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The light coming through the blinds was not sunlight. It was a localized nuclear strike designed specifically to punish Ryland Grace for every decision he had made in the last eighteen hours.
Ryland lay perfectly flat on his back, staring at the textured ceiling of his bedroom, trying to calculate how much water he needed to drink to feel like a human being again. His tongue felt like sandpaper, his throat was dry, and his brain was sluggishly trying to reconstruct the timeline of the previous evening.
It had started innocently enough. Colt’s apartment. Rain outside. Marissa arriving like a hurricane in an emerald-green jumpsuit, revealing her engagement to David, dropping her wedding invitation on the kitchen counter, and throwing the entire room into a tailspin. Tom Ryder had been there—loud, broad-shouldered, insufferably charming Tom—leaning into Ryland’s side, hooking his fingers into Ryland’s belt loop, and casually claiming the plus-one spot to a black-tie Hudson Valley wedding.
That part was great. Wonderful, even.
The problem had started after they left Colt’s. Marissa had declared that she couldn't possibly go back to her hotel room yet, insisting that she and Ryland needed "quality best-friend re-bonding time." They had walked back to Ryland’s apartment, raided his meager alcohol stash, found a bottle of cheap peach schnapps someone had left in his fridge six months ago, and...
And then the memory fried out.
Groaning, Ryland reached out a trembling hand, blindly clawing at his nightstand until his fingers made contact with his phone. He dragged it onto his face, squinted against the blinding glare of the lock screen, and blinked through blurry eyes.
It was 10:14 AM.
Right under the clock sat a string of notifications from iMessage. All of them were from Marissa.
[Marissa 02:41 AM]: [Video Attachment]
[Marissa 02:43 AM]: [Video Attachment]
[Marissa 02:47 AM]: [Video Attachment]
A cold, terrible droplet of sweat formed at the back of Ryland’s neck. His hangover temporarily paused as a wave of pure, unadulterated dread washed over his nervous system.
"No," Ryland whispered to his empty bedroom. "No, no, no."
His thumb hovered over the screen. Every instinct refined by twenty-two years of risk-averse survival screamed at him to throw the phone into the nearest body of water. But curiosity—that fatal, persistent flaw—won instead. He tapped the first video.
The screen flickered to life.
The video was shot in high-definition horizontal framing, courtesy of Marissa’s expensive phone, though the camera was shaking violently with suppressed laughter. The background was unmistakably Ryland’s living room futon.
Ryland was sitting crisscross-applesauce in the middle of the cushions. His hair was a chaotic nest while he was holding a half-empty glass of bright pink liquid with both hands like a small child holding a sippy cup.
"—just saying!" Marissa’s voice piped up from behind the camera. She sounded completely unbothered, while Ryland looked like he was testifying in court. "He’s a theater major, Rylie! He’s dramatic! He wears denim jackets with the sleeves rolled up! Didn’t he literally swing around a wooden prop sword in front of you during orientation week?"
"He was demonstrating stage choreography!" drunk-Ryland protested on screen, his voice slurred, high-pitched, and painfully earnest. He gestured wildly with his glass, nearly sloshing pink schnapps onto his rug. "It was impressive! He has incredible balance!"
"He has nice forearms and you know it," Marissa shot back, giggling. "Look, he sounds great and all, but let's cut to the chase. Would you let him lick Texas Roadhouse butter off your chest?"
Real-time Ryland hit pause instantly. He stared at the screen, his jaw hanging open in sheer horror.
"I didn't," he choked out to his empty room. "I didn't answer that. I couldn't have."
He hit play.
Drunk-Ryland on the screen didn't even blink. He didn't pause. He didn't stumble. He took a dignified sip of his pink drink, looked directly into the camera lens with absolute, terrifying conviction, and said:
"Uh, yeah? Duh, I’m drunk, not a moron."
On the video, Marissa burst into a loud, snorting laugh, the camera tilting wildly toward the ceiling.
"I’d honestly let him do anything—" drunk-Ryland continued, waving his hand dismissively before pausing, his brows furrowing as if hitting a deep, philosophical barrier. "Well... not anything. I can’t let him have too much power. He already knows he’s pretty. If I give him full control of the relationship, he’ll start making me go to 6 AM spin classes. We need checks and balances."
"Well," Marissa’s voice wheezed from behind the camera, practically crying with laughter, "I guess that sounds like he’s the one!"
The video cut off sharply.
Ryland sat frozen in his bed, his face burning so hot he was fairly certain he was turning dark red. "Oh, God," he whimpered, dragging his hands down his face. "Oh, god have mercy, no."
His fingers were shaking as he swiped to the second video. He didn't want to look, but he had to know the full extent of the damages.
The second clip opened with pure, unhinged audio chaos. Both Marissa and Ryland were howling with laughter before the visual even focused. The camera swung around to reveal Ryland sitting up on the futon, his phone held out toward Marissa’s camera at arm's length.
Displayed on Ryland's screen was a high-resolution headshot of Tom Ryder from his theater department biography—the one where Tom was wearing a dark Henley, looking sideways into the lens with a lazy, smoldering grin that had ruined Ryland’s focus for three straight weeks.
Drunk-Ryland was pointing at the image with a completely straight face, his eyes wide and shining with liquid courage.
"Play this at my wedding!" drunk-Ryland demanded, shouting over Marissa’s wheezing cackles. He tapped the phone screen aggressively. "Play this exact video! This is me, Ryland Grace, at twenty-two years old in 2026, and I’m telling you right now that I will be getting married to Tom Ryder—THEE Thomas Ryder—and this will be played at the wedding!"
"Rylie, stop, I can't breathe—" Marissa gasped from behind the lens.
"It’ll happen!" drunk-Ryland declared loudly, leaning closer to Marissa’s phone, his face taking up eighty percent of the frame. "I’m manifesting it! I’m manifesting it so hard! I am putting this out into the universe right now! Look at his jawline, Marissa! Look at it! It’s ridiculous!"
"You are so unhinged!" Marissa shrieked as the video abruptly terminated.
Real-time Ryland slumped back against his pillows, pressing the heels of his hands hard against his eyes.
"I said 'manifesting'," he groaned into the silence. "I sounded like a teenager on TikTok. I'm going to run away. I'm going to move to Alaska. I can work at a quiet bookstore where nobody knows my name."
There was still one video left.
With the solemn, dreadful acceptance of a man walking toward a guillotine, Ryland clicked the third file.
This one was quieter. The lighting was lower, the bottle of schnapps was noticeably empty on the coffee table in the background, and the manic energy had settled into a soft, hazy late-night warmth.
Ryland was lying upside down on the couch. His head was dangling off the edge of the cushions, inches from the rug, his blond hair falling back to expose his forehead. His eyes were half-closed, staring up at the ceiling fan as it spun slowly overhead.
Marissa was sitting on the floor beside him, her head resting against the frame of the sofa, holding the camera up at an angle to capture them both.
"...he's just so cool, Ris," drunk-Ryland whispered softly, his voice trailing off into a gentle, fond sigh. He raised one hand, lazily tracing imaginary patterns in the air above his face. "Like... effortlessly cool. He walks into a room, and everyone just... shifts toward him. He’s like a magnet. But he’s not mean about it."
Marissa’s expression on the video was surprisingly soft. She tilted her head, looking up at her upside-down best friend. "He seems really fond of you, Rylie. The way he was looking at you in Colt's kitchen? That wasn't just 'awesome friend’ energy."
"He's so sweet to me," drunk-Ryland mumbled, his lower lip pouting slightly. "He brings me iced coffee when I'm up late studying. He stole my favorite hoodie last week just so he’d have an excuse to walk me back to my apartment building to return it. He thinks I don't notice his little excuses, but I can finally see right through him."
Marissa chuckled softly. "So what's the problem, dummy?"
Ryland went quiet for a long moment. The upside-down angle showed the sudden, genuine vulnerability in his eyes—the quiet insecurity that he spent eighty hours a week hiding behind sarcasm and quiet routines.
"I just... I hope I’m good enough for him one day," He murmured softly, his voice dropping into a quiet, honest hush. "He's so bright, and loud, and full of life. And I’m just... quiet and awkward with coffee stains on my hoodies. I hope he doesn't wake up one day and realize he’s way too cool for me."
On screen, Marissa’s hand reached into the frame, gently ruffling Ryland’s upside-down hair. "Hey. Shut up. You're wonderful, Ryland Grace. And if he has eyes—which he clearly does, considering how long he was staring at you earlier—he knows he hit the jackpot."
Drunk-Ryland let out a long, sleepy breath, his eyes fluttering shut. "He's the coolest person I've ever met," he whispered to the ceiling fan. "I really... I really like him, Ris."
"I know, buddy," Marissa’s voice said softly as the video slowly faded to black. "I know."
Silence returned to the bedroom.
Ryland lay in his bed, staring at the blank black screen of his phone. The hangover headache was still there, but it was completely dwarfed by a heavy, fluttering warmth in his chest that contended violently with the sheer embarrassment of having his deepest feelings recorded in 1080p.
He looked at the chat log.
Below the three videos sat Marissa’s last text message:
[Marissa 02:48 AM]: oh my god you were so cute last night
Ryland stared at the text box. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
He could explain. He could write a long, defensive essay detailing how alcohol distorts your personality, how exhaustion makes people dramatically overstate things, and how none of those videos represented a sober, rational thought process.
Instead, he took a deep breath, tapped out a quick reply, and sent it before he could lose his nerve:
[Ryland 10:22 AM]: Do not ever send those to anyone. Please, I’m begging you.
He didn't wait for a reply. He immediately shoved the phone away, throwing it onto the mattress, and collapsed back into his pillows, dragging his arm flat across his face to block out the light, the world, and the terrifying, inescapable reality of his own feelings.
However, the arm across Ryland’s face was doing nothing to block out the harsh realities of existence.
He was still lying in the exact same position ten minutes later, frozen under the weight of his own recorded mortification, when he heard the faint, distinct sound of a key sliding into his front door lock.
Ryland froze. His stomach did a violent, Olympic-level flip.
Only three people had a spare key to his place: Colt, who was currently sleeping off a hangover of his own; Marissa, who was likely fast asleep in her hotel room after ruining Ryland's life; and—
"Ry? You awake?"
Tom's voice echoed smoothly down the short hallway, low and slightly gravelly with morning sleepiness.
Ryland’s soul left his body. He scrambled upright so fast the room spun in a blur of gray and beige. He practically fell off the side of his mattress, his knees knocking against the frame as he desperately kicked his phone under his pillow like it was a live grenade.
Before he could pull himself into a remotely dignified posture—or sprint into the bathroom to hide forever—his bedroom door swung open.
Tom Ryder was standing in the doorway, framed by the bright morning light of the hallway. He was wearing a faded grey hoodie with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, dark sweatpants, and a cheerful smile. In his left hand, he was holding a cardboard tray carrying two large iced coffees from the local cafe down the street.
"Hey," Tom drawled softly, stepping inside and letting the door rest casually against his shoulder. "Saw your light was on—or, well, assumed you weren't dead yet after last night. Brought reinforcement." He lifted the tray slightly, the ice clinking against the plastic cups. "Large iced latte with two extra shots. Exactly how you like it when you've made poor life choices."
Ryland stared at him from his spot on the floor. His hair was sticking up in three different directions, his cheeks were still burning hot from watching himself declare his undying devotion on camera, and his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"I..." Ryland choked out, his voice cracking horribly. He cleared his throat, trying desperately to sound normal. "I... hi. Tom. Hello."
Tom paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in Ryland's state. The smile shifted into a look of amused curiosity. He set the coffee tray down on the corner of Ryland's desk and crossed his arms, leaning back against the doorframe.
"You look like you just witnessed a crime," Tom noted, tilting his head. His eyes flicked over Ryland's flushed face, his chaotic hair, and the way he was practically vibrating with nervous energy. "Or like you're hiding a body. Did Marissa murder someone before she left?"
"No!" Ryland answered way too quickly, his voice entirely too loud for 10:30 AM. "No! Nobody murdered anyone! Everything is fine! Completely baseline! Normal!"
Tom raised an eyebrow, a slow, dangerous smirk beginning to tug at the corner of his lips. He pushed off the doorframe and took two deliberate steps into the room, his long stride closing the space between them effortlessly.
"Normal, huh?" Tom murmured, dropping down onto the edge of Ryland's mattress. The bed dipped under his weight, bringing him right into Ryland's personal bubble. He reached out, his thumb lightly brushing against Ryland's cheekbone, testing the heat radiating off his skin. "Ry, your face is literally on fire. You're bright red."
Ryland flinched back half an inch, but he didn't—couldn't—move away completely. The familiar, comforting scent of fresh coffee and Tom's laundry detergent filled his space, making his brain go entirely haywire.
I will be getting married to Tom Ryder—THEE Thomas Ryder—and this will be played at the wedding! drunk-Ryland's voice screamed in his head.
He's like a magnet... I hope I'm good enough for him one day.
Ryland squeezed his eyes shut for a brief, agonizing second. "I'm just hungover," he lied weakly. "Peach schnapps. It... affects the vascular system. Causes flushing."
"Right. Vascular flushing," Tom repeated smoothly, not buying a single word. He leaned in a little closer, his dark eyes dancing with absolute delight as he watched Ryland squirm. "Has nothing to do with the fact that your hands are shaking, or that you're looking at me like I'm about to serve you a subpoena?"
"I am not looking at you like that," Ryland protested, his gaze darting down to Tom's chest, then immediately snapping back up when his brain unhelpfully remembered the words Texas Roadhouse butter. His face burned even hotter. "I'm just tired!"
Tom let out a low, breathless laugh, reaching down to grab one of the iced coffees from the desk. He popped the straw into the lid and held it out to Ryland like a peace offering.
"Here. Drink this before you combust," Tom said softly, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate tone that always made Ryland's pulse spike.
Ryland took the cup, his fingers briefly brushing against Tom's warm hand. The shock of contact sent a shiver straight down his spine. "Thanks," he muttered, taking a long, desperate sip of the cold espresso, hoping the caffeine would magically reset his entire life.
Tom didn't move away. He stayed perched on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees, watching Ryland drink with a fond, unreserved look in his eyes.
"Marissa texted me this morning, by the way," Tom mentioned casually, taking a sip of his own drink.
Ryland instantly choked on his coffee.
He coughed violently, slapping a hand over his mouth as his eyes widened in sheer, absolute terror. "She what?!"
Tom reached out, gently patting Ryland's back with a wide, wicked grin. "Relax, relax! She didn't send anything crazy. She just asked if I knew where the good breakfast spots were, and said I should make sure you actually drank some water today." He paused, his smirk widening as he studied Ryland's wild, terrified expression. "Why? Was she supposed to text me something else?"
"NO!" Ryland practically shrieked, clutching his iced coffee to his chest like a shield. "No! Absolutely not! She knows nothing! She has nothing! Either way she is an unreliable narrator!"
Tom tilted his head, his dark eyes gleaming with pure, unadulterated amusement. "Unreliable narrator? Ry, what on earth happened last night?"
Ryland buried his face in his free hand, letting out a long, muffled groan of complete defeat. "Please," he whimpered into his palm. "Just let me die in peace, Ryder."
Tom chuckled, a rich, warm sound that filled the small bedroom. He reached out, his hand wrapping gently around Ryland's wrist and pulling his hand away from his face. He didn't let go, his thumb lightly tracing the pulse point on Ryland's wrist, feeling the rapid, fluttering beat under the skin.
"I'm not letting you die, man," Tom said softly, his playful tone softening into something steady and reassuring. "Even if you did make an absolute fool of yourself in front of your high school best friend."
Ryland looked up, meeting Tom's eyes. The sheer warmth and affection sitting there plain as day made Ryland's chest ache in the best possible way.
"Drink your coffee," Tom added softly, giving Ryland's wrist a gentle, lingering squeeze before releasing it. "And then you're getting out of bed. We have a wedding to plan for in June, remember?"
Ryland flushed red all over again, but this time, a tiny, helpless smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "You're terrible.”
"Yeah, sure.” Tom smirked, leaning back and resting his hands on Ryland's mattress.