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The vibrant neon basement light vibrated through the floorboards, but Tom Ryder was entirely hyper-focused on a single point across the crowded kitchen: Ryland Grace.
Specifically, Ryland Grace, wearing a slightly too tight science pun T-shirt at a house party where ninety percent of the guests were in crop tops or cutoffs, was currently looking at a red solo cup like it was a complex bio-hazard sample.
God, he was adorable.
Tom took a massive, reckless swig of whatever questionable jungle juice combination was in his own cup. He was baseline-inebriated three hours ago, but now? Now he was floating at a comfortable, buzzing altitude where terrible decisions felt like brilliant life choices.
He leant against the counter, shaking out his shoulders and running a hand through his dark blonde hair. Okay, Ryder, he told himself, flashing a lopsided grin at his own reflection in a dark windowpane. Just go talk to him. Smooth. Cool. Easy.
Working up the courage wasn't hard when liquid bravery was doing eighty percent of the heavy lifting. Tom smoothed down his shirt, adjusted his posture into a low-key, effortlessly handsome strut (which was actually a slightly unsteady sway), before going over to Ryland.
“Is this seat taken, genius?" Tom drawled, leaning his arm against the counter right next to Ryland, accidentally knocking a stack of paper plates onto the floor in the process. He didn't even notice them fall. "Because you've been occupying about eighty percent of my brainpower all night, and I think that violates several workplace safety protocols."
Ryland blinked, jumping slightly at Tom’s sudden, towering presence. He adjusted his glasses, looking up at the movie-star-handsome mess currently beaming down at him.
“Tom," Ryland said, his tone a mix of sheer amusement and mild exasperation. "First of all, that line was objectively terrible. Second, you just knocked over a dozen plates. And third... how much have you actually had to drink?"
“Enough to know that you are, without a scientific doubt, the absolute center of my universe," Tom purred, leaning in just a fraction closer. "Speaking of scientific experiments... I need you to perform a critical procedure on me. High-stakes stuff, Ryland. Life or death."
Ryland raised an eyebrow, taking a cautious step back against the edge of the kitchen counter. "Tom, I study molecular biology. Unless you need someone to run a gel electrophoresis or explain DNA replication, I'm pretty sure I'm not qualified for whatever you're about to suggest."
"No, no, this is high-level physics!" Tom insisted, pointing a dramatic finger at Ryland's chest. "I need a hurricane shot. And it has to be from you. It's for research!" Ryland blinked, staring at him. "A... what? A hurricane shot?"
"Okay, look." Tom grabbed a plastic shot glass off the counter, pouring a chaotic, overflowing splash of clear tequila into it, then snatched up a full pitcher of tap water nearby. "You sit up there on the counter. I take the shot. You pour the cold water over my face, and then you smack me. Hard. It's a classic! It builds character!"
"That sounds like mild assault with extra steps," Ryland deadpanned, staring at the pitcher in disbelief. "Why on earth would anyone willingly ask for that?"
"Because it's thrilling, Ryland! It's dynamic! It's like a… super cool stunt, but hot!" Tom grinned, his eyes wide and puppy-dog earnest. "Come on. Just once? For me? Live a little, science guy!"
Ryland looked around the chaotic kitchen, then at Tom, whose ridiculous, hopeful face was practically begging. He let out a long sigh, muttering something under his breath about Ryder being a bad influence. "If you hit your head or pass out, I am stepping over you and going home."
"Deal!" Tom said, a brilliant, dimpled grin breaking across his face.
With a grumble that was secretly hiding a fond smile, Ryland hoisted himself up onto the kitchen counter. He swung his legs over the edge, suddenly looking down at Tom from about a foot higher.
Tom immediately stepped right between Ryland's knees, invading his space entirely, looking up with a look of pure, unadulterated awe. He tilted his head back, holding up the shot glass like a holy offering.
"On three?" Tom whispered, his voice suddenly dropping an octave, his eyes fixed entirely on Ryland’s face.
“Just... take the shot, Tom," Ryland said, raising the pitcher, his face flushing slightly at how close Tom was standing beneath him.
Tom threw back the tequila in one swift gulp.
The moment the glass left Tom's lips, Ryland tipped the pitcher. Ice-cold tap water cascaded down Tom's forehead, over his eyes, soaking through his dark blonde hair and dripping down his jawline. Before Tom could even blink, Ryland reached down and gave his cheek a surprisingly crisp, stingingly firm slap.
The kitchen went wild with a sudden roar of drunken cheers from nearby onlookers, but Tom didn't hear a single one of them.
He just stood there, drenched, his chest heaving, dripping wet. The cold water trickled down his throat and into his collar, but he felt like he was on fire. He looked up at Ryland—sitting over him on the counter, hand still mid-air, hair slightly disheveled—and Tom felt his heart practically leap out of his ribs.
Ryland looked down at him, breathing a bit fast, looking worried. "Are you—"
“You’re so pretty, man," Tom breathed, entirely out of his mind, staring up at him with utter, helpless adoration. "It’s not fair. You literally hang the freaking stars."
Ryland froze, his hand hovering, his cheeks going bright red. "Okay," Ryland stammered, scrambling down off the counter. "You are very drunk. You need towels. And air. Mostly air."
An hour later, the party had migrated out to the back patio, but Tom had retreated to the side porch—a quiet, shadowy spot away from the heavy bass of the speakers.
He was sitting on the top wooden step, a damp towel draped uselessly over his shoulders, staring up at the clear night sky. The cool night breeze was slowly cutting through the alcohol haze, leaving him in that soft, quiet state of post-drunk clarity where feelings get dangerously raw.
The screen door clicked open, and sneakers padded against the porch boards.
"Thought I'd find you out here," a gentle voice said.
Tom looked up. Ryland was standing there, holding two solo cups of water. He walked over and carefully sat down on the step right next to Tom, handing one over.
"Thanks," Tom muttered, his voice raspy. He wrapped his hands around the cold plastic, watching the way Ryland tapped the sides of his cup, "Sorry about earlier. I know I was... a lot."
"You're always a lot, Ryder," Ryland said gently, bumping his shoulder against Tom's. "It's kind of your brand. How's the cheek?"
"Worth it," Tom smiled softly, looking down at his water. "Best thing to have ever happened to me, actually."
Ryland rolled his eyes as they sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the muffled noise of the party humming in the background. The air was crisp, and the contrast of Rylands warmth against the cool breeze was soothing.
"You know," Ryland began, tilting his head up toward the sky, "when you said that thing earlier... about hanging the stars..."
Tom felt his stomach do a sudden, nervous flip. "Yeah?"
"It's mathematically impossible, obviously," Ryland chuckled softly, his eyes reflecting the distant starlight. "Most of those stars are light-years away. Nuclear fusion reactors floating in a vacuum. But... it was a nice line. Even for you."
Tom turned his head, watching the way the amber light from the porch lamp caught the side of Ryland's face, highlighting the earnest, quiet warmth that Tom had fallen so hard for. The alcohol was still lingering in his system, stripping away his usual Hollywood bravado, leaving behind nothing but the terrifying truth.
"It wasn't just a line, Ryland," Tom said softly.
Ryland turned to look at him, sensing the shift in the air. "Tom?"
Tom leaned in just a fraction, his gaze dropping to Ryland's lips before drifting back up to his eyes. The space between them felt suddenly electric, heavy with unspoken words.
"I look at you," Tom whispered, his voice completely stripped of sarcasm or swagger, "and I— I just... I see someone who makes everything make sense. I see someone I'd jump off a building for, no wires attached."
Ryland’s breath hitched. His eyes widened slightly, a soft, stunned sound escaping his throat. He didn't pull away. Tom swallowed hard, his heart pounding against his ribs like a sledgehammer. The confession was right there on the tip of his tongue—five simple, terrifying words that would change everything.
I'm in love with you.
He opened his mouth to say it—
"Hey! Grace! Ryder!" a loud voice hollered from the yard as a group of drunk students stumbled past the side of the house. "They're doing keg stands! Get over here!"
The spell snapped.
Ryland blinked, suddenly remembering where they were, his face flushing deep pink. He cleared his throat, pulling back just an inch, though his eyes stayed locked on Tom's for a long, lingering second.
Tom let out a quiet, breathless laugh, looking down at his water to hide the sudden sting of missed opportunity. "Guess duty calls, genius."
"Yeah," Ryland said softly, his voice trembling just a little. He didn't get up, though. He stayed sitting right next to Tom, his shoulder pressed warm and solid against Tom's arm in the cool night air. "We can... go back inside in a minute. If you want."
Tom looked back up at him, the dimple returning to his cheek—smaller this time, but real.
"Nah," Tom murmured, leaning his head gently against Ryland's shoulder. "I'm pretty good right here."
Ryland didn't move away. He just sighed, resting his chin lightly against the top of Tom's damp hair, holding his red solo cup while the stars burned quietly above them.
——
The next morning hit Tom with the force of a high-impact stunt landing gone terribly wrong.
He groaned, burying his face into his pillow as the blinding sunlight poured through his bedroom window. His head throbbed, his cheek still felt faintly tender where Ryland had slapped him, and his mouth tasted like stale tequila.
Then, like a catastrophic slideshow playing in crisp high-definition, the memories of the night before flooded back.
The jungle juice. The terrible pickup line. The paper plates. Standing between Ryland’s knees, staring up at him soaked in tap water, telling him he hung the stars.
And then... the porch. Sitting side-by-side in the quiet cold. I see someone I'd jump off a building for, no wires attached.
Tom bolted upright, immediately regretting the sudden motion as his head spun. "Oh god," he muttered into his hands, his face burning hot. He had almost said it. He had almost completely laid his heart out on the line to a molecular biologist while smelling like cheap alcohol and wet laundry.
Desperate to assess the damage, he scrambled across the bed, grabbed his phone, and stared at Ryland’s contact name. His thumb hovered over the keyboard for a full three minutes before he aggressively typed out a message, closing his eyes as he hit send.
Tom: ry im so so sorry about last night i was completely out of my mind and extremely drunk
He paused before continuing,
Tom: pls tell me i didn't ruin everything or make things totally weird between us on the porch
He threw the phone face-down onto the mattress and dragged a hand down his face, pacing the small length of his bedroom. Five agonizing minutes passed. Ten.
Finally, the distinct buzz-buzz of a notification echoed across the nightstand. Tom lunged for the phone like it was a lifeline.
Ryland: Good morning to you too, Ryder. How's the hangover?
Ryland: And relax. You didn't ruin anything.
Tom let out a massive, shaky breath, sinking onto the edge of his bed.
Tom: wait fr? bc im pretty sure i asked you to assault me with tap water and then got reallyyyy sappy when we were on the porch
A few moments went by, the little typing bubble appearing and disappearing at the bottom of the screen.
Ryland: Well, the hurricane shot was definitely a first for me. But as far as the porch goes... it wasn't weird, Tom. A little intense, maybe. But mostly just... cute.
Tom stared at the word on the screen. Cute. His heart did that exact same dangerous, fluttering flip it had done the night before.
Ryland: Besides, I think “jumping off a building without wires” is technically a terrible idea from a physics standpoint, but the sentiment was surprisingly sweet.
Ryland: I'm making coffee. If you promise not to demand any more stunt-related drinks, you can come over and I'll make us something for breakfast.
A slow, unstoppable smile broke across Tom's face, the dimple on his cheek reappearing as all the embarrassment melted into something warm and full of hope. He quickly typed back:
Tom: deal