Unserious people living in fear are manipulated, then indoctrinated. Republicans can always rely on white people to play the victim and blame the scapegoat du jour.
“You look nice,” Ryland says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit.
in which: You need a date to the wedding you foolishly agreed to attend, luckily your co-worker is a willing sacrifice. Extremely willing.
[warnings: eventual nsfw 18+, a bit of fluff, excessively drawn out flirting]
wc: 14.2k (Whoops) [ Masterlist ] [ ao3 Link ]
Woe finds you on a Tuesday at the staffroom lunch table.
Picking apart the leftovers of a miserable thrown together attempt of fried rice that came to be after realising there were no better dinner options with the ingredients you had in the fridge two days ago and the determination to not get take out more than once a week that would surely fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on.
Eat take out once a week, maximum. Read one book a month, minimum. Sleep more. Stop turning down social invites
The last one is what leaves you particularly perturbed, as your lunch goes lukewarm and your thumb flicks about on the social media profile.
“I just… I can’t say no.” You lament. “It would be weird.”
“Weirder than going?” Margot asks, pulling her own container of lunch from the oven. It’s also leftovers, but slices of impeccably cooked roast with what looks to be red wine sauce and vegetables- no doubt made by her smokeshow of a house husband (he just works from home, she insists. You’re pretty sure the pair are sitting on a lofty investment profile because no man ‘works from home’ cooks roasts bi-weekly and buys his wife diamond earrings for her birthday).
“I don’t know. Maybe.” You manage, the next bite of fired rice tasting like loneliness packed into an over-salted flavour profile.
“What’s weird?” Ryland asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.
The staff room of E-Block is near abandoned. Of the ten-odd teachers with rooms in the little block of aging brick, most tended to eat in their classrooms. Save for you, Margot and Ryland. Occasionally there will be another visitor, but most days, it is just the three of you.
“Wedding.” Margot supplies, sitting down and shuffling her chair in with a sense of poise so rarely found in Middle-Schools. She’s older, somewhere in her early fifties, and still manages to approach the job with the same level of discipline as before ipads made their invasion into the classroom.
Ryland frowns. “You’re already married.”
He’s… well, Ryland's… actually you’re not sure how to put him into words, which is saying a lot considering the literature degree collecting mildew in the filing cabinet of your apartment.
He’s in the same boat as you in terms of finding yourselves with a teaching career. Studied something else first, got your passion and love for it soured by morons and went back to college for a second round, dishing out more cash for a masters in teaching that has you trying to tame fourteen year olds all day. Delightful, truly. Although, Ryland had certainly lasted a lot longer with that first degree than you had. A doctorate. He hates the kids knowing that though. A handful of them had called him ‘Doctor Grace’ last year, after digging about online and getting their grubby fingers on his linkedin profile.
‘Mr Grace’ as he is now known, is awkward. A little socially inept at times, but not enough to come across as anything other than endearing. Now is one such time, as he looks over the frames of his glasses at Margo, the stack of pop quizzes he’d brought to mark and keep himself occupied momentarily forgotten. His eyes darted from her face to the ring on her finger.
“Mm mm.” She hums, shaking her head as she chews, then levels her fork to point in your direction.
“You’re not getting married.” Ryland states when he turns to look at you, like it’s a scientific fact, one he’s so assured of.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr Grace.” You reply, still sort of wallowing at the photos on your phone.
His gaze flickers, a little less sure as the corner of his lips fall and, like he had with Margot, settles his eyes on your hands. Your lack of a ring. “You aren’t, are you?”
“No. My ex is, though.” You sigh, despondent. The reminder glares back at you from the overly-bright phone screen.
“Oh. That sucks.” He manages, clicking open a red pen to start circling and ticking the first sheet on his pile. “Happens to the best of us.”
The kettle rumbles away on the tiny kitchenette. You look at him for a long moment. The best of us. Like it’s happened to him. Ryland’s not one to discuss relationships beyond the occasional quip about quitting to be a house husband like Margot’s. He’s never mentioned past romances, you don’t think he’s been in a relationship in the three years since he started at Grover Cleveland Middle. It’s such a bizarre glimpse at his life, that he doesn't even seem to register what he's revealed, marking as he waits for the boiling water to cook another lunch of instant ramen.
You sit up a little straighter in your chair, weary of knocking your shoes against where his long legs sprawl under the small table. The staff room is meant for ten but is cramped even with the three of you, nothing more than a little kitchenette and big whiteboard in the corner. There’s a shelf against one wall, just far enough away from the doorframe that the door doesn't crash into it when pushed open. There’s a long window the length of the wall on the door’s other side, a good view of the eighth-grade outdoor lunch area. The other staff call it the fishbowl, it’s why they opt to eat in their classrooms, not keen on the kids' eyes on them when it is supposed to be one of the fleeting breaks during their day.
Thank god the door is closed- if the kids heard you whining about this, a wedding, they’d never let up. “I’m considering the pros and cons of skipping it.”
“You were invited?” He baulks, dropping his pen.
You try not to smile, focusing on your self pity instead of the three shoddy attempts Ryland takes to catch his pen from dropping out of his hand, rolling off the stack of paper then off the table. “I already said I’d go too.”
“Why?” Ryland sounds appalled, like that one time you’d caught him trying to explain that the five second rule is not an effective barrier against bacteria to a student.
“It’s complicated.” You say, biting at your cheek.
“Bullshit.” Margot aptly calls. Looking over with the same expression she used to call students on their bullshit. You're not a big fan of having it directed at you.
“We went out for maybe two months in college.” You sigh, setting your phone on the table face-down to stare at your lunch, contemplative. “He’s engaged to one of the girls from my sorority. We’re… friends.”
Margot watches. “With your ex or the sorority girl?”
“Sorority girl. Daisy.” That's the better option of the two at least. You think it is, not that there is much left to save you from the impending train wreck of discussing the relationship woes of your late teens and early twenties with the only two coworkers who care to eat lunch in a communal space. The company is nice, Ryalnd had said once, when you’d asked, gets me out of the classroom.
Margot screws her face up for a second, muttering it again under her breath as if the name offends her.
“You were in a sorority?" Ryland asks, face a little blank as he looks at you from across the table.
It makes you falter, the way his thoughts seem to be buffering like the school's slow wifi. “I… Yeah? That’s the interesting part?”
He shakes his head, looking down at his marking sheets and pushes his glasses up from where they’re slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose. “No, I just can’t picture it.”
You purse your lips, consider pulling up some photos from your sorority days, then remember the kind of outfits the lot of you wore and think better of it. “Well Daisy and I were roommates for a year and a half. She’s nice. Works in PR now.”
“But she’s marrying your ex?” Ryland asks, still kind of baffled.
You dismiss it with a lazy hand wave. “I mean, she asked before they went out and everything. I just think it’s a little weird. I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s going to be embarrassing.”
Margot tuts twice, done with her lovingly made lunch that symbolises how successful she has been in the department of marriage when you have all but failed so far. “Why is it embarrassing? Two months is nothing.”
“I was a little head over heels for this guy.” You admit, sheepish.
Ryland stands up, clears his throat as he turns away. “Yeah? How so?”
His back is to you, as he peels the lid off his cup ramen and wrestles with the flavour packet. You come to the conclusion it’s easier to confess this sort of stuff with only one set of eyes on you. “I was sort of convinced he was my soulmate. He was doing pre-law, witty too.”
“Hot?” Margot asks, always straightforward.
You feel a blush rise on your cheeks as you remember the early days of your sorority experience, flopped back on the bed as you made little love sick sighs at your ceiling. “God, his jawline. And his hair- it was so… ugh!”
The thud is dull when your forehead lands on the table, to the right of your now abandoned lunch. “I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s dumb.”
You hate how you sound- petulant like the kids you prod for not searching for better words in their assignments, moping like your world is ending over something so trivial. It’s not even the new years resolution that has you mulling this over so intently. You’d agreed to go months ago- six months ago- and said yes to the offered plus one, adamant to yourself that you’d have someone by then, a partner or something. Someone of importance.
Attending alone is going to be even worse than if you had just RSVP’d for yourself in the first place. It’s one thing to watch your college friend and ex-sort-of-boyfriend exchange vows alone, and a whole other monster to do it with a pointed empty seat beside you.
All of it tumbles out your lips in a hurried hurl of word vomit, followed by a few moments of silence that has you cautiously raising your head to peek over the wall of your forearms. Ryland is staring at you, cup noodles steaming in his hands where it hovers over the sink, like he’d been about to pour out the excess water. Margot is looking at you with a frown, the same one she wears when teaching senior mathematics and the children have drawn up an equation for her to solve with the foolish belief they could stump her for more than ten seconds.
And just as in class, Margot is not phased for more than a handful of moments. “Then find someone with a better jawline and better hair to go with you. You can borrow mine.”
You blink at her, mulling the words over before asking, “Are you trying to pimp your husband out to me?”
“Only for aesthetic reasons, of course. It’d be nice to have the house to myself for once. Not like you have better options.”
It would sting more if it wasn’t so true. There were very few options and with the wedding only two weeks away, that was certainly not enough time to squeeze in enough dates with someone to justify taking them to a damn wedding.
“I mean, how good is his jawline?” Ryland finally says, walking over with his little cutlery box, plastic chopsticks he washes and reuses almost everyday, to set his lunch down on the table and settle back in across from you. “Are we aiming high?”
There is no way to un-dig this hole, not now that they’ve both decided to put their two cents in. You concede with another sigh and reach for your phone, arms and chin still on the table as you fish about Instagram for a photo. It’s the one that had reminded you of this awful upcoming event, posted by Daisy. You all but toss your phone on the table between your coworkers, sinking a little lower into your folded arms, awaiting judgement.
The photos must be from a walk though of the venue, the pair of them posed together between some old marble arch where they were having the ceremony at. She was laughing, hand on his chest, showing off the ring on her finger while he looked at her, besotted. The caption made it worse. Only two weeks left till I get to marry my man on these very steps.
You like them both, you really do, but the thought of showing up by yourself, as the lonely friend who’d never found ‘it’, your own version of the love they were celebrating, well it was just nauseating.
Margot looks the photo over critically before humming in a sort of so-so tone. “You can do better.”
Ryland looks kind of at a loss. “This is your type?”
As if to emphasise the point, he lifts the phone up and turns it around to show you the image you were already being haunted by. “This is the hair that had you all…”
He doesn't find the words, just waves the hand with his chopsticks around in a messy motion, looks at you critically over the rims of his glasses.
“He slicks it back now. It used to be… I donno. Messy? Fluffy? Good to run my fingers though.” He scoffs a little to himself, dissatisfied maybe with your excuse.
The only forgiving factor is that the photo does highlight the sharp cut of his jaw, which even Ryland concedes to. “He does have a good jawline...”
Yours is better, you want to say. Immediate and impulsive, because it kind of is. Especially when the shadow of his stubble stretches a few extra days between shaves. Your ex is clean shaven- you used to think that was sexy, at least sexier than the patchy beards boys in college had back then. Now you’re kind of obsessed with the so-called ‘5-o’clock shadow’ Ryland sports on Fridays.
It’s not something you’re likely to tell him though, especially not when you glance at the clock and realise you have a duty across campus in three minutes. Saved by the bell maybe, either way you’re able to liberate your phone from the pair of them and their conspiratory whispers, bin the scraps of your lunch and haul ass out of there.
By the end of the school day, you have reached the conclusion that you will blame it on work. That some mandatory day of ‘professional development’ as it is called nowadays, has come up and you will just have to miss the wedding, truly you’re devastated about it all.
Then Ryland corners you in your classroom. The bell’s long gone, as are the students. He’s dressed like he’s on his way out, his green backpack tossed over one shoulder and bike helmet hanging by the strap in one hand. You’re halfway through explaining your plan and the wording you’re going to use in the tragic text message to Daisy when he cuts you off.
“I’ll go with you.”
He’s a little breathless with it, like he’d been saving up all his oxygen to get the words out, leaving him in one big rush as they topple though the doorway of your classroom and splatter onto the linoleum floor between you both.
“I know that I’m not Margot’s husband with a ‘better jawline and better hair’ but we can go and eat nice wedding food- If he’s a lawyer it’s gotta be fancy, right? And we can make fun of his stupid slicked back hair together and you don’t have to be alone or make an excuse and feel guilty about it.” Ryland’s big speech is as flawed as it is heartwarming
Because he does have a better jawline and better hair. And Margot looks between you both during lunch hours and staff meetings like you’re her personal romance drama, there to occupy her during the day.
But the wedding food will be good, your ex will shill out for the best and Daisy has always had a taste for the finer things in life. Ryland is the best company you can think of to have by your side and he knows you well enough to understand how guilty lying about something makes you feel, how it churns your gut.
“Yeah. Okay.” You smile, something warm and fuzzy in your chest.
His eyes don’t move, maybe widen a little before he speaks again, still a little breathless. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
It isn’t a hard thought to come around to, taking Ryland to a wedding. As a date is something that goes unsaid between the pair of you, not sure whether it could be classed as such for real, or if this is simply a favour between friends-slash-coworkers. It is certainly a date for show, to the many college friends you’re about to reunite with after a few years, for your Ex, Jack who’s obsessed with his wife, for Daisy who you’d told years ago to ‘go for it, he’s a nice guy’ working under the assumption that she’d only last a few months by his side too.
You’re not sure which answer you’d prefer, honestly; a date or a favour.
He texts you a lot- after school, on the weekend- asking about what he should wear, what you’re going to wear, how he should prepare for this sort of thing. It’s sweet, cute in a way that has little butterflies flapping around in your stomach.
“Okay, I’ll show you. Wait, hold on.” You placate, setting your phone down on the bed, screen up.
“It’s a lovely ceiling fan, but I doubt it fits the dress code.” Ryland drawls, and you can hear the smile there.
“Ha ha.” You reply, a little echo-y as you lean into your closet to pull the dress out.
He’s up in arms about what to wear, says he needs to know what you’re wearing too so he can match. The invite’s dress code called for formal attire in ‘dark colours’. On the facebook page she’d made for the event, Daisy had a full post going into more detail, about how she’d love any and all dark tones- forestry green, navy, even burgundy was fine. You had taken a firm stance against burgundy considering there’s some old wedding traditions that state wearing red indicated you’d slept with the groom. Which you had, but you were not about to advertise that.
So navy it was.
You’d sent Ryland a picture of the invite, where it was stuck to your fridge with letter magnets spelling out ‘woe’- it had felt fitting when you’d stuck it up there- and several screenshots of the lengthy dress-code post Daisy had made that went into excruciating detail. He wasn’t satisfied though.
Even your attempts to describe the dress you’d bought didn’t work well enough.
“I mean it! you expect me to know what any of those words apart from ‘floor length' means?” he bemoans from your phone speakers, face time call crackling. “I need all the data.”
“Oh listen to you, Mr. Science,” You drawl with a smile, pulling the dress out. It’s too long to hang from a door knob so you have to stretch up on your tip toes to hang the coat hook over the curtain rod of your bedroom window.
“I was thinking of changing my name. Very to the point, don’t you think?” He replies, still smiling as you collect your phone. His eyes are sparkling with something cheeky when you appear back in frame.
Ryland’s dressed down, in one of those dumb science t-shirts he wears on ‘Casual Fridays’ as it is called in staff meetings. This one’s dark blue and has the periodic table on it in worn down white transfer ink. You’ve seen it enough to know the punch line sprawled over his lower stomach even though it’s not in frame. I wear this shirt periodically. He finds an extra layer in humor that the shirt is factually correct as well, that he does in fact, wear the shirt in regular intervals as he’d explained to you during a free-period on one of those casual Fridays.
He’s at his kitchen bench, phone propped up against something, while he taps away at his laptop. You’ve not actually been to Ryland’s apartment before, but it sorta feels like you have, the cramped studio always on display in the back of video calls like this one.
It’s just one long rectangle. Kitchen by the front door, a bench, a gap that is probably intended for a kitchen table but he’s stuck a desk there instead, his bed that’s almost always unmade with a tv wall mounted across from it, and a balcony. Like this, you can see the expanse of it behind him. The stacks of paper piled up on his desk, the extra monitors and little trinkets gifted from students, the sage green sheets of his bed, peeled back on one side, sun shining in through his big glass balcony doors. Honesty, you kind of want to see the view from his apartment in person, he’s a little higher up than you are, in a better part of the city too.
Ryland’s not brushed his hair, it’s all spiked up in different directions and you wonder if the mug he’s been sipping from, periodically, is his morning cup even though it’s just past ten. He’s blinking slow behind his glasses, sitting a little too still for his brain to be fully functional yet.
“I’m sure the kids will love it. Harder to spell on their assessment sheets, though.” You can imagine it, the staff badge, the name on his board in fun bubble writing where it would stay untouched for a whole school term.
You flip the camera, showing him the dress he’s been complaining about not understanding for the last half hour over text before he gave up and called you.
It’s cute, how his head tilts and he leans towards his phone for a second before just picking it up and holding it close enough so his eyes and forehead are just about all that is in frame. “Is that velvet?”
“It’s fake satin. I think.”
“Fake satin?” He repeats, confused.
The dress was one you already owned, bought a year or so ago for another friend’s wedding that you had attended alone but not felt crappy about, even if it did seem like everyone your age was getting married nowadays. It’s got a fitted bodice, but there fabric is a little drapey, looks like it pools over the chest and down towards the fluid skirt. "Wasn't expensive enough to be real satin.”
“Okay, I know what you mean by delicate straps now.” That had been his main hang up, whining about, What do you mean delicate straps? Like they’re about to break?, swearing that the shit he was googling was just not helping the mental image considering there were about six different results for everything.
“Yeah, and here, the lace up back.” You say, stepping up to twist the dress away from where it sat flush against the curtains to show the corset style back, with thin cord lace just a little thinner than the straps.
“Isn’t that going to be a nightmare to put on?” He asks, squinting still.
“There’s a zip.” You say, dragging the little hidden zipper down, showing him how the dress fabric parts and slips open. “So it’s fairly easy to get on. The cords are about as tight as they should be anyway, it isn't hard to pull to fit.”
You fumble a little trying to get the zip back up but eventually just conceded to leave out like that until you put the dress away. When you glance down at your phone, Ryland has moved, no longer sitting down and if you had to guess, is now walking the length of his apartment instead. He looks a little distressed.
“Come on, you’ve got the easy part.” You try, a little concerned he’s about to say he shouldn’t go. “You just have to put on a suit.”
“I can’t just ‘put on a suit’.” He whines, flopping down onto his bed like the world is ending. “I’m supposed to be like, your big ‘fuck you’ to the girl who got with your ex. I’m supposed to look good with you. I don’t know if I have a suit nice enough for that dress.”
“Ryland. It’s not about saying ‘fuck you’ to Daisy, or pulling some revenge stunt. I just didn’t want to go alone like a loser when I said I was bringing someone.” You can’t really help the little breathy laugh that weaves its way though his name, because he sounds like you did four days ago acting like the world was about to end, face down on the lunch table. “You don’t have to come.”
“No, I’m coming. I just need to go through my wardrobe.” He’s cute, you decide, in a round-about sort of way. The determination to play this self elected role well, to perfect it and give it his all, like he does with everything else in his life. The whole situation was elevating your ‘aesthetic appreciation’ of Ryland that you’d been attempting to suppress, to a new sort of level.
You flop down on your own bed, roll over on your side and let him derail the conversation towards lesson planning, listen to him talk about the plans he has for the next weeks worth of classes, a couple of activities he’s got in the works. All while you consider the pros and cons of having him beside you instead.
Ryland was probably the teacher you got on best with at work, despite being from two very different teaching areas. When he’d first arrived, you’d assumed he would be a little pretentious, with his Phd and professional experience beyond the classroom. You weren't expecting him to be so awkward. The children took to him so quickly, and Ryland had told you time and time again that he doesn't understand why they think he’s cool.
Over the years you’ve found that he can be cocky, in certain bouts of confidence seemingly appearing via divine-intervention. A local bar had run trivia nights for some six odd months, and it had unleashed a beast within him.
On Monday afternoon he sent you a photo. A little black bag with a logo you’d googled, realising it was a menswear store before the second photo had come though. A tie, sleek navy like your dress, rolled up neatly with a matching pocket square beside it, both nestled in a box that screamed expensive. You’d sent back a random string of praise, imagining him lulling it over in the store. It was nearly five in the afternoon, he’d left work pretty much on the final bell. You wonder how long he spent comparing the seemingly endless ties the shop’s online store offered, considering what would match best to your dress.
It makes you a little giddy, to be honest, has you dreaming of a situation where you’d asked him to come to the wedding, or where you’d already been together long enough that it was simply a given when the invitation turned up in your mail box.
Neither of you mention it during school hours, not keen on the kids hearing whispers of you and Ryland doing anything outside work hours- students will take anything and run with it.
But he messages you about it constantly. Makes a plan; he’d come to your apartment and you would uber from there to the venue, it was a sunset ceremony and evening reception. He lived close enough that it was a brisk walk or quick bus trip. He pointedly mentions that he would not be cycling- ‘In a suit? God, never’- and makes sure you know that the uber would also drop you both back to your flat and he’d walk home or take another separate uber.
There’s talk about your ‘backstory’, which he takes as seriously as he does exam periods. You tell him it’s not super necessary, that saying you met at work is more than enough exposition for the gaggle of college friends you’d not seen in years. But he was never one to do things in halves.
“We obviously would have met at school.” He says, like it’s a given. Ryland is laid out on the reading rug at the back of your classroom, staring at the ceiling. And the fake clouds that are actually just a hobby-fill glue gunned to paper and taped to the ceiling, he’d turned the fairy lights that are threaded though them on before he’d decided the floor was his resting place. “Maybe trivia is where it happened. We liked trivia.”
“We did like trivia.” You agree, pointedly.
It’s almost impossible to not just sit there and watch him, the student folders that you’re sorting worksheets into acting as a very inefficient distraction.
He’s got a button down on, some pale blue that looks nice under his grey wool blazer. The pale wash jeans and white converse are a bit more casual, but he wears the combination well. Too well. Laid out like this, with one knee up, he looks far too attractive for you to swallow. Glasses pulled down to hang off his jaw, sitting there catching the afternoon light as it came through the windows, casting rainbow refractions onto the back wall.
“Maybe trivia was a date. What would you have done?”
“If you’d asked me to trivia as a date?” You glance up. He’s already looking at you, head tipped to the side, something soft, tentative there in his eyes.
“Yeah.” You can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his chest rises with each breath.
Ryland sounds… nervous, in a way that does remind you of the first trivia night you’d gone to. He’d been dressed similarly there, you remember thinking he looked nice, polished up a little more than he did in the school day with dress shoes and what smelt like cologne. Handsome where he waited by the entrance, backlit by the bar’s warm lighting. He’d been a little twitchy for the first hour or so, but settled into himself by round two.
With the way he’s looking at you, now as he plans out the false scenario that’s beginning to sound a lot more like a confession, you’re starting to get the idea that trivia could have been a date. If either of you had put it into words.
“Enjoyed it, probably.”
“Really?” He looks shy, a bit of a flush working its way up his cheeks.
You smile at him, thinking about how nice it would have been to kiss him in that bar with a sweet cocktail on your lips, dizzy from his flattery about your trivia skills. You hum, nodding a little as you look at the folders and sheets spread out over your desk, feeling a flush rise to your own cheeks.
He knocks when you’re halfway through lacing up the back of your dress, holding the cords with one hand as you open the door. Ryland’s not been to your apartment before, something you’d failed to realise until he called you and asked during his walk over, if you’d have to buzz him in.
He was appalled to find out the front door to your building was sporting a broken lock and had been tied back with a length of rope for the last two months while the landlords procrastinated fixing it.
“See,” You say, opening the door for him, keeping it propped open with your foot as he shuffles in. “My door locks.”
“Still one less lock that you’re supposed to have.” he grumbles, stepping out of his very nice dress shoes. They look expensive- black leather shined up propper.
Actually, Ryland looks expensive.
“You look nice,” he says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit. It’s the only thought spinning around your head. It’s a proper one, tailor made no doubt. Blazer, slacks and undershirt, all three of them a deep inky black. The navy tie he’d sent you a photo of is done up around his neck in a knot neater than you’ve ever seen him wear to work. The pocket square is folded too, fluffed up with a little volume that suggests he did so intentionally.
Suddenly you’re reminded of all those times he’d complained about all the formal conferences and charity gala’s he’d attended during his days in academia. You realise you have made a grave error.
There have always been little parts about Ryland that oozed wealth, the glasses he wore for one, that he told you were antique when you’d asked. The watch on his wrist that you thought looked like some practical sporty thing but found out was actually worth three months rent when you’d googled it out of curiosity. These little things fall out of the spotlight and become footnotes that are often ignored when he’s in his classroom, or tiny apartment.
Dressed in such a nice suit, here in you apartment definitely wearing cologne- the same from that very first trivia night, something a little warm, woodsy like oaky bourbon, sharp and contrary to the fresh nothingness he smelt like at work- Ryland seemed so far beyond you.
“You look good.” You manage, letting the door slip shut and dropping the lace of your dress, it loses its tension a little but stays in the same spot for the most part, to run a hand over the lapel of his blazer. “How long have you had this?”
“Ages. Dug it out of the back of my closet. A little tighter than when I last wore it, but it will do the trick. Right?” He tacks that last bit on, like he’s waiting with baited breath for your approval.
“I’ll say.” You slide your hand down the lapel a little bit, down over the press of his chest. The tightness just shows the subtlety of his build, lean muscle that comes from idle exercise and good diet, maybe even a splash of genetics. He’s tidied his facial hair up a little, slid the electric razor over all of it to make sure it’s the same length, no doubt. Ryalnd’s still got his glasses on, you were a little worried he might have opted for contacts and are very relieved you get to see this outfit complete with the lenses that frame his face so well.
With a realisation you might be getting a little lost in your head, you drop your hand, turning to walk further into your apartment, towards the couch where your shoes for the night sat on the floor. “Right, we'll, I'm nearly ready. The uber will be here soon.”
“Do you need a hand?” Ryland asks, and you’re about to turn, ask him, ‘with what’ when you feel his fingertips against the small of your back. It sends a jolt though your skin, he’s cold. From the outside air, where as you’ve been nice and cosy with the heat on while you’d done your hair and make up.
Goosebumps rise under his hands as they gather the ties for the back of your dress. Something low swoops in your gut, like the dip of a roller coaster, free falling as he chuckles a little behind you. “Sorry, cold fingers.”
You swallow. “It’s.. it’s okay.”
“How tight?” He asks, giving the strings a gentle tug. You almost sway with the moment, feeling a little swept off your feet already.
“Bit tighter.” You manage, as he presses a flat palm against the small of your back, over the criss-crossing cord, and gathers both ties in one hand to pull slow and firm. It tugs you back into his hand, a steadier hold than you’d expected.
“There?” He questions when the dress is pulled in to sit flush with your skin but not dig in. You get the feeling he might have done some research, when he plucks at each string to even them out and make sure none of them are too tight, on how these dresses are supposed to sit.
“Yeah, perfect.” It leaves you like a sigh, as his palm dips, brushes where the zipper sits before pulling back to tie a neat bow, tugging the cords out carefully so both loops are even.
All of it has you lightheaded, directing more effort than necessary to get yourself to the couch and pull your heels on, black mary janes that are comfortable enough to walk in. As you fiddle with the buckles, you eye him.
Ryland’s hair is tousled, intentionally a little messy, not combed or slicked back. Looks like it would be nice to run your fingers though, and you find yourself wondering if that’s why he’d opted for the style, if he’s here, dressed up as the guy with ‘better hair and a better jawline’ that Margot had pitched, unaware that he already was exactly who he’s trying to be.
He holds an arm out for you to loop yours though, walking down the stairs in steady but slowed steps. You smile. “Wow, full gentleman experience.”
“I told you, I can't just ‘put on a suit’. It’s more than that.” He chides jokingly, and you pity the version of you that didn’t realise this was an option.
He opens the door for you- the car door, the door into the building door tied back by a rope (he glares at it when you pass it)- then rounds the back of the little toyota that’s polished up to try and seem fancier than it was. You don’t talk much on your way to the venue, comfortable silence that the driver thankfully settles into.
It’s nearing sundown when you pull into the driveway, a big circular road that’s already crammed with other cars and guests climbing out.
“You can just let us out here.” Ryland says to the uber driver, unbuckling his seatbelt to hop out, then rounding the car again to open your door, hand held out like it’s necessary, when the car is nowhere near low or high enough to warrant such assistance.
You place your palm in his anyway, letting him pull you from the car, no more temperature disparity in your hands since you’ve both been in the car for fifteen minutes, but it still makes your skin tingle. He’s got cufflinks, the same pale gold as his glasses, in the shape of atoms. You flick one lightly. “I like these.”
He smiles, something a little smothered like he’s trying to stamp it down from a grin as he threads his arm though yours again, beginning the small walk to the venue's front steps. “Well I like your dress, so I think we’re even.”
It’s a ballroom, with these big stained glass windows in the room they hold ceremonies in, you’d seen some lovely shots on the venue’s website of sunset light streaming through them. Imagining Ryland in the warm sunlight has you in a good mood, he’s always suited it, even if the city’s never had much to offer.
“Not too much for our first date?” You tease.
Something like a laugh tumbles out of his lips, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “First date was trivia- and you were underdressed. Keep up.”
You flush, crowding a little closer to his side to make it through the entryway without shoulder checking anyone. Had you been? It was so long ago you could hardly remember anything other than jeans, tight ones that dug into your waist when you sat down- tight jeans hardly felt like being underdressed, they probably meant you wanted him to stare at your ass. Either way you let him have the win, as minute as it is.
Doesn't really matter what you wore back then when you’ve got him like this now.
Together you sit about halfway down on the bride’s side, the pew’s nearly empty, only someone on the other end you don’t know but looks vaguely enough like Daisy, that's you’d guess extended family.
“So why’d you like this guy so much?” Ryland asks, quiet enough for it to just stay between the two of you. He’s glancing around, but his eyes keep bouncing back to Jack at the front of the venue, where he’s talking to gaggle of similarly dressed guys, his groomsmen.
“What?”
“Him,” Ryland says, tipping his head a little to gesture at Jack. “What had you talking about soulmates? Couldn't just be the hair, tons of guys have good hair.”
“They do.” You answer, raising a hand to tangle one of the longer stands where it’s dangling over his forehead around your pointer finger and give it a light tug. Ryland’s eyes settle on you, like there’s nothing else to look at. “He made me feel like the only girl in the world.”
“That’s a cliche.” He refutes. “And a song lyric.”
You smile. “I’m serious. He’s like that with every girl he went out with. He’s like it with Daisy. He just loses sight of every other woman, so attentive.”
Ryland stays silent for a moment, eyes searching for something in yours. Maybe permission, or a want, for him to keep digging, it’s almost as if he’s scared what he might find. “What'd he do? To make you feel like that?”
It’s cute, how nervous he is, despite the fact it feels as though all week, the pair of you have been laying this ground work, a path to follow that will lead you somewhere inevitable, like a trivia date, or the messy sprawled sage green sheets or Ryland’s bed. You smile at him, wondering if he’s thought about you in them. You wonder if he knows how easily you could be, that you might just follow him to the edge of the universe.
Still, you answer his question, offering a peek into your brain, the way you used to operate when teenage giddiness was closer than adult yearning. "Took me dancing. Kissed me slowly, cared about how I wanted things to go. It was like he just couldn’t stop looking at me, for me. It was intoxicating.”
“I can’t.” Ryland blurts out, all reckless abandon, and he’s looking at you like you’ve already kissed him breathless just by being here. You let your leg shift to press the length of your thigh against his, warm even through the layers of fabric.
You breathe in deep through your nose, the scent of his cologne sticking dizzyingly to the air, a scent you think is enough to get drunk on even without the assistance of wedding champagne. "Can't what?”
“Stop looking at you.” He clarifies, eyes darting down to your lips. “I can do the other things though.”
A flutter knocks about your chest, unsteady and uncoordinated. “Yeah, you like dancing Doctor Grace?”
“If it’s with you.” He amends.
“And slow kissing? You like that too?”
“Yeah I do.” He’s not even trying to hide it now, gaze settled on the dusty pink line of your lips, his own a little slick with spit when he darts his tongue out to trace one quick line along them.
You almost asked him to prove it, but in your peripherals, down the aisle and pausing at the sight of you, was Macey, another one of your college friends, smiling. So you place a hand on Ryland's thigh, just above his knee. “Good. Really good.”
Ryland looks dizzy with the praise, like it’s all rushed straight to his head.
“Hey Macey, good to see you.” You greet, using your hand on Ryland's knee to tip his legs towards you, making room for Macey to shuffle into the pew.
“Oh my god, good to see you too! It's been awhile, hasn’t it?” She leans down a little awkwardly to wrap you in a hug as you half stand, and it’s good to see someone after so long, to look at them and remember times when things were simpler and you were allowed to be a little stupid, a little dangerous. It’s nice to see her here, for her to sit next to you- Macey’s always encouraged you to be a little wild, and with the way Ryland’s been looking at you all night, you might need her ego-bosting tonight.
“I’m Macey, nice to meet you.” She extends a hand to Ryland over your lap and he shakes it curtly, offering his own introduction.
There’s a big rock on her finger, and you remember seeing it on an instagram post, some dreamy forest scenery with a ‘coming soon to a theatre near you’ caption under it.
“I suppose it will be your wedding next then,” You tease, “Where’s Jamie?”
“Oh she had a work trip, couldn't avoid it. She wanted to come though.” Macey waves off. Her and her fiance met on some film set, both camera operators, at the time, although you faintly recall reading something about Jamie’s name working its way up to director for some upcoming project, amongst the throws of social media posts from people who once knew everything about you and now you only see once every few years.
“So Ryland,” Macey starts with a glimmer in her eyes, something evil and mischievous that throws you back to seeing her in the living room with a bottle of tequila and monopoly board. “How’d you two meet?”
“We teach at the same school,” He grins, a hand sliding to your knee, just along the inside of it, where your dress fabric hangs low with slack, enough for his palm to press there, thumb drawing slow lines back and forth. “A little cliche but I don’t mind.”
Macey smiles, fans her face a little like that’s just soooo romantic. “What do you teach?”
“Science, opposites attract I guess.”
“Please tell me you used that line.” She practically swoons.
Ryland huffs a little laugh. “No, the kids threw that one at me actually.”
“Really?” You question, a raised eyebrow because that was not part of the backstory he’d been cooking up all week.
“Oh yeah. You should hear them. “Mr. Grace, you and Miss are ,like perfect for each other. You should ask her to the spring dance. They’re relentless, I swear.”
He pitches his voice a little, lazy tones and improper grammar leaking out in the way it did when he did impressions of your students and you can’t help but giggle a little.
“Their heads might explode when they find out.” Macey laughs too, then like a stroke of inspiration, slaps her hand against your arm a few times in pure, unrestrained excitement. “God- remember when we found out Professor Morisaki and Professor Collins were married? Holy shit it was like our heads exploded.”
You bark a laugh, muffling it under your hand considering the rather low level of idle chatter in the venue. “Oh my god, I forgot about that.”
“Professors of yours?” Ryland asks, this soft smile spread across his lips still.
“Yeah, we were doing a car-wash fundraiser! They were kissing in the background of one of our photos!” Macey still whispers gossip like she did in college, like your students do now.
Ryland looks a little red in the face when he asks. “A car wash fundraiser?”
Macey smirks, always too good at picking things up from others' words and you kind of want to stomp your heel over her toes to tell her off before you remember how this evening had been going so far. “Oh? Don’t you know? We were a little wild in college.”
You scoff. “A little?”
“Okay, a lot.” She corrects. “The car wash was an annual thing. White tshirts, bikinis. There’s definitely pictures. I have pictures.”
“Macey.” You scold, mostly joking.
She shrugs, straightens up and sits to face the fronts, pointedly not looking at you with a smirk on her face. “Hey- I’m just reminiscing on good times. Don’t you remember the kissing booth we ran? Of course you do you were the most requested-”
Now you stomp your foot onto hers, although she doesn’t do anything but laugh to herself.
Ryland is back to that dazed look, like he’s on some far off planet in his mind, when he murmurs, "Kissing booth?”
You glare at Macey, for a sharp moment. Before patting one hand on Ryland’s chest, leaning in close when you say, loud enough for Macey to hear. “Tell you about it later, handsome.”
He ducks his head a little close to you, a tiny little movement that stops as soon as it starts. His cheeks are the reddest you’d ever seen, looking a lot like he’s about to kiss you now, when there’s a music cue somewhere further up the aisle and a hush falls over everyone. He doesn't look away at first, eyes glued to yours for a long second before he bites his lower lip, to stop himself saying something and reaches a hand up to lace his fingers together with yours over his chest. He pulls it gently to his lap, smothering it in between his warm palms, fiddling with your fingers as the ceremony starts.
It’s beautiful, truly. The light lowered through the stained glass windows, reflecting and casting colour across the whole room, gentle music and teary vows. Picturesque really, and it reminded you of that time you’d all made ‘vision boards’ as a bonding activity, and Daisy had a little corner on hers that outlined the life she’d like to live, from a small sunset ceremony to the little white picket fence outside a cottage. You’re happy she’s finally arrived there, that she has a man who’s willing to give her everything she’d dreamed of.
You tell her as much, when you catch the pair of them in the reception hall. A warm hug for each of them and a firm hand shake between Jack and Ryland. It’s a lot less daunting than you had thought it would be, seeing them with the knot tied, no bad blood lingering or awkwardness about what once was. Just contentedness, with where your lives had led you each.
The food is good and the atmosphere is better, seeing people from a previous life chapter all reunited, laughing and catching up. The reception is held in a ball room, with gorgeous polished hard wood floors and lovely low lighting that hangs from the ceiling in delicate chandeliers. There’s a classical band, a memento board for people to take polaroids and write well wishes on them, a corner with photos from Both Daisy and Jack’s lives, in albums and tacked up on walls, showing where they meet and things bleed together into their future. All of it’s beautiful.
It’s heading into the later part of the night, when some people have excused themselves and cake has been cut, a hefty supply of the champagne depleted, that a nice slow song comes on.
You aren’t really paying that much attention to it, until you see Ryland shift beside you, rising and holding out one hand, palm up, towards you. “Care to dance?”
Something warm spreads over your face, a flush probably, as you lay a hand in his and he ever so gently pulls you to your feet, right in close to him. He leans down again, lips pressing feather-light to your temple before he leads you towards the dance floor.
It’s littered with other couples, celebrating the love they have for each other as well as the bride and groom.
All of it has you a little dizzy, settling a hand on Ryland’s shoulder as his palm slides around your waist, fingers slowing around the lace up back of your dress, pressing into your skin with gentle intent. He’s warm, firm against you, breath fanning across your cheek as you look up at him. “I know this isn’t the kind of dancing you meant, but it’s the best I can do for now.”
You humm, feet shifting in time with his, a slow waltz you weren’t even aware he knew. “I think I prefer this kind of dancing nowadays.”
Ryland’s lips tick up into a smile. “Yeah?”
He looks as good in the warm lamp light as he does in sunlight, kissing across his tanned skin and stubble, showing off the highlights of his hair. You want to run your hands through it, press a kiss to the scruff of his jaw. You settle on talking instead, worried he’s not one for such public displays of affection. “Left my wild nights behind in college.”
He sighs, like this is a devastating blow, hanging his head slightly, glasses slipping a smidge down his nose. “A shame. I was looking forwards to an appearance.”
You purse your lips, lifting the hand from his shoulder to cup his jaw, tilting his head back up a little, the pad of your thumb pressing his glasses back up to where they're supposed to sit. “Might do a private showing. Just for you.”
“You going to wash my car?” He asks, teasing. Eyes following the movement of your hand as it slips back down into place on his shoulder.
Your forehead falls, pressing against his collar bone as a furious blush blooms over your face, the worst it has been all night, murmuring, “You don’t have a car.”
He must have known what you were going to say, or some semblance of it because you certainly weren’t speaking loud enough for him to catch all of it, but he still sighs, a little dramatic. “Guess we’ll have to go with the kissing booth then.”
You lift your head a little, to look up at him where he’s smiling down, mirth dancing about in his eyes. “Oh, what a shame.”
The drawl has him crack a grin, cheeks flushed as he looks away. Fingers dancing slowly along the skin of your back, between the cords he’d tied up so perfectly for you.
For you, all of it. His nice suit he’d dug out from the back of his closet, the smart shoes nudging against yours with every step of the waltz. Ryland would do a lot for you, the realisation comes a little late, considering everything. You lean forwards a little, resting your cheek on his chest, as the song slows right down, indulgent.
“You got plans after this?” You ask, and it sounds so cheesy, so bland once it’s left your lips.
Still, when he answers, the smile is audible in Ryland’s voice. “Thought I was getting a private show. Is that offer off the table?”
“Think I can manage it,” You murmur, listening to the final few chords echo about the ball room, basking in the way his voice had rippled and rumbled through his chest, low against your cheek.
He lingers for a few seconds in the quiet, holding you close against his chest. You wonder if he, too, is basking in it. The closeness, the idea of having something that you’ve both been pretending couldn’t happen, wasn’t there in the air of exhaled breaths and weighted stares.
When he pulls back, there is nothing but adoration in his eyes, hand that holds yours falling low, but not releasing it, palm soft against your waist, almost as if he doesn't want to let you go just yet. “Wanna get out of here?”
“Bit forward, Ryland,” You tease, “we’ve not even taken photos yet.”
His eyes follow yours to the polaroid board in the corner, considers it for a moment before he’s pulling you gently by the grasp of his hand around yours, towards it.
The polaroid camera is a little hand held thing, there’s a stand for it, and poster board instructions on how to set a timer delay.
Ryland insists on taking one of just you, and while you’re grinning, trying to convince him to join you against the black fabric backdrop, the shutter goes off.
He rolls his eyes, but lets you drag him in beside you for the next photo. The timer is set, and just as you’re preparing to smile, something a little sweet and knowing, he gets one hand around the small of your back, knocks one of those very smart shoes against your heel and tilts you into a dip. It leaves you a little breathless, as he smiles, nose almost touching yours, shutter flashing off to the side.
He lets you choose which photo goes on the memo board. “Whichever one you don’t put up there, I’m keeping.”
You look a little silly in both, at least you think as much, caught off guard, and laughing a little out of breath. Ryland insists you look amazing in both. Something a bit selfish pulls at your gut, as you apprise both photos, and eventually, hand the one of you and Ryland to him- liking the idea of getting to see it again, of having a physical reminder of the night you two have spent together.
He grins like he’s won something, pulling his wallet out from his jacket pocket- a crisp brown leather that looks worn but well cared for- and to your mortification, tucks the photo into the clear slot. The one most people put their licences, or photos of loved ones, like heart-shaped lockets back in the old days. Ryland says nothing on the matter and he folds his wallet back up and slides it back into his pocket, waiting for you to write your message on the other polaroid’s back.
You scrawl some comment about happy endings and humble crazy beginnings, Signing your name on the bottom under the image of your laughter, and tack it up on the board next to the one Macey’s left.
Ryland’s got his arm out, hooked there for you to loop yours through again.
You manage to catch Daisy by the bar on your way out, and give her a tight hug, telling her again how beautiful the wedding has been, how happy you were for her.
The night air is crisp and the second you’re outside, waiting for the uber that’s just a few minutes away, Ryland strips off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a lack of hesitation that makes it seems as if he’s been waiting to do it all night.
You look at him and raise a brow, but don’t say anything when you catch sight of his pleased smile. It’s almost devastating to realise he looks even better in just the black button down and tie than he did in the full suit.
Again, the drive is mostly silent, but you notice pointedly, that you’re not going back to your apartment. And when you tilt Ryalnd’s phone and tap the screen awake, you recognise his street name in the trip’s destination.
“Presumptious.” You smile.
He grins back, lets a warm palm wander to the curve of your knee, fingers curling around it then venturing to settle a little higher around your thigh. “How are you going to wash my car if we don’t go to my place?”
“You don’t have a car.” You repeat, curious where all this teasing confidence has come from, if perhaps your very clear signals have finally given Ryland the means to throw out all of that unnecessary nervousness and doubt.
“Right,” He hisses, patting his other hand on his leg, as if to say ‘drat, there goes that plan’. Then he leans in close, whispers to you, “What was the back up plan again?”
“You are much bolder after a few glasses of champagne.”
He hums, a considering sort of sound that rumbles in the minimal air between you. “More so when I know I'm right.”
“And what, pray tell, are you right about?”
“That you like-like me.” He teases, like a child on the playground and if you were a little less level-headed, you might have kissed him right there, leant across the middle seat to lock lips with him in an uber.
But you don’t want the first time you kiss him to be viewed through a rear view mirror by a driver who looks very unimpressed by the conversation happening in the back seat. “You gonna prove that hypothesis in your apartment?”
“That’s very forwards of you.” He teases, head tipping down like he is going to kiss you.
Expect you turn your head, and his lips brush against your cheek, as you tut. “All scientists say experiments are supposed to be conducted in controlled environments.”
He leans back, still close enough for his warm breath to fan across your face. “You’ve been seeing other scientists? I’m heartbroken.”
“Give yourself some credit, your classes are very interesting.”
“Earsdropping, huh? Didn’t think you were the type.” He looks far too pleased by the idea that you’ve listened to him teach, like he doesn't know that when you come for something during class hours that you linger by the door and wait for him to finish whatever he’s saying, as if you could look at anything else when he was so captivating.
“I’ll Tell you exactly what type I am in,” You glance down to tap his phone awake, checking the ride estimate. “four minutes.”
He nods and you wonder if he’d get that head-rush distant expression on his face if you praised him for the patience. It’s something you want to save for later, you decide, for private. Just for you.
Ryland manages to wait, even keep his hands to himself, once you’re both out of the car, leading you though his building with a sort of reverent silence, that you get the impression wouldn’t return once broken. You stand across from each other in the elevator. With both his hands braced on the bar at hip height, Ryland fixes you with a look that echoes in the space, though the mirrors surrounding you and over the idle hum of machinery. You’re still wearing his jacket, over your shoulders, a slight barrier between the handrail and the curve of your back, as you stand with your arms crossed smiling at him.
The giddiness that bubbles up and about inside you, as you huddle in close behind him through the hallway, as he unlocks his door and lets you squeeze in past him, is something you’ve not felt in a long time. There’s not much room for childish excitement in the modern dating landscape, it feels as though everyone is in a rush, trying to get where they want to be with a relationship before it’s too late.
Ryland though, he’s here. You watch him latch the door, before he turns, standing there to let his eyes run up you again.
“Soooo,” He says, pursing his lips and tangling his hands together in front of him, like he’s suddenly nervous.
“So?” You ask, taking a few steps forwards to run your hand down the plane of his chest again, feeling it under your palm just like you did when he’d turned up at your apartment that afternoon.
“It’s been four minutes.” He swallows, and this close you can see how his adams apple bobs. Your other hand reaches up to scratch feather light against the stubble of his jaw, hand on his chest catching on the silky soft fabric of his tie, the one he’d picked out just for you.
Rylands hands are slow, one moves to the dip of your waist, landing where it had during your waltz, if not a little more firm as it presses you close against him. He catches his jacket by the collar, lets it slide back off your shoulders and hang from his grip as it slides to settle on the curve of your hip.
“It has.” You lick your lips.
Tuggin on his tie was not supposed to be a demanding thing, more so a gentle tease like you have been doing all night, stepping around that first move like it was a pitfall trap you’d never make it out of. Expect he pitches forwards much easier than you expected and Ryland's lips are pressed against yours.
Soft and still a little honeyed by the champagne, he moves slowly against you. He takes one step back, then another, pulling you with him and not letting his lips leave yours as he backs himself up against his apartment door.
Your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and a sharp inhale escapes him, almost a gasp, before he melts into the wood at his back, parting his lips and slipping his tongue up against yours.
It’s slow kissing, it’s dizzying and it’s want. Everything he’d promised you hours ago, in the afternoon sun of that venue, looking like a dream come true.
For what could be hours, you stay there, pressed up against him, kissing at his skin, until he shifts his legs, just slightly, enough to press one somewhere between yours, a soft presence halted by the fabric of your dress.
Breathless, you break the kiss and he lays a sweet peck against your temple, an echo of earlier, before he begins to nose at the line of your jaw, your neck. Kissing then sucking at the divot along your collar while you pant. “Ryland,”
He says your name, just as breathless against your skin, his hand dropping the jacket to pull at the chord of your dress.
“Is your doorway where you take all the girls?”
“There are no other girls.” He murmurs like a confession, far more earnest than you’d been prepared for.
“Just me?”
He pulls back, pupils blow wide and face flushed blotchy and red. “Yeah.”
Ryland leans forwards, crowds impossibly close until your feet begin to shuffle, back, back, back into his studio apartment. It passes in a blur as he presses in to kiss your lips again, glued to them until he deems it’s been enough backwards paces and presses another kiss to your jaw. Using his grip on your sides, Ryland turns you around, folds in around behind you.
His bed’s unmade, messy sheets splayed out in front of you, a pile of sage green cotton that feels like a promise, a sight you’ve dreamed about far too many times.
There’s pressure there, against your ass, a hard length that’s tight against his slacks and it makes your stomach swoop to know he’s so turned on by the slow kissing you’d been thinking about all night. His shuddering breath rushes like wind by your ear, as his fingers pull at the bow he’d tied himself. “Been thinking about this for too long.”
“Yeah?” You shudder when his lips find their place against your neck, sucking and biting at the skin there in a way that will probably result in a lasting reminder. “Since you laced it up?”
“Since you showed me this zipper." He pulls at it and the fabric gives, parting to sit low on your hips. Ryland kisses at the juncture of your throat, biting, and nipping.
The dress doesn’t fall, not with the straps still hanging loosely from your shoulders, but it’s a damn near thing. One of Ryland’s hands winds around your waist, dragging you back against him as he presses up with one slow grind that has him choking on a groan. His cock, still trapped in his slacks, drags between the zip and against your underwear in a tease that’s maddening with far too much still left to your imagination.
You try to turn but he’s got you wrapped up so firmly in his arms that it’s not plausible, so instead you reach a hand back, over your shoulder to tug at the knot of his tie, fingers slipping against the silky marital, catching in the bulk to it to tug. A particularly hard tug has him whining.
“Okay,” You huff out as he sucks a little harder just under your jaw that will definitely result in a hickey if you let him continue for much longer. “Come on, don’t you wanna fuck me?”
You punctuate this by groping around between you both until you get a hand over his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Need to remember this bit.” He mumbles, hand around your waist retreating to slip inside your dress from behind, curving back around so his fingers can skate over the soft skin of your stomach, tips slipping just under the waistband of your panties.
It has you clenching down on nothing and you become actually aware of how uncomfortably wet you’re beginning to get. You squeeze your thighs together, squirming in his grasp.
“Next time, Ry-” He splays his hand over your stomach, using it to press you back into him. “Ryland, come on. Need you.”
It tumbles out in a breathy whine, and it’s like you’ve said the magic words. He’s turning you around in his grasp, hands reaching up to slip the straps off your shoulders and marvel at the sight.
He swallows as you reach for his tie again, loosening it gently now you can get your fingers into the knot properly. Ryland’s hands hover nervously before settling against your rib cage, fingers brushing anxiously against the underside of your breasts.
Your dress was not one that lent itself to a bra, so you’d gone without. You had assumed that he’d figured that one out, given how he’d both laced and un-laced the back of it, but now that it’s out of the way, he’s looking at your chest like he hadn’t expected to see it so quickly.
“You mean it?” He manages, sounding all tongue tied as you pry the tie off, letting it fall onto the floor, blending into the puddle of your dress- a perfect shade match. “I.. I get a next time?”
“Yeah.” You breathe, working on his shirt buttons, one after the other, coming apart as easily as Ryland did under your gaze. “As many as you want.”
When you get to the bottom of his shirt and reach for the belt buckle, Ryland’s hands move from where they’ve been gently nudging your breasts, to your wrists, snagging them gently as he pulls them back. His shoes nudged against yours, another one of those silent signals to step back that you didn’t know you understood so well until tonight.
“Let me.” He says, one hand coming to your hip to push you gently back and down onto his bed.
You land softly, mattress springing underneath you as you shuffle back, leaning on your elbows to gaze up at him as he toes off his shoes and pulls off his socks, a little off balance like the whole path from the door has altered his centre of gravity.
Ryland is a sight, heaven-sent.
His hair’s spiked out in six different directions, and you want to scratch at his scalp and pull at the strands all over again. He slides his glasses down his nose and sets them on the nightstand. The skin of his chest is just as tanned as his arms, a wide expanse that’s begging to be marked up with your teeth and nails.
The belt buckle clinks softly in the empty air as he slips it open, unbuttoning his slacks before he shrugs the black dress shirt off. God, you want to bite his shoulders.
Your teeth clamp down on your tongue at the thought, kind of wishing the tie was in the picture so you could pull him down on top of you. Just when you’re about to reach up, aiming for his shoulder or maybe even his cheek, Ryland surprises you by taking a knee.
His fingers are a little clumsy as they wrap around the heel of your left shoe, pulling it up onto his bent knee as he fumbles with the buckle. He’s gentle with it, more careful than he was with his own shoes that are certainly worth more than your cheap pair, right shoe, then the left.
Still, it has your stomach tied up in knots to witness with just how much reverence he’s treating you. And the sight of Ryland between your legs is certainly one you could get used to.
He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before blinking up at you. “Are you… Can I-”
Ryland cuts himself off and that same unwarranted nervousness from before takes over his face, fingers curling tightly around your ankle, as if to ground himself. You smile at him, something that feels a little too giddy and a little too much like your 20 year-old self from college, fumbling and laughing your way to bed. “What is it Ry? You’ve already got me on your bed, no need to be shy.”
He bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth as he considers the words. “If you say so.”
Then he gently leads your leg, by the ankle that’s still gripped tightly in his palm, off his propped leg as he drops it to kneel, and hooks it over his shoulder. Ryland kisses a path up your calf and along the inside of your leg and with an overwhelming flood of realisation, you fall back against the bed, bracing for the moment where he presses a soft kiss on your clit, through the fabric of your underwear.
Despite his earlier hesitance, Ryland does not dilly-dally. Once he hears your shuddering breath that sounds more like a moan than anything else, he hooks a thumb though the crotch of your panties, pulls them to the side and presses another slow kiss against you.
It’s maddening, has you gasping out his name as he licks a stripe up your cunt, sighing into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He’s been teasing you long enough that when he presses two fingers along your folds, teasing the resistance of it, they sink in easily. He hooks them up, pressing up against the spongy wall and pulls another moan from your lips.
You're not sure how long Ryland spends between your legs with your hands in his hair and name on your lips, but it’s got you dizzy, clenching around his fingers as he strokes them inside you, languid and slow as he lays gentle kisses over your clit. His stubble scratches against your thighs in a way you’d expected to hate, but are getting rather fond of.
It’s a slow build that crests with you moaning his name and clenching around his fingers as his tongue slows, your hips twitching a little with overstimulation post-orgasm. He moves his kisses to the inside of your thigh, the one not hooked over his shoulder as you catch your breath and it’s highly plausible that he’s leaving another hickey there.
When he does pull back, Ryland is just as breathless as you. Cheeks flushed and chest stuttering as he licked his lips clean. His pupils are blown wide, so much so you can hardly see the blue as he gazes up at you. “You said I could fuck you, right?”
“Yeah,” you swallow, throat scratchy and dry. “You can.”
With your head still spinning from the attention and care he’s taking with you, it’s a moment before you realise his hands are back at your hips as he shuffles you around the bed, up until he can fit his palm behind your head and lift it onto a pillow that smells like him.
Ryland’s above you, propped up on one elbow and a knee to keep his weight off your body. You can feel each heavy exhale on your cheek. “Like this?”
“Just like this.” You say, nodding hand reaching up for his cheek to pull him down into another slow, languid kiss.
He leans in close, whining against your mouth as you part your legs for him to set his between and get a hand on the small of his back, pressing until he gets the hint and grinds downs. It has you both moaning and panting against each other.
You’re getting impatient, and while he must have ditched the pants somewhere between eating you out and repositioning you right side up on the mattress, he’s still got his briefs on and you’re still wearing your underwear.
“Off,” You grunt, hand pulling at the waistband of his briefs.
Ryland’s head drops to the space beside yours, just above your shoulder as he reaches a hand down to pull his underwear down over his cock and down his legs, kicking them off somewhere at the end of the bed.
He gasps, a shaky exhale hitting your skin as you wrap your hand around the length of him.
Warm and heavy in your palm, he’s bigger than you’d expected. When you slide your hand up, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, there’s so much precum that it pools on your thumb pad. You give him a slow pump, slide eased by the wetness.
Ryland mouths at the skin of your shoulder, and the hand he’s not using to keep himself above you finds its way to your hip, slipping under your panties, pulling at them.
“Condoms. I need-” He cuts himself off with another groan, biting into your skin then kissing it softly like an apology. “I need a condom.”
His hand slips out from your underwear and he gets his knees up either side of your hips to reach over, straining for the nightstand. You take the moment to kiss along his collarbone, using the hand that’s not wrapped around him to tug your panties down, wriggling them off and down your legs.
It doesn’t go unnoticed, and he drops the condom wrapper somewhere beside your head as his gaze whips back to your face. “I was going to do that.”
He sounds a little bit thrown, like he’d really been looking forwards to pulling your panties off.
“You were also going to fuck me.” You prod, giving his cock another languid stroke, watching his face contort with pleasure as he groans. He eases himself back over you, legs between yours and his weight pressing down in a way that has you sighing in contentment.
“Not fair.” He pants, forehead dropping against yours. A hand, so gentle and far too tender comes up to brush the hair by your temple, away from your eyes. “Next time, you let me take my time, okay?”
You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We’ll take turns.”
The condom wrapper crinkles in your fingers and you pinch the edge of it between your teeth and rip the corner off, splitting it open with your thumb. Ryland whines, louder and needier than you’d heard him all night, when you roll it over his dick, hips bucking into your hand and cock bumping against your stomach.
He gets his hand down between your bodies, runs three of his fingers through your folds, making your breath hitch. Then he nudges your hand out of the way and runs his cock though them next. You whine, high pitched and stuttered.
It’s a slow steady push when he slips inside you, one that draws out a long moan from your lips. Ryland moans your name, panting and kissing at your throat.
“God,” he pants. “You feel so good, baby.”
A broken whine sneaks past your lips, one hand reaching up to slide around the back of his neck, to lead his face back to yours so you can kiss him all over again.
This type of slow kissing might have been your new favorite, Ryland’s tongue teasing the seam of your lips before you slip them apart, tracing the line of his teeth with your own tongue. He rolls his hips, grinding down in a slow motion. The curve of his cock drags along your walls, along that spongy spot before bumping so deep inside that it must hit your cervix.
You hook a leg up around his waist and it has his stomach pressing up against your clit when he moves again. Moaning into his mouth, you see stars. “Fuck, that’s perfect- so good.”
Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling in a way that earns you a whine and a jerky thrust of his hips. “Y-yeah?”
“Yeah Ry- perfect. Feel so full.” The praise kicks him into gear and his slow occasional grinds turn into a building pace, hips pushing against yours and he buries himself to the hilt with every thrust.
You kiss at the line of his jaw, mouthing and biting at the stubble there. He moans, sharp exhale hitting your cheek. “‘M not gonna last much longer, sw-swetheart.”
“S’okay. Let go, baby.” You murmur by his ear, free hand slipping down to press against your clit.
The pressure alone is almost enough to tip you over the edge, pussy spasming around him. Ryland groans, loud and unrestrained, his rhythm falling apart as you do.
When he does come, he manages a couple more thrusts, shallow as they nudge up against that perfect spot inside you. Ryland whines, shaking a little with over stimulation.
“Couple more.” You moan, fingers winding tight little circles over your clit. “Almost there.”
Your spine goes stiff and a drawn-out whine slips out as you cum, clenching around the weight of him. Ryland stills inside, buried deep as he pants.
Slowly, he eases himself down over you, the gentle pressure of his weight relaxing. Ryland only takes a few moments there though, before sliding an arm under you and around your waist, slowly rolling you both, so he’s sprawled out with his back on those sage green sheets with you draped over him.
He kisses your temple, mumbling your name like a prayer. “‘S a good kissing booth. Might be a repeat customer.”
You push up a little to look at him, hands either side of his chest, and a hitched breath sputters out of his lips as you shift, his cock still inside you. “Might? What happened to ‘next time’?”
He smiles at you, hands reaching for your hips as he draws slow lines up and down your skin with his thumbs. “Well, I don’t wanna push my luck.”
“You’re not pushing anything.” You murmur, leaning back down to kiss him proper.
Once the aftershocks of your orgasm have faded and the idea of being empty no longer pulls painfully at your chest, you raise your hips up and let Ryland’s now soft cock slip out. He exhales heavily, and you lay beside him, eyes on the slow spinning ceiling fan.
He sits himself up not long after, slips the condom off and wanders off to the tiny door that you now know is his bathroom. He comes back with a damp cloth, smiling at you shyly as he cleans you up, gentle swipes over your core and along the inside of your thighs.
Ryland walks over and pulls some boxers on, then returns to the bed to slide a pair over your hips too. “You want a shirt?”
You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to smother a grin. “Only if it’s one of your nerdy ones.”
He kisses the smile off your lips and wanders back over to his wardrobe, throws a shirt in your general direction then goes about fixing the sheets.
You admire the sight. It had never occurred to you how nice his arms were, you want them around you again. He pulls the sheets straight, then up over you before he crawls in beside you.
“This okay?” He asks, pulling you over to lay up against him.
“More than okay.” You snuggle closer, cheek pressed against the warm plane of his chest. “Been thinking about this.”
The confession slips out in a rush of endorphins, like you’re so happy to be wrapped up in his arms and sheets, smelling like him, that you just can’t help but let him know.
You can hear the confusion in his voice when he speaks. “Having sex with me?”
No. You almost say, even though you had. It wasn’t where you were trying to go with this though. “Sleeping in your bed. With you.”
The rise and fall of his chest, of a heavy exhale, moves beneath you. “Oh.”
“I think our next date should be trivia.” You declare, a quiet sort of smile on your lips as his fingers trace slow little circles on your back between the waistband of your borrowed boxers and the ridden up hem of the shirt. “So we can get it right this time.”
“Deal.”
[ Masterlist ]
baby's first Goose fic? more proabaly on the way, although next fic published will proabaly be an oc one, with either Ryland Grace or Holland March from the nice guys.
“You look nice,” Ryland says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit.
in which: You need a date to the wedding you foolishly agreed to attend, luckily your co-worker is a willing sacrifice. Extremely willing.
[warnings: eventual nsfw 18+, a bit of fluff, excessively drawn out flirting]
wc: 14.2k (Whoops) [ Masterlist ] [ ao3 Link ]
Woe finds you on a Tuesday at the staffroom lunch table.
Picking apart the leftovers of a miserable thrown together attempt of fried rice that came to be after realising there were no better dinner options with the ingredients you had in the fridge two days ago and the determination to not get take out more than once a week that would surely fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on.
Eat take out once a week, maximum. Read one book a month, minimum. Sleep more. Stop turning down social invites
The last one is what leaves you particularly perturbed, as your lunch goes lukewarm and your thumb flicks about on the social media profile.
“I just… I can’t say no.” You lament. “It would be weird.”
“Weirder than going?” Margot asks, pulling her own container of lunch from the oven. It’s also leftovers, but slices of impeccably cooked roast with what looks to be red wine sauce and vegetables- no doubt made by her smokeshow of a house husband (he just works from home, she insists. You’re pretty sure the pair are sitting on a lofty investment profile because no man ‘works from home’ cooks roasts bi-weekly and buys his wife diamond earrings for her birthday).
“I don’t know. Maybe.” You manage, the next bite of fired rice tasting like loneliness packed into an over-salted flavour profile.
“What’s weird?” Ryland asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.
The staff room of E-Block is near abandoned. Of the ten-odd teachers with rooms in the little block of aging brick, most tended to eat in their classrooms. Save for you, Margot and Ryland. Occasionally there will be another visitor, but most days, it is just the three of you.
“Wedding.” Margot supplies, sitting down and shuffling her chair in with a sense of poise so rarely found in Middle-Schools. She’s older, somewhere in her early fifties, and still manages to approach the job with the same level of discipline as before ipads made their invasion into the classroom.
Ryland frowns. “You’re already married.”
He’s… well, Ryland's… actually you’re not sure how to put him into words, which is saying a lot considering the literature degree collecting mildew in the filing cabinet of your apartment.
He’s in the same boat as you in terms of finding yourselves with a teaching career. Studied something else first, got your passion and love for it soured by morons and went back to college for a second round, dishing out more cash for a masters in teaching that has you trying to tame fourteen year olds all day. Delightful, truly. Although, Ryland had certainly lasted a lot longer with that first degree than you had. A doctorate. He hates the kids knowing that though. A handful of them had called him ‘Doctor Grace’ last year, after digging about online and getting their grubby fingers on his linkedin profile.
‘Mr Grace’ as he is now known, is awkward. A little socially inept at times, but not enough to come across as anything other than endearing. Now is one such time, as he looks over the frames of his glasses at Margo, the stack of pop quizzes he’d brought to mark and keep himself occupied momentarily forgotten. His eyes darted from her face to the ring on her finger.
“Mm mm.” She hums, shaking her head as she chews, then levels her fork to point in your direction.
“You’re not getting married.” Ryland states when he turns to look at you, like it’s a scientific fact, one he’s so assured of.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr Grace.” You reply, still sort of wallowing at the photos on your phone.
His gaze flickers, a little less sure as the corner of his lips fall and, like he had with Margot, settles his eyes on your hands. Your lack of a ring. “You aren’t, are you?”
“No. My ex is, though.” You sigh, despondent. The reminder glares back at you from the overly-bright phone screen.
“Oh. That sucks.” He manages, clicking open a red pen to start circling and ticking the first sheet on his pile. “Happens to the best of us.”
The kettle rumbles away on the tiny kitchenette. You look at him for a long moment. The best of us. Like it’s happened to him. Ryland’s not one to discuss relationships beyond the occasional quip about quitting to be a house husband like Margot’s. He’s never mentioned past romances, you don’t think he’s been in a relationship in the three years since he started at Grover Cleveland Middle. It’s such a bizarre glimpse at his life, that he doesn't even seem to register what he's revealed, marking as he waits for the boiling water to cook another lunch of instant ramen.
You sit up a little straighter in your chair, weary of knocking your shoes against where his long legs sprawl under the small table. The staff room is meant for ten but is cramped even with the three of you, nothing more than a little kitchenette and big whiteboard in the corner. There’s a shelf against one wall, just far enough away from the doorframe that the door doesn't crash into it when pushed open. There’s a long window the length of the wall on the door’s other side, a good view of the eighth-grade outdoor lunch area. The other staff call it the fishbowl, it’s why they opt to eat in their classrooms, not keen on the kids' eyes on them when it is supposed to be one of the fleeting breaks during their day.
Thank god the door is closed- if the kids heard you whining about this, a wedding, they’d never let up. “I’m considering the pros and cons of skipping it.”
“You were invited?” He baulks, dropping his pen.
You try not to smile, focusing on your self pity instead of the three shoddy attempts Ryland takes to catch his pen from dropping out of his hand, rolling off the stack of paper then off the table. “I already said I’d go too.”
“Why?” Ryland sounds appalled, like that one time you’d caught him trying to explain that the five second rule is not an effective barrier against bacteria to a student.
“It’s complicated.” You say, biting at your cheek.
“Bullshit.” Margot aptly calls. Looking over with the same expression she used to call students on their bullshit. You're not a big fan of having it directed at you.
“We went out for maybe two months in college.” You sigh, setting your phone on the table face-down to stare at your lunch, contemplative. “He’s engaged to one of the girls from my sorority. We’re… friends.”
Margot watches. “With your ex or the sorority girl?”
“Sorority girl. Daisy.” That's the better option of the two at least. You think it is, not that there is much left to save you from the impending train wreck of discussing the relationship woes of your late teens and early twenties with the only two coworkers who care to eat lunch in a communal space. The company is nice, Ryalnd had said once, when you’d asked, gets me out of the classroom.
Margot screws her face up for a second, muttering it again under her breath as if the name offends her.
“You were in a sorority?" Ryland asks, face a little blank as he looks at you from across the table.
It makes you falter, the way his thoughts seem to be buffering like the school's slow wifi. “I… Yeah? That’s the interesting part?”
He shakes his head, looking down at his marking sheets and pushes his glasses up from where they’re slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose. “No, I just can’t picture it.”
You purse your lips, consider pulling up some photos from your sorority days, then remember the kind of outfits the lot of you wore and think better of it. “Well Daisy and I were roommates for a year and a half. She’s nice. Works in PR now.”
“But she’s marrying your ex?” Ryland asks, still kind of baffled.
You dismiss it with a lazy hand wave. “I mean, she asked before they went out and everything. I just think it’s a little weird. I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s going to be embarrassing.”
Margot tuts twice, done with her lovingly made lunch that symbolises how successful she has been in the department of marriage when you have all but failed so far. “Why is it embarrassing? Two months is nothing.”
“I was a little head over heels for this guy.” You admit, sheepish.
Ryland stands up, clears his throat as he turns away. “Yeah? How so?”
His back is to you, as he peels the lid off his cup ramen and wrestles with the flavour packet. You come to the conclusion it’s easier to confess this sort of stuff with only one set of eyes on you. “I was sort of convinced he was my soulmate. He was doing pre-law, witty too.”
“Hot?” Margot asks, always straightforward.
You feel a blush rise on your cheeks as you remember the early days of your sorority experience, flopped back on the bed as you made little love sick sighs at your ceiling. “God, his jawline. And his hair- it was so… ugh!”
The thud is dull when your forehead lands on the table, to the right of your now abandoned lunch. “I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s dumb.”
You hate how you sound- petulant like the kids you prod for not searching for better words in their assignments, moping like your world is ending over something so trivial. It’s not even the new years resolution that has you mulling this over so intently. You’d agreed to go months ago- six months ago- and said yes to the offered plus one, adamant to yourself that you’d have someone by then, a partner or something. Someone of importance.
Attending alone is going to be even worse than if you had just RSVP’d for yourself in the first place. It’s one thing to watch your college friend and ex-sort-of-boyfriend exchange vows alone, and a whole other monster to do it with a pointed empty seat beside you.
All of it tumbles out your lips in a hurried hurl of word vomit, followed by a few moments of silence that has you cautiously raising your head to peek over the wall of your forearms. Ryland is staring at you, cup noodles steaming in his hands where it hovers over the sink, like he’d been about to pour out the excess water. Margot is looking at you with a frown, the same one she wears when teaching senior mathematics and the children have drawn up an equation for her to solve with the foolish belief they could stump her for more than ten seconds.
And just as in class, Margot is not phased for more than a handful of moments. “Then find someone with a better jawline and better hair to go with you. You can borrow mine.”
You blink at her, mulling the words over before asking, “Are you trying to pimp your husband out to me?”
“Only for aesthetic reasons, of course. It’d be nice to have the house to myself for once. Not like you have better options.”
It would sting more if it wasn’t so true. There were very few options and with the wedding only two weeks away, that was certainly not enough time to squeeze in enough dates with someone to justify taking them to a damn wedding.
“I mean, how good is his jawline?” Ryland finally says, walking over with his little cutlery box, plastic chopsticks he washes and reuses almost everyday, to set his lunch down on the table and settle back in across from you. “Are we aiming high?”
There is no way to un-dig this hole, not now that they’ve both decided to put their two cents in. You concede with another sigh and reach for your phone, arms and chin still on the table as you fish about Instagram for a photo. It’s the one that had reminded you of this awful upcoming event, posted by Daisy. You all but toss your phone on the table between your coworkers, sinking a little lower into your folded arms, awaiting judgement.
The photos must be from a walk though of the venue, the pair of them posed together between some old marble arch where they were having the ceremony at. She was laughing, hand on his chest, showing off the ring on her finger while he looked at her, besotted. The caption made it worse. Only two weeks left till I get to marry my man on these very steps.
You like them both, you really do, but the thought of showing up by yourself, as the lonely friend who’d never found ‘it’, your own version of the love they were celebrating, well it was just nauseating.
Margot looks the photo over critically before humming in a sort of so-so tone. “You can do better.”
Ryland looks kind of at a loss. “This is your type?”
As if to emphasise the point, he lifts the phone up and turns it around to show you the image you were already being haunted by. “This is the hair that had you all…”
He doesn't find the words, just waves the hand with his chopsticks around in a messy motion, looks at you critically over the rims of his glasses.
“He slicks it back now. It used to be… I donno. Messy? Fluffy? Good to run my fingers though.” He scoffs a little to himself, dissatisfied maybe with your excuse.
The only forgiving factor is that the photo does highlight the sharp cut of his jaw, which even Ryland concedes to. “He does have a good jawline...”
Yours is better, you want to say. Immediate and impulsive, because it kind of is. Especially when the shadow of his stubble stretches a few extra days between shaves. Your ex is clean shaven- you used to think that was sexy, at least sexier than the patchy beards boys in college had back then. Now you’re kind of obsessed with the so-called ‘5-o’clock shadow’ Ryland sports on Fridays.
It’s not something you’re likely to tell him though, especially not when you glance at the clock and realise you have a duty across campus in three minutes. Saved by the bell maybe, either way you’re able to liberate your phone from the pair of them and their conspiratory whispers, bin the scraps of your lunch and haul ass out of there.
By the end of the school day, you have reached the conclusion that you will blame it on work. That some mandatory day of ‘professional development’ as it is called nowadays, has come up and you will just have to miss the wedding, truly you’re devastated about it all.
Then Ryland corners you in your classroom. The bell’s long gone, as are the students. He’s dressed like he’s on his way out, his green backpack tossed over one shoulder and bike helmet hanging by the strap in one hand. You’re halfway through explaining your plan and the wording you’re going to use in the tragic text message to Daisy when he cuts you off.
“I’ll go with you.”
He’s a little breathless with it, like he’d been saving up all his oxygen to get the words out, leaving him in one big rush as they topple though the doorway of your classroom and splatter onto the linoleum floor between you both.
“I know that I’m not Margot’s husband with a ‘better jawline and better hair’ but we can go and eat nice wedding food- If he’s a lawyer it’s gotta be fancy, right? And we can make fun of his stupid slicked back hair together and you don’t have to be alone or make an excuse and feel guilty about it.” Ryland’s big speech is as flawed as it is heartwarming
Because he does have a better jawline and better hair. And Margot looks between you both during lunch hours and staff meetings like you’re her personal romance drama, there to occupy her during the day.
But the wedding food will be good, your ex will shill out for the best and Daisy has always had a taste for the finer things in life. Ryland is the best company you can think of to have by your side and he knows you well enough to understand how guilty lying about something makes you feel, how it churns your gut.
“Yeah. Okay.” You smile, something warm and fuzzy in your chest.
His eyes don’t move, maybe widen a little before he speaks again, still a little breathless. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
It isn’t a hard thought to come around to, taking Ryland to a wedding. As a date is something that goes unsaid between the pair of you, not sure whether it could be classed as such for real, or if this is simply a favour between friends-slash-coworkers. It is certainly a date for show, to the many college friends you’re about to reunite with after a few years, for your Ex, Jack who’s obsessed with his wife, for Daisy who you’d told years ago to ‘go for it, he’s a nice guy’ working under the assumption that she’d only last a few months by his side too.
You’re not sure which answer you’d prefer, honestly; a date or a favour.
He texts you a lot- after school, on the weekend- asking about what he should wear, what you’re going to wear, how he should prepare for this sort of thing. It’s sweet, cute in a way that has little butterflies flapping around in your stomach.
“Okay, I’ll show you. Wait, hold on.” You placate, setting your phone down on the bed, screen up.
“It’s a lovely ceiling fan, but I doubt it fits the dress code.” Ryland drawls, and you can hear the smile there.
“Ha ha.” You reply, a little echo-y as you lean into your closet to pull the dress out.
He’s up in arms about what to wear, says he needs to know what you’re wearing too so he can match. The invite’s dress code called for formal attire in ‘dark colours’. On the facebook page she’d made for the event, Daisy had a full post going into more detail, about how she’d love any and all dark tones- forestry green, navy, even burgundy was fine. You had taken a firm stance against burgundy considering there’s some old wedding traditions that state wearing red indicated you’d slept with the groom. Which you had, but you were not about to advertise that.
So navy it was.
You’d sent Ryland a picture of the invite, where it was stuck to your fridge with letter magnets spelling out ‘woe’- it had felt fitting when you’d stuck it up there- and several screenshots of the lengthy dress-code post Daisy had made that went into excruciating detail. He wasn’t satisfied though.
Even your attempts to describe the dress you’d bought didn’t work well enough.
“I mean it! you expect me to know what any of those words apart from ‘floor length' means?” he bemoans from your phone speakers, face time call crackling. “I need all the data.”
“Oh listen to you, Mr. Science,” You drawl with a smile, pulling the dress out. It’s too long to hang from a door knob so you have to stretch up on your tip toes to hang the coat hook over the curtain rod of your bedroom window.
“I was thinking of changing my name. Very to the point, don’t you think?” He replies, still smiling as you collect your phone. His eyes are sparkling with something cheeky when you appear back in frame.
Ryland’s dressed down, in one of those dumb science t-shirts he wears on ‘Casual Fridays’ as it is called in staff meetings. This one’s dark blue and has the periodic table on it in worn down white transfer ink. You’ve seen it enough to know the punch line sprawled over his lower stomach even though it’s not in frame. I wear this shirt periodically. He finds an extra layer in humor that the shirt is factually correct as well, that he does in fact, wear the shirt in regular intervals as he’d explained to you during a free-period on one of those casual Fridays.
He’s at his kitchen bench, phone propped up against something, while he taps away at his laptop. You’ve not actually been to Ryland’s apartment before, but it sorta feels like you have, the cramped studio always on display in the back of video calls like this one.
It’s just one long rectangle. Kitchen by the front door, a bench, a gap that is probably intended for a kitchen table but he’s stuck a desk there instead, his bed that’s almost always unmade with a tv wall mounted across from it, and a balcony. Like this, you can see the expanse of it behind him. The stacks of paper piled up on his desk, the extra monitors and little trinkets gifted from students, the sage green sheets of his bed, peeled back on one side, sun shining in through his big glass balcony doors. Honesty, you kind of want to see the view from his apartment in person, he’s a little higher up than you are, in a better part of the city too.
Ryland’s not brushed his hair, it’s all spiked up in different directions and you wonder if the mug he’s been sipping from, periodically, is his morning cup even though it’s just past ten. He’s blinking slow behind his glasses, sitting a little too still for his brain to be fully functional yet.
“I’m sure the kids will love it. Harder to spell on their assessment sheets, though.” You can imagine it, the staff badge, the name on his board in fun bubble writing where it would stay untouched for a whole school term.
You flip the camera, showing him the dress he’s been complaining about not understanding for the last half hour over text before he gave up and called you.
It’s cute, how his head tilts and he leans towards his phone for a second before just picking it up and holding it close enough so his eyes and forehead are just about all that is in frame. “Is that velvet?”
“It’s fake satin. I think.”
“Fake satin?” He repeats, confused.
The dress was one you already owned, bought a year or so ago for another friend’s wedding that you had attended alone but not felt crappy about, even if it did seem like everyone your age was getting married nowadays. It’s got a fitted bodice, but there fabric is a little drapey, looks like it pools over the chest and down towards the fluid skirt. "Wasn't expensive enough to be real satin.”
“Okay, I know what you mean by delicate straps now.” That had been his main hang up, whining about, What do you mean delicate straps? Like they’re about to break?, swearing that the shit he was googling was just not helping the mental image considering there were about six different results for everything.
“Yeah, and here, the lace up back.” You say, stepping up to twist the dress away from where it sat flush against the curtains to show the corset style back, with thin cord lace just a little thinner than the straps.
“Isn’t that going to be a nightmare to put on?” He asks, squinting still.
“There’s a zip.” You say, dragging the little hidden zipper down, showing him how the dress fabric parts and slips open. “So it’s fairly easy to get on. The cords are about as tight as they should be anyway, it isn't hard to pull to fit.”
You fumble a little trying to get the zip back up but eventually just conceded to leave out like that until you put the dress away. When you glance down at your phone, Ryland has moved, no longer sitting down and if you had to guess, is now walking the length of his apartment instead. He looks a little distressed.
“Come on, you’ve got the easy part.” You try, a little concerned he’s about to say he shouldn’t go. “You just have to put on a suit.”
“I can’t just ‘put on a suit’.” He whines, flopping down onto his bed like the world is ending. “I’m supposed to be like, your big ‘fuck you’ to the girl who got with your ex. I’m supposed to look good with you. I don’t know if I have a suit nice enough for that dress.”
“Ryland. It’s not about saying ‘fuck you’ to Daisy, or pulling some revenge stunt. I just didn’t want to go alone like a loser when I said I was bringing someone.” You can’t really help the little breathy laugh that weaves its way though his name, because he sounds like you did four days ago acting like the world was about to end, face down on the lunch table. “You don’t have to come.”
“No, I’m coming. I just need to go through my wardrobe.” He’s cute, you decide, in a round-about sort of way. The determination to play this self elected role well, to perfect it and give it his all, like he does with everything else in his life. The whole situation was elevating your ‘aesthetic appreciation’ of Ryland that you’d been attempting to suppress, to a new sort of level.
You flop down on your own bed, roll over on your side and let him derail the conversation towards lesson planning, listen to him talk about the plans he has for the next weeks worth of classes, a couple of activities he’s got in the works. All while you consider the pros and cons of having him beside you instead.
Ryland was probably the teacher you got on best with at work, despite being from two very different teaching areas. When he’d first arrived, you’d assumed he would be a little pretentious, with his Phd and professional experience beyond the classroom. You weren't expecting him to be so awkward. The children took to him so quickly, and Ryland had told you time and time again that he doesn't understand why they think he’s cool.
Over the years you’ve found that he can be cocky, in certain bouts of confidence seemingly appearing via divine-intervention. A local bar had run trivia nights for some six odd months, and it had unleashed a beast within him.
On Monday afternoon he sent you a photo. A little black bag with a logo you’d googled, realising it was a menswear store before the second photo had come though. A tie, sleek navy like your dress, rolled up neatly with a matching pocket square beside it, both nestled in a box that screamed expensive. You’d sent back a random string of praise, imagining him lulling it over in the store. It was nearly five in the afternoon, he’d left work pretty much on the final bell. You wonder how long he spent comparing the seemingly endless ties the shop’s online store offered, considering what would match best to your dress.
It makes you a little giddy, to be honest, has you dreaming of a situation where you’d asked him to come to the wedding, or where you’d already been together long enough that it was simply a given when the invitation turned up in your mail box.
Neither of you mention it during school hours, not keen on the kids hearing whispers of you and Ryland doing anything outside work hours- students will take anything and run with it.
But he messages you about it constantly. Makes a plan; he’d come to your apartment and you would uber from there to the venue, it was a sunset ceremony and evening reception. He lived close enough that it was a brisk walk or quick bus trip. He pointedly mentions that he would not be cycling- ‘In a suit? God, never’- and makes sure you know that the uber would also drop you both back to your flat and he’d walk home or take another separate uber.
There’s talk about your ‘backstory’, which he takes as seriously as he does exam periods. You tell him it’s not super necessary, that saying you met at work is more than enough exposition for the gaggle of college friends you’d not seen in years. But he was never one to do things in halves.
“We obviously would have met at school.” He says, like it’s a given. Ryland is laid out on the reading rug at the back of your classroom, staring at the ceiling. And the fake clouds that are actually just a hobby-fill glue gunned to paper and taped to the ceiling, he’d turned the fairy lights that are threaded though them on before he’d decided the floor was his resting place. “Maybe trivia is where it happened. We liked trivia.”
“We did like trivia.” You agree, pointedly.
It’s almost impossible to not just sit there and watch him, the student folders that you’re sorting worksheets into acting as a very inefficient distraction.
He’s got a button down on, some pale blue that looks nice under his grey wool blazer. The pale wash jeans and white converse are a bit more casual, but he wears the combination well. Too well. Laid out like this, with one knee up, he looks far too attractive for you to swallow. Glasses pulled down to hang off his jaw, sitting there catching the afternoon light as it came through the windows, casting rainbow refractions onto the back wall.
“Maybe trivia was a date. What would you have done?”
“If you’d asked me to trivia as a date?” You glance up. He’s already looking at you, head tipped to the side, something soft, tentative there in his eyes.
“Yeah.” You can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his chest rises with each breath.
Ryland sounds… nervous, in a way that does remind you of the first trivia night you’d gone to. He’d been dressed similarly there, you remember thinking he looked nice, polished up a little more than he did in the school day with dress shoes and what smelt like cologne. Handsome where he waited by the entrance, backlit by the bar’s warm lighting. He’d been a little twitchy for the first hour or so, but settled into himself by round two.
With the way he’s looking at you, now as he plans out the false scenario that’s beginning to sound a lot more like a confession, you’re starting to get the idea that trivia could have been a date. If either of you had put it into words.
“Enjoyed it, probably.”
“Really?” He looks shy, a bit of a flush working its way up his cheeks.
You smile at him, thinking about how nice it would have been to kiss him in that bar with a sweet cocktail on your lips, dizzy from his flattery about your trivia skills. You hum, nodding a little as you look at the folders and sheets spread out over your desk, feeling a flush rise to your own cheeks.
He knocks when you’re halfway through lacing up the back of your dress, holding the cords with one hand as you open the door. Ryland’s not been to your apartment before, something you’d failed to realise until he called you and asked during his walk over, if you’d have to buzz him in.
He was appalled to find out the front door to your building was sporting a broken lock and had been tied back with a length of rope for the last two months while the landlords procrastinated fixing it.
“See,” You say, opening the door for him, keeping it propped open with your foot as he shuffles in. “My door locks.”
“Still one less lock that you’re supposed to have.” he grumbles, stepping out of his very nice dress shoes. They look expensive- black leather shined up propper.
Actually, Ryland looks expensive.
“You look nice,” he says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit. It’s the only thought spinning around your head. It’s a proper one, tailor made no doubt. Blazer, slacks and undershirt, all three of them a deep inky black. The navy tie he’d sent you a photo of is done up around his neck in a knot neater than you’ve ever seen him wear to work. The pocket square is folded too, fluffed up with a little volume that suggests he did so intentionally.
Suddenly you’re reminded of all those times he’d complained about all the formal conferences and charity gala’s he’d attended during his days in academia. You realise you have made a grave error.
There have always been little parts about Ryland that oozed wealth, the glasses he wore for one, that he told you were antique when you’d asked. The watch on his wrist that you thought looked like some practical sporty thing but found out was actually worth three months rent when you’d googled it out of curiosity. These little things fall out of the spotlight and become footnotes that are often ignored when he’s in his classroom, or tiny apartment.
Dressed in such a nice suit, here in you apartment definitely wearing cologne- the same from that very first trivia night, something a little warm, woodsy like oaky bourbon, sharp and contrary to the fresh nothingness he smelt like at work- Ryland seemed so far beyond you.
“You look good.” You manage, letting the door slip shut and dropping the lace of your dress, it loses its tension a little but stays in the same spot for the most part, to run a hand over the lapel of his blazer. “How long have you had this?”
“Ages. Dug it out of the back of my closet. A little tighter than when I last wore it, but it will do the trick. Right?” He tacks that last bit on, like he’s waiting with baited breath for your approval.
“I’ll say.” You slide your hand down the lapel a little bit, down over the press of his chest. The tightness just shows the subtlety of his build, lean muscle that comes from idle exercise and good diet, maybe even a splash of genetics. He’s tidied his facial hair up a little, slid the electric razor over all of it to make sure it’s the same length, no doubt. Ryalnd’s still got his glasses on, you were a little worried he might have opted for contacts and are very relieved you get to see this outfit complete with the lenses that frame his face so well.
With a realisation you might be getting a little lost in your head, you drop your hand, turning to walk further into your apartment, towards the couch where your shoes for the night sat on the floor. “Right, we'll, I'm nearly ready. The uber will be here soon.”
“Do you need a hand?” Ryland asks, and you’re about to turn, ask him, ‘with what’ when you feel his fingertips against the small of your back. It sends a jolt though your skin, he’s cold. From the outside air, where as you’ve been nice and cosy with the heat on while you’d done your hair and make up.
Goosebumps rise under his hands as they gather the ties for the back of your dress. Something low swoops in your gut, like the dip of a roller coaster, free falling as he chuckles a little behind you. “Sorry, cold fingers.”
You swallow. “It’s.. it’s okay.”
“How tight?” He asks, giving the strings a gentle tug. You almost sway with the moment, feeling a little swept off your feet already.
“Bit tighter.” You manage, as he presses a flat palm against the small of your back, over the criss-crossing cord, and gathers both ties in one hand to pull slow and firm. It tugs you back into his hand, a steadier hold than you’d expected.
“There?” He questions when the dress is pulled in to sit flush with your skin but not dig in. You get the feeling he might have done some research, when he plucks at each string to even them out and make sure none of them are too tight, on how these dresses are supposed to sit.
“Yeah, perfect.” It leaves you like a sigh, as his palm dips, brushes where the zipper sits before pulling back to tie a neat bow, tugging the cords out carefully so both loops are even.
All of it has you lightheaded, directing more effort than necessary to get yourself to the couch and pull your heels on, black mary janes that are comfortable enough to walk in. As you fiddle with the buckles, you eye him.
Ryland’s hair is tousled, intentionally a little messy, not combed or slicked back. Looks like it would be nice to run your fingers though, and you find yourself wondering if that’s why he’d opted for the style, if he’s here, dressed up as the guy with ‘better hair and a better jawline’ that Margot had pitched, unaware that he already was exactly who he’s trying to be.
He holds an arm out for you to loop yours though, walking down the stairs in steady but slowed steps. You smile. “Wow, full gentleman experience.”
“I told you, I can't just ‘put on a suit’. It’s more than that.” He chides jokingly, and you pity the version of you that didn’t realise this was an option.
He opens the door for you- the car door, the door into the building door tied back by a rope (he glares at it when you pass it)- then rounds the back of the little toyota that’s polished up to try and seem fancier than it was. You don’t talk much on your way to the venue, comfortable silence that the driver thankfully settles into.
It’s nearing sundown when you pull into the driveway, a big circular road that’s already crammed with other cars and guests climbing out.
“You can just let us out here.” Ryland says to the uber driver, unbuckling his seatbelt to hop out, then rounding the car again to open your door, hand held out like it’s necessary, when the car is nowhere near low or high enough to warrant such assistance.
You place your palm in his anyway, letting him pull you from the car, no more temperature disparity in your hands since you’ve both been in the car for fifteen minutes, but it still makes your skin tingle. He’s got cufflinks, the same pale gold as his glasses, in the shape of atoms. You flick one lightly. “I like these.”
He smiles, something a little smothered like he’s trying to stamp it down from a grin as he threads his arm though yours again, beginning the small walk to the venue's front steps. “Well I like your dress, so I think we’re even.”
It’s a ballroom, with these big stained glass windows in the room they hold ceremonies in, you’d seen some lovely shots on the venue’s website of sunset light streaming through them. Imagining Ryland in the warm sunlight has you in a good mood, he’s always suited it, even if the city’s never had much to offer.
“Not too much for our first date?” You tease.
Something like a laugh tumbles out of his lips, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “First date was trivia- and you were underdressed. Keep up.”
You flush, crowding a little closer to his side to make it through the entryway without shoulder checking anyone. Had you been? It was so long ago you could hardly remember anything other than jeans, tight ones that dug into your waist when you sat down- tight jeans hardly felt like being underdressed, they probably meant you wanted him to stare at your ass. Either way you let him have the win, as minute as it is.
Doesn't really matter what you wore back then when you’ve got him like this now.
Together you sit about halfway down on the bride’s side, the pew’s nearly empty, only someone on the other end you don’t know but looks vaguely enough like Daisy, that's you’d guess extended family.
“So why’d you like this guy so much?” Ryland asks, quiet enough for it to just stay between the two of you. He’s glancing around, but his eyes keep bouncing back to Jack at the front of the venue, where he’s talking to gaggle of similarly dressed guys, his groomsmen.
“What?”
“Him,” Ryland says, tipping his head a little to gesture at Jack. “What had you talking about soulmates? Couldn't just be the hair, tons of guys have good hair.”
“They do.” You answer, raising a hand to tangle one of the longer stands where it’s dangling over his forehead around your pointer finger and give it a light tug. Ryland’s eyes settle on you, like there’s nothing else to look at. “He made me feel like the only girl in the world.”
“That’s a cliche.” He refutes. “And a song lyric.”
You smile. “I’m serious. He’s like that with every girl he went out with. He’s like it with Daisy. He just loses sight of every other woman, so attentive.”
Ryland stays silent for a moment, eyes searching for something in yours. Maybe permission, or a want, for him to keep digging, it’s almost as if he’s scared what he might find. “What'd he do? To make you feel like that?”
It’s cute, how nervous he is, despite the fact it feels as though all week, the pair of you have been laying this ground work, a path to follow that will lead you somewhere inevitable, like a trivia date, or the messy sprawled sage green sheets or Ryland’s bed. You smile at him, wondering if he’s thought about you in them. You wonder if he knows how easily you could be, that you might just follow him to the edge of the universe.
Still, you answer his question, offering a peek into your brain, the way you used to operate when teenage giddiness was closer than adult yearning. "Took me dancing. Kissed me slowly, cared about how I wanted things to go. It was like he just couldn’t stop looking at me, for me. It was intoxicating.”
“I can’t.” Ryland blurts out, all reckless abandon, and he’s looking at you like you’ve already kissed him breathless just by being here. You let your leg shift to press the length of your thigh against his, warm even through the layers of fabric.
You breathe in deep through your nose, the scent of his cologne sticking dizzyingly to the air, a scent you think is enough to get drunk on even without the assistance of wedding champagne. "Can't what?”
“Stop looking at you.” He clarifies, eyes darting down to your lips. “I can do the other things though.”
A flutter knocks about your chest, unsteady and uncoordinated. “Yeah, you like dancing Doctor Grace?”
“If it’s with you.” He amends.
“And slow kissing? You like that too?”
“Yeah I do.” He’s not even trying to hide it now, gaze settled on the dusty pink line of your lips, his own a little slick with spit when he darts his tongue out to trace one quick line along them.
You almost asked him to prove it, but in your peripherals, down the aisle and pausing at the sight of you, was Macey, another one of your college friends, smiling. So you place a hand on Ryland's thigh, just above his knee. “Good. Really good.”
Ryland looks dizzy with the praise, like it’s all rushed straight to his head.
“Hey Macey, good to see you.” You greet, using your hand on Ryland's knee to tip his legs towards you, making room for Macey to shuffle into the pew.
“Oh my god, good to see you too! It's been awhile, hasn’t it?” She leans down a little awkwardly to wrap you in a hug as you half stand, and it’s good to see someone after so long, to look at them and remember times when things were simpler and you were allowed to be a little stupid, a little dangerous. It’s nice to see her here, for her to sit next to you- Macey’s always encouraged you to be a little wild, and with the way Ryland’s been looking at you all night, you might need her ego-bosting tonight.
“I’m Macey, nice to meet you.” She extends a hand to Ryland over your lap and he shakes it curtly, offering his own introduction.
There’s a big rock on her finger, and you remember seeing it on an instagram post, some dreamy forest scenery with a ‘coming soon to a theatre near you’ caption under it.
“I suppose it will be your wedding next then,” You tease, “Where’s Jamie?”
“Oh she had a work trip, couldn't avoid it. She wanted to come though.” Macey waves off. Her and her fiance met on some film set, both camera operators, at the time, although you faintly recall reading something about Jamie’s name working its way up to director for some upcoming project, amongst the throws of social media posts from people who once knew everything about you and now you only see once every few years.
“So Ryland,” Macey starts with a glimmer in her eyes, something evil and mischievous that throws you back to seeing her in the living room with a bottle of tequila and monopoly board. “How’d you two meet?”
“We teach at the same school,” He grins, a hand sliding to your knee, just along the inside of it, where your dress fabric hangs low with slack, enough for his palm to press there, thumb drawing slow lines back and forth. “A little cliche but I don’t mind.”
Macey smiles, fans her face a little like that’s just soooo romantic. “What do you teach?”
“Science, opposites attract I guess.”
“Please tell me you used that line.” She practically swoons.
Ryland huffs a little laugh. “No, the kids threw that one at me actually.”
“Really?” You question, a raised eyebrow because that was not part of the backstory he’d been cooking up all week.
“Oh yeah. You should hear them. “Mr. Grace, you and Miss are ,like perfect for each other. You should ask her to the spring dance. They’re relentless, I swear.”
He pitches his voice a little, lazy tones and improper grammar leaking out in the way it did when he did impressions of your students and you can’t help but giggle a little.
“Their heads might explode when they find out.” Macey laughs too, then like a stroke of inspiration, slaps her hand against your arm a few times in pure, unrestrained excitement. “God- remember when we found out Professor Morisaki and Professor Collins were married? Holy shit it was like our heads exploded.”
You bark a laugh, muffling it under your hand considering the rather low level of idle chatter in the venue. “Oh my god, I forgot about that.”
“Professors of yours?” Ryland asks, this soft smile spread across his lips still.
“Yeah, we were doing a car-wash fundraiser! They were kissing in the background of one of our photos!” Macey still whispers gossip like she did in college, like your students do now.
Ryland looks a little red in the face when he asks. “A car wash fundraiser?”
Macey smirks, always too good at picking things up from others' words and you kind of want to stomp your heel over her toes to tell her off before you remember how this evening had been going so far. “Oh? Don’t you know? We were a little wild in college.”
You scoff. “A little?”
“Okay, a lot.” She corrects. “The car wash was an annual thing. White tshirts, bikinis. There’s definitely pictures. I have pictures.”
“Macey.” You scold, mostly joking.
She shrugs, straightens up and sits to face the fronts, pointedly not looking at you with a smirk on her face. “Hey- I’m just reminiscing on good times. Don’t you remember the kissing booth we ran? Of course you do you were the most requested-”
Now you stomp your foot onto hers, although she doesn’t do anything but laugh to herself.
Ryland is back to that dazed look, like he’s on some far off planet in his mind, when he murmurs, "Kissing booth?”
You glare at Macey, for a sharp moment. Before patting one hand on Ryland’s chest, leaning in close when you say, loud enough for Macey to hear. “Tell you about it later, handsome.”
He ducks his head a little close to you, a tiny little movement that stops as soon as it starts. His cheeks are the reddest you’d ever seen, looking a lot like he’s about to kiss you now, when there’s a music cue somewhere further up the aisle and a hush falls over everyone. He doesn't look away at first, eyes glued to yours for a long second before he bites his lower lip, to stop himself saying something and reaches a hand up to lace his fingers together with yours over his chest. He pulls it gently to his lap, smothering it in between his warm palms, fiddling with your fingers as the ceremony starts.
It’s beautiful, truly. The light lowered through the stained glass windows, reflecting and casting colour across the whole room, gentle music and teary vows. Picturesque really, and it reminded you of that time you’d all made ‘vision boards’ as a bonding activity, and Daisy had a little corner on hers that outlined the life she’d like to live, from a small sunset ceremony to the little white picket fence outside a cottage. You’re happy she’s finally arrived there, that she has a man who’s willing to give her everything she’d dreamed of.
You tell her as much, when you catch the pair of them in the reception hall. A warm hug for each of them and a firm hand shake between Jack and Ryland. It’s a lot less daunting than you had thought it would be, seeing them with the knot tied, no bad blood lingering or awkwardness about what once was. Just contentedness, with where your lives had led you each.
The food is good and the atmosphere is better, seeing people from a previous life chapter all reunited, laughing and catching up. The reception is held in a ball room, with gorgeous polished hard wood floors and lovely low lighting that hangs from the ceiling in delicate chandeliers. There’s a classical band, a memento board for people to take polaroids and write well wishes on them, a corner with photos from Both Daisy and Jack’s lives, in albums and tacked up on walls, showing where they meet and things bleed together into their future. All of it’s beautiful.
It’s heading into the later part of the night, when some people have excused themselves and cake has been cut, a hefty supply of the champagne depleted, that a nice slow song comes on.
You aren’t really paying that much attention to it, until you see Ryland shift beside you, rising and holding out one hand, palm up, towards you. “Care to dance?”
Something warm spreads over your face, a flush probably, as you lay a hand in his and he ever so gently pulls you to your feet, right in close to him. He leans down again, lips pressing feather-light to your temple before he leads you towards the dance floor.
It’s littered with other couples, celebrating the love they have for each other as well as the bride and groom.
All of it has you a little dizzy, settling a hand on Ryland’s shoulder as his palm slides around your waist, fingers slowing around the lace up back of your dress, pressing into your skin with gentle intent. He’s warm, firm against you, breath fanning across your cheek as you look up at him. “I know this isn’t the kind of dancing you meant, but it’s the best I can do for now.”
You humm, feet shifting in time with his, a slow waltz you weren’t even aware he knew. “I think I prefer this kind of dancing nowadays.”
Ryland’s lips tick up into a smile. “Yeah?”
He looks as good in the warm lamp light as he does in sunlight, kissing across his tanned skin and stubble, showing off the highlights of his hair. You want to run your hands through it, press a kiss to the scruff of his jaw. You settle on talking instead, worried he’s not one for such public displays of affection. “Left my wild nights behind in college.”
He sighs, like this is a devastating blow, hanging his head slightly, glasses slipping a smidge down his nose. “A shame. I was looking forwards to an appearance.”
You purse your lips, lifting the hand from his shoulder to cup his jaw, tilting his head back up a little, the pad of your thumb pressing his glasses back up to where they're supposed to sit. “Might do a private showing. Just for you.”
“You going to wash my car?” He asks, teasing. Eyes following the movement of your hand as it slips back down into place on his shoulder.
Your forehead falls, pressing against his collar bone as a furious blush blooms over your face, the worst it has been all night, murmuring, “You don’t have a car.”
He must have known what you were going to say, or some semblance of it because you certainly weren’t speaking loud enough for him to catch all of it, but he still sighs, a little dramatic. “Guess we’ll have to go with the kissing booth then.”
You lift your head a little, to look up at him where he’s smiling down, mirth dancing about in his eyes. “Oh, what a shame.”
The drawl has him crack a grin, cheeks flushed as he looks away. Fingers dancing slowly along the skin of your back, between the cords he’d tied up so perfectly for you.
For you, all of it. His nice suit he’d dug out from the back of his closet, the smart shoes nudging against yours with every step of the waltz. Ryland would do a lot for you, the realisation comes a little late, considering everything. You lean forwards a little, resting your cheek on his chest, as the song slows right down, indulgent.
“You got plans after this?” You ask, and it sounds so cheesy, so bland once it’s left your lips.
Still, when he answers, the smile is audible in Ryland’s voice. “Thought I was getting a private show. Is that offer off the table?”
“Think I can manage it,” You murmur, listening to the final few chords echo about the ball room, basking in the way his voice had rippled and rumbled through his chest, low against your cheek.
He lingers for a few seconds in the quiet, holding you close against his chest. You wonder if he, too, is basking in it. The closeness, the idea of having something that you’ve both been pretending couldn’t happen, wasn’t there in the air of exhaled breaths and weighted stares.
When he pulls back, there is nothing but adoration in his eyes, hand that holds yours falling low, but not releasing it, palm soft against your waist, almost as if he doesn't want to let you go just yet. “Wanna get out of here?”
“Bit forward, Ryland,” You tease, “we’ve not even taken photos yet.”
His eyes follow yours to the polaroid board in the corner, considers it for a moment before he’s pulling you gently by the grasp of his hand around yours, towards it.
The polaroid camera is a little hand held thing, there’s a stand for it, and poster board instructions on how to set a timer delay.
Ryland insists on taking one of just you, and while you’re grinning, trying to convince him to join you against the black fabric backdrop, the shutter goes off.
He rolls his eyes, but lets you drag him in beside you for the next photo. The timer is set, and just as you’re preparing to smile, something a little sweet and knowing, he gets one hand around the small of your back, knocks one of those very smart shoes against your heel and tilts you into a dip. It leaves you a little breathless, as he smiles, nose almost touching yours, shutter flashing off to the side.
He lets you choose which photo goes on the memo board. “Whichever one you don’t put up there, I’m keeping.”
You look a little silly in both, at least you think as much, caught off guard, and laughing a little out of breath. Ryland insists you look amazing in both. Something a bit selfish pulls at your gut, as you apprise both photos, and eventually, hand the one of you and Ryland to him- liking the idea of getting to see it again, of having a physical reminder of the night you two have spent together.
He grins like he’s won something, pulling his wallet out from his jacket pocket- a crisp brown leather that looks worn but well cared for- and to your mortification, tucks the photo into the clear slot. The one most people put their licences, or photos of loved ones, like heart-shaped lockets back in the old days. Ryland says nothing on the matter and he folds his wallet back up and slides it back into his pocket, waiting for you to write your message on the other polaroid’s back.
You scrawl some comment about happy endings and humble crazy beginnings, Signing your name on the bottom under the image of your laughter, and tack it up on the board next to the one Macey’s left.
Ryland’s got his arm out, hooked there for you to loop yours through again.
You manage to catch Daisy by the bar on your way out, and give her a tight hug, telling her again how beautiful the wedding has been, how happy you were for her.
The night air is crisp and the second you’re outside, waiting for the uber that’s just a few minutes away, Ryland strips off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a lack of hesitation that makes it seems as if he’s been waiting to do it all night.
You look at him and raise a brow, but don’t say anything when you catch sight of his pleased smile. It’s almost devastating to realise he looks even better in just the black button down and tie than he did in the full suit.
Again, the drive is mostly silent, but you notice pointedly, that you’re not going back to your apartment. And when you tilt Ryalnd’s phone and tap the screen awake, you recognise his street name in the trip’s destination.
“Presumptious.” You smile.
He grins back, lets a warm palm wander to the curve of your knee, fingers curling around it then venturing to settle a little higher around your thigh. “How are you going to wash my car if we don’t go to my place?”
“You don’t have a car.” You repeat, curious where all this teasing confidence has come from, if perhaps your very clear signals have finally given Ryland the means to throw out all of that unnecessary nervousness and doubt.
“Right,” He hisses, patting his other hand on his leg, as if to say ‘drat, there goes that plan’. Then he leans in close, whispers to you, “What was the back up plan again?”
“You are much bolder after a few glasses of champagne.”
He hums, a considering sort of sound that rumbles in the minimal air between you. “More so when I know I'm right.”
“And what, pray tell, are you right about?”
“That you like-like me.” He teases, like a child on the playground and if you were a little less level-headed, you might have kissed him right there, leant across the middle seat to lock lips with him in an uber.
But you don’t want the first time you kiss him to be viewed through a rear view mirror by a driver who looks very unimpressed by the conversation happening in the back seat. “You gonna prove that hypothesis in your apartment?”
“That’s very forwards of you.” He teases, head tipping down like he is going to kiss you.
Expect you turn your head, and his lips brush against your cheek, as you tut. “All scientists say experiments are supposed to be conducted in controlled environments.”
He leans back, still close enough for his warm breath to fan across your face. “You’ve been seeing other scientists? I’m heartbroken.”
“Give yourself some credit, your classes are very interesting.”
“Earsdropping, huh? Didn’t think you were the type.” He looks far too pleased by the idea that you’ve listened to him teach, like he doesn't know that when you come for something during class hours that you linger by the door and wait for him to finish whatever he’s saying, as if you could look at anything else when he was so captivating.
“I’ll Tell you exactly what type I am in,” You glance down to tap his phone awake, checking the ride estimate. “four minutes.”
He nods and you wonder if he’d get that head-rush distant expression on his face if you praised him for the patience. It’s something you want to save for later, you decide, for private. Just for you.
Ryland manages to wait, even keep his hands to himself, once you’re both out of the car, leading you though his building with a sort of reverent silence, that you get the impression wouldn’t return once broken. You stand across from each other in the elevator. With both his hands braced on the bar at hip height, Ryland fixes you with a look that echoes in the space, though the mirrors surrounding you and over the idle hum of machinery. You’re still wearing his jacket, over your shoulders, a slight barrier between the handrail and the curve of your back, as you stand with your arms crossed smiling at him.
The giddiness that bubbles up and about inside you, as you huddle in close behind him through the hallway, as he unlocks his door and lets you squeeze in past him, is something you’ve not felt in a long time. There’s not much room for childish excitement in the modern dating landscape, it feels as though everyone is in a rush, trying to get where they want to be with a relationship before it’s too late.
Ryland though, he’s here. You watch him latch the door, before he turns, standing there to let his eyes run up you again.
“Soooo,” He says, pursing his lips and tangling his hands together in front of him, like he’s suddenly nervous.
“So?” You ask, taking a few steps forwards to run your hand down the plane of his chest again, feeling it under your palm just like you did when he’d turned up at your apartment that afternoon.
“It’s been four minutes.” He swallows, and this close you can see how his adams apple bobs. Your other hand reaches up to scratch feather light against the stubble of his jaw, hand on his chest catching on the silky soft fabric of his tie, the one he’d picked out just for you.
Rylands hands are slow, one moves to the dip of your waist, landing where it had during your waltz, if not a little more firm as it presses you close against him. He catches his jacket by the collar, lets it slide back off your shoulders and hang from his grip as it slides to settle on the curve of your hip.
“It has.” You lick your lips.
Tuggin on his tie was not supposed to be a demanding thing, more so a gentle tease like you have been doing all night, stepping around that first move like it was a pitfall trap you’d never make it out of. Expect he pitches forwards much easier than you expected and Ryland's lips are pressed against yours.
Soft and still a little honeyed by the champagne, he moves slowly against you. He takes one step back, then another, pulling you with him and not letting his lips leave yours as he backs himself up against his apartment door.
Your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and a sharp inhale escapes him, almost a gasp, before he melts into the wood at his back, parting his lips and slipping his tongue up against yours.
It’s slow kissing, it’s dizzying and it’s want. Everything he’d promised you hours ago, in the afternoon sun of that venue, looking like a dream come true.
For what could be hours, you stay there, pressed up against him, kissing at his skin, until he shifts his legs, just slightly, enough to press one somewhere between yours, a soft presence halted by the fabric of your dress.
Breathless, you break the kiss and he lays a sweet peck against your temple, an echo of earlier, before he begins to nose at the line of your jaw, your neck. Kissing then sucking at the divot along your collar while you pant. “Ryland,”
He says your name, just as breathless against your skin, his hand dropping the jacket to pull at the chord of your dress.
“Is your doorway where you take all the girls?”
“There are no other girls.” He murmurs like a confession, far more earnest than you’d been prepared for.
“Just me?”
He pulls back, pupils blow wide and face flushed blotchy and red. “Yeah.”
Ryland leans forwards, crowds impossibly close until your feet begin to shuffle, back, back, back into his studio apartment. It passes in a blur as he presses in to kiss your lips again, glued to them until he deems it’s been enough backwards paces and presses another kiss to your jaw. Using his grip on your sides, Ryland turns you around, folds in around behind you.
His bed’s unmade, messy sheets splayed out in front of you, a pile of sage green cotton that feels like a promise, a sight you’ve dreamed about far too many times.
There’s pressure there, against your ass, a hard length that’s tight against his slacks and it makes your stomach swoop to know he’s so turned on by the slow kissing you’d been thinking about all night. His shuddering breath rushes like wind by your ear, as his fingers pull at the bow he’d tied himself. “Been thinking about this for too long.”
“Yeah?” You shudder when his lips find their place against your neck, sucking and biting at the skin there in a way that will probably result in a lasting reminder. “Since you laced it up?”
“Since you showed me this zipper." He pulls at it and the fabric gives, parting to sit low on your hips. Ryland kisses at the juncture of your throat, biting, and nipping.
The dress doesn’t fall, not with the straps still hanging loosely from your shoulders, but it’s a damn near thing. One of Ryland’s hands winds around your waist, dragging you back against him as he presses up with one slow grind that has him choking on a groan. His cock, still trapped in his slacks, drags between the zip and against your underwear in a tease that’s maddening with far too much still left to your imagination.
You try to turn but he’s got you wrapped up so firmly in his arms that it’s not plausible, so instead you reach a hand back, over your shoulder to tug at the knot of his tie, fingers slipping against the silky marital, catching in the bulk to it to tug. A particularly hard tug has him whining.
“Okay,” You huff out as he sucks a little harder just under your jaw that will definitely result in a hickey if you let him continue for much longer. “Come on, don’t you wanna fuck me?”
You punctuate this by groping around between you both until you get a hand over his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Need to remember this bit.” He mumbles, hand around your waist retreating to slip inside your dress from behind, curving back around so his fingers can skate over the soft skin of your stomach, tips slipping just under the waistband of your panties.
It has you clenching down on nothing and you become actually aware of how uncomfortably wet you’re beginning to get. You squeeze your thighs together, squirming in his grasp.
“Next time, Ry-” He splays his hand over your stomach, using it to press you back into him. “Ryland, come on. Need you.”
It tumbles out in a breathy whine, and it’s like you’ve said the magic words. He’s turning you around in his grasp, hands reaching up to slip the straps off your shoulders and marvel at the sight.
He swallows as you reach for his tie again, loosening it gently now you can get your fingers into the knot properly. Ryland’s hands hover nervously before settling against your rib cage, fingers brushing anxiously against the underside of your breasts.
Your dress was not one that lent itself to a bra, so you’d gone without. You had assumed that he’d figured that one out, given how he’d both laced and un-laced the back of it, but now that it’s out of the way, he’s looking at your chest like he hadn’t expected to see it so quickly.
“You mean it?” He manages, sounding all tongue tied as you pry the tie off, letting it fall onto the floor, blending into the puddle of your dress- a perfect shade match. “I.. I get a next time?”
“Yeah.” You breathe, working on his shirt buttons, one after the other, coming apart as easily as Ryland did under your gaze. “As many as you want.”
When you get to the bottom of his shirt and reach for the belt buckle, Ryland’s hands move from where they’ve been gently nudging your breasts, to your wrists, snagging them gently as he pulls them back. His shoes nudged against yours, another one of those silent signals to step back that you didn’t know you understood so well until tonight.
“Let me.” He says, one hand coming to your hip to push you gently back and down onto his bed.
You land softly, mattress springing underneath you as you shuffle back, leaning on your elbows to gaze up at him as he toes off his shoes and pulls off his socks, a little off balance like the whole path from the door has altered his centre of gravity.
Ryland is a sight, heaven-sent.
His hair’s spiked out in six different directions, and you want to scratch at his scalp and pull at the strands all over again. He slides his glasses down his nose and sets them on the nightstand. The skin of his chest is just as tanned as his arms, a wide expanse that’s begging to be marked up with your teeth and nails.
The belt buckle clinks softly in the empty air as he slips it open, unbuttoning his slacks before he shrugs the black dress shirt off. God, you want to bite his shoulders.
Your teeth clamp down on your tongue at the thought, kind of wishing the tie was in the picture so you could pull him down on top of you. Just when you’re about to reach up, aiming for his shoulder or maybe even his cheek, Ryland surprises you by taking a knee.
His fingers are a little clumsy as they wrap around the heel of your left shoe, pulling it up onto his bent knee as he fumbles with the buckle. He’s gentle with it, more careful than he was with his own shoes that are certainly worth more than your cheap pair, right shoe, then the left.
Still, it has your stomach tied up in knots to witness with just how much reverence he’s treating you. And the sight of Ryland between your legs is certainly one you could get used to.
He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before blinking up at you. “Are you… Can I-”
Ryland cuts himself off and that same unwarranted nervousness from before takes over his face, fingers curling tightly around your ankle, as if to ground himself. You smile at him, something that feels a little too giddy and a little too much like your 20 year-old self from college, fumbling and laughing your way to bed. “What is it Ry? You’ve already got me on your bed, no need to be shy.”
He bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth as he considers the words. “If you say so.”
Then he gently leads your leg, by the ankle that’s still gripped tightly in his palm, off his propped leg as he drops it to kneel, and hooks it over his shoulder. Ryland kisses a path up your calf and along the inside of your leg and with an overwhelming flood of realisation, you fall back against the bed, bracing for the moment where he presses a soft kiss on your clit, through the fabric of your underwear.
Despite his earlier hesitance, Ryland does not dilly-dally. Once he hears your shuddering breath that sounds more like a moan than anything else, he hooks a thumb though the crotch of your panties, pulls them to the side and presses another slow kiss against you.
It’s maddening, has you gasping out his name as he licks a stripe up your cunt, sighing into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He’s been teasing you long enough that when he presses two fingers along your folds, teasing the resistance of it, they sink in easily. He hooks them up, pressing up against the spongy wall and pulls another moan from your lips.
You're not sure how long Ryland spends between your legs with your hands in his hair and name on your lips, but it’s got you dizzy, clenching around his fingers as he strokes them inside you, languid and slow as he lays gentle kisses over your clit. His stubble scratches against your thighs in a way you’d expected to hate, but are getting rather fond of.
It’s a slow build that crests with you moaning his name and clenching around his fingers as his tongue slows, your hips twitching a little with overstimulation post-orgasm. He moves his kisses to the inside of your thigh, the one not hooked over his shoulder as you catch your breath and it’s highly plausible that he’s leaving another hickey there.
When he does pull back, Ryland is just as breathless as you. Cheeks flushed and chest stuttering as he licked his lips clean. His pupils are blown wide, so much so you can hardly see the blue as he gazes up at you. “You said I could fuck you, right?”
“Yeah,” you swallow, throat scratchy and dry. “You can.”
With your head still spinning from the attention and care he’s taking with you, it’s a moment before you realise his hands are back at your hips as he shuffles you around the bed, up until he can fit his palm behind your head and lift it onto a pillow that smells like him.
Ryland’s above you, propped up on one elbow and a knee to keep his weight off your body. You can feel each heavy exhale on your cheek. “Like this?”
“Just like this.” You say, nodding hand reaching up for his cheek to pull him down into another slow, languid kiss.
He leans in close, whining against your mouth as you part your legs for him to set his between and get a hand on the small of his back, pressing until he gets the hint and grinds downs. It has you both moaning and panting against each other.
You’re getting impatient, and while he must have ditched the pants somewhere between eating you out and repositioning you right side up on the mattress, he’s still got his briefs on and you’re still wearing your underwear.
“Off,” You grunt, hand pulling at the waistband of his briefs.
Ryland’s head drops to the space beside yours, just above your shoulder as he reaches a hand down to pull his underwear down over his cock and down his legs, kicking them off somewhere at the end of the bed.
He gasps, a shaky exhale hitting your skin as you wrap your hand around the length of him.
Warm and heavy in your palm, he’s bigger than you’d expected. When you slide your hand up, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, there’s so much precum that it pools on your thumb pad. You give him a slow pump, slide eased by the wetness.
Ryland mouths at the skin of your shoulder, and the hand he’s not using to keep himself above you finds its way to your hip, slipping under your panties, pulling at them.
“Condoms. I need-” He cuts himself off with another groan, biting into your skin then kissing it softly like an apology. “I need a condom.”
His hand slips out from your underwear and he gets his knees up either side of your hips to reach over, straining for the nightstand. You take the moment to kiss along his collarbone, using the hand that’s not wrapped around him to tug your panties down, wriggling them off and down your legs.
It doesn’t go unnoticed, and he drops the condom wrapper somewhere beside your head as his gaze whips back to your face. “I was going to do that.”
He sounds a little bit thrown, like he’d really been looking forwards to pulling your panties off.
“You were also going to fuck me.” You prod, giving his cock another languid stroke, watching his face contort with pleasure as he groans. He eases himself back over you, legs between yours and his weight pressing down in a way that has you sighing in contentment.
“Not fair.” He pants, forehead dropping against yours. A hand, so gentle and far too tender comes up to brush the hair by your temple, away from your eyes. “Next time, you let me take my time, okay?”
You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We’ll take turns.”
The condom wrapper crinkles in your fingers and you pinch the edge of it between your teeth and rip the corner off, splitting it open with your thumb. Ryland whines, louder and needier than you’d heard him all night, when you roll it over his dick, hips bucking into your hand and cock bumping against your stomach.
He gets his hand down between your bodies, runs three of his fingers through your folds, making your breath hitch. Then he nudges your hand out of the way and runs his cock though them next. You whine, high pitched and stuttered.
It’s a slow steady push when he slips inside you, one that draws out a long moan from your lips. Ryland moans your name, panting and kissing at your throat.
“God,” he pants. “You feel so good, baby.”
A broken whine sneaks past your lips, one hand reaching up to slide around the back of his neck, to lead his face back to yours so you can kiss him all over again.
This type of slow kissing might have been your new favorite, Ryland’s tongue teasing the seam of your lips before you slip them apart, tracing the line of his teeth with your own tongue. He rolls his hips, grinding down in a slow motion. The curve of his cock drags along your walls, along that spongy spot before bumping so deep inside that it must hit your cervix.
You hook a leg up around his waist and it has his stomach pressing up against your clit when he moves again. Moaning into his mouth, you see stars. “Fuck, that’s perfect- so good.”
Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling in a way that earns you a whine and a jerky thrust of his hips. “Y-yeah?”
“Yeah Ry- perfect. Feel so full.” The praise kicks him into gear and his slow occasional grinds turn into a building pace, hips pushing against yours and he buries himself to the hilt with every thrust.
You kiss at the line of his jaw, mouthing and biting at the stubble there. He moans, sharp exhale hitting your cheek. “‘M not gonna last much longer, sw-swetheart.”
“S’okay. Let go, baby.” You murmur by his ear, free hand slipping down to press against your clit.
The pressure alone is almost enough to tip you over the edge, pussy spasming around him. Ryland groans, loud and unrestrained, his rhythm falling apart as you do.
When he does come, he manages a couple more thrusts, shallow as they nudge up against that perfect spot inside you. Ryland whines, shaking a little with over stimulation.
“Couple more.” You moan, fingers winding tight little circles over your clit. “Almost there.”
Your spine goes stiff and a drawn-out whine slips out as you cum, clenching around the weight of him. Ryland stills inside, buried deep as he pants.
Slowly, he eases himself down over you, the gentle pressure of his weight relaxing. Ryland only takes a few moments there though, before sliding an arm under you and around your waist, slowly rolling you both, so he’s sprawled out with his back on those sage green sheets with you draped over him.
He kisses your temple, mumbling your name like a prayer. “‘S a good kissing booth. Might be a repeat customer.”
You push up a little to look at him, hands either side of his chest, and a hitched breath sputters out of his lips as you shift, his cock still inside you. “Might? What happened to ‘next time’?”
He smiles at you, hands reaching for your hips as he draws slow lines up and down your skin with his thumbs. “Well, I don’t wanna push my luck.”
“You’re not pushing anything.” You murmur, leaning back down to kiss him proper.
Once the aftershocks of your orgasm have faded and the idea of being empty no longer pulls painfully at your chest, you raise your hips up and let Ryland’s now soft cock slip out. He exhales heavily, and you lay beside him, eyes on the slow spinning ceiling fan.
He sits himself up not long after, slips the condom off and wanders off to the tiny door that you now know is his bathroom. He comes back with a damp cloth, smiling at you shyly as he cleans you up, gentle swipes over your core and along the inside of your thighs.
Ryland walks over and pulls some boxers on, then returns to the bed to slide a pair over your hips too. “You want a shirt?”
You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to smother a grin. “Only if it’s one of your nerdy ones.”
He kisses the smile off your lips and wanders back over to his wardrobe, throws a shirt in your general direction then goes about fixing the sheets.
You admire the sight. It had never occurred to you how nice his arms were, you want them around you again. He pulls the sheets straight, then up over you before he crawls in beside you.
“This okay?” He asks, pulling you over to lay up against him.
“More than okay.” You snuggle closer, cheek pressed against the warm plane of his chest. “Been thinking about this.”
The confession slips out in a rush of endorphins, like you’re so happy to be wrapped up in his arms and sheets, smelling like him, that you just can’t help but let him know.
You can hear the confusion in his voice when he speaks. “Having sex with me?”
No. You almost say, even though you had. It wasn’t where you were trying to go with this though. “Sleeping in your bed. With you.”
The rise and fall of his chest, of a heavy exhale, moves beneath you. “Oh.”
“I think our next date should be trivia.” You declare, a quiet sort of smile on your lips as his fingers trace slow little circles on your back between the waistband of your borrowed boxers and the ridden up hem of the shirt. “So we can get it right this time.”
“Deal.”
[ Masterlist ]
baby's first Goose fic? more proabaly on the way, although next fic published will proabaly be an oc one, with either Ryland Grace or Holland March from the nice guys.
A mini PHM comic about Grace growing old. I wanted to explore two ideas: Rocky dealing with Grace’s dementia and Grace wanting to donate his body to science. I spend so much time on figuring out the dialogue (some part still feel clunky to me) but I hope it express my thoughts on where I think Grace’s life would go :)
Summory: Reader is a surgery resident, specializing in orthopedics. Who just happens to be Frank Langdon's little sister who he calls June Bug. Dennis Whitaker seems to take a liking to his senior resident's little sister. Will you say yes when he finally asks for your number?
Warnings: slight medical inaccuracies. Sibling chaos. Pinning Hard
Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8
Masterlist<--- check out my other stories
The next morning, you walk into Pitt alone.
Which is unusual enough that you notice it.
No Frank at your elbow making comments about your coffee choices. No sibling bickering echoing off the employee hallway walls. Just you, your dark blue scrubs, your badge clipped at the waist, and a Starbucks carrier in one hand because if your brother is going to survive a day shift in the ER, he is not doing it on the burned mud-water the hospital calls coffee.
You cut through the main corridor toward the ED first, telling yourself you’re only stopping for thirty seconds. Drop off coffee. Say hi. Leave. That’s the plan. The Pitt, naturally, has other ideas.
The ER is already awake when you step through the badge doors. Nurses in gray and doctors in black weave through the station, monitors chirp from down the hall, and Dana is standing at the charge desk with a clipboard and a look on her face that suggests at least three people have already disappointed her before eight a.m.
Frank is easy to spot.
He’s at the main desk in black scrubs, leaning one hip against the counter while Mel King talks to him with unusual focus. Mel always has a kind of careful intensity to her, but this is different. Softer somehow. She’s looking at your brother like he personally discovered oxygen.
Interesting. Very interesting. You slow just enough to take it in. Frank says something low. Mel’s mouth quirks in that small, rare way she smiles when she’s more comfortable than usual. And the way she’s looking at him—
Oh.
You make a mental note so fast it’s practically instinct. Clock that for later. Store it away. Blackmail potential: excellent.
Then Frank spots you before you can be any subtler about it.
“Well, look who finally remembered I exist,” he says, straightening. You walk over and hold out the Starbucks carrier. “Brought you a real coffee before you poisoned yourself with hospital sludge.” Frank takes the cup like it’s a religious offering. “June Bug.” “I know. I’m incredible.” Dana glances over. “You brought Frank Starbucks?” You look at her. “He has children, Dana. He deserves one luxury.”
Frank points at you with the cup. “See? Someone loves me.” Dana deadpans, “Let’s not get carried away.” Mel gives you a polite little nod. “Morning.” “Morning,” you say, then glance between her and Frank with exaggerated innocence. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything deeply personal.” Frank narrows his eyes immediately. “Don’t.” You smile sweetly. “I didn’t say anything.” “You’re doing a face.” “I have lots of faces.”
Mel, unfortunately for your brother, looks like she’s trying not to smile. Oh, this is going on the shelf for later.
You’re still enjoying that when you catch sight of Dennis a few feet away.
He’s near the side workstation with Robby, both of them in black scrubs, heads bent over an x-ray and a chart while Robby talks in that clipped, sarcastic cadence he uses when he’s teaching and insulting someone at the same time. Dennis looks up at exactly the wrong moment and sees you.
His face changes immediately. Small, quick, impossible to miss now that you know what to look for. You turn toward them before you can overthink it. Robby spots you first. “There’s the one Langdon I don’t mind before coffee.” Frank, behind you, calls out, “That is so rude.” “It’s also true,” Robby calls back. You grin and step up beside Dennis. “Morning.”
He opens his mouth, clearly about to say it back, but your phone starts vibrating in your pocket with a violence that only one person in the building seems capable of achieving. You pull it out, see Park lighting up the screen, and answer with immediate annoyance. “What.” Robby’s brows lift. Dennis tries not to smile.
Park’s voice comes through sharp and dry enough that both of them can hear it. “Orca. Where are you.” You close your eyes for half a second. “In the ER.” “Why.” “I’m dropping off coffee.” “That dumb and unnecessary. OR 5 in twelve. If I get there and you’re not scrubbed, I’m giving your reduction to Patel.” You stop walking. “You wouldn’t dare.” “Try me, Orca.”
Then he hangs up. Silence. You lower the phone slowly. Robby is staring. Dennis is staring too, but his looks more stunned and a little delighted, like he’s trying very hard not to laugh in front of Robby.
Robby folds his arms. “Orca?” From behind you, Frank makes a strangled noise into his coffee because apparently he has not heard this yet. You sigh. “He thinks he’s funny.” Dennis finally finds his voice. “He calls you Orca?” You point at the phone like it personally betrayed you. “He says I’m meaner than he is, so apparently I need a nickname of another mean aquatic animal or something.”
Robby’s mouth twitches. “That’s unhinged.” “Thank you.” Frank, still behind you, says, “I hate him.” “No, you don’t,” you mutter. “I could.” “You have the energy of a man who wants to but is too tired.” “That’s fair.”
Dennis is still smiling now, that quieter smile he gets when something genuinely catches him off guard. It does annoying things to your pulse. You point at him. “Don’t encourage it.” “I didn’t say anything.” “Your face did.” Robby glances between the two of you once, file that away for later, and says, “Go upstairs before Park has a stress embolism.” You start backing toward the elevators. “On it.”
Then you turn, reach back blindly, and smack Frank on the back of the head with the flat of your hand. He yelps. “What was that for?” You keep walking. “For being annoying in advance.” “I hadn’t even done anything yet!” “Exactly. Preventative care.” Dana snorts from the desk. Jesse laughs outright. Mel looks deeply amused.
You lift a hand in goodbye without turning around and jog for the elevators while half the ER watches you go like they’ve just witnessed some private family soap opera with no commercial break.
Upstairs, Park is waiting outside OR 5 in black scrubs and a lead apron like a judgmental ghost. “You’re late.” “I’m not.” “You feel late.” “That’s not a real metric.” “It is if I say it is.”
The case is a displaced bimalleolar ankle fracture from a fall off a porch step, scheduled for ORIF after swelling finally cooperated. Straightforward by orthopedic standards, which means still delicate enough to ruin your whole morning if you get sloppy. Park lets you do more than he would with most residents, hovering in that specific way of his that feels like annoyance to outsiders and trust to anyone who’s worked with him long enough.
You reduce the fibula cleanly, hold alignment while imaging comes up, and listen to Park mutter, “Don’t be stupid,” in the same tone other attendings might use to say good job. By the time you’re closing, he says, “Acceptable.” Which, from Park, is embarrassingly close to affection.
You’re writing your op note just after noon when the ED consult pager goes off. Fall down stairs. Wrist fracture. Possible distal radius with deformity. Trinity Santos and Victoria Javadi’s patient. You stare at the pager for one long second. Then Park says, without looking up from his own charting, “That buzzing means move, Orca.”
You head downstairs with your jaw already a little tight.
The patient is a woman in her sixties who slipped on basement steps carrying laundry. She’s got the classic dinner-fork deformity of a dorsally displaced distal radius fracture, swelling already rising at the wrist. Victoria is at bedside in black scrubs, eager and trying very hard to look useful. Trinity is opposite her, chart in hand, expression neutral in a way that feels more deliberate than natural after yesterday.
You go straight to the patient first and introduce youself. “I’m going to take a look at your wrist.” Victoria is the one who answers your questions about mechanism, neurovascular checks, pain meds already given. She’s sharp, organized, and trying so hard that some of your irritation softens immediately. “Thank you, Javadi,” you say, reviewing the films. “You did good.”
Victoria brightens. “It’s a Colles pattern, right? Dorsal displacement, likely needs reduction?” “Exactly.” Then you look at Trinity. “Has she eaten today?” Trinity’s mouth tightens. “No. We kept her NPO in case you wanted sedation.” “Good.” That’s all you say to her. Short. Professional. Colder than you usually are, and you know it.
You explain the fracture to the patient, review the plan for hematoma block and reduction, and get set up. Victoria assists attentively, handing you what you need before you ask half the time. Trinity helps too, efficiently, but you barely look at her unless you have to.
The reduction goes well. Improved alignment on post-reduction films, sugar-tong splint in place, fingers warm and pink, sensation intact. You finish your note, give the patient follow-up instructions, and step into the hall. Behind you, low but not low enough, Trinity mutters, “Don’t have to be a bitch.”
You stop. For one split second you think maybe keep walking. Let it go. Don’t do this again.
But this time it lands differently. Not sharp anger. More like something hot and humiliating right under the skin because part of you knows you were short with her, and part of you knows exactly why, and part of you is tired of being made into the bad guy for bleeding where people keep poking.
You turn just enough that she knows you heard, but if you speak right now it’s going to be ugly. So you don’t. You walk out. Fast. Dennis notices, but Frank notices first. He’s just coming out of room nine when you pass, and he catches your face in one glance. “June Bug?”
You keep moving. That, more than anything, makes him follow. “What happened?” “Nothing.” “That’s not your nothing voice.” “Please don’t, Frank.” He does, at least publicly. But the look on his face says this is getting filed for later whether you like it or not.
The shift keeps moving because the Pitt never cares if your feelings got bruised at two in the afternoon. Dennis spends the next hour conflicted enough to be miserable. Because Trinity is his roommate. Because he knows she’s still carrying hurt from Frank, and some of that is fair.
Because he also knows you weren’t just being cruel for sport. He saw your face yesterday. He saw how fast you shut down today. And he likes you enough now that every weird little fracture line between people starts to feel like something he should somehow be able to fix. He can’t. That’s the worst part.
By three, Trinity is at the side desk venting to Garcia while they both chart, and Dennis is close enough to hear without meaning to. “I’m not saying she’s evil,” Trinity says, snapping a pen open. “I’m saying she acts like everyone’s supposed to tiptoe around Frank because he’s her brother.”
Garcia doesn’t even look up at first. “That’s not what she’s doing.” Trinity scoffs. “Really?” Now Garcia does look up. And when Garcia gets that still, even Trinity knows better than to mistake it for softness. “Yeah,” Garcia says. “Really. Just because she called you out for talking about her brother doesn’t make her a bitch.”
Trinity’s expression hardens. “I didn’t say she—” “You implied it plenty,” Garcia cuts in. “And continuing to talk about her does, actually, make you seem like a bitch.” The station goes quiet in that immediate, dangerous way it does when someone has finally said the thing everyone else was trying not to.
Garcia folds her arms. “She is my best friend. That comes first. And I’m not going to let you slander her because you’re still pissed and don’t actually know her.” Trinity says nothing for half a beat. Then, “Fine.” But it’s not fine. Everyone knows it. Dennis stares down at his chart, feeling about six different kinds of terrible.
Upstairs, you’re rounding on postop patients on the surgical floor when your phone buzzes.
Yoyo💕: if Santos says one more thing about you i’m putting her through drywall
A second later:
Yoyo 💕: not literally. probably.
Yoyo💕 : anyway she’s being annoying and i defended your honor like a medieval knight
You actually smile in spite of yourself while standing outside a room waiting for a patient to finish with the bathroom.
You: you are deeply dramatic
Yoyo 💕: yes
Yoyo 💕 : also correct
You tuck the phone away and keep moving.
By late afternoon, Park drags you back down to the ED himself for another consult. “Pilon fracture,” he says. “Actually?” “We’ll see.”
The patient turns out to be a fifty-something man with an ankle injury after getting his foot caught under a riding mower trailer. The x-rays show a comminuted distal tibia fracture extending into the plafond. Not a disaster-disaster yet, but definitely a real operative problem. He’s sweaty, angry, and deeply unhappy to find that the first orthopedic surgeon at bedside is you.
You introduce yourself, start your exam, and he cuts you off almost immediately. “I’d rather talk to the real surgeon.” The room stills. You look at him. “I am the real surgeon.” He snorts. “Honey, no offense, but I’d like somebody who’s actually done this before.”
You feel your spine go cold. No offense. Your favorite.
You’re just opening your mouth—already halfway to something sharp, something professionally suicidal but emotionally satisfying—when Park steps in beside you. He doesn’t raise his voice. He never has to. “This doctor,” he says, looking straight at the patient, “is on my service and more than qualified to assess your fracture. You can either answer her questions and get good care, or keep talking and delay your own treatment. Those are your options.”
The patient blinks.
Park keeps going. “And for the record, if you think competence is determined by whether the surgeon is male, I’m happy to prove how wrong you are with a very long wait.”
Silence.
Then the patient mutters, “Fine.”
You continue the exam with your face arranged into something polite enough to hold up in court. Swelling significant. Skin intact but tight. Distal pulses okay. Sensation intact. Needs temporary stabilization and likely staged management depending on soft tissues. You get through it without saying anything that would get you fired.
Barely.
Out in the hall, once the room door swings shut, you turn to Park. “That was weirdly kind.” He keeps walking. “Don’t make it a thing.” You fall into step beside him. “You defended me. In public.” “I defended orthopedics. You were incidental.” You grin despite yourself. “Softie.” Park gives you a flat look. “Don’t.” “You do love me.” “I absolutely do not.” “That sounded convincing.” He presses the elevator button with more force than necessary. “Orca, if you tell anyone I was nice, I’ll deny it under oath.” “I’m telling everybody.” “You’re insufferable.” “You hired me.”
The rest of the shift winds down the way hospital shifts always do: not gently, just slightly less violently. You get pulled into one more floor issue, then a quick postop wound check, then back down to the ED for final imaging review on the pilon fracture. By then night shift is bleeding in around the edges.
John Shen arrives first, iced Dunkin in hand like it’s a personality trait. “Why do all of you look haunted?” he asks the room at large.
“Because we work here,” Dana says. “Fair.” Dr. Parker Ellis comes in not long after, calm and competent in that senior-resident way that always makes the room feel a little steadier. Abbot follows, broader and more quietly grounded, giving off that same old-soldier, no-nonsense ease he always does at shift change.
Shen spots you near the desk and points his straw at your face. “You look less mean than usual. Character growth.” You fold your arms. “That’s offensive.” Abbot glances up from a chart. “No, it’s accurate.” Ellis, hearing only the tail end of it, says, “If she’s less mean than usual, somebody document it before it resolves.” You snort.
Dennis is across the desk pretending not to watch you laugh. Frank is beside the printer finishing sign-out and absolutely watching everything. Then your brother’s phone buzzes, he checks it, and his expression changes. He looks up sharply. “June Bug.”
You glance over. “What.” “Abby says if you’re late for dinner again, she’s feeding your portion to Tanner.” You gasp. “She would not.” Frank pockets his phone. “She absolutely would. Penny already asked where you are.” You groan. “That’s emotional blackmail.” “That’s your family.” You start gathering your things from the corner of the desk. “I hate all of you.” “No, you don’t,” Frank says. “Unfortunately, no.”
You’re halfway turned toward the exit when Dennis says your name. Not loud. Just enough. You look back. He’s a little flushed, a little too still, chart tucked under one arm like he’s bracing himself with it.
“Can I ask you something?” Shen, from farther down the desk, murmurs, “Oh, plot,” and Dana points at him without looking. You shift your bag higher on your shoulder. “Depends.”
Dennis glances at Frank once, then back at you, and does something that clearly took all day to work up to. “Can I get your number?” The whole desk goes just a little quieter. Not fully silent. This is still the Pitt. But enough. Dennis keeps going before he can lose the nerve. “So I don’t have to wait for an ortho consult to see you.”
There it is. Honest. A little awkward. Completely him. Your stomach flips hard enough to be annoying.
Behind you, Shen makes a tiny strangled noise like he’s trying not to cheer. Ellis looks up from her sign-out. Abbot’s mouth twitches. Dana suddenly becomes fascinated by a stack of papers she absolutely isn’t reading. Frank looks between you and Dennis with the expression of a man evaluating every possible consequence at once.
You make Dennis wait half a second longer than necessary because you are, at heart, still yourself. Then you hold out your phone. His relief is immediate and impossible to miss. He takes it, careful with his fingers around yours, and puts his number in, and texts himself. He hands your phone back. “Now you have mine too,” he says.
You glance at the screen, then up at him. “You planning to use it?” A faint blush climbs into his cheeks. “I was thinking maybe coffee.” Shen whispers, “Let’s go,” into his cup. Dana points again. “Not one word.”
Frank exhales slowly through his nose, then says, “Abby is going to love this.” You whip around. “You tell Abby nothing.” Frank looks innocent. “I didn’t say I’d tell her. I said she’d love it.” “That is the same thing in your hands.” He smiles, smug and deeply irritating. “Get in the car, June Bug, before Tanner stages a coup.”
You look back at Dennis one more time. “Text me, Whitaker.” His whole face softens. “Yeah. I will.” You nod once, tuck the phone into your pocket, and head toward the doors with Frank at your side. As soon as you’re out of easy earshot, he bumps your shoulder. “Coffee?”
“Don’t.” “He nice I guess.” “You say that like you’re reviewing a dog for adoption.” Frank laughs under his breath. “You smiled.” “I smile all the time.” “Not like that.” You cut him a look. “Drive.” He grins, pleased with himself in the way only older brothers can be, and holds the door open with a ridiculous flourish.
Behind you, inside the bright hum of the ER, Dennis Whitaker is still standing at the desk looking just dazed enough to be adorable while Shen says something that makes Abbot laugh and Ellis shakes her head like she’s watching a train wreck in slow motion. And for the first time all day, the thought of tomorrow feels a little lighter than it did this morning.
Dennis sits on the couch in his apartment staring at his phone like it personally insulted him. Not because anything is wrong with it. Because your number is in there now. Because you told him to text you. Because that should make this easy and somehow makes it worse.
Across the room, Trinity is in gray sweatpants and one of his old college T-shirts, pacing between the kitchen and the coffee table with the kind of sharp restless energy she gets when she’s pissed off and trying to turn it into conversation.
“It’s bullshit,” she says for what is at least the fourth time. “Garcia’s supposed to be on my side.” Dennis is only half listening. “Mm.” Trinity whips around. “No, Dennis, listen. I’m serious. She stood there and told me to knock it off like I was the problem.” He blinks at her from the couch. “Maybe because you were.”
That gets her full attention.
“What?” Dennis glances back down at his phone. “You were talking about June Bug.” Trinity folds her arms. “I was talking about Frank.” “Not really.” She stares at him. “Wow. You’re useless.” He hums, because that seems safest.
Trinity throws herself into the armchair like she’s been mortally wounded by a betrayal too complex for this apartment. “And another thing, Garcia is supposed to support me. That is literally the job description of a girlfriend.”
Dennis looks up. “Did Garcia say she’s your girlfriend?” Trinity narrows her eyes. “Don’t be technical right now.” “That feels like an important detail.” She throws a throw pillow at him. He catches it without effort and drops it onto the cushion beside him, gaze already drifting back to his phone.
Your contact is open.
No messages yet.
Which is stupid. You gave him your number less than two hours ago. You are presumably busy having a life. That’s how numbers work.
Still. He stares. Then unlocks the phone. Then locks it. Then unlocks it again.
Trinity watches this for exactly five seconds before saying, “Oh my God.” Dennis doesn’t look up. “What.” “You’re texting her.” He finally does look up. “I haven’t yet.” “But you’re going to.” He says nothing. That’s enough.
Trinity sits up straighter. “Dennis Whitaker.” “Please don’t do a tone.” “You have a crush on Frank Langdon’s little sister.” He rubs a hand over his face. “She’s not Frank Langdon’s little sister every second of every day.”
“That is biologically false, she’s your evil senior resident’s sister.” “It’s not the main point.” “It is if I have to live with the consequences.” Dennis gives her a long, flat look. “You are being dramatic.” Trinity’s expression turns smug. “You’re nervous.” “Maybe a little.” She grins. “Pathetic.” “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.”
He looks back at the screen and finally, before he can talk himself out of it, types.
Dennis: Hi.
He immediately hates it. Too short. Too bare. Too stupid. Then three dots appear before he can spiral further. And somehow that’s worse.
At Frank and Abby’s house, family dinner is in full swing when your phone buzzes.
You’re on the living room rug in your sweats and a t-shirt, cross-legged with Penny in your lap and Tanner trying very hard to force three stuffed animals into a plastic dump truck that absolutely cannot hold them. Penny is two and fully in her tyrant princess era, which means she keeps demanding “Again!” every time you make one of the stuffed dogs bark in a stupid voice. Tanner, at four, is just old enough to have opinions and just young enough to say every one of them immediately.
“No, Auntie June,” he says gravely, pushing a stuffed dinosaur toward you. “He’s the dad.” “Oh,” you say seriously. “Okay. Sorry. I didn’t realize he had a family.” “He has a truck,” Tanner explains, which apparently answers everything. From the kitchen, Abby laughs while she plates food. “You’re doing great, baby.”
Frank is at the island stealing bites of roasted potatoes off a tray and getting his wrist smacked every thirty seconds. “I haven’t eaten all day,” he protests. Abby doesn’t even look at him. “That’s not my fault.” “It is spiritually.” Your phone buzzes again against your thigh. You glance down.
Dennis: Hi.
That’s it. Just hi. And for some reason that one tiny word sends a stupid, helpless smile straight across your face.
Abby sees it immediately because of course she does. “Well.” You look up too fast. “What.” She leans on the counter, grin already spreading. “Nothing.” Frank looks over from the potatoes. “Why do you look like that?” “Like what?” “Like somebody just told you you’re pretty.” You gasp in fake offense. “Frank.” Tanner looks up from the dump truck. “You are pretty, Auntie June.”
Your hand goes to your chest. “Thank you, baby. See? Someone in this family respects me.” Frank points a potato at you. “I respect you.” “You tackle me for sport.” “That was family enrichment.”
Penny pats your cheek with alarming force. “June.” “Yes, Penny girl?” “Doggy kiss.” You obediently make the stuffed dog kiss her nose and she squeals.Then you text back.
You: Hi yourself.
Your phone buzzes almost instantly.
Dennis: I spent twenty minutes trying to think of something better than that.
Dennis: Clearly I panicked.
You bite your lip to hide your smile.
You: That’s okay. I respect honesty under pressure.
You: Mostly because I work with tramua cases.
Across the room, Frank narrows his eyes. “You’re doing it again.” You don’t look up. “Doing what?” “The smiling at your phone thing.” Abby looks delighted. “Let her live, Frank.” “I am letting her live,” he says. “I’m monitoring.” “You’re not my probation officer.” “No,” Frank says, “but I am your brother.” “That is not a credential.”
Your phone buzzes again.
Dennis: That feels disrespectful to emergency medicine.
Dennis: We panic very professionally.
You laugh under your breath. Then another text thread lights up.
Parkie the Sharkie 🦈: Saw a TikTok. False.
Under it, he’s sent some idiot video of a guy in backwards sunglasses and quarter-zip scrubs captioned: ortho surgeons leaving the gym to go fix one clavicle
You actually bark a laugh out loud. Frank straightens immediately. “What.” “Nothing.” “That was not a nothing laugh.” You try to answer both threads one-handed because Penny has now decided your arm is the correct place to sit forever.
You to Dennis: professionally is generous
Then to Park:
You: Brenden this is literally half your specialty
You: you all look like fraternity recruitment got lost on the way to anatomy lab
His reply comes in seconds.
Parkie the Sharkie 🦈: Wrong.
Parkie the Sharkie 🦈: Also this one’s insulting.
Another video appears: a joke about ortho hearing a ninety-year-old hip fracture consult and grabbing a jackhammer like a kid on Christmas morning.
You laugh even harder. Now Abby is fully grinning and Frank is openly suspicious. “What,” he says slowly, coming around the island. “Is on your phone?” You clutch it tighter. “Nothing that concerns you.” “That is the shadiest sentence you’ve ever said in my house.” “It’s not shady.” “You’re literally hiding the screen.”
Penny, who loves chaos because she is related to all of you, immediately points and says, “Phone!” Tanner abandons the dump truck and joins the campaign. “Show us!” “No,” you say, standing up too fast with Penny still on your hip. “Absolutely not.” Frank points at you. “June Bug.” “You’re not my dad.” “Correct. I’m worse.”
Then he lunges.
You yelp and dart sideways toward the hall, Penny shrieking in delighted betrayal as you scoop her tighter and run. Tanner starts laughing so hard he can barely breathe. Abby leans against the counter with both hands over her mouth like she knows exactly how this is going to end.
“Frank, no—”
Too late.
He catches you three steps into the hallway, wraps an arm around your waist, and the two of you go down in a heap onto the big rug just outside the living room while Penny squeals, Tanner dog-piles on because obviously he does, and Murphy the golden retriever comes skidding in from nowhere because apparently all family wrestling matches are his business now.
“Give me the phone,” Frank says through laughter. “Die.” “That’s not a no.” Tanner climbs onto your stomach like a tiny mercenary. “Get her, Dad!” “Traitor,” you accuse him. Penny pats your hair with sticky toddler hands. “June fall down.” “Yes, baby, I noticed.” Abby finally walks over, hands on her hips, laughing too hard to be authoritative. “Frank, stop tackling your sister.”
Frank, trying to peel the phone out of your grip, says, “I’ll stop when she stops acting suspicious.” “You are a grown man.” “I am a father. This is basically my job.” “You have the wrong children!”
Murphy, Frank’s dog sticks his nose directly into your face. Tanner is still half on top of you. Penny has abandoned all loyalty and is now yelling, “Again!” And in the middle of all of it, Frank wins. He gets the phone. “Ha—” he starts, then looks at the screen.
And stops.
You freeze. Abby leans in. “Well?” Frank blinks down at the text thread. Then scrolls once. Then looks at you in confusion. “This is… Park?” You go still for one heartbeat. Then two. Then you burst out laughing so hard you almost can’t breathe. Frank lowers the phone slowly. “You were hiding Park?”
Abby actually doubles over. Tanner looks between all the adults like this is the best television of his life. Penny says, “Again!” because she has no grasp of nuance, only vibes. You reach up and snatch the phone back against your chest. “I was hiding for the bit.” Frank is still trying to process. “You were acting like that because Park is sending you orthopedic memes?”
“Yes!” He stares. “Why.” “Because it’s funny.” “It’s weird.” “He’s weird.” Abby wipes under her eyes. “That is true.” Frank sits back on his heels, looking deeply unsettled. “He sent you the frat-bro one?” You point accusingly. “Exactly. See? You get it.” He narrows his eyes. “I do not get it.”
“You got tackled for nothing,” Abby says cheerfully. “I did not tackle her for nothing,” Frank protests. “She was laughing like a criminal.” You kiss Penny’s forehead, then Tanner’s, still grinning. “I’m going home before this family commits another felony.” Penny immediately clings tighter. “No.” Your face softens at once. “I know, baby.”
Tanner crawls into your lap from the other side, all warm little kid limbs and serious eyes. “Come back tomorrow?” “If your mom invites me.” Abby, from the doorway, says, “Always.” You stand, balancing Penny one last second before handing her back to Abby, then scoop Tanner into a hug and kiss his whole face until he squeals in outrage and laughter. You do the same to Penny, who smacks a sticky hand against your cheek and says, “June kiss.”
Frank watches the whole thing with that quiet, softened expression he gets around his kids and around you when he forgets to be irritating. You hug Abby first, quick and warm. “Thanks for dinner.” “Anytime, baby.” Then you hug Frank too, because despite everything he is still your brother and he still smells like decent coffee and black pepper cologne and home.
“Don’t tackle me next time,” you mutter into his shoulder. “No promises.” “Unwell.” “Accurate.” You head out still texting Dennis before you’ve even buckled into your car.
You: update: frank tackled me in the hallway over orthopedic memes
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Dennis: That sentence is completely insane.
Dennis: Are you okay?
You: physically yes
You: emotionally I’ve been victimized
By the time you get back to your apartment, shoes kicked off by the door and bag dumped onto the chair, you’re still smiling at your phone like an idiot. You change into soft shorts and an old T-shirt with one hand while texting with the other, toothbrush in your mouth for half of it and absolutely no dignity left to preserve.
Dennis is still on his couch, Trinity now ranting about something else entirely in the background while he mostly tunes her out and keeps the phone angled toward himself.
Dennis: I’m sorry, I’m still stuck on the idea that Park sends TikToks
You: unfortunately he’s online
Dennis: that feels dangerous
You: it is
You: today he sent one about ortho hearing “90 year old hip fracture” and grabbing a jackhammer like it’s christmas
Dennis: Please tell me that isn’t true
You: Dennis be serious
He laughs quietly to himself, enough that Trinity glares over the back of the couch. “What is that face?” she asks. “No face.” “You’re doing a face.” He ignores her and keeps typing.
Dennis: I had a good time today
Then, a second later:
Dennis: Even though the part I actually saw you was maybe thirty seconds.
You sit down on the edge of your bed and stare at that one for a second too long. Your whole apartment is quiet around you now. No kids laughing. No Frank threatening to steal your phone. Just the soft hum of the AC and the glow of your bedroom lamp and that stupid warm feeling climbing steadily up your chest.
You type back more carefully this time.
You: I had a good time too
You: even if most of it was just me getting harassed by my brother and my attending
His answer comes quickly.
Dennis: I can’t compete with that level of chaos
You: no one can
Dennis: maybe coffee still gives me a fighting chance though
You smile into the darkened room
You: maybe
The conversation keeps going after that in that easy, drifting way that makes time disappear.
About Nebraska. About Abby’s cooking. About how Park is objectively too online for a man with that little emotional range. About Trinity stealing Dennis’s cereal. About the difference between ER chaos and OR chaos. About how Penny says your name like it has only one syllable and how Tanner apparently believes every stuffed animal needs a truck.
At some point you end up tucked fully under your blankets, lights off, phone held above your face while sleep starts creeping in around the edges.
Dennis is still texting. So are you. Until your replies get slower. Softer. Shorter.
Dennis: You should sleep.
You blink at that one for a second before answering.
You: rude
Dennis: you’re falling asleep mid-sentence
You: no im not
Dennis: you forgot punctuation three texts ago
You: thats style
He sends back a laughing emoji, then:
Dennis: Goodnight, June Bug.
And that one gets you. Not because it’s flashy. Not because it’s especially smooth. Because it feels warm. Familiar already in a way that should maybe scare you more than it does. Your eyes are half closed when you answer.
You: goodnight whitaker
Phone still in your hand, smile still lingering at the corners of your mouth, you drift off before the screen fully fades to black.
Little bit of a long one. Wanted to show the readers relationship with Frank's family. My apologies <3
Summory: Reader is a surgery resident, specializing in orthopedics. Who just happens to be Frank Langdon's little sister who he calls June Bug. Dennis Whitaker seems to take a liking to his senior resident's little sister. But what happens when someone talks about the reader's older brother?
Warnings: slight medical inaccuracies.
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Now the ER knows your face.
Not in the official way. Not in the badge-scan, consult-note, chart-cosign kind of way. In the way emergency departments always end up knowing people who keep showing up in the middle of chaos and acting like chaos is just another thing to manage.
You’re “June Bug” now, Frank Langdon’s little sister and Park the Shark’s mentee.
It’s been a few days since you’ve been down to the ER.
Not because you were avoiding it. Park has mostly kept you upstairs, buried in scheduled orthopedic cases, hardware follow-ups, and enough OR time to make your shoulders ache by lunch. The ER has been out of sight, which unfortunately means it’s been just present enough in your head to be annoying. Especially because every now and then, between cases, you catch yourself wondering whether Dennis notices the lack of your presence.
He probably doesn't.
You hate that you care.
By six-thirty in the morning, you’re walking into Pitt beside Frank with a coffee in one hand and your bag over your shoulder, both of you moving with that easy sibling rhythm that comes from a lifetime of matching each other’s pace without thinking. Frank is in black scrubs, trauma folder tucked under his arm, looking unfairly composed for this hour. You’re in dark blue scrubs, hair clipped back, pager at your waistband, already mentally sorting your OR schedule.
Frank glances down at your coffee. “That is not coffee.” You don’t even look at him. “Good morning to you too.” “It looks like runoff from a parking lot.” “It’s a cold brew coffee. We don’t all suffer from thinking the hospital sludge is good .” “Abby would throw that out.” “Abby married you. Her judgment is clearly not flawless.” Frank lets out a low, offended sound. “That was mean.” “You sighed when you bent down to tie your shoes.”
“I am thirty-four.” “You made a dad noise.” “I am a dad.” “That doesn’t mean I have to respect it.” He cuts you a look, then bumps your shoulder lightly with his. “Mom says you got meaner in residency.” “Mom says that because she’s still pretending I was a sweet child.” “You bit me when you were six.” “You stole my popsicle.”“It was one lick.” “It was betrayal.” Frank snorts. “You’re impossible.” “You’re old.”
By the time you two hit the ER entrance, the department is already alive. Nurses in gray move through the station with meds, labs, and that particular kind of efficiency and chaos that only exists in emergency medicine. Dana is planted at the charge desk like she owns the building. Jesse is fighting with a printer. Perlah and Princess are talking near triage while Emma hovers nearby trying not to look brand new. The whole place smells like sanitizer, stale caffeine, and incoming problems.
Dana spots you first. “Well,” she says dryly, “look what ortho finally let out of its cage.” You peel off from Frank and head straight for her. “Missed me?” Dana sets her pen down just in time for you to lean over and give her a quick side hug. She pretends she’s tolerating it more than she actually is. “You vanish for days and think you get affection?” she asks. “I had surgeries.” “You always have surgeries.” “That’s because bones are needy.”
Frank leans on the desk beside you. “Interesting. She gets a hug and I get disrespect.” Dana doesn’t even glance at him. “Because she’s easier to like.” “Deeply hurtful.” “You also still owe me a discharge summary.” Frank straightens. “How do you know that already?” Dana looks at him over the rim of her coffee. “Because I’m Dana.”
That gets a laugh out of you, and that’s when you see Dennis.
He’s a few feet down from the main desk, chart in hand beside Mohan while Robby goes through sign-out in that clipped, blunt way of his. He looks up at the sound of your laugh, and for one quick second the rest of the department softens around the fact that he’s looking right at you.
His face changes immediately. Just a little. Enough. You lift your fingers in a small wave. He waves back, awkwardly enough that you almost smile harder. You mean to stop. You mean to say something. Anything. Even just hi. But your phone starts vibrating in your pocket with the very specific insistence of a man who thinks time itself is personally wasting his day.
You already know who it is before you check.
Park: Where are you.
Park: OR 4 in ten.
Park: If I have to start with the med student I’m blaming you.
You groan. Dana catches the screen. “Park?” “Unfortunately.” “Then run,” she says. “Before he comes down here and makes it all our problem.” You point vaguely toward Dennis and mouth later, not sure if he catches it, then start backing toward the OR hallway. “Try not to commit crimes before lunch, Frankie.” Frank lifts his coffee in salute. “No promises.” “That’s why Mom worries.”
Then you turn and head upstairs, Park’s texts practically shoving you along. The morning disappears the way OR mornings do. A scheduled distal radius ORIF that takes longer than expected. Then a tibial hardware revision. Then a postoperative wound check that turns into a whole debate with Park about swelling, soft tissue, and whether radiology “understands words.” He’s in one of his moods, which means he says less and expects more.
By late morning you’ve barely inhaled half a protein bar when your pager goes off with an ER consult. Chainsaw injury. Deep laceration to the knee. Concern for joint violation. You look up immediately. Park glances over from the chart he’s reviewing. “Mechanism?” “Chainsaw kickback while cutting limbs. Deep anterior knee laceration. Possible traumatic arthrotomy.” “Lovely,” he says flatly. “Go look. If the joint’s open, they’re ours.”
Garcia appears in the doorway at exactly the same time, trauma papers in hand, expression already sharpened with interest. “I’m headed down anyway. Come on.” The patient is in Trauma Three when you get there.
Middle-aged guy, work boots still on, jeans cut open to mid-thigh, sweat slick on his face and sawdust clinging stubbornly to his sock. The dressing over his knee is blood-soaked but controlled. Robby is already at bedside. Mateo is hanging fluids. Emma is setting out supplies with a concentration so intense it almost hurts to look at. Jesse is nearby muttering that this is why God invented professionals.
“Fifty-one-year-old male,” Robby says as you and Garcia glove up. “Cutting tree limbs, chainsaw kicked back into the left knee. No head strike, no loss of consciousness, no other obvious trauma. Bleeding controlled. Good distal pulses.”
The patient looks between all of you like he’s trying to decide which face is most likely to tell him he gets to keep his leg. “Am I screwed?” he asks. Garcia says, “Not fatally.” You pull the dressing down. The room gets a little quieter.
The wound is ugly. Oblique across the anterior knee, jagged and deep, cutting through skin and subcutaneous tissue and opening enough over the front of the joint to make your stomach tighten. It’s not some dramatic “chainsaw cut halfway through bone” nonsense, but it is absolutely deep enough to worry about capsule violation. There’s visible soft tissue disruption over the patellar region and enough depth medially that you’re concerned for a traumatic arthrotomy. You can see superficial cortical scraping at the patella rather than a gross fracture, but the real problem is whether the saw entered the joint and contaminated it.
You start with the basics. Distal exam first. DP and PT pulses are intact. Foot warm. Cap refill okay. Sensation intact distally. He can dorsiflex and plantarflex. You ask him to attempt a straight leg raise and he barely manages it through pain before dropping the heel back down with a curse.
“Don’t do that again,” you say.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
X-rays are up within minutes. No displaced patellar fracture. No tibial plateau fracture. But there’s obvious soft tissue defect, small flecks of air where they shouldn’t be, and enough concern from the location and mechanism that imaging alone doesn’t make you feel better.
Garcia looks at you. “You buying open joint?” “Yes.” Robby folds his arms. “Plan?” “IV antibiotics now if they’re not already hanging. Tetanus if needed. Formal irrigation and debridement in the OR if this is a traumatic arthrotomy, which it probably is. We can do a saline load test if needed, but honestly with mechanism and wound location, I’d rather not waste time pretending this isn’t what it is.” Robby nods once. “Reasonable.”
You step back and call Park. He answers on the first ring. “What.” “Chainsaw to anterior knee. Deep laceration over patella and medial parapatellar region. High concern for traumatic arthrotomy. No gross fracture, maybe superficial patellar cortical involvement. Distal exam intact.” A beat. Then, “I’m coming down.” Which, from Park, is practically emotional support.
He arrives six minutes later in navy blue scrubs, looking like he got dragged away from something he respected more. He steps into the trauma bay, examines the wound himself, reviews the films, and gives the patient exactly one sentence of human reassurance.
“We’re going to wash this out in the OR and make sure the joint’s clean.” The patient nods like that’s enough. Because with Park, weirdly, it usually is.
The case books quickly. You and Park coordinate the rest. Garcia peels away to do trauma surgery business. Robby moves on to the next fire. And once the patient is headed upstairs and your note is mostly done, you step out into the hallway expecting maybe two seconds of peace.
Instead, you hear Trinity.
She’s at the main station with Dennis, leaning against the desk in black scrubs, voice low but not low enough. “I’m serious,” she says. “He shouldn’t be back here acting like nothing happened.” You slow before you’re fully visible.
Dennis is half-turned toward her, chart in hand. He’s not saying much. Mostly listening. Mostly giving those quiet little nods he gives when someone’s venting and he’s trying not to escalate it.
Trinity keeps going.
“He made this place hell for some of us, Dennis. People can pretend rehab fixes everything in a neat little bow, but it doesn’t erase what he did. And frankly, I don’t care if Robby wants to play redemption arc. Frank didn’t make people like me feel like we belonged here.”
Your whole body goes cold and hot at the same time.
For one second you think maybe just keep walking. Don’t do this here. Don’t do this now. Then Dennis nods again. Small. Automatic. Probably just trying to be kind. Probably not agreeing the way it looks. Doesn’t matter.
You step into view. “Maybe,” you say, voice sharp enough that both of them go still immediately, “you should mind your fucking business.”
The station goes dead quiet.
Trinity straightens first, eyes hardening. Dennis’s face changes instantly when he sees yours—surprise first, then something worse. You look at Trinity. “You do not get to use my brother as your lunch break topic.” Trinity crosses her arms. “I wasn’t talking to you.” “No,” you say. “You were talking about someone you clearly still resent, and you’re allowed to feel however you feel. But you don’t get to drag it out at the desk like gossip.”
Her jaw tightens. “That’s not what I was doing.” “It sounded exactly like that.” Dennis says your name quietly, trying to step in. “Hey—” You turn to him, and whatever he sees in your face makes him stop.
Because you’re not just angry at Trinity. You’re angry that he stood there and nodded along. Maybe unfairly. Maybe not. It still hurts.
You look back at Trinity one last time. “Find someone else to perform for.” Then you turn and walk away before either of them can answer. Behind you, you hear Jesse mutter, “Jesus,” under his breath, and Dana snap something about everyone getting back to work, but you don’t stop. You head straight for the stairwell, pulse pounding, throat hot, fury sitting ugly and sour in your chest.
The rest of the afternoon gets worse in quiet ways.
You avoid the ER.
Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone to accuse you of anything. You just stay upstairs when you can, throw yourself into postop checks and floor notes and instrument trays and literally anything that keeps you out of the line of sight of the emergency department.
Garcia notices first, of course. She corners you between cases in the OR hall with her mask hanging loose at her neck and a look that says she already knows you’re lying.
“What happened downstairs?” “Nothing.” “That’s bullshit.” You shove a chart into her hands. “Read your trauma note.” Garcia doesn’t even look at it. “June Bug.” You exhale through your nose. “Trinity was talking shit about Frank. Dennis was standing there listening.” Garcia’s expression flattens immediately. “Ah.” “Yeah.”
“You yell at them?” “I told her to mind her fucking business.” Garcia’s mouth twitches. “That tracks.” You glare. “I’m not joking.” “I know.” Her face softens a little. “You’re also not exactly calm.” You look away. “I don’t want to talk about it.” “Too bad. You’re clearly madder at Whitaker than Santos.”
You say nothing, which is answer enough.
Then Park ruins the moment by appearing out of nowhere and saying, “Orca. Move. Consult.” You close your eyes briefly. “This is not the time.” “It’s exactly the time. Hip fracture in ED.”
So despite every instinct telling you not to go back down there, you end up riding the elevator to the ER beside Park, who has the social sensitivity of a cinder block and therefore doesn’t ask why you look like you want to punch drywall.
The consult is an elderly woman with an intertrochanteric fracture after a fall in her kitchen. Straightforward, medically speaking. Not straightforward emotionally, because her daughter is frightened and crying and asking all the same questions families always ask when a life changes in one wrong step on tile.
You’re sharper than usual. Not rude. Just shorter. More clipped.
You explain the fracture. Surgical plan likely tomorrow. Pain control tonight. NPO after midnight. Medical optimization. You answer every question, but without your usual softness. Park notices because Park notices everything. So does the daughter, probably. You hate that immediately.
When you step back into the hall, Garcia is waiting there like she materialized from your guilt. “You’re snappy,” she says. “You’re stalking me.” “Yes. You’re still snappy.”
Before you can answer, Frank appears from the opposite end of the hall, still in black scrubs, hair a little more wrecked now, expression shifting the second he sees your face.
“What happened to you?” “Nothing.” Frank stops in front of you and squints. “That’s your lying voice.” Park, beside you, glances between the two of you with mild disdain. “Can you do family therapy somewhere else?” Frank ignores him. “June Bug.”
You look away. Garcia answers for you. “She got overheated because Trinity was running her mouth about you and Whitaker was dumb enough to stand there during it.” Frank’s face changes immediately. “What?” You shoot Garcia a murderous look. “I hate you.” “Love you too.” Frank takes one step closer. “What did she say?”
“It doesn’t matter.” “If it upset you, it matters.” You laugh once without humor. “Great. Good. Awesome. Can everyone stop making my feelings a group project?” That gets silence. Not because anyone agrees to stop. Because they’re startled.
Park looks at you for a long second, then says, “Orca, go wash your face. You look rabid.” You stare at him. Garcia mutters, “Oddly supportive for him.” Frank looks like he wants details and revenge and maybe a list of witnesses. You point at all three of them. “I’m going to go write my consult note, and if any of you follow me, I’m throwing myself down the elevator shaft.”
That, finally, gets you left alone.
Mostly.
The rest of the shift crawls.
You stay busy because that’s easier than thinking. A pediatric wrist reduction. A floor page about a postop fever that turns out to be exactly what you expected. One more ER consult late in the afternoon with Park physically present, which means you’re spared any real chance of interacting with Trinity or Dennis beyond a few peripheral glimpses that feel worse than direct conversation would have.
Every time you see Dennis, he looks like he wants to say something. You don’t give him the opening. By the time evening settles in and night shift starts bleeding into the edges of day shift, you’re exhausted in that particular way that feels like emotional fatigue wearing a physical costume.
You’re down in the ER one last time near the end of the shift because Park sent you to review a questionable knee film and then vanished like a malicious spirit. You finish the note, sign the orders, and head toward the desk just as Dr. John Shen comes breezing in for nights with a Dunkin iced coffee in hand and the exact same amused, too-online expression he always seems to wear.
“Well, well,” Shen says when he spots you. “Ortho lives.” You huff a laugh despite yourself. “Unfortunately.” Abbot is right behind him, calmer, broader, carrying that steady night-shift presence like armor. He glances between you and Shen. “She looks mean.” “I am mean,” you say. Shen points at you with his straw. “Self-awareness. Love that.”
Abbot leans against the counter. “Bad day?” “Long day.” “That’s not what I asked.” You smile despite yourself. “See, this is why everyone thinks you’re secretly older than dirt.” Abbot grins. “And yet I’m still handsome.” “Debatable,” you say with a wink.
Shen lets out a delighted little noise. “Okay, slay.” You bark a laugh at that, and for the first time all afternoon something in your chest loosens a little, “Don’t ever say that again.”
Across the desk, Dennis stops.
He was clearly heading your way. You can tell by the way he slows when he sees you talking to Shen and Abbot. He hesitates just long enough to take in the scene—Shen making you laugh, Abbot leaning in with that easy night-shift confidence, you actually smiling for the first time since noon.
From a distance, maybe it looks a little flirty. It isn’t. But it looks easy. And Dennis is already carrying enough guilt to make himself miserable with the wrong read. He still comes over.
Slowly, but he comes.
You see him before he reaches you, and the second your eyes land on him, something tight settles back into your shoulders. Not anger exactly. More like the bruise left after it. Shen notices immediately, because apparently no one in this hospital knows how to mind their own business. “Oop,” he says softly around his straw. “I’m sensing plot.” Abbot gives him a look. “You are exhausting.”
Dennis stops a few feet away, eyes flicking briefly to Shen and Abbot before returning to you. “Can I talk to you?” You don’t answer right away. Shen, to his credit, lifts both hands. “I can vanish.” Abbot pushes off the counter. “Come on. Leave the adults to it.” “They’re younger than me.” “Barely, have you heard how you talk?”
Shen gives you a little salute with his coffee before he and Abbot drift off toward the night-shift board, still talking under their breath. Then it’s just you and Dennis.
The ER is loud around you, but the space between the two of you feels weirdly quiet anyway. Dennis rubs the back of his neck once. “I wanted to apologize.” You fold your arms. “For what part?” His face falls a little at that, but he nods like he deserves it. “For standing there. For not saying anything. For making it look like I agreed.”
You look at him for a long second.
“Did you?” “No.” Immediate. Firm. “No.” That helps. A little. He goes on, quieter now. “I wasn’t agreeing with her. I just… she was venting, and I was trying not to make it bigger.” You let out a short breath. “Well, congratulations. It got bigger.” He almost smiles, but thinks better of it. “Yeah. I know.”
You look away toward the tracking board, toward Dana scolding someone in triage, toward literally anything that isn’t his face. “She can hate Frank if she wants,” you say finally. “That’s her business. I know he hurt people. I know not everybody forgives him. I’m not asking for that.”
Dennis listens without interrupting.
“But hearing it like that,” you continue, voice lower now, “he’s still my brother.” Dennis nods once. “I know.” You look back at him then. “Do you?” He meets your eyes. “Yeah. I do.” Something in his face is so open it almost makes this harder instead of easier. “I should’ve said something,” he says. “Or I should’ve walked away. I didn’t. And I’m sorry.”
You’re quiet for a beat. Then another.
From farther down the desk, Shen glances over once, catches your eye, and immediately looks away with exaggerated innocence. Abbot says something to him that makes him snort.
You almost smile.
Dennis sees that too, and you can feel him misreading the whole thing just a little. The night doctors. The laughter. The fact that you seem easier with them right now than with him. It shows in the tiniest flicker of his expression.
You tip your head. “I’m not flirting with Abbot, if that’s what that face is.” His eyebrows lift. “What face?” “That one.” A faint blush crawls up his neck. “I wasn’t—” “You were a little.” He exhales, half embarrassed. “Maybe.” That almost gets a real laugh out of you.
Almost.
He takes one tiny step closer. Careful, like he’s approaching something skittish. “I’m really sorry, June Bug.” And there it is. Not doctor voice. Not careful work voice. Just you. You look at him for a long second, tired and still hurt and not nearly ready to fully let him off the hook.
But not done either.
“Okay,” you say finally. It’s not forgiveness, not fully. But it isn’t rejection. Dennis seems to understand that. His shoulders ease just a little.
“I’ll do better,” he says. “You should.” He nods. “Yeah.” Dana yells for him from across the station before either of you can say anything else. Whitaker!”
He looks over automatically.
“Your patient in six is trying to leave with his IV in.” Dennis closes his eyes briefly. “Of course he is.” That finally does pull a real, tired smile from you. He sees it. Smiles back, small and relieved.
“Goodnight, June Bug,” he says.
You glance toward the exit, then back at him. “Goodnight, Whitaker.”
And as he heads off toward fresh chaos and Shen starts cackling over something at the night-shift board, you stand there in the middle of the Pitt with the long, messy ache of the day still sitting under your skin and think, not for the first time, that nothing in this hospital ever stays simple for long.
If one thing is clear in the Pitt, no one gets to talk shit about your brother. You are loyal as hell and will stand up for those you care about. But another thing that isn't clear, is why you care so much about what Dennis thinks and does....
Summory: Reader is a surgery resident, specializing in orthopedics. Who just happens to be Frank Langdon's little sister who he calls June Bug. But apparently that isn't common knowledge among the Pitt.
Warnings: slight medical inaccuracies.
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The overhead cracks to life before the trauma bay doors even finish opening.
“Trauma incoming, five minutes out. Adult male. Construction site crush injury. Left leg pinned under steel beam. Hypotensive en route. Page surgery and ortho,” Robby barks, already yanking a gown over his scrubs like the room is an extension of his own nervous system.
Everything moves at once after that.
Dana points with two fingers like a field general. “Trauma One. Whitaker, you’re with Robby. Santos, airway side. McKay, lines. Mohan, chart and meds. Mel, get blood ready. Jesse, Mateo, set up Belmont. Perlah, Princess, clear me a path and call radiology.”
“Yes, mom,” Jesse says. Dana doesn’t even look at him. “Keep talking and I’ll put you on bedpan duty for the rest of the shift.” Dennis Whitaker is already gloved by the time EMS barrels in. He catches the first look of the patient’s leg and feels his stomach tighten anyway.
Middle-aged man. Filthy work boots. Orange vest cut open. Sweat slicking his face despite how pale he is. His left lower leg is grotesquely swollen from just below the knee down, boot half-sliced off by EMS, skin stretched shiny and angry over what looks like an obvious deformity through the midshaft tibia. The mechanism is ugly enough that everyone in the room knows the fracture is probably only part of the problem.
“Thirty-eight-year-old male, beam collapse at construction site,” paramedic says fast. “Pinned approximately six minutes before extrication. No head strike witnessed, no LOC. Fentanyl one hundred en route, pressure trending down. Last BP eighty-six systolic. Distal pulse weak with Doppler, absent by palpation. Pain out of proportion, worsening swelling.”
“Great,” Robby says flatly. “My favorite words before seven-thirty in the morning.” The patient is groaning now, half delirious. “My leg—my leg—” “We know,” Robby says, surprisingly steady as he leans into the chaos. “I’m Dr. Robinavitch. We’re taking care of you. Deep breath for me.” Trinity is at the head of the bed. “Airway intact. He’s talking. Sat’s ninety-six on nonrebreather.”
“Me thinks that’s the only thing behaving,” McKay mutters, spiking fluids as she and Mateo work opposite sides of the stretcher. Dennis slides ultrasound gel across the patient’s abdomen with shaking fingers that calm the second the probe hits skin. Jesse threads a second large-bore IV while McKay hangs blood.
“Nice,” Robby says without looking, which somehow means more. FAST exam is negative. Chest x-ray is clean enough. Pelvis stable. The leg is not. The boot comes the rest of the way off and everybody in the room winces a little. The calf is hard. Too hard. The skin over the anterior lower leg looks stretched to bursting, and when Robby asks Dennis to gently palpate, the patient nearly comes off the bed screaming.
“Pain with passive stretch?” Robby asks. Dennis reaches for the toes carefully, extending them just enough. The patient howls. “Yeah,” Dennis says. “Yeah,” Robby echoes. “Page surgery again. And ortho again. Tell them this isn’t a courtesy invite.” Mohan is already on it. “Trauma surgery and orthopedics paged overhead and direct.”
Garcia gets there first, striding into the bay like she owns every trauma that ever bled in western Pennsylvania. “What do you have?” she asks, already pulling gloves on. “Crush injury, probable tib-fib, increasing concern for compartment syndrome,” Robby says. “Pressure soft but responding to blood. No obvious chest or abdominal disaster, which frankly feels rude because I like consistency.”
Garcia leans over the leg, expression sharpening. “When was extrication?” “About fifteen minutes from now to too long ago,” Robby says. She snorts once. “Fair. Has ortho seen him?” “Not yet.” She pulls out her phone. “I’ll call them myself. Park answers me faster than the paging operator.”
Trinity arches a brow. “That’s because you scare men for sport.” “It’s not sport if they deserve it.” Dennis is hanging on every word, every motion, every tiny clinical decision. Then Garcia says, “June Bug better answer. She owes me coffee.”
Dennis barely notices the nickname then because Robby is asking him for another pulse check and the room is surging again. The patient’s pressure improves with blood. X-ray confirms a displaced tibial shaft fracture, fibular fracture too, ugly and unstable. There’s no open wound, but the swelling keeps climbing and the calf is turning boardlike beneath the skin. Robby’s jaw sets. “This leg needs decompression before it decides for us.”
And then you walk in.
Dennis looks up because Garcia says, “There you are,” in a tone she doesn’t use for almost anyone, and for half a second all the noise in the room seems to narrow around the sight of you stepping into Trauma One in dark blue OR scrubs, hair pulled back, orthopedic pager clipped at your waist, trauma shears in one pocket, penlight in another.
You’re short enough that Park always jokes he can lose you behind a C-arm, but you move through the room with such clipped, unbothered confidence that everyone makes space without thinking. You take one look at the x-ray, one look at the patient’s leg, and your entire face changes from sleepy annoyance to razor focus.
“Mechanism?” “Steel beam crush at worksite,” Garcia says. “Time pinned?” “Approximately six minutes, maybe a little more.” You touch the calf, then the foot, then glance at the monitor. “Any palpable dorsal pedal or posterior tibial?” “Doppler only on arrival +2, weaker now,” Dennis says before he can stop himself.
Your eyes flick to him for the first time. Brown. Sharp. Assessing. “Passive stretch?” “Exquisite pain,” he says. “Great. Love that for us.” Garcia huffs a laugh. Robby’s mouth twitches.
You don’t waste a second after that. You examine the compartments yourself, then straighten. “This is compartment syndrome until proven otherwise. He needs emergent fasciotomies. We can temporize with reduction and splinting if you want while we move, but he needs the OR.”
Garcia nods immediately. “Agreed.” Trinity points at Dennis. “Huckleberry, hear that? This is what confidence sounds like when it actually knows what it’s doing.”
Dennis flushes. Robby smirks. “He’s trying, Santos”
You glance at Trinity. “He’s fine. Better than some off-service interns I’ve had try to tell me a cold foot is probably anxiety.” That gets an actual laugh from the room. Then your phone rings. You look at it and roll your eyes. “Park.” Garcia grins. “Put him on speaker.”
You answer anyway. “We have a surgical emergency, Brenden.” The voice on the other end is clipped and unimpressed. “Then why are you chatting with me instead of booking the room?” “Because Garcia made me call you like you’re useful.” Robby actually barks out a laugh. Dana, from the doorway, just mutters, “Jesus.”
You listen, then say, “Yes, obvious compartment syndrome. Yes, I know. Yes, I already told them. No, I’m not measuring compartment pressures on a leg that’s screaming the answer at us. See you upstairs.” You hang up. “Park the Shark approves of surgery.” “Shocking,” Trinity says.
The leg gets gently reduced under sedation, splinted, wrapped. You and Garcia coordinate transport upstairs with the ease of people who have done this together too many times to need full sentences. Before the patient leaves, you reach down, squeeze his shoulder, and say, “We’re taking you now so we can save your leg. Stay with us.”
It’s the first soft thing Dennis hears from you. It sticks.
By nine in the morning the trauma is gone to the OR, the blood is mopped, and the ER is already pretending none of it happened because two chest pains, one septic grandma, and a drunk guy who swears the stop sign attacked him.
Dennis is putting in orders at the station when Frank Langdon strolls in from a room with that polished senior-resident energy he wears even when he looks half dead.
He stops cold. You’re leaning against the desk beside Dana, finishing a note, and when you look up your entire face changes. “Frankie,” you say. It is not dignified. It is absolutely sibling. Frank groans. “Don’t call me that in public.” You grin. “What, too late to protect your brand?”
Dana hides a smile behind her coffee cup. Dennis glances between you and Frank because the shift has already been insane and apparently now the pretty ortho resident is on first-name, mocking-nickname terms with Frank Langdon.
Frank steps close enough to bump your shoulder with his. It’s small and automatic and weirdly fond. “How bad was it?” You shrug. “Bad enough. Fasciotomies, and ex-fix likely if the soft tissue looks as ugly as I think it is , should fix it.”
Frank tips your chin for half a second, checking for something only a sibling would. “You eat yet?” You swat his hand away. “Did you?” Dana finally cuts in, dry as dust. “I love this very creepy, very codependent little ritual, but one of you needs to move because I need the printer.” You and Frank move in perfect unison, still bickering. Dennis watches the whole thing in silence.
Then Jesse leans over from the other computer and murmurs, “So… are we all seeing that?” “Seeing what?” Dennis asks, too fast. Jesse gives him a look. “Langdon’s mystery girlfriend.” Dennis blinks. “What?” Mateo snorts into his chart.
Across the desk, Perlah and Princess trade one scandalized glance and slip into Tagalog so quickly Dennis only catches Frank’s name and the word for dating because that rumor apparently needs no translation. Dana does not look up from her tracking board. “You children need hobbies.”
Which, of course, only confirms it for everyone.
The day keeps moving. At ten-thirty you’re back for an elderly fall with a periprosthetic femur fracture. You arrive with the portable films already pulled up on your tablet, Park having apparently texted you three separate insults instead of hello. You stand shoulder to shoulder with Garcia and explain why the fracture pattern matters, why traction would be temporary, why the patient’s anticoagulation makes operative planning a little messier.
Dennis hovers nearby pretending to review labs. He has never in his life been so aware of how loud silence can be. He notices everything instead. The way you tuck a loose strand of hair back with the back of your wrist because your gloves are dirty. The way you explain complicated anatomy to the family without sounding condescending. The way you say “sir, I know it hurts” and actually mean it.
At eleven-fifteen Victoria corners him by the med room.
“She’s hot,” Victoria says, because Victoria has never met a social filter she couldn’t bulldoze. Dennis nearly drops a flush. “Vic—” “No, I’m serious. Like terrifyingly competent hot. Which is worse. You can’t even do a little personality devaluation to protect yourself because she’s also nice.”
“She is not nice,” Trinity says, appearing out of nowhere with a chart in hand. “She told Park to choke on his own ego once.” Victoria gasps. “So she’s perfect.” Dennis mutters, “Can you two not—” Trinity’s grin turns sharp. “Oh, Huckleberry, you have a crush.” “I do not.” “You absolutely do.” Victoria leans in. “On Frank Langdon’s alleged secret girlfriend.” Dennis closes his eyes. “Please stop saying that.”
By noon, the rumor is alive enough that Mel accidentally asks McKay if HR knows, and McKay says, “About what?” and Mel says, very sincerely and slightly jealous, “About fraternization with dramatic eye contact.” McKay stares at her for a long beat. “Mel, honey, that could describe half this department.
You come down again around one for a teenager with a displaced distal radius fracture and an elbow concern after a skateboard wipeout. Not technically an ortho trauma disaster, but Park is scrubbed into the crush case upstairs, and you’re the resident he trusts not to screw up his service while he’s occupied.
That alone tells the ER a lot.
Brenden Park himself finally appears at two-thirty, still in OR cap, mask hanging around his neck, expression exactly like a man offended by oxygen. He walks in with you while you’re both discussing the leg crush patient.
“Lateral compartment was worse than imaging suggested,” you’re saying. Park nods once. “Muscle still viable. Barely.” Garcia joins you near the board. “Vascular happy?”“Happy is a strong word,” Park says. “Not immediately despairing.” Robby appears from behind a curtain. “That’s the most enthusiasm I’ve heard from you in six months.” Park ignores him and looks at you instead. “You’re with me for the acetabular fracture if it comes in.”
You tip your head. “Obviously.” His gaze flicks to Dennis, then back to you. “See? Favorite resident.” “You say that to all the women who tolerate you.” “I say that to all the residents who know anatomy.” Garcia laughs. Trinity nearly chokes on stale coffee. Even Robby looks entertained. Dennis, unfortunately, is now standing close enough to see you smile at Park in a way that’s easy, familiar, unimpressed. Not flirtatious. Just trusted.
Which somehow makes him like you more.
The afternoon slams the department.
A septic nursing-home transfer. A toddler with a coin lodged somewhere creative. A psych hold throwing urinals. Shen texts the group chat at three-forty-five that he’s “bringing Dunkin and emotional support,” even though night shift isn’t in for hours. Dana threatens to confiscate his phone when he arrives later.
Around four, you end up beside Dennis for the first time without a dozen people buffering you.
A middle-aged woman has a spiral humerus fracture after a horse throws her into a fence. Robby wants to know if she needs urgent operative management or if she can be immobilized and seen in clinic after pain control and neurovascular reassessment. You’re reviewing her films by the workstation when you glance over and catch Dennis staring at the x-ray instead of speaking.
You save him. “What do you think?” you ask. He startles. “Me?” “No, the ghost behind you.” His mouth twitches despite himself. “Midshaft humerus, spiral pattern. No obvious open wound. Radial nerve exam matters.”
“Good.” He swallows. “If pulses are intact and there’s no vascular injury or compartment concern, probably coaptation splint, pain control, follow-up?” You nod once. “Exactly. You can still have nerve injury without bone sticking through skin. Don’t let dramatic x-rays trick you into forgetting the exam.”
He looks at you then, really looks, and the nervousness he’s been drowning in all day gets shoved aside by the fact that you are talking to him like you expect him to keep up.
“I’m Dennis,” he says, because apparently his brain is twelve years old. You smile, quick and lopsided. “I know. Huckleberry.” His eyes widen. “You know that too?” “I know lots of things. Garcia talks. So does Santos. Mostly against everyone’s will.” Across the station, Trinity calls out without looking up, “I heard that.”
You lean a hip against the counter. “So, Dennis from Broken Bow. You always freeze up around consultants, or am I special?” He goes red so fast you almost feel bad. “Sorry,” he says, then winces. “I mean—not sorry, just— I’m not usually—” “That nervous?”
He gives a helpless little nod. You soften just enough to rescue him again. “You don’t have to be nervous. Half the time we’re making it up based on swelling and vibes.” He laughs then, unexpected and warm. “Pretty sure that’s not evidence-based medicine,” he says.“No, but it is orthopedics.”
That breaks the ice.
You spend the next five minutes talking through the humerus fracture, splinting, radial nerve checks, operative indications, when to worry, when not to overcall things just because they look ugly. Dennis is smart, quieter than most of the ER crew, but once he realizes you’re not going to bite his head off, he starts asking genuinely good questions.
You answer every one. Frank walks up at the tail end of it carrying a chart and stops dead at seeing you and Dennis leaning over the same films. Dennis straightens so fast he nearly knocks into a wall. Frank’s eyes flick from Dennis to you and narrow just enough to be sibling, not senior resident. “June Bug.” You don’t even turn. “Frankie.”
Dennis almost chokes. Frank sighs. “I need room eight signed out before Mohan murders me.” You finally look over. “Then maybe stop interrupting my educational outreach.” Frank stares. “Educational—” “You heard me.”
There’s a beat where Dennis expects annoyance. Instead Frank’s face does something strange. It softens. Totally, instantly, like all the edges got sanded down the second you looked at him.
“Fine,” he says. “But eat something.” You point your pen at him. “You too.” Frank leaves. Dennis watches him go, then looks back at you. “You two… really close, huh?” You snort. “Unfortunately.” That is all you say, and because Dennis is Dennis, he doesn’t pry.
By shift end, of course, the rumor has mutated.
Not only are you apparently dating Frank Langdon, but according to Jesse’s whispered update from triage, the relationship is “serious enough that Dana knows,” which is somehow both absurd and, from the staff’s point of view, compelling.
Dana hears that one and says, “I’m going to start sedating employees.”
Perlah and Princess look delighted.
At six, Brenden comes down with you again for one last consult—an ankle fracture-dislocation reduced in the field but unstable as hell, skin tenting, obvious operative case. Park is all brisk efficiency, firing questions at Dennis and Victoria like he’s testing whether they deserve to be allowed near bones.
Victoria, to her credit, fires back the classification correctly. Park pauses. “Disturbing.” “She’s a child prodigy,” you say. “She’s also twenty and says things like ‘it’s giving ischemia,’” Park replies. From the next bay, Shen arrives for nights carrying an iced coffee and says, “Honestly? She’s right.”
“Shen,” Robby says wearily, “you haven’t even clocked in and I’m already tired of you.”
Abbot shows up not long after, all night-shift ease and old-soldier steadiness, getting report while you and Park review post-reduction films. He glances between you and Frank across the station where Frank is leaning over your shoulder reading a note. “So are we all just pretending that’s normal?”
Dennis looks up too fast. Abbot catches it instantly and grins like a bastard.
Then Garcia breezes by, hears just enough, and finally says, “Oh my God, you idiots think she’s dating Frank?” Silence. Beautiful, catastrophic silence. Frank looks up from your shoulder. “What?” You blink. “What?” Garcia points between you two. “That. Everyone thinks that.”
There is one stunned second where the entire desk seems to stop breathing. Then you laugh so hard you have to grab the counter. Frank makes an offended noise. “That is disgusting.” You’re still laughing. “Oh my God.” Dana pinches the bridge of her nose. “Thank you, Garcia. I was enjoying watching this spiral.”
Trinity, delighted beyond measure, says, “Wait. Wait. You’re not—?” Frank and you speak at the exact same time. “She’s my sister.” “He’s my brother.” The station detonates. Victoria slaps a hand over her mouth. “No way.” Mel looks genuinely panicked. “I have said so many things out loud.” McKay starts laughing into her hand. Jesse bends in half over the printer. Mateo just goes, “Damn.” Perlah mutters something scandalized in Tagalog to Princess, who looks ready to ascend.
Dennis feels his entire soul leave his body and then slam back in when the world rearranges itself all at once. Sister. Frank Langdon’s little sister. Everything clicks—the softness, the shorthand, the protectiveness, Dana knowing, Robby not batting an eye. Garcia steps in with the final blow.
“She’s June Bug,” Garcia says. “His baby sister. Orthopedic resident. Try to keep up.” Abbot looks at Dennis and murmurs, “Well, that’s gotta feel like winning the lottery. Dennis nearly combusts.
Frank points at the whole group. “You people are freaks.” You wipe at your eyes, still laughing. “You’re the one who keeps hovering like a deranged mother hen.” “You’re five-four and choose to stand next to moving stretchers.” “I’m literally a surgeon.” “Debatable.”
Robby, who has watched this whole implosion with the exact expression of a man whose entertainment has finally arrived, folds his arms. “For the record, I knew.”
Dana deadpans, “No one likes you.” Garcia hooks an arm around your shoulder. “Come on, June Bug. Before these morons decide you’re secretly dating Park next.” From the other end of the desk, Park—who unfortunately hears everything—doesn’t even look up from the chart he’s signing. “I would rather walk into traffic.” You call back, “Mutual, Brenden.”
That gets another round of laughter.
The shift should end there, but of course it doesn’t. It’s the Pitt. A GI bleed rolls in. Shen steals someone’s pen. Abbot takes over resus with that calm, dangerous competence that makes night shift feel like a different planet. Frank gets pulled into a crashing patient. Garcia gets paged back upstairs. Park vanishes like an angry ghost.
And in the brief lull between disaster and handoff, you find Dennis again. He’s at the Pyxis, looking like he’s still recovering from the revelation that you are, in fact, unattached and not committing incest with Frank Langdon. You lean against the machine beside him. “You survived that well.”
He groans. “Please don’t.” “Why? It was cute.” He gives you a look. “I spent all day thinking I had a crush on a senior resident’s girlfriend.” “A crush on his sister, apparently.” He laughs under his breath. “That’s not better.” “No,” you say. “It’s definitely worse.” He closes the drawer with a soft thunk and looks at you, finally a little less scared than he was this afternoon. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t think you two looked romantic.”
You arch a brow. “What did we look like?” He smiles, small and honest. “Like you’ve been annoying each other your whole lives.” Something warm settles low in your chest. “Accurate,” you say.
There’s a beat. The department hums around you—monitors, phones, wheels, Dana yelling at someone across the hall, Shen laughing too loudly, Abbot standing at the board like a goofy drill sergeant.
Dennis rubs the back of his neck. “I’m glad you came over earlier. About the humerus fracture.” You study him for half a second. Quiet. Sweet. Smarter than he gives himself credit for. Pretty in that open, earnest way people underestimate. “Dennis,” you say, “next time you have a question, just ask.” He nods. “Okay.” “Okay,” you echo.
Frank appears down the hall then, sees the two of you talking, and narrows his eyes with immediate big-brother suspicion. You sigh. “And there he is.” Dennis’s smile turns real this time. Frank calls, “June Bug, are you leaving or moving into the ER permanently?” You call back, “Only if Dana lets me."
Dana, without missing a beat, says, “Absolutely not. I already have one Langdon too many.” You push off the Pyxis and start backing away. “See you around, Huckleberry.” Dennis watches you go. “Yeah,” he says, a little stunned, a little hopeful. “See you around.”
You disappear back into the chaos beside Frank, tossing some insult at him that makes him roll his eyes and fall into step with you anyway.
Dennis stands there for one extra second, listening to the noise of the department spin on.
Twelve hours ago, you were just a name in a page overhead.
Now you are June Bug. Frank Langdon’s little sister. Park the Shark’s favorite resident. Garcia’s best friend. The kind of surgeon who can walk into a trauma bay half awake and make everyone trust her in under thirty seconds.
And Dennis Whitaker, against all reason and every better instinct he has, is already gone for you.
Thanks for reading. Let me know if this should become a series or leave it as a one and done. I'm happy with either.
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