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“Rise and shine,” you say into your phone at six in the morning. You smile, but it doesn’t bleed into your voice, which leaves you sounding as bleak as you feel.
Colt whines in protest on the other line, and you can’t tell if he sounds raspy because of the call quality or because he’s barely awake. “I hate you,” he complains. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and squints at his window, where the sunrise casts ribbons of rainbow light through the goofy iridescent curtains he and Jody stole from the set last week. “I am not a morning person.”
“You’re so not,” you hear Jody snicker. She frowns at the missing warmth when Colt rolls onto his back, so she follows him, groping blindly at his chest. She hikes a leg over his hip and tucks her face into his neck, and Colt hums like he’s already forgotten about you.
You listen to his breathing slow and tap your finger against your opposite elbow, one arm folded across your chest. “Do not go back to sleep,” you hiss. “Colt, you told me to give you a wake up call. Wake up.”
“I’m woke,” he slurs. “I’m—eggs and bakey. Over.”
“Not a walkie-talkie,” you snap. You don’t mean to snap—you mean to sound sarcastic, but not snarky. You tap your elbow a few more times.
“Someone’s grouchy,” says Colt. “How long since you last got laid? Is it—are you in your luteal phase? Make a second cup of coffee and drink it slowly over the next hour. You should never take your coffee for granted.”
“I don’t need to get laid,” you hiss. You press your back to the wall and close your eyes. “When you disappeared for a year, did you—were you—”
“Take your time,” Colt’s tired voice soothes you. He yawns, and the sheets rustle as he props his back against the headboard of his bed. Jody rolls over to turn on the lamp and check her phone, doing her best not to overhear you.
You clamp your fingers around your opposite wrist to keep your hand from shaking. “I just think I need a hug,” you say in a rush. Your eyes pop open at the sound of footsteps. You duck into the copy room. “It’s been a long time since anyone has touched me, you know? And don’t say—just, it’s not about sex. I want someone to hold me. You know? You should know.”
“I know, hun.” Your heart seizes at the casual pet name. Is it even really a pet name? You creep back into the hallway with your fist clenched in your shirt. You clearly need that hug. “I would hug you with my super strong arms,” Colt teases you, “if I weren’t on the other side of the world shooting Metalstorm Too: I Meant Also.”
You roll your eyes even though he can’t see you and even though you don’t mean it. You’re lucky to have found such a good friend in Colt. At first, you were forced to smile politely at his girlfriend while secretly crushing on him, but then you were hired as a teacher at Grover Cleveland Middle and met Colt’s adorable twin brother.
Ryland wears tees with lame science puns on them on casual Fridays. Ryland cries every time one of his students scores lower than a seventy percent on a test. Ryland shakes his messy hair out with his hands as soon as he gets to his desk in the morning because his bicycle helmet always flattens the locks. You watch him from where you’re leaning against the wall opposite his classroom door, peering through the little window as he tips his head forward and cards his fingers through all that pretty blond hair.
“How’s it going over there?” you ask Colt. “I’m sure you and Jody are still making up for lost time. How many hugs would you say she gives you per day?”
Colt switches his phone to his opposite hand so he can drop his fingers into Jody’s hair when she wraps her arms around his middle and snuggles into his side. “More than I deserve,” he tells you. “Why? Is there a quota I should know about?”
You forget to laugh. Silence stretches over the line as you watch Ryland organize his papers on his desk and boot up his computer. He fiddles with the lapels of his blazer while the login screen loads. He’s wearing the outfit you first saw him in: gray blazer, striped shirt, red tie, blue jeans. You fixed his tie last week because he was so nervous about teacher evaluations that he pulled the knot too tight. He cleared his throat when you were mid-loop and you made the mistake of glancing up into his eyes, and if you weren’t already in love, the soft look he gave you sealed the deal.
Ryland laughs at all your jokes and preps your coffee for you whenever he beats you to the break room. He once let you borrow his fox cardigan when the heat stopped working in the winter, and you spent the first ten minutes of your next class period denying your kids’ suspicions that you and Mr. Grace were dating. Let you isn’t the best wording—he wrapped the cardigan around your shoulders before you could even think to ask, and his scent wafted into your nose and his warmth bled into your back. Ryland.
You breathe a dreamy sigh, and Colt presses the phone closer to his ear. “Hey,” he says, already sounding like he’s scolding you from the first word, “quit daydreaming about my brother. You’re already talking to the better twin.”
“Is Ryland a hugger?” you ask, ignoring him. You hate that Colt knows what you’re doing, but at least he can’t see you staring at Ryland through the window in his classroom door like a stalker. Ryland rubs the back of his neck, scratches his stubble, and when he props his elbow on his desk and leans the side of his face into his hand, you notice how long his fingers are. Perfect for holding your waist or slipping between your thighs—Damn, you think, maybe I do need to get laid.
“I think so, in theory,” Colt says, disrupting your fantasy, “but maybe not in practice. He gets in his own head a lot of the time. He’s awkward. He loves to hug me—who wouldn’t?—but I haven’t seen him in eight months.”
You study Ryland’s fingers some more. He’s definitely not wearing a ring. You’ve never asked him about it. “He doesn’t have a girlfriend, does he? Or a boyfriend?”
Colt scoffs. “Do you think I’d let you drool over him if he had a girlfriend? He’s single”—Colt tilts his head to one side—“but I’m not sure he’s ready to mingle. I doubt he’s even into people like that.”
You pout. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just crush my dreams of sloppy kissing him,” you say.
“Thanks for painting me that picture.”
“Does he at least have a pet at home?” you continue, and you can’t mask the worry in your voice. You wouldn’t wish the ache of touch starvation on your worst enemy, let alone your coworker and friend.
“Nope,” says Colt.
Your jaw drops. “So,” you whisper, blinking blearily at the science teacher across the hall, “he’s hugless.”
Colt holds his phone out in front of his face and frowns at the screen. “Where are you going with this?”
“Absolutely not,” Jody chimes, lifting her head from Colt’s chest to speak directly into the phone. “Listen to me, darling, you cannot barge in there and do that to him. What if he doesn’t want to hug you? What if he’s averse to touch? Please think about this.”
“I think he would like it,” says Colt, and you wish you could see his face when Jody barks his name like she’s going to have him set on fire. Again.
You must laugh a little too loudly, because Ryland’s gaze whips to the window, and his kind blue eyes lock onto your smile, and the next thing you know you’re hanging up the phone and fleeing around the corner to your own classroom. You text Colt the phrase he spotted me, and he sends you a selfie of him and Jody in bed, Colt flashing a thumbs-up and Jody a thumbs-down.
☆
You freeze with one foot inside the break room, one in the hall, because Ryland is there, his hands braced on the windowsill and head tipped down. His fingers tap tap tap on the sill and he doesn’t see you—his back is turned to you, and his shoulders are tense, you think, and he thumps his forehead against the window and tap tap taps his fingers faster until—
The microwave beeps, and he hops away from the window. His shoulders droop. Okay, so he wasn’t brooding, he was waiting for his burrito to finish cooking. Maybe he’s not as starved for touch as he is for beef and cheese.
He opens the microwave door, feels the cold center of the burrito with his fingertips, flips it over onto its other side, and closes the door again. He sets the timer for one minute and presses start. He still hasn’t noticed you.
A history teacher and her petite art teacher friend shuffle past you into the break room, chatting about movies. “No, it wasn’t Pretty Woman,” says the history teacher. “It was Runaway Bride, remember, where she got the ring stuck on her finger.”
“Richard Gere wasn’t in that movie,” the art teacher protests.
“Ah, excuse me, ladies,” says Ryland, to your surprise and theirs. “Runaway Bride does star Julia Roberts and Richard Gere, but the movie where she gets the ring stuck on her finger is My Best Friend’s Wedding.”
The two women look at each other. You step forward into the room. “How do you know that?” you ask, amused, and when he swivels to face you his hair droops over his forehead and his glasses slide down his nose.
His eyes go soft. “Colt and I watched her movies every weekend when we were in college,” he says, and you get the sense that he’s only talking to you, not to the other two teachers to your left. “He mixes them up sometimes, though. I like to joke that he injured his brain in the accident.”
He kneads the back of his neck with his hand again. He’s fidgety, not so much that your coworkers notice, but enough that you do. He toys with the buttons on his blazer and fixes his tie even though it doesn’t need fixing. You raise a brow at his behavior, but he averts his eyes to check his burrito when the timer beeps. He tap tap taps the center of it and you stare at his profile, oblivious to the two women watching you watch him.
“You like Mr. Grace?” the art teacher whispers.
“Shh!” you hiss, scowling at her. Ryland peers over his shoulder at her and then at you, and your heart melts when his lips curve into a sheepish smile. You can’t tell if he overheard, but part of you wishes he did, and that this smile is supposed to say I like you too. You’re anxious, and he’s anxious, and you’re shy, and he’s shy.
You hear Colt’s voice in your head. I doubt he’s even into people like that.
The history teacher points at Ryland, then forms a heart with her hands, then points at you.
☆
You slow your stride to stand outside his classroom after regular hours, when the students and most of the staff have left for home. The door is propped open, and Ryland is working at his desk—except he’s not really working, too spaced out to read the papers in front of him. His blunt nails scratch at the collar of his shirt, and then one finger hooks underneath the knot in his tie and wriggles it loose. He crosses his legs, changes his mind, and crosses them in the opposite order. He leans back in his chair and then curls forward to plant his forearms on his desk, huffing a sigh through his nose.
You squeeze the strap of the bag hiked over your shoulder and purse your lips. What if you screw it up, your friendship with him? What if you fail?
He scrubs a hand down his face and you decide that you have to help, that you have to take a shot, take a chance. A Hail Mary.
You sidestep into the threshold, spin and lean your shoulder against the doorframe. Gently, you call out to him. “Dr. Grace?”
His palms drop flat to the desk, long fingers splayed across the surface. He turns his head and meets your eyes over the rims of his glasses, which are crooked on his face. He says your name, your first name, so softly, to make a point when he adds, “How many times have I told you to call me Ryland?”
You smile. “I hear you loud and clear, Dr. Grace.”
He ducks his head, and one of his hands flies to his face to push his glasses higher on his nose when they slip. He licks his lips, probably for no reason. And maybe it’s the way the afternoon light hits him through the windows, but his cheeks look pink.
You shrug the strap from your shoulder and leave your bag on the nearest desk. He pushes his chair back and rolls it to face you as you cross the room. He looks up at you—it seems he’s always looking up at you somehow—and his brows rise to touch the tips of his hair.
“Stand up,” you say.
He glances over his shoulder like you’re talking to someone else, then faces forward and jabs a finger into his chest as if to say, Me?
You roll your eyes. “Stand up.”
He stands up. You take a deep breath. You creep forward until the edges of your shoes are touching his, then reach for his hands. Your fingertips graze his knuckles and slide down to trace his nails. His breath hitches. He looks down at your hands as you draw the pads of your fingers over the lines in his palms and then over the veins in his wrists, and then he looks up at your eyes.
You snake your arms around his back and sway into his chest. You can’t breathe with your nose smushed against the knot in his tie, and he isn’t breathing, either—he’s utterly frozen in your arms. So you draw back, your hands hovering at his waist, and you find him wide-eyed and—and not much else, too stunned to breathe or blink or speak.
Abort mission! you scream inside your head. You jerk away from him, but he snatches your hands in time, his fingers curling warm and thick around your slim wrists.
“Don’t,” he gasps, and cuts his plea short. He stumbles backward and hops onto his desk so that he doesn’t crumble to the floor when his legs inevitably fail him. He pulls you toward him via his hands on your wrists, and you station yourself between his knees and try not to panic. He is also trying not to panic. He frees your hands from his grasp and slides his fingers underneath his lenses to rub his eyes.
You lower your arms to your sides but lift a couple of fingers to toy with the denim seams that run down the sides of his thighs. He makes a pathetic sound you wish you could record and send to Colt—you love it when they make fun of each other.
“I wasn’t expecting,” he starts, then stops. He drops his hands into his lap and looks up at you. “I would love to try that again, if you’re—if that’s—if you want.”
You laugh. “I want.”
His lashes flutter as you take the corners of his glasses between your fingertips and level them over his eyes. You rest your hands on his biceps. You feel his muscles move—through his blazer, through his shirt—when his hands come up to your waist.
“Is this okay?” he whispers. It takes all of your willpower and then some to keep you from kissing him on his pretty lips.
You squeeze his arms. “Mhm.”
His thumbs sweep across the hem of your shirt. “Did Colt put you up to this?” he wonders aloud. “He worries about me too much. I’m totally fine, so if he’s the reason—”
“Ryland,” you interrupt. His eyes snap to yours, and his mouth snaps shut. Your forearms slither over his shoulders, and you snake your fingers over his nape and into his hair. It’s silky soft fluffy, plus a whole bunch of other adjectives that dart through your mind too fast for you to catch them. He leans his head back into your touch and mewls.
“Ah”—he poorly hides his face in your forearm—“y-yes?”
You pull one hand forward to cup his cheek while the fingers of your opposite hand comb through his hair. It’s messier at the top, so you focus your attention there. “I did talk to your brother this morning,” you admit, “but this was entirely my idea.”
His fingers on your waist twitch. “You’re a genius,” he all but wheezes. His skin is hot against your palm, his face flushed rose. His eyes threaten to close each time you caress the back of his head just right. You drag the pad of your thumb across his stubble and shift your hips to remind him of his hands.
“You can touch me,” you soothe him. “You should touch me.”
He hums. His hands slide to the small of your back, and he draws you closer to him. He’s a bit shorter than you since he’s sitting on his desk, so when you lean in, your nose disappears in his hair, your lips ghosting over his forehead. You move your hand to the side of his neck, then slip your fingers underneath his blazer and press the heel of your hand to his heart. It thumps at around a hundred beats per minute, maybe faster. You feel his pulse skip when you lift your hand to push his blazer away from his shoulder.
He covers your hand with his long fingers and stammers, “You want this off?” His voice is angel-soft and pitched lower than before. He helps you pull his arms out of the sleeves, and the garment piles around his hips, leaving his arms—oh god, his arms—in only the striped shirt underneath.
You suck in a breath through your nose and let it out slowly. This is fine. You’ve seen Ryland in short sleeves before, and these sleeves are long, so it’s fine.
It’s not fine, because his biceps are fucking massive, and when his fingers land on your hips and squeeze, the thin fabric of his shirt stretches taut across his flexed muscles. You wanted him to make you feel warm, sure, but this is—hot.
“You can touch me,” he says, mocking you. “You should touch me.”
You could kiss the smug, lopsided smirk right off of his face if you wanted to, but you would rather not spook him. So you drape a hand over his shoulder again and trace the swell of his bicep, dip your thumb into the crease of his elbow, drag your fingertips along his forearm. You snag his hand on your hip and lace your fingers with his. He sighs when your palm aligns with his palm, when the tips of your fingers tap each of his knuckles. You place your other hand on his bicep and knead the muscle, so much muscle, and he flexes for you, and all that muscle hardens, and oh god.
You squeeze his hand in one deadly pulse and he makes a pained noise low in his throat. You raise your linked hands to your face and brush an apologetic kiss across his fingernails.
His eyes go soft again. You’re in love—you’re so totally in love. He looks up at you with those sky-sea blue eyes and you swoon. You brace your hands on his thick chest and sway into his warmth, and his arms wrap around you, one huge hand resting between your shoulders and another huge hand caressing the small of your back.
His glasses, which are no doubt crooked again, dig into the side of your neck. You nudge your nose against his ear and breathe in the clean scent of his hair, his skin, and purse your lips. You’re tempted, so tempted, to kiss the beauty mark at the top of his cheek, to kiss the arch of his brow, to kiss his eyelids. Instead you fist your hands in his shirt and breathe a satisfied hum into his ear as he holds you tight in his super strong arms. Colt has some serious competition when it comes to muscles. You can’t wait to make him envy his dorky older brother.
Ryland draws back to make eye contact, and he’s so close to your face that you can smell the sour skittles on his breath. “Thank you,” he says. The vibrations of his voice carry through your veins. “I’ve never—I don’t usually get to do this.”
You lick your lips. Ask him out, you think, but you’re suddenly at a loss for words. His sincerity and his warmth and those kind eyes are too much to handle all at once. Your eyes dart down to stare at his mouth as you blurt, “Your brother thinks you’re aromantic.”
“What?” he sputters, and then he catches your gaze glued to his lips, and it clicks. He whispers your name. You flick your eyes to his eyes, and your heart shudders in your chest. He shakes his head. “My brother,” he sighs, “is an idiot.”
He hops down from his desk and you step back to make space for him to stand in front of you. You would say he towers over you if he were less of a silly nerd and more of a silly badass like Colt. Ryland is tall, six feet tall, and for once he’s looking down at you because his height is so much more of a factor when you’re standing this close.
You play with his tie while he removes his glasses and tucks them into his shirt pocket. His fingers touch the sides of your neck, a wandering thumb coming up to stroke your jaw. He sounds so timid when he says, “I want to kiss you.”
Kiss me! you want to squeal. You cradle his blushing face in your hands, and he mirrors you, the fingers on your neck inching upward onto your cheeks. You stretch onto your tiptoes and watch his eyes slip closed as he comes down to meet you, to meet your lips.
It’s like a fairytale, like how Colt describes his favorite kisses with Jody. Ryland pulls you into him, and you slot into place, flush with his body like you were always meant to fit there. His lips quiver against yours, and you swallow his needy whine and draw your tongue across the seam of his lips. He tilts his head and your fingers move into his hair. His tongue is wet and his hands are hot and his nose is smushed against your cheek. You want to feel the softness of his lips forever, just like this.
Yet you pull away from him the second you hear footsteps down the hall. He cranes his neck to watch the door, but no one passes it. He licks his kiss-swollen lips and interlocks his fingers over his chest, nervous as he asks you, “Do you maybe want to come back to mine? I have a queen-sized bed.”
You stare at him, and he stares at you, and from one second to the next, his face burns three shades darker, now a violent red.
“Gosh,” he chokes, “I meant—I want to cuddle with you, not—shoot, not that I don’t want to do other things with you in a bed, but—wait, not that I’m thinking about that so soon, u-unless you are?” He tugs on a fistful of his hair and then drops his hands onto his hips, defeated. “I want to hold you tonight.”
You seize his tie and yank him into another kiss. “Okay, Dr. Grace, take me to your bed,” you tease. He hangs his head in shame. You laugh, drag your palms down his chest, and suggest, “Can we cuddle with your shirt off?”
He peers down at your hands on his chest and then up at your eyes, exasperated. “One step at a time,” he rasps. “I’m shy.”
In the evening you snap a selfie of you and Ryland in his bed, him with his shirt off and one of his thick arms thrown across your stomach, his eyes closed and his lips parted in sleep; you with an arm tucked under his neck and bent at the elbow, your fingers buried in his hair. You send the photo to Colt and bite your lip to stifle a fit of giggles when he texts back, Is he more fucking ripped than me?!
You discard your phone and roll onto your side to slide your palm across Ryland’s bicep, his shoulder, and onto his back. Even in his sleep he hugs you tighter, clinging to you like he wants to hold you forever, just like this.