit crazy on this one)

Being a kindergarten teacher comes with its fair share of spontaneity, something you've grown accustomed to. What you didn't expect? Falling for a certain Dr. Grace.

Bill’s wearing a bowtie. 

You stare down at the printer, a bemused smile etching its way across your face. The school day just ended, and you figured you would get a head start on the kid’s art project for tomorrow. Decorating paper pumpkins, since Halloween’s coming up. Apparently you’re not the only one feeling crafty. A nametag–very similar to Carl’s–stares back up at you, as well as a red bowtie with little polka dots. You try to finish printing as fast as you can–a little difficult, considering Bill’s less than speedy pace–and, for the second time this week, decide to go see Ryland Grace. 

Once you arrive outside his classroom you hesitate briefly, knuckles hovering in front of the door. It’s decorated with various paper planets, all hastily cut around the edges in a way that tells you they’re the work of his 6th grade students. He didn’t mention what grade he teaches, but you might’ve done a little stalking on the school website last night. You knock once, twice, holding your breath without realizing it as you wait for an answer. What if he already went home? What if he just doesn’t want to talk to anyone? Or, even worse, doesn’t want to talk to you especially? Your mind races through all kinds of unfounded ways you could’ve upset him, right up until the moment he opens the door with that ridiculously charming smile on his face. 

“Did you really change your mind?”

You furrow your brows in confusion. What’s that supposed to…Oh my God.

It’s Thursday, and you crashed his damn astronomy club. 

Behind him there’s a classroom full of middle schoolers, all staring at you with the same look of confusion and slight interest.

You look back at him, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. “You named my printer.” A snort sounds from somewhere behind him, and you try to ignore it. 

“I-” He looks behind him and tilts the door closed a little more, stepping a tad bit closer to you. The motion only amplifies how tall he is, and you hope he doesn’t notice the pink hue to your cheeks. “Yeah. I did.” He seems almost sheepish as he responds, though you can catch the amusement in his eyes. “Carl seemed lonely.”

“Is that why he wasn’t working?” You ask, craning your neck a bit to look up at him. He lets out a small laugh, and your stomach flips uncomfortably at the sound.

“That’s the theory.” He pauses before adding, “Union dispute.” There’s something about his delivery, the way he hesitates before each joke lands, as if he’s not quite sure it’ll come out right. From your experience–limited as it may be–they always do.

You laugh, your eyes bouncing between each of his, down to his mouth and back again. He really is stunning. The kids have switched from vague, half-assed interest to full on intrigue, a few leaning forward in their seats to get a better look. Ryland seems to notice as well, as he clears his throat and announces. 

“Work on question three for a minute.”

“There is no question three.” One voice calls back, causing him to sigh and run a nervous hand through his hair. 

“Two, then.” He looks back at you, an almost apologetic smile on his face. “Sorry, they’re-”

“Middle schoolers?” You interrupt, quirking a brow. He laughs, giving a slight nod. “Yeah. Not a fan, I take it?”

“Not usually.”

He smiles and shrugs. “They’re good kids. A little exhausting, but good.” Something in your heart twists at his words, the sincerity behind them. The thought occurs to you that he’d make a good father, and you smack yourself mentally. Too soon.

You peek behind him again, eyes settling on the living cliche sitting front row. A young boy–no more than twelve–works diligently, his tongue sticking slightly out of his mouth. He’s got big, thick framed glasses, pimply cheeks, braces, with a Star Wars shirt and a terrible haircut. The pen he’s writing with has a planet atop it, and you suddenly feel like the world's biggest piece of shit for your automatic dislike of anyone grades 6th-8th.

Ryland seems to notice the way your eyes soften and gently offers, “You wanna come in?”

Your gaze snaps back to him, and you immediately shake your head. “Oh, no. I mean- I don’t wanna interrupt, or anything-”

“You won’t be.” He cuts you off, then clears his throat and flushes a bit. “I mean, it’s only a club, so…no worries either way.” His eyes dart down to the floor, and even if you wanted to–which, deep down, you don’t–you don’t think you could bear the guilt of turning down the man in front of you.

“Okay. I mean, if you’re sure-”

“I’m sure.” He rushes to get the words out, as if he’s worried you’ll run if he makes one wrong move. For the millionth time, you wonder how Ryland of all people wound up so damn unsure of himself. Smart, funny, sweet, gorgeous Ryland.

You nod and he steps aside, holding the door open for you. Inside, you find paper mache planets hanging from the ceilings and science themed posters covering every inch of available wall space. On the whiteboard there’s two brainstorming questions that the kids appear to have finished, since they’re all staring at the two of you expectantly. 

Ryland clears his throat and extends an arm towards you, “This is Ms. Y/L/N. She teaches kindergarten.” He pauses, as if waiting for some kind of reaction besides confusion, and then drops his arm back to his side with a quiet thud.

“Why is she here?” One kid asks bluntly, causing Ryland to sigh and squeeze his eyes shut as he responds, “That wasn’t very polite, Zach.”

“I’m just aski-”

You cut him off, a smile on your face at the obvious embarrassment on Ryland’s. “It’s fine. I’m…uh…”

I think your teacher’s hot. You think.

“I’m visiting.” You say dumbly, cursing yourself mentally the moment the words leave your mouth. The kids offer up several quirked eyebrows as well as a few eyerolls, and the irony hits you that you’re being judged by a room full of nerdy 12 year olds. You straighten your shoulders a bit and try not to feel too belittled at the thought. 

“But why?” One voice calls out. Damn child-like curiosity. 

Ryland steps forward with his hand up, a gesture that works remarkably well to silence the class. “Have any of you considered that maybe she’s interested in space?” You nod along, despite the fact that you most definitely are not. In fact, as a general rule of thumb, you try to avoid dwelling on the topic too long. And when you do think about it, it usually ends in an anxiety attack over the vast unknown.

Still, it sounds a lot more appealing out of his mouth than from your own head. 

The silence in the classroom is damn near unbearable, so you raise two thumbs up–an awkward gesture that reminds you very much of the man beside you–and say “Big fan.” in the least convincing tone you’ve ever heard. Ryland looks at you, and you have a feeling he knows you’re bluffing. Still, he turns back to the class and extends a hand towards you. 

“See? Big fan.” 

The class seems convinced at best, or too bored to keep pestering at worst. Either way, you’ll take it. Ryland rounds his desk and leans over his computer, typing for a few seconds before standing up straight and clapping his hands together to get the class’s attention. “Alright,” He pauses, noticing the way you remain rooted to your spot at the front of the class. 

“Um…you can…” He gestures to the worn, spinny chair beside him, and you snap into action with an awkward, muttered apology. Your face burns as you sink into the tattered black pleather, and you immediately start picking the peeling material. Behind you a projector lights up the whiteboard that Ryland’s currently erasing. “Lights, Anna.” He says, and a girl with curly red hair pops up from her seat and flicks them off. A second later, Bill Nye lights the room in all his glory, the show’s intro music filling the space. 

Now that the attention is–mostly–off of you, Ryland kneels to be eye level with you, just in time to hear you whisper a humiliated “Oh my God.” and cover your face. He laughs and shakes his head, reaching out as if to pull your hands back before immediately retracting.

“It wasn’t that bad.” He murmurs quietly. 

“It was worse.” You retort, your voice muffled by your now clammy hands. 

“They’re middle schoolers. They don’t care.”

You pull your hands away and fix him with an unconvinced stare. “Oh yes they do.”

“They don’t.”

You quirk a brow, unconvinced, and he holds out one pinky that’s probably the same size as your index finger. “Promise.” He says, a boyish smile on his face that makes your heart leap into your throat.

You encircle your pinky around his, hoping Mr. Nye’s pasty skin doesn’t cast enough light to reveal the blush on your cheeks. “Fine.” You whisper, though you’re not really convinced, just wooed by the man in front of you. He pulls away after just a moment too long, and you swear, there’s a slight tremor in his hand when he does. 

“So,” He reaches behind him and grabs a stool which drags against the floor with an unfortunately noticeable scraping sound. 23 pubescent heads whip in your direction, and Ryland holds up an awkward hand and whispers a quick “Sorry.” in response. He slowly sinks down, avoiding eye contact with both the class and yourself, moreso when you clasp a hand over your mouth to hide the laughter bubbling up from your chest. 

“So,” Ryland tries again, running one shaky hand through his hair. “Why did you come? Not to-” He cuts himself off, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I’m not complaining. I just-”

“Confused?” You ask, leaning further into his chair. It carries the distinct scent of clean laundry and coffee, and it occurs to you that the smell is his. You find yourself inhaling a little deeper, like a teenage girl who just got a guy’s jacket draped over her shoulders for the first time. 

“Curious.” He corrects, and you wonder if it’s only because he hopes the positive connotation will make you feel better. He seems to be that kind of thoughtful. 

“I forgot it was Thursday.”

He snorts. “Not interested in space, then?”

You shake your head and laugh lightly. “Not particularly, no.”

A flicker of disappointment crosses his eyes, though he hides it well, and you curse yourself for putting it there. “You don’t have to stay. If you don’t want to.”

“I do.”

You swear, you hear his breath hitch.

“It’s not boring. Or…I try to make it fun, at least.” He’s so careful with his words, like the idea of extending himself a compliment is some kind of crime. It makes something ache deep in your chest, and you’re suddenly reminded of the boy you noticed earlier. Your eyes flicker back to him, all gangly limbs and curiosity, eager and timid at the same time. You look back to Ryland, and it’s easy to imagine a kid like that behind the man in front of you. 

“I’m sure you do.” You murmur, and he leans in ever so slightly, whether to hear or just to be closer, you can’t tell. A small smile tugs at his lips as he whispers back, “Thanks.”

The moment is broken when you hear a kid clearing her throat, and realize the video ended a few seconds ago. 

“Mr. Grace?” His head pops up and he stands, adjusting his tie nervously. “Sorry. Right. Okay. Questions?” You look up at the whiteboard, actually bothering to note the topic of the video for the first time, something about balanced force. A few hands raise, and Ryland points to a kid near the back, who immediately says, 

“I don’t get it.”

“What don’t you get?” 

“Any of it.”

Ryland nods, propping his hands on his hips and blowing some air out of his mouth. He doesn’t seem to be annoyed, just thinking. “Alright.” He says after a moment. “I need a volunteer.” A second passes, and exactly zero hands raise in response. “No one, really?”

“What about her?” One kid asks, pointing to where you’re sitting behind Ryland’s desk. Your eyes widen, and you catch the way he tenses at the suggestion. A few more voices chime in, all in agreement that you should be the volunteer. Ryland hesitates for a moment before turning to look at you. 

“That…I mean, that’s really up to…only if you want to.” He says, looking terribly unsure of himself. His brows are furrowed up into something almost hopeful, glasses slightly askew, and once again, you can’t bring yourself to say no. 

“Yeah…yeah, okay.” You agree before you can think better of it, standing up and smoothing your hands down your shirt. Ryland nods, a small smile on his face as you approach him.

“Thanks.” He whispers once you get closer, quietly enough that only you can hear. His eyes meet yours over the rim of his glasses, and you can’t stop a smile from appearing on your face. 

“You owe me.” 

He huffs out a small laugh and nods before holding his hands out. “Okay. She’s gonna push down on my hands as hard as she can.” You continue to stand motionless, staring until he clears his throat as quietly as possible. 

“Sorry.” You mutter, gingerly placing your hands atop his. His shoulders stiffen a little with the motion, and all you can think about is how damn warm he is. His hands flex slightly under your own, fingers ghosting the underside of your wrist in a way that has you holding back a shiver. Slowly, you apply pressure, not really sure what this is supposed to be demonstrating. 

“You can…” You take the hint and push down harder, trying not to focus on how easily he withstands the force. He’s not wearing his blazer, and you can see his muscles flex ever so slightly under his shirt. To make matters worse he nods, murmuring a quiet, “There you go.” His voice is lower than you’ve heard it before, and that along with the whispered praise makes your cheeks flush in a way that must be noticeable to his students, who’ve gone dead silent. Since when have middle schoolers been so perceptive?

He turns back to the class, not budging an inch even as you push down with all your strength. “Okay, so” he clears his throat, “this is balanced force. We're both applying equivalent amounts of pressure.” Pressure, maybe. Effort, definitely not. He doesn’t even seem like he’s trying, which is incredibly hot, unfortunately for you. “Equal force, opposite directions, nothing moves. But, if one changes–either by increasing or decreasing–the balance breaks-” He presses his hands upward more firmly, easily lifting both his and your own. “And you get movement.”

His eyes flick back to your own, and you find a rosy hue on his cheeks to match the one on yours. He swallows thickly, his hands still lingering below your own. You pull away after a moment too long, and it’s like a cord snaps between the two of you. You each step back in tandem, and Ryland somehow manages to wipe his hands on his jeans, fix his glasses, and tug at his tie all in the span of a few seconds. If there was a world record for the most nervous gestures in the least amount of time, you think he just broke it. 

As for you, you’re staring and you know it, but it’s difficult not to when your hands are still buzzing from his touch. He clears his throat for the umpteenth time, forcing his eyes away from the floor and onto the kids. 

“Makes sense?” He asks, his voice notably stiff. The student who asked the question has a perplexed look on his face, although you have a feeling it’s for an entirely different reason, now. 

“Um…sure.” Ryland, who would usually over explain until he was certain his students understood, takes that hesitant confirmation and runs with it. 

“Perfect. Great. Okay.” He nods once, a little too quickly. “We’re gonna be working on our models for the rest of the day, so…” He reaches over to a nearby cabinet and opens it, revealing dozens of half-completed model rockets inside. There’s one at the very top that’s finished and substantially more intricate than the rest. You have a feeling it’s Ryland, and he becomes all the more endearing when you picture him working tediously on it. 

“Have fun.” He says, moving aside so the kids can grab their projects. He retreats back to his stool and plops into it, relaxing his shoulders for the first time since the demonstration. You follow suit, settling back into his chair. 

“That yours?” You ask, pointing to the model on the top shelf. He smiles a little sheepishly and nods. 

“Yeah. I figured it might help if they had an example.”

You look back up at it, squinting at the lettering on the side. “What does it say?”

“Newton.”

“As in Isaac?” You ask, glancing at him over your shoulder with a grin and a quirked brow. 

“Um…yeah.” He’d be mumbling if he spoke any quieter, and Ryland Grace–somehow–becomes even more endearing than he already was. 

“It’s good.” You say, hoping you sound as earnest as you feel. The point seems to come across, as his eyes soften behind slightly smudged lenses. He quickly busies himself with cleaning them, a not so subtle means of avoiding eye contact as he responds, 

“It wasn’t very complicated. Just a matter of finding sturdy enough cardboard, really.” You tilt your head, entirely unconvinced as you look back up at the project. 

“You built a launchpad to go with it.”

His glasses are spotless, yet he continues rubbing at them with the bottom of his tie. For the first time, you notice the little constellations decorating it. Fuck, he’s precious. “Also just cardboard.”

You deadpan, crossing your arms. “Ryland.”

He looks up at you over the rim of his glasses, an almost sheepish expression on his face. 

“I think it’s very cool, and if you disagree, that’s basically insulting my taste.” It’s illogical and frankly a pretty lame tactic, but you use it brazenly nonetheless. He huffs out a small laugh and finally slides his glasses back onto his face. 

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“It is today.” You reply easily, “So just say thank you and move on.”

He sighs. 

You glare, just a little.

“Thank you.”

Your face immediately melts into a smile, all earlier traces of stubbornness gone. “You’re welcome.” 

“Mr. Grace?” You both look up in turn, just in time to see the boy you noticed earlier with his hand raised. 

“Yeah, Ben?” Ryland asks. He approaches all his students with a certain kindness, but there’s a distinct gentleness to the way he speaks to this one. It seems someone has a favorite, and you can see why when he raises one little finger and points at you. 

“How come she doesn’t get to make one?” He asks shyly, and your heart just melts. It’s in the way he asks. Why don’t you get to, like you’re being deprived of something and he’s genuinely concerned about it. Ryland pauses, his eyes softening at the question. 

“Well, I mean…she can, if she wants to. I just don’t know that she does, buddy.”

Ben frowns slightly. “Oh, ok-”

“I do.” You blurt out. “Of course I do. You wanna show me how?”

The kid lights up, nodding and practically scrambling out of his chair, one hand wrapped around his model. He plops into a seat beside the desk, and it occurs to you that Ryland has one set up specifically for kids to sit next to him if they so wish. 

Fuck. He just keeps getting better.

“Okay, so, you need cardboard. Mr. Grace said it’s easiest if we all use paper towel tubes, but you can find something else if you want.” Ben continues on with his animated explanation, hands waving every which direction as he carefully describes the painting process. “And then you paint it white. Or…Mr. Grace, do spaceships have to be white?”

Ryland laughs softly and shakes his head with a fond smile. “It can be whatever color you want.”

Ben nods curtly and looks back to you, echoing “It can be any color you want.”

“Sir yes sir.” You say, offering up a mock salute which earns a toothy grin from the boy.

“You get to name it, too.” 

“Hmm. I’ve never named a spaceship before.” You murmur, pretending to think.

“It’s not so bad. You can always just name it after yourself.”

“That feels a little egotistical.”

“What's an egotistical?”

You snort, watching as the boy naturally turns to Ryland in search of an answer. You do too, and find that his eyes are already trained on you. It’s not absentminded, the way he stares. No, he’s focused. Observing.

Ryland Grace is observing you, and the thought makes your stomach flip.

He seems to realize he’s been caught, as he blinks and quickly looks away, clearing his throat before saying, “Being full of yourself, bud. And it’s not a thing. It’s a trait.”

“Oh, okay.” Ben murmurs, unconcerned with the blush now coating his teacher’s face. “Either way, you can name it anything as long as it’s appropriate.” The way Ben says it makes you think Ryland had to make that point clear more than a few times. You look over to him to find him nodding approvingly. 

“Good job.”

Ben glows under his praise, beaming and sitting up a bit straighter. 

“Will you bring it next week?” He asks you, a look of excitement on his face that reminds you an awful lot of the kindergarteners you teach. Oh, God. Ryland’s got you going soft on middle schoolers. 

“It’ll be on your desk by Thursday.” You say with mock seriousness. Ben tilts his head and looks between you and Ryland. 

“No, you turn it in to Mr. Grace.” You laugh at how literally he takes your response, nodding along. 

“Right. Silly me. Thanks, Ben.” 

“You’re welcome!” He says, getting up and scampering back to his desk just in time for the club to end. Students immediately begin filing out, and you watch as every single one stops by Ryland’s desk to say goodbye. He high fives one, fist bumps another, and does the Star Trek hand to Ben. Anna the lights girl even gets an exaggerated salute, one that has her laughing the whole way out the door. 

Slowly, it dawns on you that he has some ritual with every single student. No one passes by without some small exchange that’s entirely theirs. Small, mostly, but clearly important.

And the whole time, Ryland’s got this smile on his face, the kind that pulls at his eyes and makes your stomach do summersaults all the way up to your throat.

He remembers every single one.

You watch in something close to awe as the last student leaves and he sighs. Not annoyedly, not even tired, not really. Just fulfilled. Happy. He waits a beat before turning back to his desk, stacking various papers and sliding them into a messenger bag. It’s adorned with little keychains and buttons, half of which look to be handmade. You imagine a few of them must be gifts from students. 

“What?” You blink at the sound of his voice, realizing you’ve been caught staring.

“You’re really good with them.” You say, quieter than you meant to. In fact, you’re not sure that you meant to say it at all. It just slipped out. 

“They make it easy.” He murmurs, looking down and grabbing an expo marker. He immediately begins fiddling with the cap, twisting it left and right as his ears tinge pink.

“Do they?” You ask, a smile etching its way onto your face. He laughs softly and shrugs. 

“Most of the time.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“They’re good kids.” He argues, finally putting down the marker and shrugging his bag over his shoulder. 

“And you’re a good teacher.” You retort. For a moment it looks like he’s going to argue, but his shoulders droop in defeat last second. 

“Thank you.”

“See. You’re learning.” Ryland laughs softly, nodding and making his way towards the door. There’s a stiffness to his movements, as if he’s bracing himself for something. Gathering up whatever scraps of courage he can find before he turns around and says,

“I-” He clears his throat. “It was nice. Having you here.”

You pause, brows lifting ever so slightly. He looks so nervous, it makes your heart stutter in your chest. “I had fun.” You say quietly, a smile tugging at your lips.

“Good.” He says quickly, nodding once and looking down before quietly echoing, “Good.”

“If you ever want to come again, you’re always welcome.” The invitation is nervous and hopeful all at once, spoken with a certain softness that you’re beginning to grow quite fond of. Your eyes widen just a touch and you nod, stepping forward ever so slightly. He looks up at the motion, swallowing thickly.

“I will.” You reply, watching as relief floods his eyes. He smiles, still a little tentative as he says, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

[jo-is-writing]

Balanced Forces - Chapter 2

Chapter 1 -> Masterlist

Ryland Grace x f!Reader

Word Count: 1,499

Being a kindergarten teacher comes with its fair share of spontaneity, something you've grown accustomed to. What you didn't expect? Falling for a certain Dr. Grace.

Today, the elementary printer is working just fine.

Unfortunately. 

You pause outside the door, your laptop open on your arm. The kids are at recess, and you’ve got a stack of counting worksheets to print; bug themed, today. And yet, you have the ridiculous, girlish urge to venture back into the middle schooler’s domain. All in search of those stupid blue eyes that kept you up half the night. You sigh, looking back at your computer screen. Four smiling caterpillars stare back up at you, and you swear, something about them looks suddenly judgemental. 

With a final sweep of the hallway–as if someone’s about to catch you in a terrible crime–you turn around and begin the walk to the other printer. “This is ridiculous.” You mutter to yourself as you pass the Astronomy Club flyer from yesterday. Mentally you correct yourself.

I’m ridiculous.

Once you reach the wooden door that reads PINTER (the R fell off years ago and nobody ever bothered repairing it) you knock hesitantly. The peculiarity of the action only occurs to you after it’s already been done. Why are you knocking? It’s not a bathroom, it’s probably empty. And why did you come all the way here anyway? He might not even be in the-

“Hello?” The door swings open to reveal a somewhat confused looking Dr. Grace on the other side, and you have to hold back a sigh of relief. 

“Um…hi.” You say awkwardly, offering a smile which he returns readily. 

“Y/N.”

“Ryland.” You swear his cheeks flush a little when you say his name, though it can’t be any worse than your own. 

“Is your printer broken again?” He asks, tilting his head in a way that makes him look adorably similar to a golden retriever. His glasses go slightly askew with the motion, and he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care enough to fix them. 

“Nope.” Shit. Why’d you say that? You could’ve just lied. His brows furrow together, but his smile grows a little wider. He knows. He so knows. “Just occupied.” You tack on and hope it sounds more believable to him than it does to you. 

“Hopefully not for long. He’s not being very cooperative today.” He says, hiking a thumb over his shoulder. Just then you notice the rolled up state of his sleeves and the ink staining his hands. You try not to let your eyes linger and fail miserably, zeroing in on a vein that runs up from the back of his hand and disappears under the cuff of his baby blue button down. His tie is slightly loosened around his neck, and you swear in this moment, he’s the hottest man you’ve ever seen. 

“Oh?” You ask, finally forcing your eyes back to his own.

“Here,” He says, stepping aside to let you in. There’s a few crinkled up paper balls on the ground, each adorned with various ink splatters. Clearly he’s been at this a while. 

“What’s the issue?” You ask, fully expecting him to know. He adjusts his glasses, and it leaves behind a small, black stain on the bridge of his nose. The urge to swipe it away is damn near overwhelming, but you manage to keep your hands at your sides.

“Not sure.” He shrugs. “I’m assuming something with the ink canister, cause…well…” He lifts his stained hands, wiggling them slightly. The motion makes you laugh a bit, and he seems overly pleased with himself for the small reaction.  

“Aren’t you a doctor?” You ask a little teasingly. He looks at you, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“Of molecular biology. Not very applicable here, I’m afraid.”

“How very useless of you. When will that come in handy, then?” He snorts, looking down at the ground as his smile grows.

“I mean, if you really want to know-”

“I do.”

That gives him a moment’s pause, as if he’s unused to the idea of someone wanting to hear his ramblings. You can’t imagine why. His eyes meet yours, and he swallows thickly before beginning to speak. “If you wanted to make a new drug, for example. Not that that’s very relevant to teaching kindergarteners, of course-”

“Go on.”

“Right. Food safety, too. I mean, you should really keep track of what bacteria grows at certain temperatures.” He pauses abruptly, “Not to say that you don’t. I’m sure your food safety is…um…excellent.” His voice trails off at the end, and it occurs to you again how shy he is for a man you’d expect such confidence from. A doctor. A handsome doctor, and he’s stumbling over himself, covered in ink and a very flattering, pink flush. 

You nod, the smile on your face reaching your eyes now. “Nice to know I’ve got that going for me.”

He clears his throat and nods, averting his gaze. “Yeah. Anyway, printer?”

You look away as well, refocusing on the temperamental machinery. “Printer.” A thought occurs to you, and you slowly look back up at Ryland. “Y’know, you could always just use the elementary one.” 

He looks back down at you, brows furrowing. “I thought you said it was occupied.”

Fuck.

You hope he can’t see the way your eyes widen in the dim lighting. “Um…yeah. Probably not anymore, though. I was just being impatient.” 

“Aren’t kindergarten teachers supposed to be patient?” He asks, though there’s not an ounce of judgment in his voice. More amusement than anything.

“Most of the time, yes. Not so much with printers.” 

“And why’s that?”

“They’re not very cute, for one.”

He shrugs, looking back at the printer with its lid cracked open. “He’s cute…in a way.” You snort, tilting your head in the same way Ryland is. 

“It’s a he?”

Ryland points to a small nametag you hadn’t noticed before, made very clearly from construction paper and sharpie. CARL You roll your lips together to avoid laughing, looking back up at Ryland. “Did you…make that?”

He stares directly ahead as he responds “...Maybe.”

You nod, taking a deep breath to keep from laughing. “Why Carl?”

He shrugs. “It was the first name I thought of.”

“Okay, well, Carl-” You cut yourself off. “Sorry, does he have a bowtie?”

“He’s at work.”

You snort. “Got it. Elementary printer?”

“See, that’s such a mouthful. Carl rolls off the tongue much be-”

“Ryland.”

“Sorry.”

The two of you continue your chatter throughout the walk, the halls shifting from sterile white tile to the colorful, sloppily made decor provided by elementary art classes. You pass one wall adorned with exactly 21 paper ladybugs, a heading on the top that reads MS. Y/L/N’s LITTLE LADYBUGS:

Ryland pauses beside it, looking up and pointing at a slightly larger ladybug at the top, made with a notably greater amount of precision than the rest. “Yours, I assume?”

“How could you tell?”

“It looks just like you.” He replies, and the smile on his face when you laugh is damn near blinding. 

You eventually reach the printer room, but not before he pauses to correct a kid’s painting of the solar system, hung up proudly beside the fire alarm a fourth grader pulled last month. 

”That should be Mercury.”

”I’ll be sure to let him know.”

Ryland holds the door open as you slip into the dark room, the lightbulb above flickering to life. He props his laptop on the printer's surface, opening it to a lengthy test. 

“Fun.”

“Tell my students that.” He mumbles, adjusting his glasses and still squinting despite them. You check the time as a silence caught somewhere between awkward and comfortable washes over the two of you. 12:50. You’ve got ten minutes until the kids are back from recess, which should be enough for both you and Ryland to print what you need and get back to class.

You would definitely have enough time if you hadn’t walked all the way to Carl in hopes of seeing a certain Dr. Grace, but you try not to dwell on that. 

Eight minutes later you’re prepping to leave, 20 sheets of the judgemental caterpillars in hand, and Ryland breaks the silence right as you get to the door. 

“You like bugs.”

You pause, turning around to face him. “What?”

“You like bugs.” He repeats, shifting his stance slightly. The motion makes him a little smaller, which is difficult to do, considering he’s at least six feet tall. “The ladybugs earlier, and now-” he points at the worksheets in your hand. You look down, considering his statement. It never even occurred to you. 28 years of never realizing you liked bugs, and Ryland Grace clocked it in two days. The thought makes your stomach twist in a way it really shouldn’t. 

“Huh. Yeah…I guess I do.”

He nods, seemingly satisfied with himself for figuring it out. 

“See you around, Ryland.”

He holds up one ink stained hand in goodbye, and you can’t quite wipe the smile off your face as you make your way back to class.

[jo-is-writing]

Balanced Forces - Chapter 1

Masterlist

Ryland Grace x f!Reader

Word Count: 1,304

Being a kindergarten teacher comes with its fair share of spontaneity, something you’ve grown accustomed to. What you didn’t expect? Falling for a certain Dr. Grace.

Teaching at a K-8 school is, for the most part, no different than a regular one. The elementary classrooms have their side, the middle schoolers have theirs, and you make a very conscious effort not to cross that line. Not because it’s prohibited by any means, but because you’d rather die than deal with moody, bratty pre-teens, even for a moment. Kindergarteners can be hellions too, by all means, but they’re not so intentional with it.

Plus, they’re cute, so that helps.

And yet, every once in a while, certain situations demand it. 

“Damn it.” You hiss quietly, slamming your hands down on the printer, which likely won’t help the fact that it already seems to be broken. Your computer screen is the only light available to you, as you didn’t bother flickering the overhead one on when you entered. A glowing image of a Snoopy themed coloring sheet glares mockingly at you, along with an error notification. 

Printer Unavailable.

There’s another one in the middle schooler’s half of the building, across the hall from the science classrooms. It’s not a terribly far walk, and since it’s currently their lunch period, you shouldn’t be bothered by the uncomfortably appraising glares from 13 year old girls, and the ever present screeching of their male counterparts. You sigh, slam your computer shut with more force than necessary, and make your way there. 

For some reason, you find yourself quieting your footsteps, as if you’re somehow trespassing by being in this part of the school. The walls are relatively barren, void of the cheery decorations you’ve grown accustomed to. There’s a few hastily taped flyers here and there. Band tryouts, QR codes to vote for the student council, and one advertising an astronomy club directed by Dr. Grace. That gives you pause. What the hell is a doctor doing in charge of a middle school science club? Matter of fact, what is a doctor doing here at all? You let out a quiet “Huh.” and continue on your way. The halls carry an everpresent scent of pubescent body odor, and you’d like to escape it as soon as possible. 

Once you arrive at the printer room, you creak the door open quietly and suppress a grimace when you see someone already inside. “Sorry.” You offer up, lingering in the doorway awkwardly as if waiting to be invited in. The man inside looks up, and suddenly the trip feels well worth it. The smile he offers is equal parts charming and shy, but he doesn’t hesitate to step aside and make space for you in the small room.

“No problem. Printer broken?” He asks, nodding in the direction you came from. It takes you a moment to respond, caught up in admiring his profile, lit dimly by the singular lightbulb above. Slightly messy, dirty blonde hair with stubble to match, and the brightest blue eyes you’ve ever seen. His jawline looks to be carved from marble, and his glasses rest a little off kilter atop his face.

“Always is.” You manage along with a smile. Damn, he’s gorgeous. If he weren’t looking right at you, you could’ve spent quite a bit longer caught up in your staring. He huffs out a small laugh and steps back from the printer while grabbing the worksheets it just spit out. He drops one, bends down quickly to scoop it up, and stands back up with his glasses now slipping down to the tip of his nose. He pushes them up with a finger, the tips of his ears turning the slightest shade of pink.

Cute, you think to yourself.

“Well, can’t say this one’s much better, but it seems to be behaving for now.” He pats it the same way you would a large dog, then retracts his hand quickly when he realizes it’s in your way. 

“Hopefully. Either way, not the end of the world. Just some coloring sheets.” You say casually, shrugging as you place your computer atop the printer. 

“Y’know, coloring actually relaxes the amygdala.” You pause, a smile spreading across your lips as you turn to face the man behind you. 

“Sorry?” You ask. He raises his eyebrows and clears his throat.

“The amygdala. It’s the part of the brain that triggers the release of corti-” He stops himself, seemingly recognizing the way your brows are knitting together in slight confusion. “It’s relaxing, is all.”

“Huh.” You nod, your smile growing as his ears turn a darker shade of pink. There’s something intensely endearing about the awkwardness he’s displaying. He seems to carry the confidence of a far less attractive man. “Cool.” 

He nods, giving you a far from smooth thumbs up. “Fun fact.” He says, sounding like he regrets the words even as he’s saying them. You can’t help the giggle that bubbles up from the back of your throat as you turn your gaze back to the laptop. The second you look away he runs two–now very clammy–hands down his face, mouthing a pained Oh my God to the ceiling. He lingers notably, despite having absolutely no reason to still be in the room. You turn around, hoping the amusement on your face doesn’t read as judgement.

The printer whirs and clicks in the background, adding to the awkward silence stretching between you. 

“Hi.” You say, a smile tugging at your lips that you’re trying very hard to hide. 

He blinks once, looking like a deer caught in headlights before managing a strained “Hi. Ryland Grace. Science.” He extends a hand and you take it, your stomach flipping quite aggressively at the way his hand dwarfs your own. 

“Couldn’t have guessed.” That gets a laugh out of him. He looks down shyly and scratches the back of his neck, causing biceps you wouldn’t have anticipated to bulge underneath the button down he’s wearing. Nerdy and ripped. Wet dreams really do come true. “I’m Y/N. Kindergarten.” 

He gestures to the stickers your students so lovingly decided to adorn your pants with today. “Couldn’t have guessed.” He echos. He’s funny, too. Another point gets added to the list in your head. You laugh softly and look down. “What, you don’t like them?” You ask, mentally chastising yourself for flirting. Technically he’s still a coworker, though you can’t quite blame yourself when he looks like that. His eyes widen for a moment, and he seems afraid that he’s actually offended you. “No, no-” Once you look up and he sees the smile on your face, however, his shoulders sag and a grin pulls at his lips. “They’re very nice.”

You laugh and nod. “Well thank you, Mr. Grace.” He flushes slightly at the formality of the title and shakes his head. “Please. Just call me Ryland.” Just then, the printer beeps, announcing its completion of the task at hand. 

“Then thank you, Ryland.” You say, turning and grabbing your coloring sheets. He nods with a smile, rushing to open the door for you once you start towards it. Your smile grows even wider, and you can feel his eyes on your back as you make your way down the hall. That same flyer from before catches your eye. 

Astronomy Club with Dr. Grace. Thursdays after school. 6th-8th Grades Welcome!

Funny, wasn’t that…

Wait. 

Wait.

He’s a doctor?

You whip your head over your shoulder, catching his eye yet again. He smirks–an unfairly handsome expression on his even more unfairly handsome face–and looks between you and the poster. 

“Interested?” He calls playfully down the hall. 

You laugh. “Not my scene.”

“Not a fan of science?” He asks, feigning disappointment.

You shrug. “Not usually. The amygdala’s pretty cool, though.” He laughs and shakes his head, looking down at the ground.

“Let me know if you change your mind.” 

“I will.” And when you say it, you really believe it.