Chapter Text
He’s not a complete stranger. That’s an important distinction, because if you were looking to room with a complete stranger, you’d be a lot more hesitant to sign the lease agreement. But, Ryland is a friend of a friend, which conceivably makes this more okay. You’ve gone out to dinner with him when he’s tagged along with your going-out group; you’ve seen him at the local bar five minutes out from campus—great at trivia, especially in the pop culture and science categories. You’d even be brave enough to say that you’ve noticed Ryland walking around campus and from afar watched him walk with his brown-leather shoulder bag and his morning cup of coffee.
The roommate talk had only begun in the last couple of weeks or so, when you’d been asking around for anyone who was looking to fill a room. Your first few attempts to secure an apartment—in time for the beginning of the next academic school year—had been a bust. There’d been a lead on a cheaper studio that never followed up, a four-roommate situation that ended up signing somebody else, an option for a dorm room (you’d opted yourself out of that choice)… To say you’d been desperate to find a room is an understatement.
The text you sent Ryland—number acquired from your mutual friend—had read: “hey! heard you were looking to fill a private room. keep me in mind if you haven’t found anyone yet :)” And Ryland’s simple response, “Let’s go for coffee. Free tomorrow?” was what sparked that initial, albeit premature belief, that you might make good co-habitants for one another. And his offer was simple. $1000 a month, flat-rate, for your own private room in a two-bedroom apartment. His apartment, which used to be occupied by both him and his old roommate, who’d left the state in pursuit of a good job with the CDC. It made sense. He had an empty room and you needed a place to stay. You’ve both said “hello” and “see you” in passing enough to call each other acquaintances.
So, now, you’re rooming together and have been for the past week. It's a decently sized place, certainly big enough for the two of you save for the tight hallway leading to the bedrooms. It’s perfect, really. It should be perfect. It was perfect when Ryland helped you bring all your cardboard moving boxes up the stairs of your complex and into your private bedroom, glasses askew and arms given a decent pump from the heavy lifting. And it was perfect when Ryland showed you around the apartment for the second time—with his tidy, two-bookshelf living room and his almost lab-esque arrangement of a kitchen. It was proving to be a perfect setup.
—
The second you start to worry about your rooming situation is at the end of the first week. You have reason to believe that Ryland will be out working at his summer research lab, on something related to microbial ecology. When he explained it all to you the first time, you hadn’t been completely able to understand him; there was a lot of theoretical jargon that he hadn’t cared to parse out for you. You couldn’t bring yourself to tell him to slow down, considering how passionate he was getting just talking about the research.
It’s a series of shower thoughts that carries you to think about how attractive Ryland is when he’s talking about his research. There’s something fiery in the way that he talks science-y. He wants to be right. It might piss you off a little, how right he wants to be, but it’d piss you off more if you were his colleague. It isn’t like he’s trying to prove you wrong. He’s just passionate. It’s a little hot. You twist the shower knob quickly, and the water begins to trickle out of the showerhead. You just moved in; you can’t be thinking like this. His shampoo and conditioner and his body wash are in front of you on the shelf. You look away.
Once you’re able to grab your towel off the rack and wrap it around you, you’re in a hurry to get out of the shower. You’re already starting to get that cold, wet feeling on your back, and you’re dying to get into your bedroom to change into a fresh set of clothes. The sun’s starting to go down and you’re just about ready for dinner—so you’re stepping onto the bathmat and making a run for the door, and out the door into your room.
That second-long sprint from the bathroom, down the hallway to your bedroom, is when you realize the apartment isn’t empty. You nearly drop the towel, hands all shaky, when you realize that Ryland’s sitting on the couch, a good few feet ahead of you, reading through a stapled stack of papers. His faded red 49ers shirt stands out bright against the gray couch. You were just thinking of him, and now he’s here, and you’re here with almost nothing on. He jumps at the sound of you shouting a soft “Fuck!”—and you don’t know how much he sees before you’re able to pull the towel into a more solid wrap around yourself. He’s looking at you over the frame of his glasses, eyebrows raised.
He glances down at your towel for only a second, before flashing down to your all-too-visible, bare legs—before finally taking his glasses off and tossing them down on the coffee table. You can feel yourself burning up at the mere sight of him, training his eyes down on the folder in his lap. Ryland’s cheeks seem to have a reddened tint to them, and he’s ruffling his hair back and forth. You’re fumbling with the doorknob to your bedroom, not quite sure what to say to him. Finally, you stammer out, “Sorry, sorry. I thought you were going to be working later—”
“It’s fine,” he assures you. He’s still looking straight down as he waves his open hands around. “No, this is great. We’re breaking down the hard barriers first.” You find yourself staring at his discarded glasses. It’s not like taking them off would’ve made much difference. He’s farsighted, and you’re a little bit down the hall. He must’ve taken them off in an exerted effort to make you feel better.
“I’m just gonna… put something on. Okay.” The second you shut the door, nearly slamming it behind you, you’re slapping your palms over your eyes. It’s taking a lot to rationalize the past minute. He’s right: hard barriers first. It had to happen eventually. It was going to be him or you. All you need to do is act maturely about this. You’re both grown-ups here, and it isn’t like either of you are unaccustomed to nudity.
—
Now, you’re sitting at the dining table together hot-faced. In the forty minutes that you’ve been hiding away in your room, taking the utmost amount of time to get dressed, Ryland has made himself busy in putting together a meal for you both. There’s a set table for you both—a plate of pasta out for you, for him, and glasses of water to match. It takes lots of effort not to shift in your seat with the events of this evening, even more so when Ryland sits across from you.
You think you catch him glancing down at your pajamas before he looks you in the eyes. Your hair’s still damp, as if you’ve only just come out of the shower. The thought of your body being imprinted into his mind makes your nose want to crinkle. “So, you came home early,” you say sheepishly.
Ryland nods, hands clasping together in front of him. “Professor let us go early to yell at an undergrad. They dropped a sample, it was a whole thing.”
You both pick up your forks, ready to eat. But neither of you seem to want to dig in. Ryland’s waiting in silence, probably watching the unsettled look on your face. You stutter, “Right—I should… did you see—?”
Ryland purses his lips, pushing his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose. “...No.” His hand goes straight for the glass, tossing back a large gulp of water. This seems to relieve him a small bit, because when he places the glass back down, he seems slightly more composed. Ryland sits up straight in his chair, more relaxed to look you in the eyes. You don’t buy it.
“Are you lying?” you ask him, fork hovering over the pasta. It’s still welling up steam; you might as well keep prodding until your meal cools down.
Ryland sucks in a deep breath, before giving you a strangled, “Maybe.” So, he did see. He was only trying to save face just now, feigning cluelessness. You knew he was too slow to look down; you could tell as soon as you dropped the towel.
Finally, you’re dropping the form down onto the plate and looking straight down at the table. It’s difficult not to slam your head straight down into the bowl. You’re seething with embarrassment. “Oh my God!” You don’t know what’s worse—Ryland seeing you naked, or the fact that you’d been thinking about him just seconds beforehand.
He’s being a good sport, raising his palms up. “It’s fine! It’s fine,” he says to you. “I’ve taken general physiology. A naked body isn’t going to put me off. It’s natural.” The thought of Ryland comparing his viewing experience of you to a textbook diagram, professorial tone and all, is only making this worse. He realizes his mistake rather quickly, and tries his best to amend it as smoothly as possible. “I was also a teenage boy with Internet access.” Not any better. He tries to adjust one last time. “And I’ll text you next time I get out of lab early?” That calms you down, which calms him down.
For the time being, you’re both able to pick your forks back up and start eating again. You’re able to get a better look at Ryland as he pulls the marinara-drenched pasta up to his mouth. He cooked for you both. That’s nice. It’s more marginally comfortable now that you’ve both resolved the little road bump from earlier. Your mind returns back over to the initial conversation: Professor v. Undergraduate Student. “So, is it really that serious about dropping the samples? I’m assuming there’s contaminants, or—”
He nods, “Well, we only have so many palettes. It’s really reckless to drop stuff, and if we were in a professional setting, and this is more pseudo-professional than anything else, it’d be…” Ryland tries to select out the right word “…catastrophic.”
You give Ryland a gasp, nothing but sarcastic: “Like, World War Z?”
“It would be exactly like World War Z,” he affirms dryly. Ryland chews quietly at his food, a small, satisfied grin on his face. It’s a success; he thinks you’re mildly funny. This is a better dinner than it started and, awkwardness aside, you think that it’d be difficult to get tired of evenings like this. You have to wonder how many dinners you’ll have with Ryland like this, especially when the summer ends and you’re both busier. He won’t always get home early, and neither will you. It’s rather unlikely that you’ll sync up often.
When the two of you are finished eating, you’re getting ready to stand up and collect the dishes together. Ryland is quick to beat you to it, grabbing your plate, then his. Your half-full glasses are still left there on the placemats to drink—and he’s already making large strides over to the sink. “I don’t mind doing them,” you tell him, “—the dishes, I mean. You cooked, so it’s only fair.”
There’s a gentle clatter in the sink as Ryland places the plates and utensils at the bottom. You take your glass into your hand, trying to chug down your water so your glass can join the rest. Ryland’s shaking his head, leaning against the counter as he watches you tilt the glass up higher. “I can do them. I figure you probably want to turn in early after your little accident.”
You nearly spit out your water, dropping your glass down on the table with a huff. “You can’t call it that,” you say, “You’re making it sound like I peed myself on the playground.”
“I don’t know what you’d rather me call it,” Ryland replies, a grin starting to grow on his face. It’s far too easy for him to do this kind of thing—teasing you to entertain himself, and making you all the more antsy. “A… whoopsie? Or, surprise! That might be more fitting.”
“Nothing. You can call it ‘nothing’ because it didn’t happen!” you tell him. Full denial. It’s your own ego speaking, a meager attempt to make up for some of the dignity you’ve lost in the past hour. You can already hear him mumbling under his breath, “kinda hard to forget,” before you’re standing up to drop your glass into the sink with the rest of the dishes.
Getting closer to Ryland isn’t doing you any justice, despite how strong-willed you’re trying to act. His blonde hair is casting a soft shadow over his forehead, dark-blue eyes lowering to scan your face. He’s looking down at you with a curiosity to him that’s nearly on-par with how he reads over research findings. Stubbornly, you tell him, “If you tell anybody, I’ll move out.”
“Ouch. I wouldn’t even think of telling anyone,” Ryland affirms, “...My eyes only.” You’re about to pinch his arm, but he’s already putting his hands up to stop you. “Okay, sorry, kidding.” Before you can berate him any further, he turns back around to face the sink, grabbing up the sponge and dish soap with hurried hands. He’s starting to bunch up suds on the plates as he tells you, “Seriously, I wouldn’t blab.”
Satisfied enough with his placation, you begin to pad away back down the hall to the bathroom. Once there, you find yourself heaving in a deep breath. To the right of the sink on the counter, your toothbrush is neatly next to Ryland’s in a tall ceramic cup. It’s so difficult to get away from him when he’s everywhere in the apartment. You don’t hate it, necessarily; it’s just… more than you’d expected to take in. Slowly but surely, you peek your head out the doorway, trying to catch a glimpse of him in the kitchen. Ryland’s focus is still dead-set on the dishes, but he’s still wearing a small grin on his face. Still dwelling on the hour. God, he’s the worst.
—
Ryland has his nose buried in his laptop, doing a little searching for fellowships in time for the Fall semester. While he’s on the couch figuring out financials, you’re right beside him, looking through his collection of Blu-Ray DVD’s. He really does enjoy his sci-fi classics. You’re trying your best to stay attentive to the older style graphic designs of these DVD cases, and not Ryland’s rapid typing. It doesn’t take much resistance for you to bring up your lingering thoughts. “We should have ground rules, you know,” you tell Ryland. “To ensure that we’re not hating each other before the start of the semester.”
Ryland’s nothing but agreeable—but he hesitates a little in his response, with a reticent “...Okay.” His hands pull up from the keyboard, and he shuts the lid of his laptop just slightly to give you his attention. “Is this about the…?” It’s clear that you’re both still hung up about your little accident from the other week.
“No. A little, maybe,” you utter with a half-shrug. “Did you not have that kind of thing with your last roommate?” You pull your legs up into a criss-cross atop the couch cushions. He’s a little sheepish about this question, digging his fingertips under the band of his digital wristwatch.
“I don’t know. He was always either a hermit studying or he was out doing field work,” Ryland replies. “What were you thinking?” He doesn’t know what to expect—but you don’t seem very strict, which is a good thing.
You rub your palm into the back of your neck, trying to mull over a good list for Ryland. “Like… chores, for example. We can rotate to make sure that we’re both pulling our weight. Making sure to turn all the lights out to save on electricity. And, like, no hook-ups in the apartment.” That last line punches out of you in a clumsy manner.
Ryland gives you a funny look, something like a pout. He nods, “That one’s easy. I don’t sleep around.” You aren’t surprised. He doesn’t seem the type.
Still, you find yourself sighing out a “Great. Cool.” You don’t know why you feel so relieved about his particular response. Or, you do, and you just don’t want to bring yourself to admit it. He’s not seeing anyone, and it makes you feel a little fuzzy inside. You have to push it down
Ryland raises a brow: “Do you?”
“No,” you reply curtly. He nods. And you’re both sitting there on the couch with a prolonged stall in conversations. You don’t know how you’re supposed to recover from this, aside from continuing straight onward from expectations. “About habits—obviously, we’re both going to be working a lot, schoolwork and part-time. So—”
“I might stay up late a few nights a week to work on my thesis. It’s a lot of writing, editing, more writing,” Ryland explains. “I’d use my desk, but it’s easier if I’m right next to the coffee pot. And I… tend to pace around when I’m having trouble ironing things out. If it’ll bother you—” He’ll probably tell you that he can go to the library or an open-late diner, but it’s the last thing you want.
“No! Definitely not,” you shake your head. You’re maybe too shy to tell Ryland that you like that he’s on the more driven end of things. “I’m not a bad study partner if you ever want to do work sessions, either. And, uh, one second—” He watches closely as you take your phone up off the arm of the couch to tap across your phone screen. On the coffee table, right beside his laptop, his phone pings. The notification comes up wide on his lock screen. He picks up the phone, pushing his glasses up to get a closer look. Location shared.
Ryland blinks. “Oh. Are you sure?”
“It’ll let you know if I’m here or out on campus. Good for emergencies, too,” you tell him. As transactional as you want it to sound, there’s something vaguely personal about handing your whereabouts over to him. “You don’t have to give me yours back but—” Your phone buzzes. Ryland’s savvy, already having tapped away at his touchscreen to share his location with you.
“Handy,” he hums, “And it’ll make it a lot easier for me to not walk in on you.” That’s the goal, you think. Ryland places his phone back on the table, face-down. Then, he’s leaning back against the couch, tapping his palms rhythmically on his knees. It’s simpler than you thought it would to arrange the finer details with him. It’s oddly endearing how this is panning out for the two of you. It’s starting to look a little bit more smooth for this year.
Ryland starts up again, “Good we’re doing this now, ‘cause I’ve been meaning to ask you on a grocery run.” You tilt your head. Ask you on… a grocery run? “So I can see what you like,” Ryland explains, “That way, if you ever need a refill, I’m not wandering about the aisles like a lost dog.” You can picture it in your head, him collecting your favorite foods off the shelves dutifully with his earbuds playing some ongoing science newsfeed.
“That’s kinda sweet.” It’s really sweet. Boyfriend sweet—but you need to keep yourself away from that train of thought, avoid it like the plague. The semester hasn’t even started yet, and you’re fending off that terribly high chance that you might start growing feelings for your roommate.
—
By the end of month one, the two of you are starting to get the hang of things—smoothing out house rules, acclimating to each other’s summer schedules. By now, you’ve graduated co-habitating and actually started living together. It’s not without the occasional roadbump. Your next time going out with friends is disgustingly exhausting. Home at the apartment by midnight, you find yourself shrugging your coat off in a lightly tipsy attempt to get un-ready. You throw it on the coat rack with a huff, kicking off your shoes. Ryland’s right behind you, tossing his house keys into the ceramic bowl you’d bought for the both of you; you think now that he gets more use out of it than you do. Since getting dropped off, the two of you have been dead quiet.
It’s comfortable being silent with Ryland, with no grand expectations to keep talking to one another. Especially after a night out like the one you’ve just had, you’re grateful for it. There were just so many questions. “What is it like living together?” “How are you two getting along?” “Have you fought yet?” Good, yes, sort of. He was better than you at handling all the interrogation, full of clever comebacks and topic changes. You were… less adept. You love your friends, you do, but their egging both on was all too obvious.
You toss your bag on the couch and collapse down on the cushions with a groan. Ryland joins you a minute later, after tossing his hoodie on the back of a dining room chair. His knees bump against your own as he crashes on the couch, and you can tell he’s giving you a glance a few seconds at a time. You stare up at the ceiling, neck resting comfortably on the couch cushions. “Our friends think we’re hooking up,” you say. You don’t have to beat around the bush. You know it, and he knows it, too.
“Well, we live together. They’re going to think what they think,” Ryland says, taking his glasses off and tossing them on the coffee table in front of you both. “For some reason, they’re just… fixated on the thought of us shacking up. I tried to tell them, we’re only living together. It’s totally utilitarian.”
“Right. We’re doing this because it’s convenient—I keep on saying this,” you tell Ryland. It’s an impossible allegation to fend off, especially when the two of you are so undeniably single. Maybe, your mutual friends have picked up on some prolonged looks you’ve given him here and there—but they really are jumping to conclusions.
“All things considered, it’s better for me than it is for you.” He’s saying this like it’s the most straightforward logic in the world. You don’t know what to make of it.
You tilt your head a bit to see Ryland massaging his temples. After this much time out, he always gets a little bit restless. “...How’d you figure that?”
“Well, because I’d be dating up.” Until now, he’s been totally distracted by the lingering migraine in his frontal lobe, and now Ryland’s flinching at the sound of you shooting up on the couch. He practically jumps a foot in the air, realizing how worked up you are about it.
“Dating up?” you guffaw. There’s no chance in hell that he’d be able to think that up on his own accord. “Who came up with that bit?”
“I don’t know. Marissa. Marissa’s new guy-friend. Everyone,” Ryland admits easily. Of course. “They were saying all kinds of stuff when you went to the bathroom.” You find yourself groaning at the thought of them bombarding Ryland with dating advice.
“Why would they say that? God, it’s terrible.”
“Well, it’s not what I think.” Ryland backtracks, “I mean, I would think that because you are objectively attractive. You’re like, you know,” he gestures haphazardly towards you, starting to mumble more inaudibly, “—the hot roommate.”
You have to double take. “What?” It comes out more stern than anything else, like you’re trying to get him to plead guilty for saying it.
“You’re attractive. It’s not an outrageous thing to say.” This time, he’s a little bit more confident in the assertion. He said it once, he can say it again. Ryland gets this tone, you think, when he’s talking about scientific theories. It’s always so argumentative with him, so logically snide. He’s using that tone now, with you—about you. You’re not mad about it. In fact, it’s a little bit flattering. He thinks you’re the hot one.
“You are blowing my mind right now,” you murmur, eyes feeling like the size of saucers. Ryland seems to pick up on your stunned disposition and tries to amend his words as quickly as possible.
“I made an observation. You really shouldn’t let it get to your head.” Rude.
You scoff, “You obviously meant it, and you so can’t take it back.” As much as you’d like to giggle like a teenager, but you’ve got to keep it together at least a little bit. Something like courage brings you to lean over on the couch and give him a soft kiss on the cheek. It’s supposed to be a little “thank you,” just like you’d see in the movies, but it feels a lot more genuine than you’d like. Too friendly. You’re regretting it as soon as it happens—your lips brushing against the side of his face. Your breath stalls in your chest, and Ryland’s dead quiet. As soon as you’re off of him, the two of you are face-to-face with the same mortified look in your eyes.
Ryland is throwing his glasses back on, but by the time he can get a second look at you, you’re in a hurry to stand up off the couch cushions with a hasty fumble of your arms and legs. Once standing, you feel yourself clasping your hands together politely behind your back. Ryland’s hand is hovering over the spot where your lips hit his cheekbone, and he’s looking at you dazed. “I’d better go get ready for bed. I, uh… goodnight,” you stutter out, before pivoting on your heels and making sweeping steps towards the hallway. You slide in and slam the door shut behind you, mind running too quickly for you to keep track.
It’s difficult not to dramatize it all. It was so easy for him to admit you were attractive, and so easy for you to take the compliment. You don’t have to read into it, and neither does he. But, whatever’s running between the both of you—that high-strung, antsy feeling that you’re unable to get a good grip on—is impossible to ignore. You have no idea what you’re going to do about it, considering there’s another ten months left to the lease. Two semesters to go and you most definitely feel something for Ryland that exceeds what you should feel about a roommate. You're going to have to sort it out quick, or your school year's going to be much harder than anticipated.