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Year One
The unwritten spatial agreement of Dorm 402 at their university was forged on move-in day: Ryland Grace provided the organizational sanity, and Tom Ryder provided the localized gravitational pull of pure, unchecked, duct-taped chaos.
By November of their freshman year, Colt Seavers—Ryland’s twin brother by two minutes, who shared Ryland’s exact facial structure but zero of his meticulous neatness—was sitting on Ryland’s pristine, color-coded desk, eating a bag of convenience store donuts.
"I just feel like my standards are entirely reasonable, Colt," Ryland said, pacing back and forth across the four feet of exposed linoleum that wasn't currently covered in Tom’s workout equipment. He adjusted his glasses with an aggressive flick of his forefinger. "I want a partner whose opinion I truly value. Someone who respects my intellect, someone who I respect in return, and whose input actually means something to me!"
Right on cue, the bathroom door swung open. Tom stepped out, wearing a sharp charcoal blazer over a crisp white dress shirt, his blond hair damp and expertly styled. He strode directly into Ryland’s personal space, completely oblivious to Colt’s presence.
"Hey, Ry," Tom interrupted, adjusting his cuffs. "Does this blazer make me look like an up-and-coming dramatic lead, or does it say 'I stole this from a high school debate coach'? Be honest, I really value your opinion on my wardrobe."
Ryland stopped mid-pace, his eyes instantly scanning Tom’s broad shoulders and the tailored fit of the fabric. "It’s... it's a great blazer, Tom. The grey pulls out the blue in your eyes. You look extremely presentable."
"Great! Thanks, gorgeous!" Tom beamed, slapping Ryland warmly on the shoulder before sauntering toward his closet to pick out a watch. "You're a lifesaver!"
Colt slowly lowered his half-eaten donut. He looked at Ryland. Then he looked at the open closet where Tom was humming a show tune. He turned back to his twin, his brow furrowed in absolute, agonizing confusion.
"Ryland," Colt said slowly. "Did you... did you hear a single word that just came out of your own mouth?"
"What?" Ryland blinked, smoothing down his t-shirt. "I was just answering his question. He asked for my opinion."
"He asked for your opinion on his look right after you gave a speech about wanting a partner whose opinion you value!" Colt threw his hands up in frustration. "Are you blind? Because from where I’m standing, you two are practically holding hands and picking out rug patterns!"
"Don't be ridiculous, Colt. Ryder is an aspiring actor with the attention span of a 5th grader," Ryland paused, opening his heavy organic chemistry textbook. "We’re just efficient roommates."
From across the room, Tom called out, "Hey Ry, do you mind buttoning my top collar button for me? My fingers are all slippery from hair gel."
"Coming!" Ryland replied instantly, abandoning his textbook without a second thought.
Colt dropped his head onto the wooden desk with a hollow thud. "I am going to lose my mind before we hit sophomore year."
——
It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon during spring semester.
Ryland was sitting in the student lounge with Jody—a film major who had recently taken on the heroic, full-time job of keeping a drunken Colt from jumping off fraternity house roofs.
Ryland was staring out the window, looking deeply stressed over an upcoming physics mid-term.
"I don't know, Jody," Ryland sighed, leaning his chin on his hand. "My mom told me before I left for college that I shouldn't worry so much about dating. She said she had a feeling that the exact person I need will just…find me one day. Like they’ll just walk into my life when I least expect it."
Jody smiled softly, taking a sip of her coffee. If only he knew Colt and I have a running betting pool on when Tom finally pulls the trigger, she thought, amused. "That's kind of sweet, Ryland. And honestly? I think she’s right. I have a feeling the guy you need is going to track you down sooner than you think."
At that exact second, the heavy double doors of the student lounge burst open with a loud bang.
Tom Ryder stumbled through the doorway, looking frantic, holding a crumpled piece of paper in one hand and a giant, bright-yellow umbrella in the other. He scanned the crowded room, caught sight of Ryland, and his face instantly lit up like a neon sign.
"Ah! I’ve finally found you!" Tom yelled across the quiet lounge, marching straight over to their table.
Jody froze, her coffee cup hovering halfway to her mouth.
"Ryland, thank god," Tom gasped, leaning over the table and breathing heavily. "I’ve been looking all over campus for you! I left my keys in your backpack, and I realized I can't get into the dorm to grab my script for my 2:00 PM audition! You're my savior, man!"
Ryland didn't even flinch, though he leaned in closer, his thumb gently catching a stray drop of rain off Tom's cheekbone. He’s so dramatic, Ryland thought, his heart doing a ridiculous, embarrassing flutter at Tom's proximity. "I put them in my bag because you left them on your desk next to the toaster, Tom. You'd lose your head if it weren't attached to those broad shoulders."
"Is that a compliment, Ry? Careful, you'll inflate my ego," Tom grinned, taking his keys as Ryland unzipped his side pocket. "You're an angel, babe. A literal angel! What would I ever do without you?"
Tom leaned down, pressed a quick, lingering kiss to Ryland’s cheek—his lips lingering just a second too long near the corner of Ryland's mouth—before spinning around and sprinting back out the double doors, shouting, "I owe you my life! Dinner's on me tonight!”
The lounge fell quiet again. Ryland touched his cheek, his breath coming a little shorter as he stared at the doors.
That was purely theatrical flair, Ryland asserted to himself, trying to quiet the roar of blood in his ears. He’s an actor. He kisses everyone on the cheek. It means nothing.
Ryland turned back to Jody, adjusting his glasses hastily. "Anyway, what were you saying about my mom's advice?"
Jody stared at Ryland. Then she stared at the closed doors. Then she slowly set her coffee cup down on the table.
"Ryland," Jody said, her voice dangerously calm. "He literally walked in, said 'I've finally found you,' called you babe, and kissed your cheek."
"Well, yes, because he needed his keys," Ryland explained logically, trying to ignore the fire burning on his skin. "He's very dramatic."
Jody pinched the bridge of her nose. "I need to go find Colt. We need to start a support group for people who have to witness this."
Year Two
Somehow, from some miracle—or curse depending on who you asked—from god, Ryland and Tom were back in Dorm 402 for their sophomore year, their twin XL beds firmly positioned on opposite sides of the room with a wide strip of shared floor in between. Colt was over yet again, sitting on Ryland’s bed while Ryland waited for the kettle to boil on a mini-hotplate.
Tom had staggered into the dorm at 8:00 AM after a night out with his theater cast, looking disheveled, satisfied, and remarkably handsome in a wrinkled dress shirt.
Ryland had immediately cornered him against his side of the room, arms crossed, glaring through his glasses with the intense, narrow-eyed precision of an interrogator.
"So," Ryland demanded, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Are you going to explain where you were until dawn, or am I supposed to guess?"
"I was at the post-show wrap party, Ry," Tom sighed, throwing his jacket onto his bed. "I told you that yesterday."
"You said the party ended at two!" Ryland shot back, tapping his foot. "Who were you with until eight in the morning? Were you drinking? Who walked you home? Did you eat breakfast?”
"Well I—Wait a second…” Tom went to explain himself before he suddenly stopped, pausing when unbuttoning his cuffs. He looked down at Ryland, grinning suddenly as his eyes glinted with mischievous warmth. He stepped closer, crowding right back into Ryland's space until Ryland had to tilt his head up. "Why am I explaining anything to you? You're not my wife!"
Ryland froze instantly. His cheeks flushed a deep, violent crimson, his jaw dropping open in genuine, offended shock. "I—what?! Excuse me?!"
"You're acting like my nagging spouse!" Tom laughed softly, stepping close enough to lightly poke Ryland's chest, his hand lingering over the other's heart. "Demanding an itinerary! I'm a free bachelor, dude!"
"I am not acting like a nagging spouse!" Ryland sputtered, standing tall and crossing his arms tighter, deeply insulted by the suggestion—and even more insulted by how much his heart was racing under Tom's fingers. "I am a responsible living companion concerned for your physical welfare! If you die in a ditch, I have to find a new roommate to split the toilet paper costs!"
Colt watched this exchange from the corner, his mouth hanging open in sheer disbelief. Somebody shoot me, Colt thought. Please. Just put me out of my misery. “You two literally sound like an old married couple fighting over a mortgage."
"We do not!" Ryland snapped, turning on his twin before whirling back to Tom. "And for your information, if anyone in this room were the wife, it would be you, considering how much time you spend in front of the mirror!"
“Oh, really?" Tom chuckled, grabbing Ryland by the waist and pulling him in for a brief, teasing second, ruffling Ryland's hair playfully before letting go. "Is that an offer, Ry? Because I look great in white."
Ryland opened and closed his mouth like a fish, completely speechless as Tom sauntered into the bathroom to shower.
Colt wiped his face with his hands. "I can't be in this dorm room anymore. The domestic tension is going to give me an aneurysm."
——
By spring semester of sophomore year, the group had expanded to include Rocky, a brilliant engineering student who wore heavy grey knitted sweaters regardless of the weather and possessed a mind that operated like a supercomputer.
It was a freezing afternoon in the campus library. Ryland was buried under three stacks of reference books, sitting beside Rocky, but Ryland was in a remarkably foul mood, violently clicking his ballpoint pen.
"I don't understand why he had to say yes," Ryland muttered under his breath, glaring at his notebook. "It’s completely illogical."
"What are you referring to?" Rocky asked, not looking up from sketching a complex gear blueprint with mathematical precision.
"Tom! Some guy from his stage combat class asked him out on a date tonight, and Tom said yes," Ryland scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. "It’s absurd. The guy doesn't even know Tom's favorite coffee order! He doesn't know Tom needs his script lines read to him three times before bed, or that he’s terrified of synthetic wool! It’s a total waste of Tom's evening!"
Rocky set his draft pencil down with a quiet click. "Ryland. From an analytical perspective, you are displaying high levels of territorial jealousy. Your dynamic with Tom Ryder is heavily romantic, yet you refuse to acknowledge the state of your bond."
"Jealousy? Me? Please!" Ryland scoffed loudly, adjusting his glasses. "I'm just pointing out compatibility metrics! I don't care who Tom dates!"
At that precise moment, Tom Ryder jogged down the library aisle, carrying his gym bag over one shoulder. He spotted Ryland and instantly headed straight for their table. As cute as he looks when he’s mad, I absolutely need to fix this, Ryder thought, watching Ryland glare at his book.
"Hey, Ry! Hey, Rocky!" Tom said cheerfully, leaning over the table and invading Ryland's personal space without a second thought.
Ryland glanced at him sideways, his posture instantly stiffening into an icy barrier. "Oh. Aren't you supposed to be getting ready for your date?"
"Oh, that?" Tom waved a hand dismissively. He slid into the empty chair right next to Ryland, casually reaching over to grab Ryland's cold hand off the table, lacing their fingers tightly together and pulling Ryland's knuckles up to brush his lips against them. "I canceled it. The guy offered to go to a sushi place, but I remembered you wanted to try that new recipe you were telling me about. So I told him I had plans already"
Ryland's breath caught in his throat. His entire angry demeanor melted into mush in half a second, his fingers tightening firmly around Tom's as his cheeks flushed red. "You... you canceled your date for a recipe I haven’t even tried out yet?"
"Duh," Tom teased, leaning in so close their shoulders were pressed together, his thumb stroking the back of Ryland's hand. "Why would I go on a date with some random guy when I can have dinner with you? I'm heading back to the dorm. See you back at the room in twenty!”
"Okay!" Ryland said brightly, his voice a full octave higher than usual as Tom winked, squeezed his fingers one last time, and turned to jog out of the library.
Ryland sat back in his chair, staring at his notebook with a soft, dazed, hopelessly dreamy smile.
Rocky slowly opened a fresh notebook page, took his draft pencil, and wrote down: Subject Ryland has suffered total cognitive collapse due to hand-holding and a canceled date. Denial status: Absolute.
Year Three
By junior year, Eva Stratt served as President of the Student Government Association and held more real authority on campus than most of the deans, while Adrian was an Astronomy major who spent most of his time co-authoring papers with Rocky.
It was a brisk autumn morning in the SGA office where Ryland was helping Eva organize student research grant applications while Adrian sat in an armchair reviewing telescope data.
Ryland was leaning against a filing cabinet, complaining softly to Eva and Adrian. "I’m just tired of dating apps. It’s so artificial. You swipe, you meet up, you realize they don't know the difference between a galaxy and a nebula. I feel like I'm asking for the bare minimum here."
"Which is what, exactly?" Eva asked dryly without looking up from her ledger. If he says 'someone like Tom' I am revoking his academic funding, she thought sternly.
"I don't know!" Ryland threw his hands up. "You'd think Mr. Right is just going to knock on the door, walk in, and say, 'Here I am!' But life doesn't work like that. I feel like I'm just looking for someone who's going in the exact same direction as me."
"A shared trajectory is indeed the most efficient baseline for a dynamic," Adrian agreed smoothly.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Three sharp, energetic raps echoed off the heavy oak door of the SGA office. Before anyone could speak, the door swung wide open.
Tom Ryder stepped inside—hair damp from the autumn drizzle—holding a cardboard tray carrying large coffees and a paper bag of fresh pastries. He struck a dramatic pose against the doorframe, flashing a dazzling smile directly across the room at Ryland.
"Here I am!" Tom announced loudly, stepping into the office, striding right past Eva's desk, and handing a warm drink directly to Ryland. "And I brought those cinnamon rolls from the bakery down the street that you like. Hey Eva. Hey Adrian."
Eva slowly set her fountain pen down on her ledger, staring at Tom with deadpan intensity. They are performing a romantic comedy in my office, she thought with mounting irritation. And neither of them has the decency to realize it.
"What?" Tom asked Ryland, casually leaning close to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Ryland’s ear, his hand lingering against Ryland's neck. "Did I interrupt something?"
"No, Tom," Ryland said softly, sipping his coffee with a warm, radiant smile as he looked back at him. "You didn't interrupt anything. Are you heading back to the apartment?"
"Yep! Heading back to start studying," Tom smiled, stepping beside Ryland and slinging a heavy, warm arm around Ryland's shoulders, pulling him tight against his side. "I figured you'd be finishing up right about now. I'm going the exact same way as you."
"Oh, perfect," Ryland beamed, automatically wrapping an arm around Tom's waist as he pulled his coat off the rack. "We can walk together."
The two of them stepped out into the hallway side-by-side, entirely synchronized, their shoulders brushing with every step, deep in quiet, cheerful conversation about pastries.
Eva Stratt looked at Adrian. Adrian looked at Eva.
Eva picked up her pen, made a single checkmark on her paper, and said, "I am revoking both of their campus parking privileges until they admit they’re in a common-law marriage."
"A logical policy," Adrian nodded solemnly.
——
This year brought the return of Carl, the resident student event coordinator who acted like Tom's long-suffering talent manager for campus productions.
It was 1:00 AM in the green room of the campus theater. Tom was starring in a production of The Crucible, and the rehearsal had run brutally late. Carl was sitting on a folding chair, rubbing his temples, while Ryland sat on a couch, neatly organizing Tom’s street clothes and laying out a thermos of chamomile tea.
Tom burst into the green room, exhausted, wearing full Puritan theatrical garb, his hair sticking up in all directions.
"I am drained, Carl! Drained to the bone!" Tom announced, flopping onto the couch and dropping his head directly into Ryland’s lap.
Ryland didn't even flinch. He automatically reached down and began softly running his fingers through Tom’s messy blond hair, unknotting the hairspray-tangled locks with practiced ease, his thumbs gently massaging Tom's temples.
"I just need a domestic anchor, Carl," Tom groaned, closing his eyes as Ryland’s fingers massaged his scalp, letting out a soft sigh of pure contentment as he turned his face into Ryland's stomach. "Someone who welcomes me home after a grueling performance. Someone who makes me tea, keeps my life from falling apart, and provides a quiet, comforting sanctuary away from the harsh lights of the stage! Is that really too much for an actor to ask?!"
Carl slowly lowered his clipboard. He looked at Tom lying with his head in Ryland’s lap. He looked at Ryland, who was currently uncapping a thermos of tea with his free hand and gently blowing on it to cool it down for Tom.
"Tom," Carl said flatly.
"Yeah, Carl?" Tom murmured, completely relaxed under Ryland’s touch.
"Look up."
Tom opened one eye, looking up at Ryland’s face hovering directly above him. Ryland offered him a soft, fond smile and handed him the cup of tea. "Drink this, it’ll help your throat."
"Thanks, Ry. You're so good to me," Tom purred, leaning up to lightly press his nose against Ryland's cheek before taking a sip of the tea. He settled deeper into Ryland’s lap, resting a heavy hand on his thigh, and turned back toward Carl. "Anyway, Carl, like I was saying. Where does a guy go to meet a domestic anchor like that?"
Carl stared at them for five long seconds. He stood up, grabbed his clipboard, tucked it under his arm, and walked toward the exit. Jesus Christ, they realize it’s legal now, right?
"Where are you going, Carl?" Tom called out.
"I'm going home to write my resignation letter," Carl said without looking back. "Because if I stay in this room for another five minutes, my brain is going to short-circuit."
"What's his problem?" Tom asked, looking up at Ryland. "Is he stressed?"
"He has a lot of administrative duties, Tom," Ryland said smoothly, continuing to stroke Tom's hair. "Now drink your tea."
Year Four
The single most disastrous decision of senior year was Ryland Grace and Tom Ryder getting separate apartments.
Driven by Ryland’s stubborn assertion that they needed "independent personal ecosystems," Ryland took a cozy, single-bedroom unit, while Tom moved into a high-rise loft with floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Yet Tom still spent ninety percent of his time at Ryland’s place, lugging a massive duffel bag of laundry back and forth like a tragic, beautiful refugee of his own luxury lease.
On the night of their graduation party, Ryland’s apartment was packed. Caps were tossed on the counter, empty pizza boxes were stacked by the trash, and cheap champagne was flowing freely.
Over in the corner, the television was softly playing an old rerun of The Nanny. Fran Fine and Mr. Sheffield were standing in a dimly lit office, squabbling with their usual underlying sexual tension.
Colt Seavers stood near the coffee table, a plastic cup of beer in hand, his eyes darting frantically between the television screen and the kitchen island.
"I'm just saying, Eva," Tom said, gesturing with a champagne flute toward the SGA President, standing barely a foot away from Ryland. "The regional theater company offered me the fall residency. I'm a big-time actor now, but Grace here refuses to sign on as my official full-time personal assistant."
"Personal assistant?" Eva Stratt asked dryly, leaning against the counter next to Carl. "You can barely manage your own calendar. Grace would fire you from your own career in three days."
"Hey! I am a delight to manage!" Tom protested, turning his gaze down to Ryland, shifting his weight just a fraction closer. "Admit it, Ry. You love managing me. You're terrified that if I go off to do big stage productions, you won't have anyone left to boss around.”
Ryland cleared his throat, adjusting the bridge of his glasses with a stiff forefinger, his blue eyes sharpening. "I don't 'boss you around,' Ryder. I exercise basic risk management. Without me, you’d manage to get yourself swindled by a third-rate talent agent or starve on a diet of energy drinks and dry cereal. It’s not affection; it’s harm reduction."
On the TV, Fran threw her hands up, her iconic voice cutting through the hum of the apartment:
[TV] Fran: "You act like you want me!"
Tom ignored Eva and the rest of the room entirely, his focus shifting completely down to Ryland. He tilted his head, a playful, knowing pull tugging at the corner of his lips. "Harm reduction, right. Is that why you glared a hole through my co-star's head at the cast party last month? Just making sure I wasn't being swindled?"
On the TV, Mr. Sheffield stepped forward, closing the distance, his voice rising in sudden, fierce passion:
[TV] Mr. Sheffield: "Of course I want you!"
"I wasn't glaring at him because he was flirting with you," Ryland snapped, his voice sharp and laced with biting precision, though a traitorous flush crept up his neck. "I was glaring because his stage presence was appalling, his diction was slushy, and the fact that you let a hack who couldn't project past the fifth row buy you drinks was borderline insulting. You have zero quality control."
"Oh, quality control?" Tom murmured softly, taking a small step forward until his chest almost brushed Ryland's shoulder, a spark of pure, affectionate mischief lighting up his bright blue eyes. "So it's purely about my standards? It has nothing to do with the fact that you left three of your favorite shirts in my loft closet just to mark your territory?"
Across the room, Carl held up a paper plate filled with tortilla chips. "He's not lying, Ryland. When I dropped off Tom's paperwork at his loft last Tuesday, your yellow rain jacket was draped over his sofa like a flag."
"Okay, so I left some things there, whatever!" Ryland shot back, turning his sharp glare toward the room before fixing Tom with a narrow-eyed look. "But since we're dissecting pathetic behavior, Ryder, you're the one who drags a duffel bag of dirty laundry three blocks every weekend just because you claim my washing machine 'smells more like home.' You're completely shameless."
On the TV, Fran leaned in, her eyes wide, taunting Mr. Sheffield with a smirk:
[TV] Fran: "Oh, come on! If I'm so irresistible, then why aren't you all over me?!"
Ryland’s breath hitched. His sharp edge softened just a fraction as Tom’s teasing expression melted into something ridiculously warm, his gaze locking onto Ryland's face with complete, unwavering focus.
On the TV, Mr. Sheffield didn't answer with words. He grabbed Fran by the waist, pulled her flush against him, and kissed her deeply, sweeping her off her feet as the live audience erupted into wild, deafening cheers.
In the real world, Tom’s gaze flicked down to Ryland’s lips before softening into a fond, lopsided grin.
"Look, I like pushing your buttons," Tom shrugged, reaching out to lightly brush the tips of his fingers against Ryland's knuckles. "So, what do you say, Gracie? Ready to admit my 'abysmal standards' are locked onto you?"
Ryland let out a quiet, exasperated sigh, his sharp posture relaxing as a brilliant, helpless blush bloomed across his face. "You are an utterly insufferable, dramatic idiot, man."
"Yeah," Tom murmured, his eyes crinkling with endless warmth, stepping in just close enough to press a single kiss right to Ryland's cheek. "But that’s what you like about me.”
Across the room, Colt slammed his plastic cup onto the coffee table so hard beer sloshed over the rim. He pointed wildly at the television, then pointed at Tom and Ryland standing near the fridge.
"Did you see that?!" Colt yelled, his voice cracking in sheer hysterical agony. "Did everyone just see that?! The show just acted out their entire inner monologues!"
"Colt, please, lower your volume," Ryland said smoothly, rolling his eyes, though he didn't move an inch away from Tom.
"I’m making a scene because you two are living in a synchronized multi-cam sitcom and we’re the poor live audience forced to watch!” Colt shrieked, grabbing Jody by the shoulders. "Jody! Tell me I'm not crazy! The TV literally played their exact thoughts while Ryland pretended he was just criticizing theatrical diction!"
"You're not crazy, babe," Jody said smoothly, raising her phone and snapping a photo of the two of them standing side-by-side. "Though your blood pressure is definitely reaching unsafe levels. Adrian, pass me another drink."
Adrian handed Jody a cup without taking his eyes off his star chart app. "I have been tracking their banter-to-affection ratios for four years. Ryland's aggressive intellectual deflection parameters were a statistical failure."
"A complete failure," Rocky added from his spot on the rug, taking a bite of a chip. "Tom's victory was mathematically locked in two years ago."
"We are still evaluating the lease parameters," Ryland corrected the room dryly, though the soft, doted-on look in his eyes betrayed him completely.
"Evaluation over, Ry," Tom declared, looking out at the group with an open, triumphant beam. "I'm signing the theater contract tomorrow, and we're officially moving into the loft."
Eva Stratt took a slow sip of her wine, looking over at Carl. "Are we witnessing the end of the longest, most painful preamble in university history?"
"It appears so," Carl sighed, leaning against the counter.
On the TV screen, the credits for The Nanny began to roll over upbeat jazz music.
Colt collapsed onto the sofa cushion with a dramatic groan, covering his face. "They're never going to drop the snark. They're going to get a cat, sign a lease, share an apartment, and tell everyone they're just cohabitating to maintain quality control over each other's lives."
"Hey," Tom called out to Colt, flashing a bright, charming smile as he raised his cup to the rest of the room. "Quality control is key, Seavers! To graduation!"
"To graduation," Ryland echoed softly, looking over at Tom with a dazed, hopelessly devoted smile that proved Colt’s theory right once and for all.