summary: with fall semester in motion, you have no idea how you're going to keep up living with ryland. he's (shockingly) easy to like and your feelings for him are growing exponentially. (part 2/???)
pairing: ryland grace x gn!reader
word count: 4.5k
tags: (set in grad school, ryland and reader both in their early/mid-20s!) slow burn, more domestic fluff, mutual pining, roommates-to-lovers, friends-to-lovers, developing feelings, rom-com logic, unresolved romantic tension, cocky!ryland, jealous!reader, linda cameo if you squint, gn!reader
cross-posted to ao3 / previous chapter here!
a/n: ty for your patience guys... fic writer = employed — also thanks @sinsilk and @corinthianism for keeping me company and letting me use them to screen my fics LOL <3
It’s almost past midnight and you’ve already gone through the motions of laying all of your things out on the coffee table. You’ve been liking the living room more and more—for a wholly unacceptable reason. There are, as you’ve noticed, acceptable and unacceptable things to think about Ryland to prolong your ability to live together. Acceptable things: he does his laundry promptly, he’s clean, he knows when to be quiet. Unacceptable things: he’s attractive even with the sass, the graphic t-shirts are… kind of cute, and you like seeing him read in the living room with his body laid out across the couch.
Neither of you have talked about that night after the bar since it happened. It’s a good thing, because there’s no normal way for that conversation to be carried out. Ryland doesn’t have to acknowledge that he thinks you’re “observationally” pretty, any more than you have to acknowledge that you liked laying that kiss on his cheek. All appears well the next morning when you two are slightly sluggish and fail to talk it out. Breakfast like normal, on the quieter side—and you and Ryland agree with certainty, and without a single word exchanged, that if you want to keep living together, it’s better to just sweep an incident like that neatly under the rug.
You couldn’t be more thankful for the start of Fall semester. Your schedule, paired with Ryland’s, results amicably in the apartment being a little more empty than it was during the summer. He’s in class or working, you’re in class or working—and the two of you barely have the opportunity to see one another aside from late nights or early mornings.
Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. A text from him: Grading running late, camping library till closed. That crosses out your late night sighting. A good thing, you think. Ryland won’t have to see you torturing yourself over heaps of computer work. And you won’t have to have that passing, heartwarming feeling you get when he asks you what you’re working on—and inevitably decides to sit and work with you.
—
You wake up on your side, arm draped down and fingertips nearly brushing the rug. From this angle on the couch, you realize you must’ve fallen asleep doing your work. Everything’s still as you left it—laptop half-open, notebooks, and a favorite pencil. Except, there’s a blanket strewn over you and a memory-foam pillow slotted just beneath your head. The pillowcase is a dark-blue, smells like dryer sheets—not yours, and there’s only one other option in the house.
Ryland must’ve tucked you in after coming home from the library. The thought of him unlocking the door, slowing at the sight of you knocked out in the living room, and tiptoeing to grab you a warmer, comfier setup makes your chest tighten.
You have to find your phone somewhere by you on the couch; it’d been at your side when you fell asleep, and when you find the cold glass screen, it’s nearing being wedged between the cushions. A click of the side-button, and the lockscreen reads: 7:36 A.M. You don’t have to get up for another hour or so, but Ryland should be up by now. It’s best practice, you think, to return the pillow and blanket back to its owner, before wandering back to your own bedroom. So, you get up on wobbly, half-asleep legs. The blanket gets folded as neatly as possible, with the pillow stacked on top, and you carry them with both arms over to his bedroom.
You give a soft couple of knocks on Ryland’s door. “Hey, you awake?” There’s a thud, a muttered curse, and footsteps padding over on the other side of the door. Definitely awake. “Sorry,” you say, “I just wanted to make sure you get your bedding before you head out for the day. And I also wanted to say—”
Ryland’s opening the door with one hand and tugging his shirt over his chest with the other. You get a good look at his bare stomach while pushing out a meek, “Thanks.” You don’t know how you’re going to get that image out of your mind for the next twenty-four hours. He’s… more toned than you would’ve expected—abs soft and tight. That’s an unacceptable thing to think. You give your attention over to his eyes instead, the usual murky blue, twinkling with amusement.
“Well, you were fetal positioned on the couch,” he considers, “I would’ve woken you up, but you seemed pretty comfortable where you were.” It doesn’t help that Ryland’s hair is wet—having just gone through his morning shower, blonde hair all damp and unstyled. He takes the folded blanket and pillow off your hands with a small grin, before turning around to drop them on his bed.
The wide crack of the door Ryland leaves open allows you to peer into his bedroom uninhibited. You’ve rarely gotten a good look like this in the past couple of months you’ve been living in the apartment, considering how private he is and how little you want to pry. But now, you’ve got a great picture: his gridded sheets, the PC display on his desk, a bedside table with a small, ceramic lamp, a rack of sweaters on the side. It’s all tidy, and a little plain—save for the few posters. You can pick out… a big periodic table? “Is that…?”
Ryland turns back to you with a couple steps, nearly chest-to-chest in the doorway of his room. He’s turning over his shoulder to trace your gaze, then peering down at you with a lightly dazed look. “Yeah,” Ryland says, picking at his nail, trying to feign disinterest—but it’s very apparent there’s some kind of sentimental value in the poster. It’s placed conveniently over his headboard.
“Hm.” You nod, completely unsurprised. It’s perfectly him. “Do you count floating molecules to go to sleep, too?”
“Okay. You—” he stammers. “You could do with a little bit more manners. I made sure you wouldn’t catch a cold last night, and suddenly you’re coming to my room and taking a shot at the decor.”
“I’m kidding. Don’t get butthurt,” you tell Ryland. “It’s super cute.” He seems even more worked up by your choice of words, already beginning to shut the door on you. “Okay—it just goes. You’re, like, the most science-y guy I know, and I like it.” ‘I like you’ seems like a more fitting translation of the words, and the pointed way in which you let them slip out of your mouth.
Ryland keeps his door open with a small crack left for the two of you to peer at each other. He murmurs, eyes softened, “There’s extra coffee in the pot. Don’t waste it.”
—
As the weeks pass, you find yourself in an odd back-and-forth with Ryland with the matter of favors. It’s a good thing on paper. He leaves you coffee in the pot, and you make sure to charge his laptop if you find it left on the dining room table. He restocks your snacks, and you make sure to make him an extra portion of your dinner on his harder study days. It’s a fully functional exchange that exceeds cohabitation. You’re both so programmed into the care that it's second nature.
Like, now, when you’re staring at the metal thermos in the fridge—having been in search of milk for your morning cereal. It’s his. Ryland is supposed to be between classes for the rest of the day, with a fifteen minute break to eat. And his lunch is wedged between your leftovers from last night and your communal carton of eggs. He’s a grown-up. He can fend for himself, probably grab a quick bite to eat at the student union. But you know he’s been trying to meal prep more, cut down on costs. You should take his thermos to him; you’d be a crappy roommate if you didn’t.
You slot your phone out of your back pocket, trying to check for his location. He’s on campus—and you’re sure that you could fit in dropping his lunch off before your class. With a soft breath, you pick the metal thermos up off the shelf of the refrigerator, and toss it onto the counter next to your breakfast. You’ll pack it with the rest of your things—the laptop, the notebooks—and Ryland will probably be very thankful for you later.
—
You’ve never been to this building before, let alone up to the third-floor and over to the student labs. It takes a fair bit of navigating, seeing as the hallways—all decked out in research posters and flyers for student job opportunities—are laid out essentially like a labyrinth. It’s strange to think that your roommate spends the larger part of his time on-campus in this hall. He probably has a certain air of authority weaving past these offices and labs, having earned it on the way to his Masters degree. Ryland is smart—cocky, of course—and walks with his head far too high. But he works hard, stays here even when he’s allowed to go home. You like that about him.
You’re very sure you’ve made a full loop of the third floor before you actually get to where you’re supposed to be. This is the room, as clinically white and void of decoration as it is. There’s a bunch of undergrads here, all in white lab coats and lab glasses. They look at you with an undercurrent of stern judgement. You don’t seem like you’re supposed to be there, because you’re not. They’re watching you, baby-faced and all, like curious, wide-eyed hawks. “Sorry, is Ryland here?” you ask them.
A girl with tied-back, coiled ginger hair answers first: “He’s grabbing a fresh set of agar plates from the fridge.”
Then, another girl, her lab partner, pipes up next: “Are you his—?”
“Roommate!” Ryland coughs out from right behind you. It’s difficult not to flinch at the exclamation, and your shoulders are still tensed up tight as he continues to speak. “This is my roommate who’s supposed to be at home until 2:00PM. What are you doing here?” Ryland is quick to drop the stack of agar plates off onto the nearby countertop space. The small cohort of students in front of him are clearly trying not to snicker at you both. You can practically see his right eye twitching just beneath the lens of his glasses. He’s not embarrassed, per say. But it’s deathly apparent that he’s getting worked up.
“I have your lunch in my bag. Here.” You’re just about to pull that small thermos out of your shoulder bag, but he’s putting his hands up to stop you.
“Wait, wait. C’mere.” Ryland takes his bright-blue medical gloves off and snaps them into the trash can with a foot on the pedal. Then, he’s shrugging his lab coat off, hanging it up, and making his way over to the sink. You stand a good distance away, watching him lather his hands carefully with soap, scrub them together, and rinse them clean. You rarely get the opportunity to see him like this.
Then, you’re following him out of the lab. He takes the thermos out of your hands gingerly, palms brushing unnecessarily over your fingers. “You didn’t have to drop it off,” he tells you, hands clinging around the cold metal of his thermos. You wish he’d stop looking down at you with that look about him. He has his jaw clenched, and there’s a light dusting of blush across his cheeks.
“It’s not a big deal.” You look away, shooting your gaze anywhere but his face. In the hallway outside, there’s a bookcase with an index card reading “free textbooks” taped to its top. He sets his thermos down on the top of it, before leaning on the expanse of wall right beside it. “I hope it isn’t weird for me to pull up to your work—” you tell him.
“Oh, no. I don’t mind it at all,” Ryland says. There’s a hesitation in his voice and makes you squint. “It’s just that they’ve been spending the entire semester so far trying to pry into my private life. And I’m pretty sure one or two of them have crushes on me, which is a no-go.” Ryland takes his glasses off with one hand and massages the bridge of his nose with the other. “Zero boundaries, very territorial—because I happen to be a pretty decent teaching assistant.”
“You think that’s why they have crushes on you?” you scoff loudly.
“...Yes?” he murmurs. He looks pensive. There is no good reason for you to doubt his claims—but, he’s acting absurdly clueless. There are particular reasons for why this cohort might be fascinated with Ryland, and you don’t think it’s his teaching skills.
“Hm.” You give him a curt nod, trying your hardest not to give yourself away. He takes your silence uncomfortably, hands first held behind his hack in a tight clasp of his long fingers.
He can’t hold it in. “They’re going to think that you’re—we’re—” Ryland gestures between the both of you in some haphazard way, an altogether efficient means of stating the obvious. Seeing each other. Screwing. Dating. Whatever he’s trying to say, it’s all very unanimous and completely unnecessary. You raise your hand up, nearly brushing against the center of his chest—a wordless means of telling Ryland to not even try. His jaw tightens. “Okay. I’ve got a lab waiting on me.”
“Right,” you say warily. “I’m gonna go grab something to drink before class so… see you at home.” The half-smile you give Ryland—all nerves, and only half-genuine—is matched by his own.
Ryland nods, “See you. And thanks for the lunch,” before turning on his heel and traveling back through the doorway you both came out of. You make sure not to linger around, walking in wide steps toward the nearest elevator. Even halfway down the hall, the little giggles and murmurs are audible. It sounds like a middle-school class in there, and the same couple of undergrad students are chirping away. Out of the overlap, you can hear mimicries of your voice—“I have your lunch bag, Ry.”—that are certainly inaccurate and a little bit rude.
Then, Ryland’s stern tone cuts through the noise. “I’m still your TA.” It must work at least a little, because the ceaseless giggling seems to tire. In your head, you can imagine him shrugging that lab coat back over his shoulders, then crossing his arms over his chest in an attempt at being strict. The thought of him being flustered about all this teasing—you’ve never seen him this red before—makes you giddy. You have to get into the elevator with a hand tight on the strap of your shoulder bag, choking down a grin.
—
You’re the first to get home that day. Torturously, you’ve had him on your mind throughout all of your classes. His messy hair and his lab coat and the way he attempts some semblance of strictness as a graduate teaching assistant. All unacceptable. There’s no good way to excuse the way in which you’re picturing Ryland now. It’s all muddled with your own uninhibited attraction. Hormones, you try to tell yourself, and proximity. You know that any other reasonings would be nothing but trouble.
This festering conflict lasts through the afternoon. You hang around the living room with your laptop, legs crossed over the cushions of the couch as you type away. There’s work here and there, a couple e-mails to send—and you think you’d like to finish these up slowly so you might catch a glimpse of Ryland before he sequesters himself away in his bedroom.
According to schedule, Ryland can be heard plonking his Converse soles across the narrow hallway of your complex. Hearing the familiar, low jingle of his keys and the turn of the doorknob makes you straighten up a bit on the couch. You’re about to give him a soft greeting, maybe mention that you’re about to cook dinner, when you see that Ryland has a shadow. A sweet-looking girl shuffles in behind him through the front door—your front door—with honey-blonde hair tied into a soft ponytail. You can feel your throat dry up at the sight.
“You’re home. I was trying to ring your cell,” he says. “Sorry. Hope the visitor’s okay.”
You can feel your eyes shutter, a few rapid blinks interrupting your otherwise relaxed composure. “No, of course! It’s totally fine,” you say, a bit of a nod programming itself onto your reaction. It’s instinct and embarrassment all coalescing together, from the way you run your hair into your scalp to the way your fingers grip awkwardly at the corners of your laptop. “Hi,” you say sheepishly to the blonde.
She has a little bit of a glow to her, all too excited to be peering around into the apartment and getting a good look into Ryland’s everyday. Her gaze practically breezes over you. You know that look all too well. Ryland introduces you first, then her, before they’re quickly escorting themselves down the hall and to his room. This feels like punishment for enjoying him too much earlier—and the doting from his cohort of undergraduate students. The girl is pretty; you didn’t quite catch her name. Something starting with an L. All you know is that this is definitely a matter of the universe keeping your ego in check.—
You don’t know what to do with yourself after the door to his bedroom closes. The best course might be to go to your room—or out to a bar. You’re on the verge of closing your laptop and getting off the couch when you hear a light set of footsteps. Suddenly, you’re leaning back on the couch with your laptop balanced on your knees again. Ryland comes out of his bedroom with a gentle open-and-close of the door. You have an acute feeling of dread as he travels over to the cupboard to grab a glass. Then, the fridge for your shared pitcher of filtered water. “Stop staring,” he says. You huff. He can’t even see you. There’s no possible way for him to know—
“Thought we agreed on no hookups?” you say with a hushed tone. The best you can do is try to keep it light. It’s a good attempt.
“That’s not a…” Ryland guffaws. He turns around to face you, glass in hand. “We’re in the same grad cohort, nosy.”
You hum, “I’m pretty sure she wants to get in your pants.” Ryland is exasperated with the implication, placing the glass down on the counter with his hand still wrapped around it.
“She is my… colleague! She wants me to read over her research proposal.” You’re praying it’s not a girlfriend from Canada kind of situation. Ryland reads the skepticism on your face easily. He reiterates, “It’s a real proposal. We have a conference in Spring and she’s prepping the submission. I have one, too. We’re trading.”
“Well, if you end up accidentally trading proposals in bed, I’m just telling you now that I’ll have my headphones on. Noise-cancelling, just blasting straight rock,” you say, shrugging your shoulders slightly. Ryland picks the glass back up with a shake of his head, padding back down the hall and towards his room.
“I’m still not like that, but great,” he tells you, “Good to know.” You’re still settled in on the couch as he opens and closes the door. You can’t even see the girl anymore. You wonder if she’s sitting at his desk or on his sheets. It’s probably better not to think about it.
—
As promised, you have your earbuds stuffed tightly into your ears—music a good few decibels louder than they should be to be considered healthy. You’ve been tucked away in your room for the last hour and a half, still typing away on your laptop. It’s difficult not to imagine what’s happening in the room over—but it doesn’t seem to last long. What you do eventually hear, past your blasted music, is a slam of the front door. You have to tiptoe from your bed to your door, then crack the door open a good inch.
You peek outside into the hall, the wire of your earbuds hanging over your neck. The girl is gone. Ryland is at the front door, head hanging low. He turns with a miserable blush peeking out from beneath the rims of his glasses. He seems to catch your eye almost immediately, and you realize it’s virtually pointless to conceal your prying. Ryland confesses briskly, “She tried to kiss me. On the mouth.”
You let out a breathy laugh—and curse yourself for feeling relieved. “Didn’t I tell you? Couldn’t be more observant.” You let your door swing open wide. He hangs his glasses off his face and scrubs his face with his palms. Ryland groans, and then he’s walking over. He leans against the closed door of his bedroom, parallel to your own. Your socked feet are facing each other as Ryland pushes his glasses back up, hands locked together over his head. His t-shirt is riding up, and he doesn’t seem to mind it much. You try not to pay any mind to his arms, either. This stressed posture he’s holding up is doing wonders for his biceps. Another unacceptable thing to think about him.
Ryland grumbles under his breath. “And here I was thinking you were getting jealous. Obviously, I know now that you’re just looking to be right.”
“And I am,” you say. “—right. I’m right.” You cling sheepishly to the frame of your bedroom door, fingers jutting against the jamb. You can’t believe he thought you were jealous. You were, a little. It couldn’t have been that obvious, and obviousness aside, you don’t know how he could bring it up so easily. Ryland does have a pretty full-of-himself attitude. A change of topic is probably best. “So, she tried to kiss you, and you…”
“Practically fell off the bed,” he nods. You can’t help but clasp your palm over your mouth, holding back a guttural laugh. Ryland drops both of his arms, mirroring your lean with his arms crossed over his chest. “It’s really only half as funny as you think it is. She was really embarrassed—said she had to go meet a friend downtown for dinner.”
You can feel your eyebrow tick up a bit at the thought of this girl dismissing herself from Ryland’s room and straight out to the front door. Aside from your very expected qualms with the entire situation, she did seem pretty sweet. You’d be embarrassed, too. Ryland seems just as unnerved, and he wasn’t even the one to make the move. You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth. “You weren’t feeling it?”
Ryland tilts his head, “Well, last time somebody tried to kiss me, I had a kind of similar reaction. Total stasis—” You. He’s talking about you, that night out with Marissa and Co., the hourly allegations of possibly-dating.
“I kissed you on the cheek! Don’t be weird,” you shoot back vehemently. Now, he decides to bring it up. After weeks of no resolution, Ryland decides that this is the perfect opportunity to play it all out. You’d expect nothing less. He really is a strategist.
Ryland blurts, “Nobody kisses their roommates on the cheek. I’m just saying.” Now, you’re feeling heat crawl up your neck, and Ryland’s looking a little bit more relaxed at the sight of this levelled playing field.
“Yeah, I think I’ll maybe think it through the next time an opportunity arises,” you retort sarcastically. He couldn’t be more on your nerves. You’re just about ready to retreat back, shut the door in his face with a hasty goodbye. The second you step back, Ryland steps across the hall, hand placed flat over your door. Your eyes flit from his face, down his arm, to his hand, and back again.
Ryland lowers it slowly, biting down against the inside of his bottom lip. “Sorry.” There’s plenty that you’d like to say—maybe, that it’s Ryland’s fault for calling you nice things, his fault for letting you room with him. Or, maybe it's your fault for deciding to reach out. It’s certainly nobody’s fault for the two of you residing within the same-enough social circles to connect. You wonder if you would’ve ended up on each other’s radars regardless. “To answer your question, no. I wasn’t feeling it. She’s not really my type,” he admits.
“Oh.” You can feel the exasperation on your face melt into something more sobered. You can’t tell whether or not Ryland knows how it’s coming across. It’s certainly dangerous waters. Ryland looks more serious than you’ve ever seen him, and the lump in your throat tells you that you’re on the more excitable end of hearing what he has to say.
He murmurs, “And I’m a dissertation-first kind of guy.” Right—that makes a little bit more sense. You straighten up, narrowly avoiding his chest with your own. With your soles sliding against the wood floor, you start to slip into the hall, out of his proximity. You can hear him shuffling behind you in a quiet trail.
“Obviously,” you say tightly. You’ve got to tick that off on the more acceptable things about Ryland. He’s scholarly. It’s a really good thing. You’re scholarly, too. Decidedly, you’re thinking of being wholly scholarly together, and nothing else. Roommates-friends-study buddies will likely be for the best. “You should probably shoot her a text or something. Courtesy and all,” you say to Ryland, a little more of a tease livening your tone.
He seems to think about it for a moment, running a hand through his hair. Then, Ryland murmurs, “You’re good at e-mails, aren’t you? Would you maybe help me draft it?”
You make an exerted effort to wander into the kitchen and make it to the fridge in search of leftovers. This leaves a good distance from him for you to think this all through. The opened fridge shoots a soft gust of cold air against your warmed face. You mutter under your breath, “It’s a sorry text, not a cold app.” You take the opportunity to peek over the door of the fridge at him.
He’s got a bit of a pout on his face, something you’ve really never seen before. His blonde hair casts a blurry shadow over his forehead. It conjures up a twisting feeling in your gut. You hate how easy it is for him to make you feel so obligated. You opt for taking a cold can of soda from the fridge instead (though you barely want to drink it). The condensation makes it slippery in your hand, and with a sigh, you shut the fridge. “I’ll proofread it. That’s all you’re getting out of me.”
“You’re the best,” Ryland says, shortly and simply, clapping his hands together in a bout of success. He’s far too proud of himself, and you have to keep a strong will slipping past him, out of the kitchen and straight for the couch. “While you’re at it, my research proposal could use a second look-over.”
also posted on ao3 | my masterlist
There is still a hole in your ceiling, but your dissertation is almost finished, and things are going great with Ryland, and everything is starting to look up. Right?
~8.7k words; fluff; smut; light angst; continuation of sweet tooth (please read that first); waitress!reader; grad student!reader; oral - f!receiving; missionary (though only alluded to at the end)
a/n: this. was almost much, much longer, with an extra scene at the end, but i decided not to do it. i have a lot of thoughts on this, which i have more fully expounded upon in the endnote on ao3. finally: i am still very much open for requests! i have nothing in my inbox at the moment, and i welcome any thoughts you might have for what i write next :3
“I think I’m starting to have second thoughts.”
Ryland freezes, which means that the eggs (still scrambled) that he’s piled onto his piece of toast (again, still wheat) slide back down onto his plate with a plop. He slowly sets the bread down on top of them after a beat. “About—do you mean about us?”
Your eyes widen with panic. “Oh my God, no, no, that is literally like, the only thing in my life right now that doesn’t totally suck.” This is not even a little bit of an overexaggeration: there’s been a hole in your ceiling for four months, haphazardly covered with a piece of plastic sheeting, and your car broke down a few weeks ago, and you are currently in the hell that is editing your dissertation. At least it’s finished. Mostly. “No, I mean—this,” you say, gesturing at your laptop.
“Oh.” He does a little phew and starts shoveling the eggs back onto the toast. “I thought it was pretty good the last time I read it. Did you see the comments I left?”
“Yeah. I particularly liked the one at the very start which highlighted my name and said ‘baddie.’”
He grins, looking extremely pleased with himself. “One of my students taught me that the other day. I thought you might appreciate it.”
It’s adorable, really, how much effort he’s been putting into learning recent internet culture—his references are otherwise a little dated—because when you’re not writing, or grading, or working, or hanging out with him, you are rotting in your bed and scrolling on your phone. “I did. But I don’t mean my diss, either. It’s—I’m starting to get a little, I don’t know, disillusioned with the job market.” One of the application portals (because of course, not every institution uses the same one) is currently staring at you from your screen, listing the dozens of postings that you’ve applied to. Their statuses are…not promising.
He nods thoughtfully at that, still shoving his breakfast into his mouth. “I thought you had that offer to adjunct at City?” Yep, still cute when he talks with food in his mouth, not disgusting, and you are in so, so deeply at this point.
“That’s kind of my point. I haven’t heard back from anywhere else, and everyone knows that adjuncting sucks, like, so badly, and I just. I thought that it would be fine that I missed the window to apply to tenure-track jobs, that I would just get a postdoc or a VAP somewhere and apply for those next cycle, but…I think I might not be cut out for this.”
“Hey. Look at me,” and he nudges your arm, because you had smushed your face into the table partway through your rambling. “Just because you haven’t landed something yet, doesn’t mean you won’t.”
You sigh and lift your head up to rest on your hand instead. “I don’t—this is going to sound super bitter and petty. But sometimes it’s hard to actually feel better when you say stuff like that, because it wasn’t like this for you. At all. You got a job, like, so quickly.”
“Yeah. And it sucked, and then I blew up my career, very publicly, and now I have a different job that I actually like.”
“That’s. Also true.”
“So. Maybe it works out, maybe it doesn’t. You’ll figure it out.” He smiles, then, and reaches over to grab the hand that isn’t holding up your head, running his fingers over your knuckles gently. “Okay?”
“…Alright.” You close your laptop, then, and squeeze his hand. “You should get going.”
Ryland glances down at his watch—he’s had to start wearing one, because he gets so distracted talking with you in the morning that he’s been late to work an alarming number of times—and mutters shoot before sticking the last piece of bacon in his mouth. The check’s already been paid, also something that started because of the being late thing, so he slides out of the booth and presses a kiss to the top of your head.
He turns around, and then he stops after half a second and spins back to face you, holding out his hand. You place a snack-sized pouch of sour Skittles on his waiting palm.
--
Hm. That’s not good, you think, looking at the alert for a severe blizzard warning.
You glance between your phone and the hole in your ceiling a few times before looking up some news articles about this alleged blizzard. Okay, scratch that, immediately;it is not alleged, there are apparently going to be record low temperatures this weekend, and an amount of snow that you know the city’s infrastructure is not prepared to deal with.
This is really not good.
You groan and lean back in your desk chair, but not too far, because otherwise the entire seat will fall off the chair’s legs. This is—you really needed to hunker down this weekend, because you are so close to finishing your conclusion, and once that’s done, you can send the whole thing off to your committee and the external reader, and then you can start wrangling them all into giving you their availability to schedule your defense. And then you’re free. (Well. Not really. You’ll have to grade for the rest of the semester. But still.)
Your landlord hasn’t responded to your weekly email asking about when the hole is going to be fixed. You probably should get a lawyer at this point, but that requires money, and you know how the rest of that statement goes. Couldn’t climate change have waited until your dissertation was done?
You send another email to your landlord, one that threatens legal action—you’re pretty sure you both know that that’s not going to happen—before standing up to see how many blankets you have laying around. The plastic will keep out most of the cold, right? Or maybe you could, like, keep the oven on and hope the place doesn’t blow up. Honestly, that would probably be a kinder fate to the building than what it’s going through now under its current management.
There’s a large pile of blankets collected on your sofa when you unlock your phone again, planning to text Ryland and bemoan the current situation, but you see that he’s already sent you a screenshot of the same alert you looked at earlier.
Did you see this?
yeah.
currently taking stock of all my blankets
hey, you’re a smart science guy, you probably know the answer to this
is it safe for me to like leave my oven on
for multiple days
with the door opened
DO NOT DO THAT.
I’m serious
I would say that even if I didn’t have a PhD.
okay jeez
i was joking
mostly
…what about the stove? that’s basically like a little campfire
You are actually kidding in that last text. You mostly just sent it so you could imagine what his face must look like while reading it. The three little dots pop up a few times, and your smile grows. He likely cannot even find the words to tell you how bad of an idea that would be.
It is not. It is not like a campfire
Still nothing from your landlord about Fra Mauro?
Right. He had started calling it that about a month in, when it was becoming increasingly clear that the hole was going to be a more permanent fixture in your apartment. According to him, it was in the stage between Apollo 13 and 14, because he still believed that they were going to actually send someone to fix it.
nope
i sent him another email and said i would sue
i’m sure he got a good laugh out of that
the plastic will probably be enough
that’s a thing right?
plastic is good at. temperature things
Sure.
Or. You could just pack a bag and stay with me for a few days.
And not freeze to death
Oh. You probably should have thought of that. You stay at his place half the time anyway, especially because he has a more consistently filled fridge. (It is not for this reason. It is because you really, really like him. Also, he doesn’t even keep a lot of fresh ingredients in his kitchen, because he hates cooking. Hence the diner breakfast every day.) But—
i really need to finish my conclusion this weekend
and.
we are not very good at being productive when i stay over
Really? I would say that we are very, very good at being productive
Just. In a very specific way.
Look at it this way: you will probably still be more productive here than at your place
Because it will be pretty difficult to type when your fingers fall off from frostbite
You bite your lip and look at the hole in the ceiling again. The plastic rustles, just a little, as if it were speaking to you. Yeah. You really need to get out of here.
okay :D
i’ll head over after you’re done at work on friday?
:)
--
“You have your faucet dripping?”
“Yep.” You kick off your shoes and let him take your duffel bag from you. It seems like he’s cleaned a little, and his apartment looks nice; it’s not crazy nicer than yours—he is a teacher, after all, and he doesn’t actually make that much more money than you do—but it is certainly an improvement from the crap hole, as Ryland would put it, that you live in.
He sets the bag down by his couch. “And your oven is off.”
“I swear I really was mostly kidding about that. I’m not that stupid.” He just gives you a look and then smiles, walking back over to you and wrapping you up in his arms. “I only seriously considered it for, like, two seconds.”
His hands rub your back idly. The temperature had already started to drop considerably, and the walk to his place had been less than pleasant. “Okay. Just making sure. That would have been—really bad. Believe me.”
You hum and then still once you consider the tone of his voice more carefully, and then you’re slowly pulling back to look at him. “You. You’re making it sound like this comes from experience.”
“It’s, well—alright, stop looking at me like that. I was once a very stupid college student. A long time ago.”
“Oh, I never doubted that for a second. Well, maybe the ‘long time ago’ part—” He kisses you, then, slow and sweet, and you can tell that it’s meant as a distraction. “I want that story,” you mumble against his lips, “and I am very persistent.”
“I know.” He pulls back reluctantly. “Okay. You can set up shop on the couch. And I will be in the bedroom. Not distracting you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Seriously. It’ll be like I’m not even here.”
“Sure.”
Ryland slowly walks backward down the hallway, moving his arms like he’s actually walking forward, so it looks (sort of) like someone has taken a video and then put it in reverse. He keeps doing this until he’s out of sight, and even then, you’re pretty sure he keeps doing it right up until the point that he runs into a wall. “I’m fine,” he calls out. “Not here, I’m a ghost, start writing.” You simply shake your head at all of this, smiling, trying to fight the urge to follow him to his room.
He keeps his promise for about thirty minutes.
You’re making some headway, though you keep having to flip back to your previous chapters in order to meaningfully reference them in your conclusion, when he slowly meanders in and then just—stands in the kitchen. He opens a cabinet, closes it, then opens the fridge, looks around for a little while, and then closes that, too.
You don’t look up from your laptop as a small smile starts playing on your lips. “What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing.” He opens the fridge again. “What do you want for dinner later? I just stocked up.” By ‘stocked up,’ he likely means that he bought a ton of frozen meals and maybe some bread.
“Did you get any frozen pizzas?”
“Uh, duh.”
“We can just do one of those.”
Silence falls again, save for the sound of your fingers periodically typing away or clicking through the billion different documents and tabs that you have open. He does not return to his bedroom. Instead, he stands in the kitchen for a moment before slowing padding over and sitting next to you.
You attempt to shift over, but he pats your thigh in a way that says no, it’s okay, don’t move. “What was that about being a ghost?”
“I am. I’m just a very friendly and curious ghost. Like Casper.” He rests his head on your shoulder, sprawling his legs out to rest next to yours on his coffee table. “That’s a good sentence,” he murmurs. “Very punchy.”
“Thanks.” You scroll back up to read through what you have so far, because he is unfairly distracting, and it makes writing anything very difficult.
He grabs your legs, then. “Here.” There’s some maneuvering until your back is against the arm rest of the couch, and your legs are resting over the tops of his thighs. “How much more do you have?”
“You’re like a dog, you know that? Or, like, and extremely cuddly and needy cat.” Ryland says nothing at that, simply grinning and running his fingers idly over your shins. You’re wearing sweatpants, which apparently is bothering him, because he slides them up a little so he can feel your bare skin. Goosebumps are already starting to form. “I—there’s not too much more, I think. It feels really weird, being so close to finishing this thing that I’ve been spending literal years working on.”
He hums. “I remember feeling a little like that, too, but I was also so eager to move on to the next thing.”
“That sounds like you.”
It’s quiet again as he continues tracing idle patterns into your skin. You have been rereading the same sentence for the past five minutes, and finally, you sigh and go to close your laptop, but he stops you from doing so. “No, keep working.”
You huff at that. “And how do you suggest I go about doing that? You—you’re very distracting. I have dropped so many mugs at work because of you.” (You also drop mugs sometimes even when he’s not there, but that’s beside the point.)
“I’m developing your concentration.”
He lifts up your legs and shifts over, turning to lay on his stomach between your thighs. You slide down a little so only your shoulders and head are resting against the arm rest. One of your legs is now dangling off the side of the couch, and you have to pull your laptop up to rest on your stomach. “What are you doing.”
It’s not that you’re frustrated with this new development, because this is, frankly, so much better than working on your dissertation, but he still won’t let you set your laptop to the side, and you can’t really see him with the screen in the way. “Nothing.” He starts pulling your sweatpants down, then, and you let him. “Read it out loud. It’s a good way to catch mistakes you normally wouldn’t when you’re just reading it in your head.”
He is a menace. An absolute menace. “This is. You’re evil.”
A kiss is pressed against your knee once your pants have been discarded. “I’m actually so nice. Start reading.”
You sigh contentedly as his fingers grasp your thighs and pull them apart even more so he can inch closer to you, gently mouthing against the soft skin he finds there. “Alright. Okay. I’m starting. ‘The,’ um, hah,” you breathe, because he’s just nipped at your inner thigh, “Starting over. You are. Okay. ‘The genre of hagiography can be traced back to the—the—the late antique lives of the philosophers, but the medieval period sees the genuine formation of, of.’”
“Of what?” He murmurs, his nose pressing into you, just above the crease of your hip. The cool metal of his wire frames makes your hips shift a fraction.
You swallow. “‘Of the standard tropes and formulae which would come to dominate the public perception of the lives of the saints.’ Will you just—”
The laptop is still blocking him from your line of sight, but you can feel the shit-eating grin that spreads on his face. “I don’t remember ‘will you just’ being anywhere in there.”
Screw the frostbite you might have gotten if you had stayed at your apartment. This man is going to be the death of you. He doesn’t do anything else, simply waiting for you to continue, because of course this is one of the few circumstances in which he suddenly has an endless amount of patience. You close your eyes for a beat and try to take a deep breath. “‘Scholars have argued that—’”
His teeth graze against your underwear. “Which scholars?”
“It’s—there’s a lot of them, I have a footnote.”
“You should call them out by name.”
This draws an airy chuckle from your throat. “What, like a certain someone called out the top scholars in his field?”
“Exactly. Continue.” He grasps your thighs firmly when you try to wriggle your hips into his face. “Nope, not happening. Now read.”
You bite down an exasperated whine and blink, trying to refocus on your screen. It’s so close to your face at this point that the light is starting to strain your eyes. “‘Scholars have argued that these texts drew upon a static bank of stock characters, settings, and plots, with medieval authors merely cannibalizing upon their predecessors to deliver moral lessons or entertaining stories.’”
And then you gasp, because he’s dragging your underwear aside with his teeth. “Good word choice. ‘Cannibalizing.’ It’s very evocative.” One of his arms wraps tightly around your thigh so he can hold the thin strip of fabric out of the way. His warm breath curls out, providing just the barest stimulation, and you twitch.
Then he stills, again, and you clutch your laptop. He isn’t going to make you do this the whole time, is he? Surely not. “Should I—do I have to keep going?” Silence. You try to slide your laptop over so you can see his face, but his free hand comes up to push it back before it returns to holding your thigh. “Fine. ‘However, upon closer examination, medieval hagiography was a diverse and dynamic genre, where both authors and audiences could reflect upon contemporary issues by utilizing and transforming’—Jesus, Ryland,” you break off, because the flat of his tongue has just licked a long, slow, dragging line up your cunt.
“Too many ‘ands,’” he mumbles into you. It is impressive how well he is able to talk while doing this, and you know that he can, because he does it every time. “You’re—doing too much—in one sentence.”
It’s—he’s probably right, but you’re having a little trouble concentrating at the moment, so you highlight the sentence with a shaky hand and leave a comment to fix it later. “Alright, great, I’ll change it, can I please—fuck—be done now, please?”
His fingers curl around your underwear as he juts his face deeper into your wetness, sucking at your clit, and you would very much like to see him doing this, not just hear the sounds of him devouring you like it’s his last meal. His tongue dips down and then he shakes his head, so the tip of his nose rubs against the little bud, and you cry out.
“You are, fuck you, first of all, how am I supposed to—” Ryland stops, completely, and both of his arms tighten around you to stop you from rutting into him. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, please don’t stop—I’ll start again, here, ‘by utilizing and transforming the conventions of the genre.’”
He lets go of your underwear, then, merely letting his face keep it out of the way, and he draws his arm back so he can slowly push his index finger inside of you. Your head thuds back against the arm rest. “You used ‘genre’ twice in that sentence.”
How he is able to keep track of that is beyond you, but you don’t say this, because you don’t want him to stop, not when he’s adding another finger and drawing careful circles into you with the tip of his tongue, so you simply add another comment in the document and keep going. “‘The case studies examined here have demonstrated how the lives of the saints provided a convenient medium to explore issues such as church doctrine, the changing landscape of medieval law, and the social realities of feudalism.’”
Ryland nods against you, and it means that his teeth brush up ever-so-slightly against your clit. “Good.”
The words are basically swimming off of the screen at this point. “I’m sorry, I really don’t think I can do anymore, please, please let me be done, it’s just—it’s so—you’re so good, you’re always so fucking good at this, and it is so unfair,” you babble, and evidently he decides to have a little mercy on you, because then the hand that isn’t at your cunt is reaching forward to close your laptop. Finally, finally you can see him, and he looks so perfect like this, face buried between your thighs, staring up at you with such intense fondness that you’re reaching forward to slide your fingers into his hair before you can even fully register the movement.
Your other hand slips underneath your shirt to clutch at your breast, to roll the peak of it with your fingers. Ryland tracks the movement closely and then groans, eyes fluttering behind his glasses, and the vibration of it and the intensity with which he presses his mouth against you causes your back to arch. “So, so sweet,” he sighs, “sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”
It’s—you would like to comment on this, because you have tasted yourself on his mouth enough times at this point to know that ‘sweet’ isn’t quitethe adjective you would use, but the sentiment behind it is so, well, sweet, that it makes you melt into the couch and clutch his hair a little tighter.
Then he does this thing with his fingers, crooking them just right, and your hips jerk. He doesn’t stop you this time, instead nodding so vigorously that his glasses start to slide down the bridge of his nose, and you move the hand that’s under your shirt to join the one in his hair to start grinding yourself against his face.
He honest-to-God whimpers at that, at the feeling of you using him to get off, at the way your thighs tremble and clench around his head. “That’s—please, please,” because if words weren’t coming to you before, they certainly aren’t now. “Just like that,” you manage to choke out.
You look down, then, and his eyes open to watch you while he presses his tongue flat against you so you can grind on it, focusing on gliding his fingers inside of you at the same pace, finding that perfect little spot over and over again. You’re a little worried you’re going to rip out some of his hair at this point, but it’s too good, you can’t stop chasing it—
And then the tension swelling at the apex of your thighs finally breaks, and you can’t help but close your eyes as your hips quiver against his face. Ryland doesn’t move an inch, doesn’t withdraw his fingers from your cunt, not until you collapse against the cushions. He presses a gentle kiss to your clit and can’t seem to help himself from lapping up your slickness, even as you twitch from the overstimulation.
When he finally pulls his hand back, there’s a beat before he’s licking them clean. “You are,” you breath heavily, “such a little freak.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He grabs your laptop and sets it on the coffee table before helping you pull your sweatpants back on. “See? I told you that we’re very productive here.”
You snort. “I got through, like, three sentences.”
“Three is more than zero. And three’s a good number. Makes some of the most stable shapes,” he says as he stands, walking to the kitchen to get you a glass of water. You take it gratefully. “And can you blame me? I only get you here for two nights.”
“…Three. I brought my work uniform so I could just go straight to the diner Monday morning.”
Ryland breaks out into a smile. “Okay, I know I just said that three is a good number, but it’s also barely more than two, so I still feel justified. And you can’t argue with me because I am objectively better at math than you.”
“Hey.” (He’s right, and you also find that you agree with his assessment of the numbers anyway.)
--
You do not, as it turns out, go to work on Monday, or the day after that, because the city is blanketed in deep snow, so much that everything is essentially brought to a halt while they attempt to clear the streets.
Ryland’s school is closed, too, and so is your campus; your advisor even emails you to say that you can take extra time on your conclusion, which is surprising because, honestly, she’s just kind of mean. This news goes about how you would expect with Ryland, particularly because you have to start wearing his clothes after day three.
The days pass in domestic bliss. It makes you think more intensely about the doubts you were having surrounding the job market. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, you muse, watching him in the kitchen as he tries to make eggs (and fails, which is genuinely impressive, because scrambled eggs are really not that difficult to cook), if you took that adjunct job at City. The hours would suck, and the pay would be terrible, but—then you would have this. And that might be enough.
You’re pretty sure something is starting to burn when you pull out your phone to check your email. It’s probably your advisor, or maybe a reply from your external reviewer, or—
“Ryland.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s burning, but I have everything under control here.”
“No, it’s—” You decide to just get up and show him your phone. Your hand is shaking. “I got an interview. I’m. I got an interview,” you repeat.
He fumbles for his glasses, which are laying on the counter, and jams them on his face so he can read, ‘We are pleased to inform you that,’ and he doesn’t get much further than that before he’s hugging you and spinning you around in his kitchen while the eggs burn. “I told you,” he laughs into your shoulder, “I told you it would work out. I am so—I’m so proud of you. Which one is it for?”
You pull away to read the email again. “It’s a postdoc, on the.” You bite your lip. “The one on the east coast.”
He’s still smiling, but—there’s a little less light in his eyes. “That’s. That’s awesome. When is it?”
“Next week.” You are suddenly feeling slightly less excited. “I know we haven’t. Well. There hasn’t been a discussion on what would happen, what we would do if—”
“Hey.” He grabs your shoulders, then, and looks at you intently. “We can. We’ll figure it out. Let’s just be excited right now. Okay?”
“Okay.” You nod. There’s a slight burning in your eyes, and you can’t tell if it’s because you’re about to cry or if it’s from the smoke curling out of the frying pan. “The eggs are on fire.”
“Oh—crap—”
--
The streets are finally cleared, and you go back to your shitty apartment, and you are trying to pretend that everything is still normal.
Your advisor is surprised when you tell her about the interview, which a few years ago might have stung, but now you’ve just accepted that she’s a little bit of a bitch. She tells you that she’ll do a mock interview with you over the weekend and emails you a list of common interview questions to prep.
You finish your conclusion. Ryland’s suggestions were helpful.
It should feel like there’s a weight off of your shoulders, because your dissertation is finished—actually finished—and you have an interview, and your landlord sent you an email late last night saying someone would be coming by next week to fix the hole in your ceiling. It is, of course, scheduled exactly during your interview.
But.
The weight is still there. It is worse now, actually, because you don’t know how to have this conversation with him, because you’ve only really been dating for four months, and you are realizing that a tiny part of you had assumed that he would just move with you, or something, and now the thought seems absolutely ridiculous. Would you move across the country for someone you’ve only been with for a handful of months? Are you the sort of person worth doing that for?
Okay, that’s enough of that, because you are at work, and you are currently staring at the coffee dripping into the pot like it’s a countdown to your death sentence. The door opens. You don’t even need to look. The bell chimes next to you.
“Morning,” you say as you slide his breakfast in front of him. The coffee’s next, and you pour his sugar in for him and mix it in with a spoon, and it is still an absolutely disgusting amount of sweetener to have in one’s drink.
“Hey.” Ryland takes the coffee with a smile, but it’s still not quite reaching his eyes, and you think you might be dying on the inside. “Everything okay?”
You sigh and slide into the booth across from him. Whatever. They’re probably not going to fire you for it. And if they do, then, oh no! You’ll be slightly more broke than you already are. “My landlord emailed me last night. They’re fixing the hole.”
“Nice. Apollo 14. Told you it would happen.”
“Yeah. It’s during my interview.”
He snorts and sets the mug down. “Of course.”
“I’ll probably just have to go into the department and do it. The bus will be annoying, but I still haven’t fixed my car, for obvious reasons.”
“Just do it at my apartment.” He doesn’t look up from his plate as he says it, casually scooping his eggs onto the toast. (Yes, they are still the same as they are every morning.)
You blink at him. “Are—are you sure?”
“Yeah,” he says around the food in his mouth, “of course. I mean, I am very pro public transportation, but the buses are terrible.”
This is very true. “Alright. As long as it’s okay.”
“Why wouldn’t it be? I’ll be at school, anyway.”
You fidget a little. “It’s just. We still haven’t really talked about. You know. The thing.”
“The thing.”
He really can’t throw you a bone here, can he? “The whole, ‘possibly getting a job across the country thing’?”
“Oh. That thing.” Part of you wants to scream, ‘what other thing would there be,’ but you do not, because in spite of what you just thought to yourself earlier, you would actually like to keep your job. “It’s just—I need some time. To think. About the thing.”
“I see.”
You should not be mad about this, because it is a perfectly reasonable thing to ask for, to have time to think about such a major decision like this, because he has a job and a life that you only walked into four months ago. It’s just—well, you thought that he would have seen this coming, that you’ve been pretty clear this entire time while you were applying to jobs, and maybe if the two of you were younger it would be less clearcut, but you’re not. You are almost thirty, and you’re not really sure you want to do long-distance, and you really, really like him.
He sets his fork down, gently, as if it were about to explode. “Is that…okay?”
“It’s fine, Ryland. Why wouldn’t it be?” You throw his line from earlier in the conversation back at him. Okay, you can admit, you are being a little petty and possibly immature, but you are getting mad about this. Dating sucks. This sucks. The door opens, then—thank you, universe, for that timing—and you get up from the booth. “I have to go. I’ll text you later, okay?”
You think he says your name, but you walk away too fast to be sure.
You still give him a mini Reese’s cup on his way out, because you’re not that cruel, and he’s left you a drawing on his napkin: it’s two little atoms, copper and titanium, holding up signs that have their elements on them and spelling ‘CuTi.’ There’s a small ‘e’ added at the end, and you wonder how long he spent debating whether or not to put it there and fix the spelling or leave it off to keep the pun intact.
--
You are staring at your laptop in shock, sitting at Ryland’s desk, because you are fairly certain that you just killed it.
Apparently, it’s really working out for you that your advisor is one of the most wicked and evil people you have ever met, because the mock interview with her had been so brutal that the real thing had felt like chatting with a friend over a coffee. The interviewers had said you’d be hearing from them very soon, because you were one of the last candidates they were meeting with, and they had all been wearing wide smiles when you thanked them and logged off.
You look at your reflection in the screen for a little while before slowly closing it. The apartment is quiet, because Ryland’s at work. You haven’t seen him in a few days. You’ve just been so busy, coordinating with your committee to schedule your defense—it was looking increasingly like it wouldn’t happen until next month—and prepping for the interview, and normally you would have just spent the night last night, but you had wanted to wait at your apartment to actually see if the maintenance guy would show up. He did, thankfully, and then you had needed to practically sprint to Ryland’s place and use the spare key to let yourself in.
And. You are trying to give him the time that he asked for. To think about the thing. Even though you are starting to get increasingly frustrated that he needs it in the first place, which just makes you annoyed with yourself that you aren’t being more understanding about this.
Whatever. It’s time to be happy and excited. No more of this mopey bullshit. You send a quick email to your advisor letting her know that it went well. She will either simply react with a thumbs up or reply with nothing other than ‘ok.’ Then you open up your text thread with Ryland, even though he is most definitely in the middle of teaching.
so
not to brag or anything
but i’m pretty sure i just fucking killed that
*freaking
sorry, you’re on school grounds right now
It is immediately marked as read. You send another text before he has the chance to reply.
dude
i thought you had a strict no phones policy in your classroom
…That’s for the students. I get special privileges
And that’s awesome!! I knew that you would.
:)
Thank you for correcting yourself
Even though there is still a curse word on my screen right now.
We should celebrate!
you and your positive reinforcement lol
not everything needs a party
This is not true. Parties are always necessary.
There’s science about it. Just trust me on this
Friday? At Bob’s?
careful
i have been getting much better at pool
i even beat you that one time
Yeah, because I scratched on the eight ball.
ok, and?
a win is a win
don’t take this from me
Fiiiiine.
7?
it’s a date
:)
:)
--
Well, you don’t win at pool, again, but it’s fine, because both of you are pretending that there isn’t a giant, terrifying conversation looming over you, and he’s smiling and doing stupid dance moves with the pool cue like it’s a cane, just to make you laugh.
You buy him his victory drink, and he protests just like he does every time. You explain, again, that it’s basically like he’s buying the drink himself anyway, because he still leaves you a tip at the diner, which is very weird, by the way. He says it’s just easier, because he’s memorized how much his breakfast costs with the tip included, and this way he doesn’t have to do the math every morning. You point out that this shouldn’t be a problem, because he’s a nerd who likes doing math. He throws a balled-up straw wrapper at you and misses.
“So. The date’s final, then?”
“Yup.” You watch as Ryland starts peeling off the label of his beer across from you in your booth. They should put a plaque with your names on it at this point. “It took the stars aligning to figure out a time when my entire committee was available, but it’s officially scheduled now.”
He hums. “What date?” You tell him, and he whips out his phone to plunk it in his calendar. “Oh, sweet, it’s on a Friday.”
“Yeah. I was a little pissed at first—don’t even—because it had to be so far out, but I’m pretty happy with that.”
It’s quiet, then, outside of the shitty song playing—the only singles in your wallet are coke singles, unfortunately, so no TouchTunes for you tonight—until he reaches forward to start messing with your fingers instead of his bottle. “Heard anything about the postdoc yet?”
You shake your head. “Not yet. They said by Monday, though, so.”
“Gotcha.” His hand finally settles around yours. “I am still thinking about it,” he says quietly. “I’m always thinking about it. I promise.”
You say nothing, instead squeezing his hand and giving him a small smile. It’s. You’re still a little frustrated, if you’re being honest with yourself. You had spent such a long time letting yourself rest in the comfort of being in the middle of things without seeing them through, but recently that has changed, and you’re finding it much harder not to push and finish this yourself. But he has to be the one to do this. So you’ll wait, even though it’s kind of killing you, because you haven’t quite gotten the patience thing down yet.
--
You get the second-round interview. You have to go into the diner on your day off to ask Gertrude to cover your shifts, and then you show her where you keep the candy.
Two weeks later, you fly out to the east coast. The campus is beautiful, and all of your potential colleagues are great, and your job talk goes swimmingly. The morning you fly back, you have two pieces of wheat toast, scrambled eggs, and some bacon for breakfast.
--
Your dissertation defense starts in five minutes, and you think you might be about to throw up.
This is fine, you tell yourself. You know the thing inside-and-out by this point. You had spent all of last night rereading it, and then Ryland had asked you mock questions, and he hadn’t pulled any punches, but he also gave you a kiss after every answer. He still hasn’t told you whether he’s reached a decision or not. You think he might be waiting until after you find out if you’ve gotten the job, and you are trying to ignore the rotten taste that the thought puts in your mouth.
You look at his ‘Good luck!!!’ text for the fourteenth time. Obviously, the defense was scheduled during normal work hours, which meant that he was stuck teaching, but he reassured you that he had something ‘very special’ planned. No amount of goading and pleading had gotten him to fess up about what this was.
The elevator dings in the hallway as you flip through your notes again. Probably some other grad student in your department coming in at the last second, although you’re pretty sure everyone you’re friends with is already here, along with the rest of your committee. Whatever. You are too busy trying not to hurl all over the table to wonder about it.
There are two minutes until the end of your graduate career begins, and then Ryland is walking into the room, squeezing past the people sitting against the wall and muttering apologies while he does so, and screw the throwing up, you think you are about to burst into tears. It is unclear whether this would be better or worse than spewing your lunch everywhere. He’s still wearing his bike helmet, even when he sits down and finally looks at you, when he smiles and gives you a thumbs up.
You mime taking the helmet off, even though you look absolutely ridiculous doing so in front of your entire department. He mouths oh, right, and unclips the strap under his chin before setting it on the floor.
The public portion of your defense finally begins, and you give a small presentation, detailing how you came to the idea, your general argument, the specific theories and scholarship that you drew on, your plans for turning it into your first book. You finish with your acknowledgments: thanking your fellow grad students, your committee, and, finally, Ryland, although you don’t call him out by name, simply addressing him as your partner who ‘made finishing it that much sweeter.’
It is incredibly cheesy, and you’re pretty sure that he’s starting to cry.
Then your advisor directs the audience to leave, and the real defense begins.
It takes an hour. It is grueling, and exhausting, and kind of the worst, but then it’s over, and you’re stepping out into the hallway so your committee can deliberate.
You think the other grad students are congratulating you, or something, but to be honest, you kind of can’t hear them, because you are laser-focused on walking up to Ryland.
“You came.”
“Of course, I did.” He pulls a pack of Skittles out of his pocket and hands it to you. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
You don’t eat the Skittles, because you’re fairly certain the sugar might actually be the thing that upsets your stomach enough to make you barf, but you slide it into your pocket for safe keeping. Then he just holds you, for a while, since you don’t think there are any words left in your brain, until the door opens and your advisor is smiling, possibly for the first time in her life.
“The committee is ready for you, doctor,” she says, and then everyone’s cheering, and it feels just like a movie, to be completely honest, particularly when you turn around and kiss him in front of your entire department. It should be embarrassing. It is so, so not.
--
You get the email while you’re waiting in your apartment for Ryland to take you to the ‘very special’ thing he has planned. He had told you to wear something ‘nice, but not too nice.’ Super helpful, thank you, Ryland.
You make it as far as ‘The department loved getting the opportunity to learn more about you and your research, however,’ before you look up at your ceiling, where the hole used to be but where there is now a tile that does not match the others, trying to blink away tears.
Okay. Alright. This is fine. Your first thought is that you should text Ryland, even though he is presumably on his way over, because this feels like the kind of thing you should tell him about immediately.
And then you still. No, don’t do that, that’s a really bad idea, you tell yourself, because you are suddenly considering not saying anything to him, because he never told you what he’s been thinking about all of this, and you would really like to know, even though it is no longer a reality.
You stare at the mismatched ceiling tile, waging war with yourself, until he’s knocking at your door, and you’re carefully dabbing at your eyes so it doesn’t smudge your makeup.
--
“Is this—really necessary,” you say, as you stumble for the fifth time in the past three minutes. His hands are over your eyes as he guides you along. He also made you close them just in case you tried peaking. You are being very good about not trying to do so anyway.
“Yes. We’re almost there.”
You huff but keep walking. “I feel like you can just tell me, then, if we’re almost there.”
“Nope.”
“Please?”
“Still no.”
The two of you are walking for a few more minutes. You only trip twice.
Then, finally, his hands move from your face. “Okay, you can open now.”
You blink a few times. It’s—“This is. The diner. My place of employment.” You turn toward him. “Okay, this might sound incredibly bitchy, but are we seriously—”
“Just—open the door.”
You give him a confused look before following his instruction, and you’re about to tell him that, look, it’s cute and all that you’re having dinner where you first met, but like, it is the place that you work at, and it’s a diner, in case he’s forgotten, which is not really the best way to celebrate finally becoming a doctor, but then you step inside. And all of your fellow grad students are there, and some of your professors are there, even your advisor is there, wearing her second-ever smile, and Gertrude is making milkshakes.
“This—what?” You whip around to face him. “How. What? The diner is open twenty-four hours. They don’t do special events.”
He simply grins sheepishly and rubs the back of head. “Yeah, I know. But I kind of give them, like, half of their yearly income, so it didn’t take that much convincing. I did have to promise we’d clean up after, though. Sorry.”
You kiss him in front of your department for the second time that day. “That’s—I don’t even care, I think I could clean this place in my sleep at this point. Thank you.”
Ryland just smiles softly and wipes a tear from the corner of your eye. “Go. There’s lots of people waiting to congratulate you.” Then he adds, “Doctor,” and you kiss him again.
--
When all is said and done, it is probably the most fun that you have had inside this establishment, minus all of the time you have spent with Ryland at the booth next to the window.
It’s almost one in the morning by the time everyone filters out, and you stay behind with him to run the milkshake glasses through the dishwasher. You’re wiping down the counter, turning over how to break the news to him that you didn’t get the job, when he comes up behind you.
“Hey.”
You turn around to face him. “Hi.”
The two of you look at each other for a few moments. “I’ve finished—”
“There’s something I—”
He starts to motion for you to go first, but then he stops. “No, actually, sorry, I need to—I’ve finished thinking about it. The thing.”
“Ryland.”
“No, no, I really have to say this, so just—I’ll go with you.” He blinks, as if he is surprised at how this is going, even though he’s the one driving the bus at this point. “Wait. There was more lead up. I had a whole thing. I’m just. Okay. I have been thinking about this every single day, to the point where my students can tell, and at first I thought it was about them. That I didn’t want to leave them. But. There are students everywhere. But—you’re not everywhere. This is not making any sense.”
“Ryland,” you try again, but he’s not having any of it.
“Please let me finish. I realized that I have been stuck, so stuck. I mean, I order the same thing for breakfast every day. You know this. I know this. And. I thought it was fine. It was fine. And then it wasn’t, and I’m not—gosh, this is not going the way I wanted it to.”
“Ryland,” you say for the third time, and three is still the magic number, apparently, because then he stops, simply looking at you, his blue eyes shining behind his glasses. “I didn’t get it. The job. I didn’t get the postdoc.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Well, that’s.” He pauses for a moment. “This is going to sound totally messed up, but that’s making this a lot less romantic than I thought this whole thing would be.”
You just look at him for a moment, then, incredulously, until you start laughing, and you can’t stop, and then he’s wheezing right along with you. “You can—you can try the whole speech again,” you say between gasps, “if you want to.”
“That’s really not necessary, it’s fine.” He wraps you up in a hug and presses a kiss into your temple. “I’m sorry. About the postdoc.”
“It’s fine.” You pull back and look at him, really look at him, searching his face and mindlessly pushing up his glasses for him. “You mean that? You’re actually sorry? Not just, you know, relieved that it’s not an actual thing.”
“Actually sorry,” he affirms, moving his hand to smooth your hair back. “I started. I was looking at apartments. Researching how to transfer my teaching license.”
That’s. It’s very sweet, is all you can think, but you don’t say it, instead bringing your hand to rest on his cheek, and then he kisses you, again, but it’s not the chaste kind, the kind that they’ve been all day; it is desperate, like he’s trying to give you the speech he’s been planning in this one moment.
When his hands move underneath his shirt, you pull back. “I’m sorry, it’s just—I don’t really know if I want to have sex in the place where I work.”
He rests his head on your shoulder and nods. “Fra Mauro has been filled in?”
“Yeah,” you giggle. “It has. The new tile is, like, several shades lighter than the rest of my ceiling, but there is no longer a hole. And it hasn’t rained recently, so. There should be no interruptions.”
“That’s. Really good. Great, even.”
The two of you don’t leave, not yet, because he’s fiddling with his phone, then, and playing a song through the speaker he brought, the Tears for Fears song that you always play on the TouchTunes at Bob’s when the machine will accept your dollars, and he dances with you in the aisle of the diner and sings along, even though he’s really not that great at singing.
--
epilogue pt. 2
You don’t even have to worry about the ceiling tile, because the two of you actually make it to your bedroom this time.
“I meant it,” he gasps, rolling his hips into you, his fingers intertwined with yours beside your head. “I think—I’d follow you anywhere.”
There is nothing to say, nothing that could tell him what those words do to you, so you simply angle your hips upward, gasping at the feeling of him inside of you, at the way that this man, who puts way too much sugar in his coffee, and leaves you little drawings every day, and biked all the way to your department to sit in a room for twenty minutes, makes you feel like you are someone worth following.
also posted on ao3 | my masterlist
You've just started your new job as a waitress at the diner near your apartment. You meet one of the regulars. He is, unfortunately, extremely cute.
~9.9k words; fluff (it is tooth-rotting, pun intended); waitress!reader; fem!reader; reader is also a very broke grad student; so slight age gap but it is not the most relevant
a/n: so. this was meant to be. so much shorter. and there is a possible part two--we will see though
You have only been at your new job for about one hour and fifty-four minutes, and already you have spilled scalding hot coffee on your leg, been offered money by a drunk guy to go home with him, and accidentally walked in on someone in the bathroom.
Only four more hours to go.
As you walk to over to the man who just sat down in a booth by the window, you try to repeat your mantra to yourself: this is just temporary, all you need is a little extra cash while you finish your dissertation, and when it’s done you can quit. And if you can’t find a job in your field, well, at least now you have experience in the service industry.
When you reach the edge of the table, you slide an easy smile onto your face and pull your notepad and pen out of your half apron. “Welcome in! Can I get you started with anything to drink? We have coffee, iced tea, Pepsi products, milkshakes. Or do you need a few more minutes?”
The man looks up at you and blinks in surprise, like he was not expecting you to be there. There’s a moment of incredibly irrational panic, where you wonder if you have actually just hallucinated the past two hours, and you don’t actually work here, and everyone is about to laugh at what’s happening right now. (You are running on very little sleep at the moment.) But you look down at your uniform, the pen and paper in your hands, and confirm that, yes, you do work here, and he is the one who is acting weird.
He huffs out a small laugh at whatever expression must be on your face while you go through these mental gymnastics. “Sorry—I come here all the time, and normally they just start making my food when they see me locking my bike up outside, and then someone slides it onto the table without saying anything.”
Oh. Okay, that makes more sense. “They’ve probably already made it, then, and just didn’t tell me.” As if on cue, the bell in the window to the kitchen rings. “I’ll bring it over and try to remember that for next time. Oh—I’ll get you a water, too.”
The man smiles easily at you, and you take a moment to look him over. He seems a little older than you are, probably around five years, maybe a little more, you think, but he’s well-kept, despite the fact that his hair is kind of sticking up all over the place like he hadn’t bothered to brush it after rolling out of bed. Wire-frame glasses that are barely hanging onto the tip of his nose, striking blue eyes, and—okay. Right. You are at your job, and you need to be working, not giving this man the up-down. “I’ll take a coffee as well,” and then he squints down at your name tag, “uh…Gertrude?”
“Ah—yeah, that’s not my name, they just haven’t made my tag yet, but apparently I have to wear one for customer service, or whatever. Even though it’s not right.” You tell him your real name and he nods, probably because it fits a little better than Gertrude does. “I’ll be right back.”
You run over to the window and grab the plate. Pretty standard diner breakfast fare: two pieces of wheat toast, scrambled eggs, some bacon. You return with the food and a glass of water before scurrying off to grab the coffee pot and a mug. “Thank you,” he says, and it should be a little gross because his mouth is already full of food, but you find that it is actually kind of cute.
Stop that, you tell yourself. Don’t crush on this random guy at your workplace. That never ends well. And besides, you don’t have time for dating. Your current chapter was due two weeks ago, and your advisor has started sending you passive-aggressive emails checking on your progress. Sometimes she doesn’t even put anything in the body of the email, just a subject line that says ‘how many pages have you written this week’ in all lowercase. “No problem. Let me know if you need anything else, um…”
“Oh, right. Ryland.” He lifts up the lanyard around his neck, which has a little ID badge titled ‘GROVER CLEVELAND MIDDLE,’ underneath which is a picture of him and his full name, ‘Dr. Ryland Grace.’
There is a lot to comment on here. You think you live pretty close to that school, first of all, but that’s probably the least interesting thing, because you live close to the diner, too, and so he must stop here for breakfast on his way to work. You settle on the picture, because it is laughably bad: he is only sort of smiling, but mostly he looks surprised, like the flash caught him off guard.
Ryland notices you looking at that and grins sheepishly. “Not the best picture, I know. You think I would be used to the flash since I have to get my picture taken every year. But, no. And of course this is the one going in the yearbook, too.”
“That’s…unfortunate. And also amazing.” Your gaze drops to his full name. “What’s your doctorate in?”
“Molecular biology. So, as you might be able to guess, I teach science.”
“Little overqualified for middle school science, huh?”
He smiles, but it’s a little strained. Oops. You don’t know what you said that is causing this reaction, but either way, it’s not good, because you would really like him to leave a nice tip so you can buy groceries later. “You would be surprised. Teaching middle school is not for the faint of heart.” Wonderful. He’s not totally pissed at you. You might actually be able to eat dinner tonight.
You simply nod and look at him for a little longer, and then realize the coffee pot is still in your hands and is starting to tip dangerously toward the floor. “Enjoy your breakfast! And let me know if you need anything. Just call my name—or Gertrude, honestly, either works, because I’ve already started to respond to it.”
“Actually—” His voice stops you from turning around completely. The coffee sloshes in the pot, and you hold it with your other hand to stop it from spilling on your legs (again), and this is a bad idea because the glass is incredibly hot. You keep it there out of spite and embarrassment. His eyes dip down toward your hand, but he does not comment on it. “Could I get some sugar? For the—coffee. Not like that. Just normal sugar.”
Shoot. You forgot to ask him about that. “Of course. Any cream?”
“Nope, just some sugar. Coffee. Coffee sugar.”
Your eyes crinkle a little at the edges. This is very dangerous. He’s cute, and he has a job, and he is most definitely a nerd who is slightly awkward but still polite. “You’re fine. I’ve been working since four AM, and the late drunk crowd was—well, about what you expect. I got comments much worse than asking for some sugar.”
Ryland winces at that but doesn’t say anything else, so you leave to return the coffee pot and grab him one of the sugar containers from the counter. You watch as he immediately grabs it after you place it on the table and dumps an absolutely obscene amount of sugar into his mug. Like, it is so much. Enough that you wonder if the texture of the drink is now equivalent to wet sand. “I have a bit of a sweet tooth,” he offers, a little embarrassed.
“I might have figured that out, yeah.”
He takes a sip of the coffee and sighs contentedly, eyes fluttering shut. Oh, no. This is bad.
You clear your throat. “Let me know if there’s anything else. I’ll be around,” you gesture vaguely toward the rest of the diner, “for the next four hours or so. Not that you’ll be here that long. You know. Job. Not that I’d kick you out or anything. Okay. I’m going to go now.”
His lips pull into a smile as he raises the mug to take another drink. You turn on your heel to check in on your other table and try not to think about how much of a disaster that interaction was.
The diner starts to fill up a little more as the morning breakfast crowd comes in, mostly old couples and blue-collar workers. You do your best to turn up the charm, adjusting your lines based on the customer, hoping to maximize your tips. Your fridge has been depressingly empty for a few days. Maybe they’d let you take something home from the kitchen.
You stop by his table once to ask if he’s still doing good, and then again to refill his water and coffee. Finally, he signals for the check and already has his card out when you return with the receipt.
After you ring him up, you’re about to walk back over to give him his card and the final receipt when you see the bowl of Tootsie Rolls by the register. You grab one and place it on the table in front of him along with a pen. “Have a good day,” you say, and then after a few moments, you tack on, “and have fun with the middle school science. And that sort of stuff.” What is wrong with you?
If Ryland is wondering the same thing, he doesn’t show it, simply taking the candy and sliding it into his pocket before picking up the pen. “Thanks. We’re doing the Krebs cycle, which will be very fun for me, and possibly less fun for them.”
“That sounds…vaguely familiar? I haven’t taken a science class in—a long time. Probably over a decade.” You try to think back, but not a lot comes to you. “Isn’t that, like, really hard? Especially for middle schoolers?”
He grins and looks up at you, reflexively lowering his glasses. He must be far-sighted, you think idly. “I’m a bit of an overachiever.”
This should not affect you in the way that it does, but suddenly you are wondering if that extends to every area in his life. Like physical ones. Okay, that’s enough of that. “Well—good luck with all of that.”
When you return a little later to bus his table, you grab the receipt and look it over. Generous tip! Score! He didn’t think you were a total weirdo! You bring it a little closer to your face and realize that he’s written something on the back, so you turn it over. There’s a little diagram of the Krebs cycle, complete with little pictures and labels.
You are so screwed.
--
He’s back, two days later, when you’re working again. (Technically, he could have come in on the days you weren’t scheduled, but you don’t want to assume.)
“Welcome in,” you call behind you when the door chimes. “Be with you in just a moment.” This morning had been a little slower—no drunk crowd, just a few truck drivers stopping in for food before getting back on the road. You don’t realize that it’s him until you turn around from the coffee machine. “Oh, it’s you! Your food is probably—” The ding interrupts you. Thank you, bell.
After a few minutes, you slide the plate in front of him (two slices of wheat toast, scrambled eggs, bacon) along with a glass of water, a mug, and the sugar canister. You are very proud at how quickly you learned to carry this much stuff over the course of your first shift. “Morning, Ryland,” you smile, pouring out his coffee.
“Morning, not-Gertrude. Your name tag is right, now.” His eyes flick down. He looks about the same as he did two days ago; hair still slightly messy, the wire arms of his glasses begging to be put out of their misery, lanyard resting on top of his tie. It all creates the same fluttery feeling in your stomach that it did then, too. Whatever. Having a harmless crush makes the job more fun. “Oh, you remembered.”
Ryland is already grabbing the sugar and dumping it into his coffee. “Yeah, it’s a little hard to forget when someone pours a metric ton of sugar into their drink. I don’t know how you still have teeth.” He does the thing again, where he takes the first sip and acts like he’s seeing God. Something does a little flip in your chest. “And I have a pretty good memory. Mostly use it for dates and stuff, but it comes in handy for other things.”
He chokes a little on his coffee. That’s weird. “Er, dates? Like—dating?”
“Oh—no, no,” you laugh, “sorry, I can see how that’s confusing. I’m a grad student in history. So years and those sorts of boring things. I can’t even remember the last time I went on a date.” Hm. That was not a normal thing to say to a customer. “Uh, sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”
“It’s. You’re fine.” He takes a long sip of his water. “Grad student, huh? Masters?”
“PhD. Currently ABD, so. I’m kind of in hell.”
“Oh, gosh, I bet. I really do not miss that. How many years do you have left?”
You watch as he starts piling his eggs onto his toast before taking a giant bite. He really doesn’t do things halfway, does he? The overachiever comment from the other day pops into your mind, suddenly, as you watch him catch a stray piece of egg and pop it into his mouth. “Uh, this is supposed to be my last year.”
Ryland glances back up at you. You should probably end this conversation to go check in on the elderly couple at the counter, but you stay standing there anyway. “Supposed to?”
“I might be. Taking a little longer on my dissertation than I should be. My advisor is—she’s not very happy with me, at the moment.”
He smiles and his eyes go a little distant. You think he might be recalling some memory from his own grad student days. “Well, you know what they say. It doesn’t need to be a good dissertation, it just needs to be—”
“A finished one,” you interrupt, a little grin of your own playing on your lips. “Yeah, I think I’ve heard that line before. Once or twice.”
The two of you just stare at each other for a moment. His fingers start messing with the handle of his mug. They’re nice fingers, you think idly. Probably good at lots of things.
Like grading! That’s what you’re thinking of in that moment. You really need to go back to doing your job. “Well, I’ll leave you to your food. Holler if you need anything.”
He does a little mock salute before you walk away. Unfortunately, there are still not that many customers, which is bad both because you would really like more money and also because now you have nothing to do with yourself. You settle on watching him for a little while, promising yourself that this is not creepy. You are simply making sure he doesn’t need anything.
His water is only half empty, but you are really, really bored already, so you walk over to fill it up. “I forgot to ask earlier—how did it go with your students? The Krebs. Thing. Cycle! The Krebs cycle. And the ATP stuff.”
“Glad to see my diagram was helpful.”
“Oh, it was great. Very detailed. You must be a really good teacher.”
His ears start to turn a little pink. It is adorable. You are in so much trouble. “I don’t know about that right now. It’s—I may have overestimated the ability of pre-teens to understand cellular respiration.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” You have the sudden urge to lay a hand on his shoulder. The urge gets stomped down, because this man is a customer, and this is only the second time you have met him, and to top it all off someone has just walked in. “Welcome in! Take a seat wherever you’d like.” You turn your attention back to him. “Sorry, duty calls. Enjoy your mug of wet dirt.”
You hurry away before you can consider this last sentence over any further in your mind, because you are fairly certain it was one of your disastrous attempts at flirting. For some reason, you always default to playful insults, and—look, it’s been a while, what with the dissertation of it all looming over your head. The last time you’d dated was about four years ago, with someone a few years above you in your program. That did not go over well.
The next time you walk by, he asks for the check, and this time you bring it over with a Tootsie Roll and a mint. Those are immediately swiped off the table and stuffed into his jacket pocket.
There’s no diagram on the back of the receipt this time, but there is a drawing of a little cell guy. Next to it is a speech bubble. Apparently, the tiny cell is saying, “Thanks for the glucose!”
You take a picture in case you don’t remember to keep the receipt after you’ve cashed out your tips at the end of the shift.
(This does not happen. You think about the drawing for the next few hours, and before you leave, it gets gently folded and put in your bag. The receipt now lives taped up on your wall next to your desk.)
--
You are scheduled the next three days in a row. He comes in for two of them, Thursday and Friday, and each time you give him some candy with his receipt, and in return you get two more little drawings. One is a diagram of mitosis. The other is a mitochondria, with a very long pun about being the powerhouse of the cell. You wonder how long it took him to think of it, or if he just had that at the ready.
After your shift on Saturday, the day that you do not see him, you buy a variety pack of candy with some of your tip money. You tell yourself that this serves two purposes: one, so you can have a snack while you work. The second one is very obvious, and does not need to be acknowledged.
--
Ryland immediately notices the new candy selection.
“Wow, Skittles? I’m really getting the five-star treatment here.” This time, instead of putting the candy into his pocket like usual, he immediately opens the bag and chucks a few into his mouth. “Thanks. I didn’t even know you guys had these here.”
“Uh, yeah, I guess. I found them—in the back. Where things are stored.” If by ‘in the back’ you mean ‘in your backpack,’ then, yes, you are technically telling the truth. He doesn’t need to know all of that.
“How’s the dissertation coming?” He laughs when he sees the face you’re making. “Sorry. The dreaded question.”
You try to let the grimace slide off your face. “It’s—fine. There are. There are words. In a document.”
“Words are good.”
“When there’s enough of them, sure.” A sigh leaves your lips. “I really need to send in this chapter by the end of the week, but the AC in my shitty apartment isn’t working again, and if I go into the department I’ll just talk to everyone. It’s a problem. I’m probably, like, avoidant or something. I don’t know, I haven’t been to a therapist in a while.” What is it with you and oversharing with this man that you serve breakfast to almost every morning? “Sorry. Anyway, I’m thinking I might come here and try to power through the rest so I have something to give my advisor. At least I’ll have free coffee here.” Because your little Keurig is also broken. You are very, very broke. Hence the waitressing job.
Ryland simply nods along and doesn’t comment on the therapist thing. “A change of scenery might be good. Help the words come a little easier.”
“Here’s hoping.” You watch as he finishes the Skittles, shaking the bag so the last few fall into his mouth. His lips are a little stained from the candy. “Well, anyway. If you see me here in a few days out-of-uniform, feel free to pay your respects. Because I’ll be dying on the inside.”
The laugh that comes out of him is a little startled, as if he wasn’t expecting it to happen himself. You blink. The crush is not staying little, not remaining a tiny thing that you keep in your pocket and take out to pass the time at work.
It’s just been a while, you tell yourself. That’s all.
--
You pick a fantastic day to work in the diner, because it is currently pouring outside. While the rain helps cool things down—and therefore alleviates the AC issue—there’s a leaky roof tile in your shoebox apartment that still hasn’t been fixed despite your numerous maintenance requests. The thing drips incessantly, and the rhythmic noise of the water falling into the bin you’ve placed underneath it drives you absolutely insane.
Really, you need to find a different place to live, one that doesn’t fall apart every other day. But that requires money. Which you do not have. So, instead, you put the bucket down to catch the dripping, hoping that it won’t overflow in the time that you’re gone, and drive to the diner. Normally you just walk, but it is literally apocalyptic outside. Maybe, you decide, if you manage to finish your chapter, you’ll drive to the nearby strip mall and treat yourself to some window shopping. (Again: no money.)
The diner provides just the right amount of background noise to help you settle in. Well, it would, except you’ve been staring at the cursor in your document for about eight minutes straight, like you’re expecting it to do something on its own, but it simply blinks back at you.
The door chimes as it opens, and you reflexively glance up before returning to your staring contest. Then you look up again, because it’s Ryland, and he currently looks like a wet cat, both in terms of misery and being drenched. He sees you after a moment, and you offer him a little wave. (It’s one of those incredibly awkward ones, where you’re worried that the person you’re waving at might not see you, but obviously he’s going to see it, because he’s looking right at you, which just makes it all even more awkward.)
His shoes squeak against the tile flooring the entire time he walks over, until he plops down into the booth to sit across from you. He takes his helmet off and sets it on the table. Water drips from his hair, and one of the little rivulets slides down the bridge of his nose. That is—that’s an image to review later.
“Morning,” Ryland says cheerfully, in spite of the fact that he looked about ready to cry a few minutes ago. “It’s a little damp outside.”
“…Yeah. I think you might have brought the entire Bay in with you.”
Gertrude (whose name tag you borrowed for your first shift) comes by and slides Ryland’s breakfast and a cup of coffee in front of him without a word. Hm. He really doesn’t talk to anyone else who works here, you realize, because otherwise he probably would have made a joke about the chances of two Gertrudes working in the same diner on that first day.
You don’t know what to do with this information.
Nothing comes to you, so you chuck it away somewhere in your mind before sliding the sugar over to him. He smiles gratefully and starts concocting his cement mixture of a beverage. “So. How’s the writing coming?” You say nothing at this, simply resting your elbow on the table and smushing your face into your hand, giving him the most despairing look you can conjure. “That bad, huh?”
A frustrated noise grumbles in the back of your throat. “It’s just—I know what this section needs to do, and I’ve outlined it, but. Every time I write something, it’s shit.”
“Hey, language,” but it’s almost entirely muffled by a piece of toast (wheat) and eggs (scrambled).
“Sorry, Mr. Grace,” you scoff. You’re smiling, though. “I don’t know why I’m having such a problem with this chapter. I thought it would be my favorite one to write, but…”
Ryland swallows his current bite and looks at you for a moment before finally speaking. “Can I see it?”
“What, my dissertation? It’s not exactly easy morning reading.”
He waves his hand and starts sliding your laptop around to face him. “I’ll just look at the abstract and the intro to your current chapter.”
Then the only sounds are him clicking around the headings of your document and the bustle of the diner. This is, possibly, the worst: watching someone read your dissertation right in front of you, with nothing to do but wait for them to finish. At least when you send things off to your advisor, you don’t have to watch her angrily leave comments. Sometimes they highlight entire paragraphs and just say ‘bad.’ Super helpful.
After a little while—but not as long as you expect; he’s a shockingly fast reader—he nods and looks back up at you. “Take my advice with a grain of salt, because this is way out of my field of expertise, but I think you need to move your current section up. It makes more sense to go before the previous one, which seems to me like it’s actually the crux of the chapter.”
You blink at him a few times before slowly dragging your laptop back in front of you. You look at your chapter introduction again, and then skim the section he’s talking about. “Huh. That’s actually—I think you’re right.” You look up at him. “That’s the most helpful advice I’ve ever gotten on this thing. Genuinely. Can you be my advisor?” Ryland simply laughs at that and takes a sip of his coffee. His eyes do the thing. It’s fine. You’re fine. “Seriously, though. How come you’re not in a department somewhere with a cushy office? You’d have grad students lining up out the door.”
The coffee mug is set down gently. “I was, for a little while. Then—well. I might have. Kind of implied that someone wasn’t worth the organic materials they were made up of. At a conference. Um. The UNESCO conference. In Denmark.”
He looks at you while you take in this information. Finally, you say, “This might sound really insensitive. But that’s kind of awesome.”
This draws another laugh out of him, the startled one, and you can’t help the massive grin that grows on your face. “Really? It’s awesome that I insulted one of the most preeminent microbiologists alive and got my funding cut?”
“Well. When you put it like that, it’s less awesome. But do you know how many scholars there are in my field that I would love to call an idiot? There’s a lot,” you answer for him. “Do you miss it?”
“Honestly? No. I actually enjoy my life now.”
“There you go. That’s all any of us can hope for.”
Ryland starts fiddling with the spout of the sugar canister. “Yeah. My colleagues had a slightly different opinion, back then.”
“Fuck ‘em.” You don’t give him the time to call out your language again, even though you know he’s (mostly) joking when he does it. “I mean it. Obviously, I would kind of kill to have been in your position, because getting a tenure-track job feels less likely than winning the lottery, but if you’re happy, who cares what they think? You’re, like, preparing the next generation to be capable citizens, or whatever.”
He doesn’t say anything at that. He simply stares at you for a while with an unreadable expression. This is a new one, one that you haven’t seen on his face before—not that you spend that much time looking at his face (you do)—and you find that you would very much like to know what it means.
You do not get to, because then he’s looking down at his phone, and his eyes go wide. “Shoot. I am going to be so late.” Right after he pulls out some cash and slams it on the table, there’s a loud clap of thunder. The timing is almost comical.
“Ryland. I drove here. Do you want a ride?”
You think he might be getting ready to politely refuse, but then he glances at the window and the way the rain is pummeling the glass. “…Possibly.”
--
“I have to ask,” you say, white-knuckling the steering wheel, because it’s kind of hard to see out the windshield at the moment, and you really need new wiper blades (the reason you have not gotten them should be obvious at this point), “how exactly did you word the thing you said? At the conference?”
He clears his throat beside you. “I believe I called him a ‘staggering waste of carbon.’”
“Oof. That’s good.”
Ryland simply hums and then points out the window. “It’s the next turn, there.”
Then you’re pulling up to the school. It really isn’t that far from the diner. “Here, give me your phone.” You hold your hand out expectantly.
“Uh—why?” He looks at your hand like you’re holding a bomb.
“So I can drive you back to the diner later? Since you had to leave your bike.” It hadn’t fit in the back of your car, because the thing is really just a tiny, glorified bucket of bolts. You wiggle your fingers a little. “Give it here.”
After a few beats, he shifts in your passenger seat to pull his phone out before unlocking it and placing it in your hand. You tap your number in and set your contact as ‘Not Gertrude.’ Hopefully he gets a kick out of that. “Here. Text me when you’re done and I’ll come get you.”
He looks down at the new contact. The corners of his mouth lift up and his nostrils flare a little. “Will do. Thank you, again. Seriously.”
“Of course.” Ryland moves to open the door. “Wait!” You reach your arm back to grab your backpack and then dig around for a little while, until you finally produce a little snack-size bag of Skittles and toss it at him.
It hits his nose, and he does this little surprised squeak as he brings his hands up to catch it. He looks between you, your bag, and the Skittles a few times. “The diner doesn’t keep Skittles in the back.”
“Uh. No. You caught me?”
The new expression is back. You still really want to know what it means. He does not explain. Instead, he opens the car door and runs to the entrance of the school. Just before he vanishes inside, he turns around and gives you a little wave.
--
It is still raining out, though not the absolute downpour it was in the morning, when you get the ‘All done here!’ text from Ryland.
“Oh, thank god,” you breathe, because you think if you have to spend another second writing you will launch yourself into the sun. You quickly gather up your things and holler, “See you guys next week!” to the kitchen before leaving.
The drive to the school is less harrowing than it was earlier, since you can actually see further than five feet in front of your car. You pull up to the curb and park—hopefully you won’t get towed—and then pull out your phone to send a quick ‘here!’ back to him.
Then you wait. And wait. At one point, you realize that you haven’t added him back as a contact, so you spend a few seconds staring at the blank name line before simply putting in ‘Ryland Grace.’ You didn’t have anything funny like ‘Not Gertrude.’
After about five minutes, you start to get restless. “Fuck it,” you mutter, and you turn the car off and step outside. Your car probably won’t get towed. The rain feels kind of nice, so you walk leisurely up to the door. It’s locked, and you have to press the little intercom buzzer. “Uh, I’m here for Ryland Grace?” Nobody says anything back, but you hear the door click.
Hm. Slight wrinkle in the plan. You have no idea where his classroom is. Thankfully, the admin office is right by the front door, so you pop your head in. “Hi. I’m looking for Mr. Grace? I’m just—I’m giving him a ride home, and he didn’t respond to my text so. Now I’m here. Asking where his classroom is.” They probably didn’t need all of that information.
The directions are only slightly confusing—something about taking a left, and then another left, and then the second right, and his classroom is somewhere in that hallway—and you only make one wrong turn on your way there.
“Knock, knock,” you call into the room.
He jumps from where he’s sitting behind his desk. “Oh, crap, sorry. I got distracted—grading—you know how it is.”
You simply hum while he rushes to gather up his things. His classroom is kind of amazing. Plants, dioramas, cute posters, even a model of the solar system hanging from the ceiling. “How long did it take you to put all of this together?”
“Hm? Oh.” Ryland looks at you, then, gazing around the room in awe. “A few years. We don’t get extra money to decorate, so it all had to come out of my own pocket.”
“Damn.” You smile at him. “It’s really nice. I think this proves my point. That you’re a really good teacher.”
“…Thanks.”
It’s quiet, then, and he doesn’t move from where he’s standing. You’re about to ask him about the look, the new one, the one that is on his face again, but you don’t. Instead, you clear your throat. “Ready to go?”
--
Later that night (like, very much later), you finally send your chapter off to your advisor. Ryland had turned out to be entirely correct: moving the section up immediately made everything flow better. The relief that washes over you when you hit ‘send’ is almost indescribable.
You pull out your phone and stare at it for a few seconds before opening your messages up. It’s late, very late, and he’s probably not even awake, but you send him a picture of the email in your ‘sent’ folder anyway. The attached document in the picture reads ‘FINAL final draft 5.4.’
it is done
Then, about five seconds later, you’re picking your phone up again, because he’s already responded. The tiny workplace crush is, possibly, no longer just a crush at all.
That’s awesome!
What are you going to do to celebrate?
idk, probably put a bunch of stuff in my amazon cart and then never buy it
i have no money
in case you didn’t know that by now
I might have realized that at some point
You should actually celebrate, though.
You get up from your desk to lay on your bed. It feels a little like being a high school teenager in a movie.
i’ll probably just go to bob’s
Bob’s? On Sycamore?
yessir
That place is a crap hole.
It is adorable that his no cursing schtick extends to texting. This whole exchange is kind of adorable, actually.
yeah but it’s MY crap hole
wait
that sounds really gross
ignore that
they have cheap drinks and a pool table
what more could a girl ask for
also, sometimes the bartender gives me a free shot if i flirt with him a little
He doesn’t respond right away, and you bite your lip nervously. Was that too many texts in a row? Or maybe it was the bartender thing. You’re about to type out ‘jk but really it’s just close to my apartment’ when you finally get another text.
When do you think you’ll go?
You really, really hope this is implying what you think it is.
probably tomorrow night honestly
it IS a friday after all
tgif and all that
and i don’t work on saturday so. no need to worry about the hangover
What time?
This is silly. The excitement that you are feeling right now is just silly. The thought does not stop your cheeks from hurting at how much you’re smiling.
like 7
that way i can get drunk and still go to bed at a reasonable time
i’m not as young as i used to be
You stare and stare as the three little dots come up, and then disappear, and then reappear again. Finally:
I’m really bad at pool
Like, really bad.
Disastrously bad.
that’s ok
loser buys the winner a drink? :)
I was probably going to do that anyway
You’re broke, remember?
ouch
you wound me
Am I wrong?
…no
I’ll see you tomorrow
:)
You stare at the smiley face until your eyes start to drift shut, and you fall asleep holding the phone to your chest. It is very teen rom-com, and it is wonderful.
--
Ryland is right: Bob’s is a crap hole.
It is dark, and a little dingy, and the bar is cash only, and the door handle to the bathroom sticks a little. It is, possibly, your favorite place in this entire city, because it’s been there for you through everything: moving, getting over the breakup with that older grad student, passing your qualifying exams, birthdays, everything.
You take it all in with a small smile as you wait, sipping on your drink and guarding the pool table with your life. It’s really not necessary, because it’s only seven, and for now there’s only a few regulars sitting at the bar and a couple making googly eyes at each other in a booth.
A little bit of the condensation from your glass drips onto your jeans, and you frown and try to dab at it with a napkin. You spent way too long, probably, getting ready and trying to figure out what to wear, because it is unclear to you whether this is a date or a friends sort of thing. You know he’s single, obviously, he’s mentioned it before, but you are starting to nervously spiral a little bit. What if he doesn’t like that you’re a little younger? This thought seems a little silly, because you are swiftly closing in on thirty, but—maybe he’s just really weird about it.
All of that is to say that you settled on jeans and a somewhat cute top, because ultimately you are in a dive bar, and you are very serious about winning at pool and getting that drink. A complicated outfit will not be getting in the way.
The door finally opens again, and Ryland walks in. The place is tiny, so it does not take him long to spot you by the pool table. He is—he looks very cute, your mind supplies unhelpfully. His shirt has the periodic table on it, and underneath it reads ‘I WEAR THIS SHIRT PERIODICALLY.’ His jeans. Fit him very well. And the dirty canvas shoes are right at home in the bar.
Finally, you notice that his hair is slightly styled. Not much, and it’s still a little messy, but it seems deliberately ruffled, rather than the afterthought it usually is.
You do not have the chance to consider this any further, because he’s stopped walking to stand right in front of you. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
“Congrats on the chapter.”
“Thanks.”
“You already have a drink.”
You look down at the glass in your hand. You had already forgotten it was there. “I might have gotten here a little early. To scope out the pool table.”
“I see.” He glances behind you at the table, then, which you have already inserted quarters into, and the pool balls are already racked. “I’ll go grab a drink,” he nods towards the bar. But then he doesn’t move, not yet. “Is that the bartender?”
“Uh. Yeah.” You are wishing you had not shared that little tidbit with him.
Ryland nods and seems to be turning something over, very carefully. “Maybe—don’t flirt with him tonight.”
There’s no time to ask why, because he’s already walking away to order something. You already didn’t have any plans to flirt for a free shot, anyway, but now you almost want to, just to see what Ryland would do.
You watch him walk away and then lean against the bar top. You’re not—you’re not looking at anything in particular.
Okay, just one little look.
How are you supposed to—this is so unfair.
--
“You lied to me,” you say accusingly. “You are such a liar.”
He sinks another striped ball and walks around the table. “In my defense, I really thought you were going to be a lot better. You were the one who brought up pool in the first place.”
You gasp with mock offense. “I can’t believe you just said that to me. On today, of all days, when we’re celebrating my dissertation chapter.”
Another ball shoots into a pocket. “I’ll still buy you a drink.”
“Absolutely not. I need to win that drink. It’s about the principle.”
Ryland finally misses—likely only because there really weren’t any good angles—and you step up to the table. “I think you should—”
“Don’t coach me. The principle.” You line up your shot very, very carefully. “Watch. This is where the comeback starts.” If anyone were to ask you about your positioning right now, you would very tactfully answer that there is nothing purposeful about the way you lean over the table or the arch of your back.
You take a deep breath and—“Son of a bitch!” He raises his eyebrows when you stand up, a smile playing on his lips. “Don’t even, we’re in a bar.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, but you thought it.”
Your brain kind of can’t handle the look he’s giving you at the moment, so you turn your attention back to the table. Of course, you’ve given him the perfect angle, and he wastes no time to—
He misses.
You narrow your eyes at him. Ryland simply shrugs. “Lost my grip.”
“Uh-huh.”
He lifts his beer to his lips, watching you the entire time with a grin. “And I didn’t re-chalk before my shot.”
“Everyone knows that the chalk is just to look cool. It doesn’t do anything,” you scoff.
The bottle stills against his mouth, and then he slowly lowers it. “That’s not—I need you to know that that is not true. There’s a physics to it and everything.”
In your mind, there was a version of tonight where he did the incredibly cheesy move of wrapping his arms around you to show you how to use the pool stick. Apparently, the real version is him animatedly explaining the physics of pool, how factors like spin and angle affect the shot, the way to account for the friction of the table.
It is, you find, much better than the version you cooked up in your brain, because he’s looking at you the whole time, blue eyes wide with excitement, waving his hands around so much that his beer has started to slosh dangerously.
“Alright. Did all of that make sense?”
“I’m going to be so honest. I checked out for a while there. But I appreciate how enthusiastic you were.”
“What was that you were saying yesterday about me being a good teacher?”
You grin and stick your tongue out a little. You hope the way your nose is scrunching is cute and not stupid. “You are. I’m just a bad student.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “There are no bad students. It just takes patience to figure out how they learn. What’s your learning style?” His voice drops a little at the question. Your fingers tighten around the cue stick. Being asked your preferred method of learning should not be affecting you in the way that it currently is.
There are options here. Either you play it safe, crack a joke, and take a shot that you will probably miss. Or. “I’ve always been a pretty tactile learner.”
Ryland hums. “I see.” Then he walks around the table and stands behind you. “Line up your shot,” he murmurs. You think that you might explode, because actually, it turns out, you do get to have the version of the night you concocted in your mind while getting ready.
It is suddenly very difficult for you to concentrate on anything, but you step forward and lean down, aiming for the red ball in front of the back right pocket. His arms come around you, then, and his hands slide over yours. You watch his fingers curl around your left hand. Yes, you think, his fingers are good for a lot of things.
“Keep your dominant eye focused. Aim right for the center since you have a pretty dead-on angle. The friction coefficient is around—”
“Ryland,” you whisper, “that means nothing to me.”
“Right. Just—hit it really hard, so the cue ball doesn’t go into the pocket. You want all of the momentum to transfer to the red ball.” His thumb smooths over your knuckles. Something swirls in your stomach.
You nod and try to ignore the way you can feel your hair catching slightly on his stubble. “Great. Hit it hard. Actionable advice, thank you.”
You draw the pool cue back. His arm moves with you, but he’s careful not to contribute any of his own force to the motion. After a few practice slides, you hit the cue ball for real, and it rolls into the red ball with a crack and stops. The red ball shoots forward into the pocket.
“Yes!” The two of you stand up, and you turn around to give him a high five. Ryland just smiles widely as he looks down at you. That look crosses his face again, and you realize how close you’re standing, and that his cheeks have started to tinge red, but—well. You really want him to buy you a drink. And you’re having fun, a lot of fun, and you want to enjoy it for as long as you can, just in case you are reading all of this wrong and it goes south later. “You’re going down. I am the queen of pool now.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “One ball sunk and suddenly you’re trash talking. I’ve created a monster. Also, what about that whole principle thing earlier? About not being coached?”
“Fuck the principle, I want my free drink.”
You’re taking a sip of your current drink, the one you bought with your hard-earned tip money (which makes you realize that he’s kind of already bought you a drink, in a sense), when he suddenly blurts out, “Please don’t fuck my principal,” and then you’re choking and laughing, and a little bit of club soda is coming out of your nose, probably, because the joke is already pretty funny but is made that much better with the curse word. You wonder if that’s a very small reason he is so uptight about not cursing; he can wield those words with so much more effectiveness when he does use them.
He hands you a napkin so you can clean up the mess dripping from your face, and for a beat you’re a little worried that you look ridiculous, but he’s still smiling and looking at you with what you’re pretty sure is fondness.
You miss your next shot, and you find that you don’t really care.
--
Ryland does not let you win, because he is, as you have just discovered, intensely competitive. He still buys you your next drink, which you are now sipping on as you sit across from him in one of the booths along the wall.
“I still think,” you say around your straw, “that I could have pulled that off.”
“How so?” He leans his elbow on the table and rests his cheek on the heel of his palm, lifting one finger up to lower his glasses a little. Which feels unfair, but, whatever.
“It’s a feeling.”
“A feeling.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Doesn’t seem like a ‘feeling’ is based on much evidence.”
You scoff playfully and wave a dismissive hand. “You scientists and your evidence.”
His smile grows. You are pretty sure the two of you have not stopped smiling since he walked into the bar. “Aren’t historians pretty nitpicky about their evidence, too?”
“Irrelevant.”
It seems like he’s about to say something else, but whatever it was going to be is interrupted with a yawn. “Sorry, sorry.”
Right. He worked all day today. You’re surprised he’s still upright. “No, you’re fine. We can finish these and head out, you should sleep.”
It’s his turn to wave dismissively at you. “I’ll be alright.”
“It’s okay. Seriously. I had a really good time tonight. My chapter feels properly celebrated.”
“Good. I know I didn’t read the finished product, but—it was good. You’re a strong writer. Really vivid voice. And you made it really easy to follow along.”
Your face feels warm. “Well, that’s—I mean, you have a doctorate. You have lots of practice reading things like that.”
“Biology articles? Sure. History dissertations? Not so much. But I never felt confused when I was reading it.” He clinks his beer against your glass. “Take the compliment.”
“Okay.” You bring your drink to your lips at the same time he does, and the two of you simply look at each other, long after your drinks have returned to the table. There are—you have a lot of things going on in your mind, at the moment, and a question that you would really like to ask, and you’re pretty sure it’s going to go over well, but.
It pains you to admit it, but you are a little nervous, because it has been quite a while since you’ve done this, and the thing that started out as a little crush at work has turned into something so much larger, a thing that you really do not want to fuck up, and you’re realizing that it’s becoming a lot like your dissertation. It is not a thing that you do not want to do; actually, you want to do it so badly, and it is so important, and you are putting it off because there is comfort in remaining in that in-between stage, of being able to say that you’re doing it but never actually seeing it through.
“Okay,” you repeat, standing up, because this has suddenly become a lot. “I am going to go commandeer the TouchTunes now.”
“…Alright?”
The machine doesn’t like the first dollar you try to put in, which is fair, because you’re pretty sure the customer who gave it to you had used it to snort coke. The second dollar, after some smoothing, is accepted. Score. You scroll through different songs before just typing in one of your go-to’s.
A few seconds later, the song is filtering through the shitty speakers of Bob’s, and you slide back into the booth. “Tears for Fears. Nice,” he comments.
“Thanks. To be honest, this is the only song I know by them.”
“Hey, a classic’s a classic for a reason.”
The two of you go back to looking at each other. You try to steel yourself, because, just like your dissertation, this is a thing that ultimately needs to be seen through. All the way to the end. “I have a question.”
“Shoot.” Ryland makes a little finger gun. It is extremely cute and slightly soothes the nerves bunching up in your chest.
You turn your gaze down to your drink as you swirl the straw around the ice cubes. “Was this a date? Wait, I probably should have led up to that a little more. Except I don’t really know how. Okay. Like I said, it’s been a while since I’ve been on one, and I think I might be a little bit rusty, and I kind of like you a lot, but I have no idea if I’ve been reading all of this wrong. You have this look, you see, and I think I know what it means, but I’ve never asked, and I also don’t know if you’re weirded out by the age gap thing, which I’ve also never asked about either. And. I’m going to stop, now.”
If there’s a God up there, you think, please let the floor open up and swallow you now, because that was probably the worst speech you think you could have given.
But then he’s saying your name, quietly, and you look up at him. “Yeah. You’ve been—your read of the signals is correct. Very correct. I don’t, uh, I don’t leave little drawings for all of my waitresses.”
“That’s good. Good to know. That would probably hurt my feelings.” You feel like you’re about to start giggling like a maniac, because all of the tension in your chest is dissolving, leaving only giddiness.
He seems to be feeling something similar, but then he looks confused for a moment. “Also, ‘age gap thing’? Aren’t you almost thirty?”
“Yeah. Don’t remind me.”
“Hey now. And I’m pretty sure that’s around when that stops mattering.” Another beat. “How old do you think I am?”
“It varies. Sometimes it gets up to sixty because you order the same thing for breakfast from a diner every day of the week. Then it lowers down to upper teens when I watch you pour the entire sugar canister into your coffee. Seriously. I am concerned you are going to develop a health condition.”
Ryland laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and you giggle right along with him, and in a burst of confidence you reach forward and put your hand on his, and you’re thrilled when it shifts to hold your fingers gently.
“Do you—would you like to go somewhere else?” You ask. “Like. A secondary location. But not the kidnapping kind.”
His thumb brushes over your knuckles, just like it had when he was helping you line up your shot in pool earlier. “Your song isn’t finished.”
You shrug. “We can come back another night and I can play it again. I have lots of singles. Some of them don’t work because I think they were used for cocaine.” You pause. “I’m realizing that I sound like a stripper right now.”
Ryland snorts and squeezes your hand. “Yeah, we can go to a secondary location. I’d like that. As long as it’s not, you know, the kidnapping kind. That’s a non-negotiable.”
He keeps holding your hand as you both get up out of the booth, as you walk out the door and into the night air. Neither of you finished your drinks, you realize, but that’s fine. He’ll probably buy you another.
--
epilogue
“Welcome to my crib.”
Ryland takes in your shitty apartment. You had cleaned up a little earlier, in a spurt of confidence, although the bin that you use to catch the water leaking from the ceiling is still out, because it hadn’t finished raining until this morning. “Wow. This is. It is really a place that someone lives in.”
You punch his shoulder then, lightly, and smile while you kick off your shoes and flick the lights on. “Yeah. I really need to move out. But that requires—”
“Money,” he says at the same time you do. “If it makes you feel any better, you won’t be living on a grad student stipend forever.”
“Here’s hoping.” You walk into your tiny kitchen, then, and call over your shoulder. “You can sit wherever. And by wherever, I mean on the couch, because that’s the only seating I have. Do you want anything to drink? I have—” You peer into your depressingly empty fridge. “Well. There’s water, a half-drunk bottle of Sprite, and vodka. So. Pick your poison.”
“I’m fine. What’s up with the unfinished Sprite?”
You take a quick drink of water before padding over to the living room. “It’s a chaser. For the vodka.”
“Of course.”
Ryland is sitting on the couch, and it’s very cute, because he’s trying to be polite but is also incredibly restless, if the way his knee bounces up-and-down says anything. You climb onto his lap. “Hi.”
“Hey there.” He looks up at you at that, his hands coming up to rest on your hips, and you carefully take his glasses off and set them behind you on your thrifted coffee table. “I kind of can’t see without those.”
“That’s fine. If we do something that requires seeing, you can have them back.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Then, before you lose your nerve, you draw your hands up to cradle his face and kiss him, sweetly at first, until you open your mouth, and he groans as you lick along his bottom lip. He squeezes your hips, and his fingers mess with the hem of your shirt a little before slipping underneath it to run along your skin. Yep, your guess is still holding, his fingers are great.
You are about to start grinding down onto him when there is a loud crash, and then the two of you are jumping, and you look behind you. The leaking ceiling tile has, apparently, chosen this moment to collapse onto the floor and knock over the bin of water for good measure.
His chest is shaking with laughter when you lean your head against his shoulder and groan. “Can we just ignore that for now and go back to what we were doing, please?”
“Counteroffer,” he says, still laughing, “I help you clean that up, and then we can resume. And then in the morning you will put in a maintenance request.”
“Deal. And they don’t really respond to those. Hence the ceiling tile that just fell.”
“I probably should have guessed that.”
In the morning, you can’t cook him breakfast because there’s nothing in your fridge, but you order it for him as the next best thing—wheat toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon—and put it onto a plate in the kitchen, wearing nothing but his periodic table shirt and your underwear, as if you had actually cooked it yourself. He comes up behind you and kisses the side of your neck.
The eggs get cold. When you finally eat, you dig through one of your cabinets to produce a fistful of Splenda packets. He dumps each and every one into the mug of instant coffee that you make him.
Today in my freaky 101 lecture (don't ask) we discussed how for a lot of people, the goal is just to feel pleasure even if it doesn't culminate in anything and my professor's example was people who just enjoy kissing/making out and it's like, peak for them compared to anything else. ANYWAY where I'm going with this is that it reminded me sm of the way you write Driver. Got me daydreaming about that little freak when I'm supposed to be getting my education. LOOVEEEEE the way you write him. mwah
Firstly , freaky 101 sounds incredible, where so I sign up? Secondly, as I started reading your ask, I thought this sounds like my guy Driver — and it was! And you’re so right. And thank you so so much!! Mwah to you, too!
The way I like to write Driver, touch is the most electric feeling. Touch is pleasure.
Holding hands is as intimate as stripping bare and pressing your bodies flush together, cuddling is in equal parts the most soothing and most thrilling act, and kissing? Well. With your tongue in his mouth and your lips sealed to his, he’s in heaven.
The difference here is that for Driver, kissing absolutely does culminate in the most gut-wrenching, toe-curling orgasm. It might be in his pants, untouched, and after a very short time, and his cheeks might burn a bit if you notice the guttural little grunt that escapes his throat and the way his fingers tighten where they’re holding you, but it still feels so fucking good. Your kiss feels that fucking good.
Driver is young, so he can spring back up after sex but he prefers not to. He wants to lick you clean, hold you close, make sure you're happy, press kisses to every inch of you.
B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
He likes his hands, he knows how to use them, why to do with them. He likes watching you fall apart of them as he brings you to orgasm. You sit in his lap, kissing over his face just like you know works him up after bickering. His gloves are still on, he pushes his hands down your panties, holding in a moan at the feeling of your wet cunt against his fingers before he works you to tears with just his fingers.
On you though, he can't pick. It's too hard.
An easy out is your lips. He loves your smile, or the feeling of them against his own, the feeling of your mouth wrapped around him.
Or he could say your pussy, because when you're wrapped right around him he feels so safe and so good and so loved, like he'll never have to worry about a thing again.
But he wants to say your heart, your arms for holding him, everything. All of you for creating such a safe space for him.
C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically)
Driver loves to cum on your face.
His favorite is right on your mouth, after you've given him head when you have spit and precum running down your chin and he gets to kiss and lick it up and rub it against your pouty mouth
He also loves seeing your cum on him. Almost embarrassed when he sees a cum stain on his gloves, but he feels proud over it. He likes having you on his face, licking you, then having your cum and wetness all over his nose, cheeks, mouth, and chin.
D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Driver is really into period sex. Like... an odd amount. He likes the blood, likes the warm feeling, likes how wet you are. It's a way of feeling and tasting your delicious blood without hurting you, because he would never.
He'll finger you, fuck you, go down on you, anything while you're all your period. He loves it
E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)
Driver isn't exactly inexperienced. He's definitely had sex before, plenty of times. He knows what he's doing, and he knows he's good at what he's doing. He's just not the hook up kind of guy, he wants to have a connection, to feel something, to be romantic. He wants passion.
F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying)
Any position his lips can reach yours. He doesn't want to fuck you of he can't kiss you. Even a kiss on the cheek satisfies him, your soft, plump lips against him sends him over the edge like nobody's business.
G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)
He's definitely serious. He's a passionate guy when it comes to love making, he's giving you his all anytime he can and he's very serious about getting you to cum
H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)
Just like the hair on his head he regularly goes in for haircuts, meaning he likes to keep a neat trim downstairs. Nothing bald, he's not insane. But he does like a neat looking presentation for you, and it makes him feel more put together. Maybe even a little sexier.
I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)
Driver can be a pretty romantic guy if he tries
His nose buried into your cheek, fucking you slow and steady as you both have tears in your eyes, clutching hands at he pushes your hair back, telling you how much he cares for you and that he would never let a thing happen to you
But he can also put you in the wildest position, you having the sloppiest nastiest but earth shattering sex
J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)
Driver has had issues before. Typically he can control himself when he was alone, he wouldn't get worked up or super horny but when he did he would touch himself for what felt like hours and still... nothing.
Maybe because he never felt rested enough, he never felt safe enough, never settled enough.
Until you came along, you showed him what it meant to feel good, how to feel good. He doesn't harbor any shame or any stress. He lets his mind relax for once, and now he can fuck his fist and cum over his hand as much as he wants. Especially when he's next to you, watching you touch yourself as well.
K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)
Driver loves to be choked, he didn't discover it until one particularly long night where you were going for so long that he was literally panting and gasping for air as he sweat dripped onto you
The dizzy feeling of him losing air made the orgasm much much better, and next time you touched him he caught himself pulling your hand from his cock, up his belly, from his chest, up to grip around his throat
Obviously a kissing kink, even a smooch on the cheek will get his heart rate picking up
And once you're well established in your relationship he discovers he had a breeding kink. Not that he's necessarily ready for kids, or even wants them, but he likes cumming in you and forcing you to keep it in, watching you squirm and complaining as it leaks out of your panties. He likes knowing he could get you pregnant, changing your body and getting you swollen with his baby.
L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)
He loves taking you down to the creek and fucking you down there. At first, you were weary because of the frogs leaping from the water and the mud, but it quickly turned serious as he was deep since of you, his breath against your ear.
Also obviously, the car.
He likes to see the windows steam up, push you against the seats, his gloves still on while he rubs your clit as you get closer to your high. It's basically the only time he isn't worried about his leather getting ruined.
He also likes the little bubble you've created, knowing no one will come bother you
When he's in the shop working he'll also fuck you against whatever car he is working on
M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)
He's big on praise
He wants your approval
To know he's doing good for you
You've created a safe haven for him, and all he wants is to know that he is doing good for you and paying you back in some sort as he thrusts in you
As much as he will growl in annoyance "good boy" while his head or hips are between your legs gets him off, calling him a pretty boy, or just telling him how sweet he is to you and how no other man could be this good to you
He wants to be your number one protector, to hold you close to him at all times
N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Really anything that hurts you
He's so tender, so gentle with you sometimes you can hardly feel his touch
He treats you like a porcelain doll at times because he's so worried of being too rough with you, of scaring you
O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)
Driver loves road head
10 and 2, well.... maybe 10 and 6! Because he's got one hand in the back of your hair as you bob your head on him
He loves petting your hair back, feeling your mouth on him as he drives
Especially in the highway, knowing there's a risk, but he's a good enough driver not to get caught or hurt
But if Driver is anything Driver is a yearner and that translates to a munch
He likes to lick you through your panties
He thinks it's cute
To see your thighs trembling just from him licking you over your little panties
Them practically sopping wet when he finally pulls them off
P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)
It could really go either way
Sometimes you frustrate him and he just wants to fuck you so hard that the headboard actually just slams through the wall
Other times he wants to really make love to you
Literally take the time to kiss every single inch of your body before fucking you nice and slow
Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)
He likes a quicky
He likes shoving you into his car or a bathroom and fucking you quickly, smearing your lipstick and seeing your mascara run down your cheeks
Then walking back hand in hand at the function you drug him to, his cock still switching like it's inside of you
But he prefers to take his time with you of course
R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)
He loves to experiment with you
Shockingly, he was a vanilla guy before you
He just liked to get off and that was it
Now he wants you anytime anywhere and he likes seeing different ways to fuck you or figuring out how he likes you to touch him
He loves the thrill of maybe getting caught
Tehehehe
S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last)
He can last a while
He can actually last far longer than you can
He could go hours and hours if he wanted to, it's you who stops him
T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)
Driver never bought toys or experimented with them before you
He didn't see the use for them when he has all the parts
That was until you held a vibrator at the base of his dick
And he came so much he thought he was going to pass out
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Driver likes to tease you
He's picking you up? Well he's sliding his hand up your skirt and pulling your panties down with just one glove covered hand, sliding them into his pocket or his glove box
Or he'll rub your pussy for a little, watching you squirm, waiting to hear you let out a couple moans before pulling back, his hands 10 and 2 on the wheel
Or he'll pull you in, seeing you in a thin shirt, braless
He's sucking your nipples through your shirt as you squirm, feeling your hand push into the back of his hair before he pulls away, smirking and trying not to laugh at the wet spots he left before walking away
He can hardly handle any teasing though
Your hand grazing over his cock, he's instantly had enough and he's pulling it out to make you sit on it
V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)
Driver is pretty quiet, he'd rather sit back and listen to the pretty noises you make, that's what he tells you, anyway.
He lets out little grunts, groans before he cums, puffs of pleasured sighs, but when you're riding him, on top of him he gets pussy drunk quickly.
Something about the way you move your hips, the feeling of you on him, the sight of your hands dragging up and down your body, sliding your hands up his chest until you get to his throat...
Driver just can't shut the fuck up when you're riding him
No matter how hard he tries he babbles like never before
Like a kid who won't shut up
Telling you how good you are, how good you feel, repeating a mantra of your name, and the pet name he calls you, he can't stop, and he feels so helpless but in the best way.
W = Wild Card (Random headcanon)
Driver gets so jealous
Very easily too
He even sees a man eyeing you up, or sees a man thinking about it and he's pulling you back to his car to fuck you
He can't handle knowing he could possibly have competition, or that his girl would even be seen as an option for other people
X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants)
Driver is hung to say the least
He has a slight curve that perfectly hits your g spot, tickling it perfect to make you cum
He hardly had to tilt his hips at all to hit your special spot, he can just slide in and hit it, and it sends your eyes rolling back every single time
He's big, and he's not fully able to bottom out, but close. Maybe around 8 inches
Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)
We alllll know Driver is a yearner
The longing looks
All it takes is his eyes growing heavy or the puppy dog eyes for you to drop your panties
And he knows that too
He knows anytime he wants it that he'll get it
And almost every single night he wants to be buried deep inside of you
Z = ZZZ (How quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Usually he's good at it, he likes to take care of you, clean you up, hold you, but if you start scratching his back how he likes he'll be down for the count
When you cradle his head against your chest, scratching your nails against his scalp
Well he's snoring within minutes
Hey ignore my typos I will fix them later you know what I'm trying to sayyy
Using/ writing my ideas/ headcanons/ intellectual property without proper credit will warrant an immediate block :( plagiarism is a big deal!
warnings : strangers to lovers ; one pushy guy ; one who stares ; (in the near future) some violence, sadness, tears ; now - gently ; don't get into strangers' cars ; 'no' is a full sentence ;
note : he noticed you and couldn't stop seeing you everywhere, but does he have a chance for a bit of happiness?
a/n : I don't know how this happened. It started with a single thought, and then it grew and grew… Will it work? It depends on whether anyone wants to read it and whether my feelings cause me to quit halfway through. Things have been a bit rough lately, mentally. Thank you for being here. I'll leave this here.
[Ryland Grace masterlist][main masterlist]
The first time Driver paid attention to you was because someone else couldn't stop talking about you. Shannon was in one of his strange moods, leaning against a workbench in the garage with a cigarette hanging from his lips.
"There's this girl," he complained. "I ask her out, she says no. I ask again, she says no. I smile, she says no. I swear she's doing it on purpose."
Driver barely glanced up from the engine he was working on. His hands were stained with grease, and the air was humid enough that he could feel it sticking to his skin.
"Maybe she doesn't want to go out with you."
Shannon scoffed. "Why wouldn't she? Am I missing something? She couldn't do better."
That earned him a brief look. "Sure."
The conversation could have ended there. They could have forgotten about it and gone back to their routines, but a few days later, Driver finally saw the girl Shannon kept talking about.
You were standing outside a coffee shop, waiting for your order. Shannon was beside you, gesturing animatedly and trying his hardest to charm you. Driver watched from across the street. He saw how politely you listened. Then Shannon said something, and you simply smiled, shook your head, collected your drink, and walked away. Just like that.
As though that single answer was enough to end a conversation you had no interest in continuing. Shannon threw his hands up in frustration.
"You think you're better than everyone else, huh?" he shouted after you. "Fucking princess..."
You didn't even turn around. That probably stung more than anything. Eventually Shannon shook his head, pulled his cap lower over his eyes, and lit another cigarette. For some reason, Driver watched you until you disappeared around the corner.
A week later he saw you again. This time in a grocery store. You were trying to carry too many things at once, and predictably, your paper bag gave out. Several items rolled across the floor.
"Shit..." you muttered.
Without thinking, Driver crouched down and caught a can before it disappeared beneath a shelf. You looked surprised.
"Oh. I’m sorry."
He handed it back. "You dropped something."
"Thank you." You slipped it back into the bag with a sigh. "I should probably stop overestimating my abilities."
An orange promptly escaped the bag and Driver caught that too. You laughed softly. That caught his attention more than anything else. Meanwhile, you gathered the rest of your groceries, packed them more carefully, hugged the bag to your chest, and after another quick, "Thanks for the help," headed toward the exit.
Outside, the sky had already gone dark. The lingering heat in the air promised rain. You hadn't even made it to the parking lot before the first drops started falling. You felt them immediately on your skin. You had only taken a few steps when you heard the same voice again.
"You need a ride?"
The man from the grocery store stood beside a car. A very nice car. You looked at him suspiciously. Then at the car.
"No."
The answer came immediately. Short and simple, no explanation.
Driver blinked. "No?"
"I don't get into cars with strangers."
More raindrops began falling around you.
"Fair." He nodded. "I'm Driver."
The corners of your mouth twitched. "Driver?" you repeated. He nodded. "That's your name?"
"It's what people call me."
You studied him carefully. As though the rain wasn't bothering you at all. Most people would have gladly accepted the ride. You didn't. Instead, you took a step backward. "Maybe another time."
Then you walked away. Just like that. Just like you did before.
The rain grew heavier, and by the time you got home you were probably soaked through. But you'd stuck to your decision. And for some reason, Driver found that fascinating.
After that, he couldn't stop thinking about you. Whenever he saw someone dressed similarly, he'd look twice to make sure it wasn't you. Whenever he drove past the coffee shop, he wondered if you'd already been there or if you still were. And every time Shannon complained about you, Driver found himself getting more irritated.
Because Shannon didn't know anything about you. Driver didn't either, but somehow, he felt like he'd noticed more.
The way you never seemed impressed by other people. The way you weren't looking for attention. The way you simply lived your life.
For someone who had spent most of his life alone, you should have been just another person passing through the edges of his world. Instead, it only made him think about you more. The next time he saw you, he already knew two things.
First, Shannon didn't stand a chance. And second, he was going to need a better introduction than, "I'm Driver."
Shannon, however, seemed completely unaware that his chances were less than zero. He was talking about you again. Complaining. Putting out a cigarette in an ashtray, he grumbled about how you'd ignored a perfectly polite compliment when he'd run into you at a flower stand.
"I swear, one day she's gonna regret turning me down," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
Driver looked up from his toolbox. Shannon laughed.
"I'm serious. She thinks she's better than everyone. Somebody should put her in her place."
Something heavy settled in Driver's stomach. He didn't like the way Shannon talked about you. Not at all. Your rejection had become a personal insult rather than what it actually was, a polite no. As though you owed Shannon something simply because he wanted it.
"Leave her alone." The words came out before Driver could stop them.
Shannon raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"She said no." Driver returned to what he was doing.
"That's not the point."
"It is."
Silence followed. Shannon lit another cigarette and snorted. It was probably meant to sound like a laugh.
"You like her."
Driver didn't answer. Or maybe, by staying silent, he did.
Meanwhile, you'd started noticing him too. No, he definitely wasn't trying to get your attention. If anything, the opposite. You'd spot him in the grocery store. Near the coffee shop. Across the street from the bookstore you visited. Eventually, you stopped believing it was a coincidence.
You recognized that distinctive jacket from a distance now. The calm expression. The way he never seemed surprised when your paths crossed.
One afternoon you left the coffee shop and found him standing beside his car. He wasn't waiting for you. He was simply there. You could've said he was people-watching, but when your eyes met, he nodded. A simple greeting. Nothing more. You nodded back and kept walking. This time, though, you glanced over your shoulder. He wasn't following you. He was already looking somewhere else.
Driver told himself he wasn't watching you. It felt safer that way. He was simply noticing you. Your habits, the streets you walked, the flowers you bought. The effortless way you moved through your life. His eyes found you as naturally as they found exits in crowded rooms or signs of danger. And that should have worried him.
Instead, it felt strangely comforting.
He saw you again. You'd stopped beside a bench to rearrange your bag. Once again, you were carrying more than your arms could reasonably handle. Driver intended to keep driving. To leave it alone. But by the time he reached the first intersection, he'd already changed his mind. With a sigh, he turned back.
When he pulled up beside the bench, you didn't immediately look up. You were busy trying to force a water bottle and a book into an already overstuffed bag. Eventually, however, the feeling of being watched made you glance up.
"You again." You recognized him immediately.
"You again," Driver echoed.
You slung the bag over your shoulder and narrowed your eyes slightly. "Are you watching me?"
The question could have sounded fearful. It didn't. For days now, you'd been exchanging nods and small smiles. Seeing Driver wasn't surprising anymore. Part of you had even started expecting it.
"A little." His answer was immediate. "And you still don't want help?"
"I'll manage." A faint smile tugged at your lips. "You're weird, you know that?"
He nodded. "Maybe."
He didn't offer you a ride. He already knew the answer.
"Most people would've given up by now." you said.
His expression barely changed. Still, you had to admit he was handsome. And those blue eyes, despite rarely revealing much emotion, were impossible to ignore. You noticed the way he adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. The way he glanced toward the road. Then back at you.
"I'm patient."
"That's good."
And somehow, that was enough. For a moment longer, Driver watched you walk down the sidewalk. Then he drove away.
He shouldn't have done it. And yet he did.
He stopped at the flower stand where he always seemed to see you. He wasn't entirely sure why. A few minutes later, the florist was wrapping a bouquet of white and pale yellow flowers in brown paper. The same flowers you'd always chosen. The same flowers he now found himself choosing too.
As he reached for his wallet, the bell above the shop door chimed. He felt your presence before he saw you. When he turned around, you were staring directly at the bouquet in his hands. Your eyes met.
"Well," you sighed, "there goes my plan."
"What plan?"
"I wanted to buy those flowers."
Both of you ignored the florist, who was openly watching the exchange with interest.
"You wanted to buy these?" Driver asked, lifting the bouquet slightly.
"Yeah. They're pretty."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "They are."
Eventually, you shrugged and took a few steps farther into the shop. "I guess I'll have to find something else," you said. "Which is a shame. Those are my favorites."
His fingers tightened slightly around the bouquet as he watched you examine the other flowers. He liked watching you. A little too much.
"Are you buying them for someone?" The question pulled him from his thoughts.
He didn't actually know the answer. He'd seen them, thought of you, bought them. It sounded ridiculous, even in his own head.
"Maybe."
You smiled. "Lucky person."
His eyes found yours again. For a brief moment, neither of you looked away.
"Maybe," Driver said.
Something about that answer seemed to catch your attention. Your smile changed. Softer and more curious. Then you turned back toward the flowers while the florist began showing you other arrangements. A few moments later, you heard Driver speak again.
"You can have them."
You looked at him. "What?"
"You like them."
"Yeah," you admitted slowly. "But you can't just give flowers to random women."
"Why not?"
You laughed softly. "Because that's how people get ideas."
"Bad ideas?"
The question sounded so genuinely confused that you almost laughed harder. You looked at the bouquet. Then at the man standing in front of you. And sighed. "They really are beautiful."
"Yeah."
You bit the inside of your cheek. Driver knew you'd surrendered. Or at least he hoped he wasn't imagining things. Finally, you nodded and accepted the bouquet.
"Thank you."
For the first time that day, Driver truly smiled. And you discovered that his smile was somehow even more dangerous than his eyes.
You left the flower shop together. Dark clouds had gathered overhead once more. The air felt heavy with the promise of rain. You walked slowly along the sidewalk and talked. At least, you talked while walking. Driver mostly listened.
You told him about a book you'd recently finished. A movie you'd watched. Something ridiculous one of your neighbors had done a few days ago. Nothing important. And yet neither of you seemed eager to part ways.
Eventually, Driver stopped beside his car. "You heading home?"
"Eventually."
"I can drive you."
You opened your mouth to refuse automatically. The same polite but firm refusal you'd given every other time. Then you looked at him. At those impossibly quiet eyes. At the familiar figure standing beside the car. A man who had spent weeks earning your trust instead of demanding it.
And to your own surprise, you said, "Okay."
Driver hadn't expected that. You could tell by the look on his face. A few minutes later, rain drummed softly against the roof as you settled into the passenger seat and he started the engine.
"You know," you said, fastening your seatbelt, "if you turn out to be a serial killer, I'm going to become incredibly annoying."
For a moment Driver kept his eyes on the road. Then he nodded. "Fair."
You laughed. His lips twitched upward. This time he didn't bother hiding it. Because after weeks of watching you walk away, you were finally sitting beside him.
The city blurred past outside, softened by rain and streetlights. You talked about everything and nothing. Driver noticed something alarming, he genuinely liked listening to you. Your voice. The way you told stories. The way your thoughts wandered from one subject to another. Being around you made him feel lighter. Quieter. Less alone. If that even made sense. Just having you there felt comforting.
"Do you do this often?"
Driver blinked. "What?"
"Give rides to strangers."
The car turned down another street.
"No."
"Good."
Now it was his turn.
"Do you do this often?"
"What?"
"Get into cars with strangers?"
You smiled. "No."
"Good."
This time Driver laughed quietly. A real laugh. Not just the ghost of one. You noticed how much more relaxed he seemed now. For a while you watched the rain-streaked city through the window before speaking again.
"You know, at first I was a little scared of you."
He glanced at you. "Scared?"
"You barely talked. You stared. You appeared out of nowhere."
"Hm."
"Those are legitimate reasons to be concerned."
You caught another glimpse of his smile. It suited him. Far too well.
The drive ended much sooner than either of you would've liked. Soon the car rolled to a stop outside your apartment building. Rain still tapped steadily against the roof. Neither of you seemed particularly eager to say goodbye. Eventually, though, there wasn't much choice.
"Thank you." You unbuckled your seatbelt.
"For what?"
"The ride." You lifted the bouquet slightly. "The flowers. And for not being a complete weirdo."
Driver shook his head. "You should get inside."
"Probably."
You picked up the flowers and your bag. Then paused. "I'm glad I got into the car."
For a second, Driver forgot how to respond. The words caught him off guard. You watched something soften in his expression. Something warm and honest. And it made you smile.
"Yeah," he finally said. "So am I."
For a moment neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away. Then you opened the door. Cool rain-scented air filled the car. A second later the door closed behind you, and suddenly all that remained was the faint trace of your perfume.
Driver watched you hurry through the rain toward your building. He waited until you disappeared inside. Then he waited a little longer. A light flickered on in one of the windows above. You were home. Safe.
Only then did he pull away from the curb. As the city rolled past outside his windshield, he realized something he probably should have noticed sooner. He couldn't stop smiling. And for the first time in a very long time, the warmth filling his chest didn't feel dangerous.
the interpretation and ensuing argument over whether charlie did, or did not actually cyberbully a kid as a teenager is really interesting, but i find that a lot of people ultimately miss the point of what that interpretation, or competing interpretations, are meant to do. we need not discard one over the other, but rather see what meanings and conclusions they present us with, and which we find more compelling or productive for analysis.
if charlie is not lying about having cyberbullied someone, it makes sense that he cannot place himself inside of emma's situation at highschool and it explains why and how he downplays the severity of her hostile high-school experience. it's why he feels he needs to lie and make up excuses for her behaviour, because he does not view mild (or even severe) social ostracization as a serious enough issue to warrant a desire for this kind of violent retaliation. those of us who have been in these situations, however, can quickly infer why emma fantasizes about causing those people what she believes is the same amount of pain she endured. it's a testament to his emotional illiteracy and his position of relative privilege over emma—he occupied a position against which she meant to cause harm, and cannot empathise with her position.
if charlie is lying about having cyberbullied a kid, however, then that is part of a habit. he lied about reading emma's book, he lied about the mug, he lied to mike and rachel about emma's motivations and background, he lied to emma about misha, he lied (though ironically) at the diner about his injuries and, most importantly, he lied about the worst thing he's ever done—which is, in actuality, crucially, what we have seen him do.
and that is the crux of this conversation. whether or not he's telling the truth about having literally cyberbullied another kid at fourteen is relatively irrelevant in relation to the fact that this is not the worst thing he's done. we are, for the duration of the movie, following charlie's worst moment. we know the worst thing he's done, we know what he acts like under pressure, we know where his points of moral failure are and so does emma. and she chooses to allow him to present himself as he wants to be seen, and chooses to include both versions of him (the charlie he wants to be and the charlie he is) in her interpretation of him, as he should have allowed her. so it's upsetting to me that people cannot see the value in either interpretation, when both fit into the themes of the movie and would have told us different, but equally true things, about charlie's character and how we are meant to take him.
The marketing for The Drama lied to you, and it absolutely had to. And I'm glad it did, because I haven't been able to get this movie out of my head.
So many films these days call themselves "Daring" but I don't think I've seen any of them that push the boundaries of acceptability as far as or with the sophistication of A24's newest film The Drama.
This is a movie that I go back and forth on spoiling the main twist on because I do think going in blind is incredibly valuable, but at the same time the subject matter is serious enough that I don't want to be cavalier about it and come off as flippant or edgy for doing so.
The movie itself is incredibly careful about avoiding the edginess. It fully understands the subject matter at hand and makes no attempt to grab greater audience share through cheap shock value marketing. It's trying to explore a serious issue, not make you giggle because it violated a taboo.
The movie is funny to be sure. It's a black comedy that refuses to cut away from excruciating embarrassment, but it handles it masterfully. The frenetic energy is on purpose, the disorganization deliberate, and the topic at hand directed with poise.
And the critics hate it. I think much of this may be pearl clutching, but almost every critic I've seen talk about this film derides almost every aspect. The critics hate it so much, and I (alongside wider audiences) don't agree.
While I don't think this film beats out Citizen Kane by any means, I cannot deny the craft and quality with which it was made. It's a well done movie, a fun Dark Rom Com, with solid performances from Zendaya and RPatt, and for all the controversy boiling behind the twist, I think it handled the topic with a gentle touch but remaining in control of the narrative rather than being scared of it.
Watch this movie ASAP, either spoiling the twist or going in blind. It's a beautiful, well done film that deserves the praise.
one thing i found interesting was how very american mike & emma are. charlie says it, that the school shooter thing is a very american thing & rachel attempts to deny this, using mike as one of the “good” ones - oh my husband was a poor black man exposed to guns at an early age but he didn’t commit The Ultimate ThoughtCrime. and mike immediately slaps this down, that he grew up around guns because his uncle was a cop. but when charlie tells them about how emma could have possibly thought about something like this, he also lies & blames the death of the neighbor. but the thing is - emma being desensitized to gun violence bc her dad is in the military, and not thinking about a) the human cost and b) the way people would talk about her afterwards, this makes complete sense. the child of a cop might be turned off by their love of guns, and a military brat might be too interested in the aesthetic of the lone, tortured shooter! but that is too much for a liberal white person like rachel or charlie to take. it’s too real and it’s not stereotypical enough. especially when both mike & emma feel shame over the worst things they did while both charlie & rachel could not be less bothered. they have actual victims still alive out there! mike was a little shitty to a weird, entitled girlfriend of his & emma was a little too caught up in Making Them Pay but actually did nothing! and that’s something charlie eventually points out - she didn’t actually do anything wrong!!! maybe she turned from those actions for reasons that are self centered (like being upstaged, like what her reputation might be after she’s dead) but does rachel feel bad? does charlie? why is what she didn’t do so much worse than charlie actually kissing someone else?? yes, maybe, it is true that he loved a mask the whole time! but rachel’s ire is not that emma is wearing a mask, but rather that she was fooled by emma’s mask!
