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The rain had turned the apartment windows into a blurred sheet of gray water, cutting off the city outside and trapping eight people in the quiet, hum-filled warm front of Colt’s living room.
It was a slow, domestic scene. Eva Stratt was sitting at the small dining table with a neat stack of color-coded folders, reviewing a grant proposal while sipping cold tea. Carl and Adrian were deep in a hushed, analytical discussion over a chessboard on the coffee table, occasionally shifting a piece with academic precision. Rocky was sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the front of the sofa, thoughtfully flipping through a heavy illustrated book on industrial design.
On the far end of the main couch, Ryland Grace was sitting with his knees pulled slightly up, a heavy clipboard and a stack of fluid dynamics homework balanced against his thighs. Sitting directly beside him—occupying far more than his fair share of the cushions—was Tom Ryder.
Tom was turned sideways, leaning heavily back into the corner of the sofa with one long arm stretched lazily across the back of the cushions right behind Ryland’s neck. His sneakers were hooked casually over the lower edge of the coffee table, and his head was angled back, his eyes half-lidded as he idly twisted the cord of Ryland’s hoodie around his fingers. He was close enough that every time Ryland shifted to write an equation, Tom’s shoulder brushed solidly against his.
"Stop worrying about the boundary layer equations. It's making your hand shake." Tom murmured quietly, not shifting an inch. His voice was a low, relaxing vibration right next to Ryland’s ear.
"I am not worrying about equations," Ryland muttered back under his breath, keeping his gaze rigidly fixed on the page, though he made zero effort to pull away from Tom’s arm resting behind him. "I am worrying about my personal space. You are occupying roughly seventy percent of this couch."
"It's an efficient allocation of seating," Tom replied smoothly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as his fingers lightly brushed the hair at the nape of Ryland’s neck. "Great back support."
"Their structural co-dependence has definitely increased since we watched those home videos," Adrian noted from the coffee table, without looking up as he moved a knight.
Rocky turned a page in his book, glancing up over his shoulder at the two of them with a thoughtful, rhythmic nod. "It's a fascinating study in orbital mechanics. They're locked in a mutual gravitational pull, yet both of them are stubbornly pretending the friction isn't generating heat."
"It's not friction, it's spatial management," Ryland snapped defensively, his ears turning a shade of pink. "He's leaning back so he isn't blocking the room."
"Right. Purely practical," Jody teased from her armchair near the window. "That's why your shoulders have been pressed together for half an hour."
Before Ryland could deliver a scathing rebuttal, three sharp, energetic knocks rattled the front door.
Colt immediately shot up from his spot on the rug, a wide, conspiratorial grin spreading across his face. "Oh! Perfect timing! Hold on!" He practically vaulted over the coffee table, ignoring Carl’s sharp gasp as a chess piece wobbled.
"Who is that?" Stratt asked, not looking up from her red pen. "We did not schedule additional occupancy for this evening."
"Relax, Stratt," Colt said, pulling the door open. "I ran into a ghost from the past at the coffee shop yesterday. Turns out she’s in town for a conference."
Ryland frowned, trying to tilt his head to see past Colt—which brought his cheek dangerously close to Tom’s forearm. "Wait. What are you talking about? Who did you—"
Colt threw the door open wide.
Standing in the doorway, shaking out a dripping umbrella and wearing an emerald-green jumpsuit under a tailored black coat, was a wildly familiar face.
"If this apartment smells like cheap pizza and academic stress, I'm turning right around," her loud, vibrant voice echoed into the foyer.
Ryland’s pencil slipped out of his fingers, tumbling off his lap and landing directly in Tom’s lap. "Marissa?!"
"Rylie!" Marissa dropped her umbrella, kicked off her damp boots without stopping, and marched straight into the room.
Before Ryland could even attempt to move away from Tom, Marissa grabbed Ryland by the wrists, hauled him completely off the couch, and pulled him into a fiercely tight hug.
"Look at you!" Marissa declared, pulling back to grab his face with both hands, inspecting him left and right. "Look at this skin! The haircut! You look like a functional adult who consumes actual sunlight!"
"Marissa, how are you here?!" Ryland laughed, a bright, genuine sound that completely transformed his usual reserved posture. He grabbed her shoulders, his eyes sparkling with pure delight. "Colt didn't say a word!"
"Because Colt wanted to surprise you, you total nerd!" she squealed, hugging him again before launching into a rapid-fire update about her lighting design work, her voice filling the apartment with a lively, theatrical energy.
Ryland turned toward the room, his arm still wrapped around her shoulder, a rare, radiant smile on his face. "Everyone, this is Marissa. You know... the girl from the home videos."
"Ah!" Carl’s eyes lit up. "The choir slapstick champion! The Waffle House prophet!"
"The very same," Marissa beamed, bowing dramatically.
As the room offered warm hellos, Tom Ryder slowly leaned forward on the couch, uncrossing his sneakers from the coffee table.
He didn't make a sound. He just sat up, his broad shoulders shifting as he planted his feet flat on the floor, leaning his elbows on his knees. His eyes were locked onto the way Marissa’s hand was resting casually on Ryland’s forearm, and the way Ryland was leaning into her space with absolute, effortless comfort.
The lazy, contented warmth that had draped over Tom five minutes ago vanished. His jaw set, a sharp, cold guard dropping over his features.
"Seems like Tom has entered a state of hyper-vigilance," Adrian murmured under his breath to Carl.
"Defensive posture," Rocky agreed quietly, observing Tom’s rigid frame. "He's watching her like a threat vector. He realizes she shares a history with Ryland that he wasn't part of."
Tom heard them, but he kept his eyes on Ryland. He had never seen Ryland so open, so unburdened by his usual academic stiffness. Ryland was laughing freely, smoothing down the lapel of Marissa's coat without asking, completely at ease.
"So," Marissa’s voice carried over as Ryland poured her a glass of wine from the kitchen counter. "Introduce me properly, Grace."
Ryland gestured around the room. "That's Eva, Carl, Adrian, Rocky, Jody..." His eyes finally shifted back to the couch, his voice catching slightly. "And... that's Tom."
Tom stood up slowly, unfolding his tall frame with deliberate, intimidating grace, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "Nice to meet you," he said, his voice low, smooth, and entirely devoid of its usual casual warmth. "I've heard a lot about you. From the tapes."
Marissa took a slow sip of her wine, her sharp eyes scanning Tom up and down. She lingered on his dark jacket, his broad shoulders, his eyelashes, and the subtle, protective way he took half a step closer to Ryland’s side of the counter.
"Tom, huh?" Marissa tapped her chin thoughtfully, squinting at him. "Wait... what's your major?"
"Dramatic Arts," Tom replied, his voice still guarded.
There was a suspended beat of absolute silence.
Marissa’s jaw slowly dropped. Her eyes darted from Tom’s sharp jawline to Ryland’s wildly flustered face, then back to Tom. The dots connected in her head with the force of a freight train.
"Oh my God," Marissa breathed, her eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. She whipped around to point a manicured finger directly at Ryland’s chest. "OH MY GOD! IT'S HIM!"
Ryland practically shrank into his sweater. "Marissa, please—"
"LOUD! EXTROVERTED! THEATER MAJOR!" Marissa shrieked into the room, clutching her chest dramatically. "I KNEW IT! I CALLED IT! FOUR YEARS AGO IN A WAFFLE HOUSE!"
"Marissa, I am begging you to stop talking," Ryland groaned, burying his face completely in his hands as his ears turned a shade of crimson that rivaled a signal flare.
"I am an oracle! A literal prophet!" Marissa declared to the ceiling, before turning a sharp, wicked glare back onto Ryland. "Wait a second. Rylie. Look at me."
Ryland peeked out from between his fingers, looking terrified. "What?"
"Remember what I told you before you left for college?" Marissa said, leaning across the counter, her voice dropping into a loud, razor-sharp theatrical whisper that carried to every corner of the living room. "I explicitly stated that if you came home from college and you were still a virgin, I was going to throw a bitch fit."
Jody let out a startled, snorting laugh from her armchair, while Colt almost choked on his beer.
"Marissa!" Ryland squeaked, his voice cracking violently. "You cannot say that in front of my friends!"
"I can and I did!" Marissa shot back, crossing her arms and eyeing Tom with immense satisfaction. "And looking at this situation right now, I'm feeling very confident that I won't have to throw that fit."
Tom, who had been standing there like a stone wall, felt a sudden, dangerous twitch at the corner of his mouth. The icy tension in his chest began to fracture under the sheer absurd hilarity of the moment.
Catching the subtle shift in Tom's energy, Marissa’s obnoxious persona softened. She stepped closer to the counter, her tone dropping into something genuine and warm. "Hey... jokes aside, it really is great to meet you, Tom. Ryland actually talks about you all the time."
Tom blinked, caught off guard. "...He does?"
"Constantly," Marissa scoffed affectionately, shoving Ryland’s shoulder. "Every time he calls to complain about his workload, I have to listen to twenty minutes of: 'Tom came over again this week,' or 'Tom did the sweetest thing' It's endless."
Ryland looked like he wanted to dissolve through the floorboards. "That was private!"
Marissa chuckled, reaching into her coat pocket and pulling out a heavy, cream-colored envelope with a gold wax seal. "Anyway, I actually came to give you this in person."
Ryland took the envelope, sliding his thumb under the seal and pulling out a delicate, silver-foiled card. As his eyes read the embossed text at the top, his breath caught.
"Wait..." Ryland looked up, his eyes wide. "Marissa... is this...?"
"Yep!" Marissa beamed, her whole face radiating soft joy. "David popped the question last month in Brooklyn. We're getting married in June!"
The room erupted into cheerful congratulations, with Jody springing up to inspect the diamond ring on Marissa's finger.
Standing two feet away, Tom Ryder felt the entire world re-align itself on its axis.
The cold, heavy weight in his chest evaporated instantly. The tightness in his jaw melted away, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming wave of relief so intense he almost laughed out loud.
Getting married. To a guy named David.
Across the room, Rocky nudged Adrian, a knowing smile on his face. "Look at that. Complete atmospheric clearance. His threat assessment just plummeted to zero."
"System restored to baseline," Adrian agreed.
Tom didn't care what they were saying. He took a step forward, closing the distance between himself and the counter, his familiar, devastatingly charming smirk returning in full force.
"Congratulations, Marissa," Tom said softly, his voice rich and warm. "That's incredible news."
Marissa turned to him, her eyes dancing with intelligence. She watched as Tom smoothly slid right back into Ryland’s side, his shoulder pressing firmly against the others, his arm resting casually along the counter behind Ryland's back.
"Thanks, Tom," Marissa smirked, leaning her chin on her hand. "You know... the invitation comes with a plus-one."
Ryland choked on his breath, suddenly becoming intensely fascinated by the font on the cardstock. "Marissa, don't start—"
"I'm just saying!" she declared innocently. "Black-tie affair. Open bar. Romantic lighting." She looked directly at Tom, raising an eyebrow. "I wonder who Ryland could possibly bring as his date."
Ryland’s face burned, but he didn't step away. He stayed firmly anchored to Tom’s side, the heat of Tom’s shoulder leaning against his own.
Tom tilted his head, looking down at Ryland with a slow, wicked grin that made Ryland’s pulse spike immediately.
"Well, now hold on, Marissa," Tom drawled, his voice practically dripping with velvet mischief. "You can't just throw out 'black-tie' and 'open bar' without giving the man time to process. You know how Ry gets with big decisions—he has to calculate the probability distribution first."
"Tom, stop," Ryland muttered, refusing to look up from the envelope, though his hands were shaking slightly.
"I'm just trying to help, Ry," Tom teased smoothly, reaching down to deliberately bump his shoulder against Ryland's until Ryland was forced to meet his gaze. Tom's eyes were dancing with affection, his smirk softening into something devastatingly intimate. "Besides, a black-tie wedding? A romantic Hudson Valley setting? You're going to need someone there to make sure your tie is straight.”
Jody burst out laughing again, and even Stratt cracked a tiny, imperceptible smile from the dining table.
Ryland’s entire face was flaming red, but as he looked up at Tom—at the warm, completely unreserved look in Tom's eyes—a small, helpless smile finally broke through his defenses. He bumped his shoulder back against Tom’s, leaning into him just a fraction more.
"God, I hate you," Ryland whispered softly.
"Maybe," Tom murmured back, his fingers casually hooking around Ryland’s belt loop, anchoring him close. "But you're still taking me as your plus-one."
"Man, I love home videos," Colt announced cheerfully from the couch, raising his glass to the ceiling. "They really just set up the future, don't they?"
"Shut up, Colt," Ryland muttered, though he didn't move an inch away from Tom for the rest of the night.