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The silence in Tom’s apartment had been getting louder for days.
At first, it was just the usual pattern—Grace getting wrapped up in a demanding paper, or isolated in the lab testing a new hypothesis, off the grid for forty-eight hours max.
He’s just hyper-focused. Ryder told himself on day three, tossing his phone onto the kitchen counter. But by day eight, the unread texts were stacking up. By day twelve, Tom’s calls were going straight to a full voicemail box. By week two, Tom was pacing his living room floor, staring at the blank screen, a knot of genuine anxiety tightening in his chest that no amount of bravado could smooth over.
He knew how Ryland was. The man didn't just work; he fully absorbed himself into his research. He forgot to eat, forgot to sleep, and forgot that the rest of the world existed outside whatever hyper-fixation had currently hijacked his brain. Tom had spent the last three days off-set, and instead of enjoying the rare downtime, he’d found himself checking his watch every twenty minutes, wondering if Grace had remembered to drink water today.
Screw it, Tom thought, grabbing his jacket and keys off the hook. If he won't come out, I'm going in.
First stop: the diner on 4th Street. He ordered Grace’s exact comfort meal—double cheeseburger, extra pickles, a massive order of seasoned fries, and a chocolate malt—and watched the cook bag it up, the rich, greasy aroma filling the car the second he set it in the passenger seat.
Ten minutes later, Tom was breezing past the front desk at the university lab, flashing a killer smile at the receptionist, casually dropping a line about someone “needing emergency supplies," and strolling right past the security doors like he owned the place.
The sterile fluorescent lights of the lab buzzed with a low, relentless hum—a sound Ryland Grace had stopped hearing days ago. Just one more slide, Ryland thought, his brain feeling like dry sand scraping against the inside of his skull. His eyes, rimmed with dark, bruised-looking circles, were locked on his microscope setup. His neck was stiff, his coffee had long since turned into lukewarm sludge, and his phone was dead on the desk, buried beneath three layers of scribbled printouts and glass slides.
"If you stare at that lens any harder, Ry, I'm pretty sure you'll give the slide an existential crisis."
Ryland jumped, dropping a grease pencil. He whipped around to see Tom leaning against the doorframe, wearing a leather jacket, aviator sunglasses tucked into his collar, and an effortlessly charismatic smile.
"Ryder?" Ryland blinked, rubbing his eyes to make sure his exhausted brain wasn't hallucinating. "How did you... what are you doing here? This is a restricted lab!"
"I smiled at the lady at the desk, told her I was bringing emergency supplies to a starving genius,” Tom chuckled, sauntering into the room with a paper bag that smelled overwhelmingly of melted American cheese and frying oil. "She practically escorted me to the elevator. The Ryder charm opens doors. Literally. You look terrible, by the way."
He’s unbelievable, Ryland thought, a sudden spike of warmth cutting through his fatigue despite his best efforts to stay annoyed. It’s just past midnight. He probably has an audition in the morning.
"I am on the brink of a major breakthrough, Tom," Ryland said, trying to sound authoritative, though his voice cracked slightly. He bent down to pick up his pencil. "And you can't bring food in here! This is a clean lab environment! You're going to contaminate the samples!"
He looks fragile, Tom thought, completely ignoring what the other man just said, his heart sinking a little as he got a closer look at the dark shadows under Ryland’s eyes and the sharp jut of his collarbone. God, Grace, what do you do to yourself?
"Ry, buddy, the only thing getting contaminated is your stomach if you don't eat something that isn't derived from a vending machine," Tom said smoothly. He walked right up to Ryland's workspace, completely ignoring the safety signs posted nearby, and set the grease-spotted bag down on a clean paper towel. "Two weeks, Ryland. Two weeks of radio silence. No calls, no texts, not even a quick update on your molecular research. I was starting to think you disappeared off the face of the earth."
"I've been busy," Ryland insisted, waving his hands defensively. "The research isn't going to analyze itself. I'm fine. Perfectly fine. Peak operational efficiency."
"Right. You're fine," Tom said softly, his playful swagger softening into something much warmer, much more attentive. He stepped closer, taking in the pale curve of Ryland’s jaw, the messy hair, the absolute exhaustion radiating off the scientist. Tom reached into the bag and pulled out a golden, perfectly crisp french fry. "You're so fine that you haven't left this room since Tuesday."
"It's Thursday, Tom."
"It's Saturday, Ryland."
Ryland opened his mouth to argue, paused, and blinked at the wall clock. Saturday? No. That’s impossible. It was just Wednesday. Wasn't it?
Tom smirked, leaning in and waving the warm fry right under Ryland's nose. "See? Delirious. Now, eat the fry. It's from the diner on 4th. Double cheeseburger, extra pickles, chocolate malt waiting in the car. Your usual."
"I can't just leave," Ryland sighed, his eyes helplessly tracking the fry. His stomach betrayed him with a loud, hollow growl that echoed in the quiet lab. "I have to monitor the culture incubation. If the temperature drifts..."
"Then set a timer," Tom coaxed, hovering the fry an inch from Ryland's lips. "Come on, Doc. Just one bite. Prove to me you still remember how solid food works."
“I'm a research assistant, not a doctor. Yet."
"Same difference," Tom said, pulling up a tall, swivel lab stool that was entirely too short for his long legs. He perched on it anyway, crossing his arms over the desk and watching Ryland intently.
Ryland glared at him, trying to maintain his professional stance, but Tom's eyes—bright, earnest, and undeniably fond—made it impossible to stay annoyed. With a defeated sigh, Ryland leaned forward and took the fry straight out of Tom's fingers.
The salt and grease hit his palate, and Ryland almost sighed with relief right then and there. "Okay. Fine. It's incredible."
"Told ya," Tom said, his smile turning soft around the edges, his thumb brushing off a tiny speck of salt near Ryland's lip before he even realized he was doing it. Ryland froze, his breath catching in his throat as a sudden flush of heat traveled up his neck.
Tom didn't pull away immediately; his gaze lingered on Ryland’s face, taking in the faint blush, before he gave a gentle tap to Ryland’s shoulder. "Now, put your little science toys away, turn off the burners, and let's go. I'm driving, and you're sleeping in the passenger seat until we get to my place."
Ryland swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Your place?"
"Yeah. Better couch and nobody there to bother you about data sets. Look, I may prefer your place, but I can still recognize the perks of mine." Tom said, stepping back and offering a hand. "What do you say, Ry? Indulge a movie star's hero complex and let me save you from yourself tonight?"
Ryland looked back at his workspace, then at the grease-stained bag, and finally up at Tom, whose expression was a mix of charming confidence and genuine, quiet concern.
"Five minutes," Ryland stated, a real smile finally tugging at the corner of his lips as he reached out and took Tom's hand to steady himself. "Let me just seal the samples and shut down the monitors. Five minutes, Ryder."
"Sure,” Tom smiled, squeezing his hand once before letting go. "I'll wait for you in the car, okay?”
Ryland nodded, small hints of pink and red painting his cheeks and ears before walking over to his station to tidy up.
“Okay.”