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The estate in the Hudson Valley sat high on a ridge, overlooking a vast, dark sweep of the river framed by the golden wash of the summer sky. Soft string lights were woven through the heavy oak trees outside the glass-walled reception hall, casting a warm, golden glow over the black-tie crowd.
Inside, the noise of clinking champagne flutes, live jazz, and laughter filled the room.
Standing near the edge of the polished hardwood dance floor, Ryland tugged lightly at the collar of his tailored black suit jacket. "I still contend that three distinct forks per place setting is a mild form of psychological warfare," he murmured, taking a sip of sparkling water. "There is no functional difference between the middle one and the outer one."
Sitting on the high wooden stool beside him—looking entirely, infuriatingly comfortable in a fitted tux with his top button casually undone and his black silk tie loosened—was Ryder.
He leaned his elbow on the cocktail table, resting his chin in his hand as his eyes swept over Ryland. "The outer one is for salad, Ry. It’s about structural intent." Tom’s lips twitched into a lazy grin. "Besides, you’ve been adjusting your jacket every two minutes since we stepped off the shuttle. Is it the forks bothering you, or the fact that you look ridiculous in a suit?"
"I do not look ridiculous," Ryland shot back, his cheeks flushing faintly as he smoothed down his lapel. "I look... appropriate for the venue."
“I’m just messing with you, you look great," Tom corrected smoothly, he reached out, his long fingers catching the edge of Ryland’s tie and giving it a light, deliberate tug to straighten it. "Extremely dangerous, actually. I’ve had to glare at three people from Marissa’s bridal party just to keep them from wandering over here."
Ryland’s breath hitched slightly at the proximity, the heat of Tom’s knuckles brushing against his collarbone. "They were just asking where the open bar was."
"They had ulterior motives," Tom drawled, his thumb lingering for a fraction of a second against the base of Ryland’s throat before his hand dropped back to his glass. "I know how people look at things they want."
"Rylie!"
Before Ryland’s brain could fully process that, Marissa materialized through the crowd like a force of nature. She looked stunning in a floor-length white satin gown, her hair swept up, holding a glass of champagne in one hand and dragging her new husband, David, by the arm with the other.
"Look at my boys!" Marissa squealed, pulling Ryland into a tight, fragrant hug that nearly spilled his water, before immediately turning and giving Tom an equally enthusiastic squeeze. "Look at you two! Black tie looks so ridiculously good on both of you. David, look at them!"
David, a tall, calm-looking architect with a kind smile, shook Ryland’s hand before offering a polite nod to Tom. "Great to finally meet you both. Marissa hasn't stopped talking about Colt's living room since June."
"He was very defensive," Marissa chimed in brightly, winking at Tom. "Tom had his broad-shouldered guard up for a solid twenty minutes before he found out about David."
"The threat assessment was strictly procedural," Tom replied without an ounce of shame, sliding a hand into his tux pocket and flashing Marissa a brilliant, blinding smile. "Can't have him keeping secrets from me."
"Oh, absolutely," Marissa laughed, resting her chin on her hand as she surveyed the pair of them standing side-by-side. Tom’s shoulder was pressed firmly against Ryland’s, his body naturally angled inward to block off the rest of the room. "So, did he ever let you see those videos from that morning?"
Tom leaned down slightly toward Marissa, a curious glint in his eyes. "Not a chance. He’s been guarding his phone like a state secret for three months. I just know they exist, and that they made him look like he was going into cardiac arrest when you texted him."
Ryland’s soul attempted to leave his body on the spot. "Marissa, I am begging you, we are at your wedding—"
"I promised I wouldn't send them to a single soul," Marissa declared gleefully, raising her champagne glass in a mock salute. "My lips are sealed. But trust me, Tom, the vault contains pure gold."
"I am going to throw myself into the Hudson River," Ryland muttered under his breath, staring fixedly at the floating candles in the centerpieces. "Right now. I'll just jump."
David chuckled softly, gently patting Ryland’s shoulder in solidarity. "Come on, sweetie, let's leave them before Ryland actually dissolves. The band is starting the upbeat set."
"Fine, fine!" Marissa blew them a kiss, leaning in close to whisper in Ryland's ear before she left: "He hasn't taken his eyes off you all night, Grace. You're welcome."
As the newlyweds drifted off toward the dance floor, the tempo of the brass band shifted into a smooth, mid-tempo jazz arrangement.
Ryland cleared his throat, taking a long drink of his water to cool the flare of heat in his neck. "She is incorrigible. I apologize for her."
"Don't," Tom said softly.
Ryland looked over. Tom wasn't looking at the dance floor, or the river, or the wedding party. He was looking directly at Ryland. The lazy, teasing smirk was gone, replaced by a quiet, heavy intensity that made the noise of the reception fade into background static.
Tom held out his hand, palm up. "Come on."
Ryland blinked. "What? No. I don't dance. You know I don't dance. My center of gravity is entirely uncoordinated for rhythm."
"You don't have to dance," Tom said, his fingers twitching in an inviting gesture. "Just stand near me while I move around and look good. You're great at that."
A small, helpless laugh escaped Ryland’s lips. He looked at Tom's extended hand—broad, warm, and steady—and then up at Tom's eyes, holding his gaze with absolute certainty.
Ryland placed his hand in Tom’s.
Tom’s fingers closed around his instantly, firm and warm, pulling Ryland off the high stool and leading him smoothly into the warm, golden light of the dance floor.
The crowd was moving around them, but Tom didn't lead them toward the frantic center. He guided Ryland toward the glass edge of the room, near the open terrace doors where the cool night air brushed against their skin. Tom didn't drop his hand. Instead, he pulled Ryland close, wrapping his free arm around Ryland’s waist, drawing him in until there was zero space left between them.
Ryland rested his hand against the crisp fabric of Tom’s tuxedo lapel, feeling the strong, steady thump of Tom’s heart beneath his palm.
"See?" Tom murmured right against Ryland’s ear, his breath warm against the cool night air. "Not so hard. Your kinetic awareness is doing great."
"Shut up," Ryland whispered, but there was no bite in it. He let his head tilt slightly, resting his temple lightly against Tom’s jaw as they swayed in a slow, easy circle.
Tom’s arm tightened around Ryland’s waist, his chin resting against Ryland’s hair. They didn't say anything else. No big speeches, no dramatic declarations under the estate lights. They just moved together in the warm, hum-filled space of the music, perfectly anchored, holding on tight as the night spun on around them.
——
The metallic click of the hotel card key sounded like a victory bell echoing down the quiet, carpeted hallway of the Hudson Valley Inn.
Ryland leaned his back against the mahogany door as it swung open, his head thumping softly against the wood. "I think my feet have permanently fused to the insoles of these dress shoes," he groaned, blindly feeling along the wall for the light switch. "I am never wearing leather soles again. From now on, it’s rubber soles and orthopedic inserts."
Tom casually strolled past him into the air-conditioned dark, unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket and tossing it effortlessly over the back of an armchair. "You did fine, man. You only tripped over the hem of my pants twice."
Ryland flipped the light switch, illuminating the suite.
It was a beautiful room—exposed brick, warm wooden beams, and a massive floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the silhouette of the valley. But Ryland’s eyes didn't linger on the architecture. They locked instantly onto the center of the room.
A single, massive king-sized bed sat elevated on an oak frame, loaded with white down pillows and a heavy duvet.
Ryland blinked, frozen in the entryway. "Wait. Where’s the rest of it?"
Tom was already unzipping his cufflink case on the nightstand. He looked up, glancing from the bed to Ryland's stunned face. "Where's the rest of what?"
"The... other bed?" Ryland raised a hand, gesturing vaguely at the empty space. "Marissa booked this suite. She said it was a two-person executive room!"
"It is an executive room," Tom said, a slow, amused smirk spreading across his face as he unbuttoned his collar. "For an executive and their guest. Marissa paid for it, Ry. What did you honestly expect from her?”
Ryland squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a long, ragged breath. "I am going to revoke her best-friend status. I swear I am."
"Come on," Tom drawled softly, tossing his silk tie onto the desk. He kicked off his polished dress shoes and collapsed straight onto his back across the right side of the mattress, letting out a deep, contented sigh that sank him inches into the feather topper. "It’s a massive bed. I'll stay on my half, you stay on yours. Unless you'd rather sleep on the floor?"
Ryland looked at the plush, inviting duvet, then at the hard hardwood floor, then back at Tom. His feet were throbbing, his brain was fried, and the sheer exhaustion of socializing for six straight hours hit him like a physical blow.
"Fine," Ryland muttered.
He didn't even bother unpacking a pair of pajamas. He stripped off his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, kicked his shoes into the closet, and crawled under the covers in his undershirt and boxer briefs. He dragged a pillow to the absolute far edge of the mattress, pressed his back against the wooden headboard, and closed his eyes.
"Goodnight, Tom," he whispered into the dark.
"Night, Ry," Tom’s voice rustled softly from the other side.
Within three minutes, the quiet hum of the air conditioner lulled them both into a dead, dreamless sleep.
——
The morning light hit Ryland’s eyelids with the force of a hammer.
He stirred slowly, his brain fighting its way out of the heavy fog of deep sleep. He felt warm. Extremely warm. Heavy, comfortable heat was wrapped entirely around his torso, trapping his chest against something solid, broad, and radiating a steady, rhythmic rise and fall.
Ryland blinked his eyes open, his vision blurry.
His face was buried directly into the crook of Tom Ryder’s neck.
Tom’s bare arm was thrown heavily over Ryland’s waist, dragging him flush against his chest, while Ryland’s own hand was tangled firmly in the soft cotton of Tom’s undershirt. Their legs were completely entwined under the heavy duvet, locked together in a tangled heap of sheets. Tom’s hair was wild against the white pillowcase, his jaw resting lightly on top of Ryland’s head, his deep, steady breathing vibrating right through Ryland’s ribs.
Ryland froze. His pulse spiked from zero to a hundred in a fraction of a second.
He didn't move. He couldn't move. He just laid there, completely paralyzed by the sheer, intimate reality of Tom’s broad shoulder pressed against his cheek, Tom’s arm holding him close, and the quiet, domestic warmth radiating between them.
Oh, sweet mercy, Ryland thought, his face turning a furious shade of red. We are actively cuddling.
Before Ryland could carefully attempt an escape vector, Ryland’s phone on the nightstand began to blare a loud, cheerful trumpet ringtone.
Tom grunted, his grip tightening around the others waist out of instinct, pulling him even closer for a second before his eyes fluttered open. He blinked down at Ryland, his expression sleepy and utterly unbothered.
"Morning," Tom rasped, his voice deep and gravelly from sleep.
"The... the phone," Ryland squeaked out, his voice cracking violently as he scrambled backward, untangling his legs and practically falling off his side of the bed.
Tom let out a laugh, reaching over to swipe his phone off the charger. He squinted at the screen, and his sleepy expression instantly vanished.
"Uh... Ry?" Tom sat up quickly, dragging a hand through his messy hair. "What time was Marissa’s farewell brunch supposed to start?"
Ryland was sitting on the edge of the mattress, rubbing his eyes. "Eleven. Why?"
"It’s 10:48 AM."
There was a beat of absolute silence in the hotel room.
"TEN FORTY-EIGHT?!" Ryland shrieked, bolting off the bed like he’d been struck by lightning. "The estate is fifteen minutes away! She’s going to kill us! She’s literally going to murder me at her own wedding brunch!"
"Move, move, move!" Tom threw the covers off, springing out of bed and diving toward the closet where their clothes were scattered from the night before.
The next six minutes were a hurricane of pure, unadulterated chaos. Water splashed frantically in the bathroom. Toothbrushes were used at record speeds. Belt buckles clinked, drawers slammed, and clothes were pulled out of duffel bags in complete, panicked blindness.
"Where's my shirt?!" Ryland yelled, pulling on a pair of jeans and frantically grabbing a folded t-shirt off the top of the shared luggage rack. "Where's my watch?!"
"In your bag! Grab your shoes!" Tom barked, pulling a dark denim jacket over whatever shirt he’d grabbed off the armchair and shoving his feet into his sneakers without bothering to tie the laces.
Ryland threw his phone into his pocket, dragged his sneakers onto his feet, and sprinted out the door with Tom right on his heels.
——
They slid into the estate’s sunlit patio garden at 11:12 AM, breathless, disheveled, and trying desperately to look like functional adults.
The long wooden table near the garden fountain was packed with wedding guests sipping mimosas and eating pastries. At the head of the table sat Marissa and David. Marissa was wearing a chic white sundress and oversized sunglasses, looking like a glowing Hudson Valley queen.
"Look who decided to join the living!" Marissa announced loudly, raising her mimosa glass as Ryland and Tom hurried up to the table. "I was about to send a search party to your room!"
"Traffic," Ryland lied instantly, his face flushed as he pulled out a wooden chair for himself. "The... valley roads were very congested."
"Right. Valley traffic on a Sunday morning," Marissa smirked, her sharp eyes scanning the two of them up and down.
Tom pulled out the chair right beside Ryland, sitting down and reaching immediately for the carafe of iced coffee on the table. He leaned back, pushing his denim jacket open to catch the morning breeze.
Marissa froze. Her eyes locked onto the front of Tom’s chest. Her jaw slowly dropped, and a wicked, triumphant grin spread across her face.
"Nice shirt, Tom," Marissa drawled, leaning her elbows on the table and resting her chin in her hands.
Tom blinked, taking a sip of his coffee. "Thanks. Just grabbed whatever was on top."
Ryland frowned, turning his head to look at Tom—and his soul left his body for the third time that weekend.
Sitting across Tom’s chest, printed in bright white varsity lettering on a red t-shirt, was a graphic of an element and the text:
Ah! The Element of Surprise.
Ryland slowly looked down at his own chest. He was wearing a plain, fitted black crewneck t-shirt—a shirt that hung slightly looser on his frame than usual, smelling distinctly of cedar, leather, and Tom’s expensive cologne.
In their frantic rush, Tom had put on Ryland’s favorite science-pun graphic tee, and Ryland had put on Tom’s black designer shirt.
"Oh, God," Ryland whispered, burying his face in his hands.
"Wait, what?" Tom looked down at his own chest, finally reading the text. A sudden, brilliant grin broke across his face, looking sideways at Ryland’s flustered state. "Huh. Fits surprisingly well."
"I am going to explode," Ryland groaned into his palms. "Right here onto the patio tiles."
Marissa let out a loud, delighted cackle that echoed across the garden, raising her glass in a formal toast.
"I would just like to take a moment," Marissa declared, winking at David, "to formally congratulate myself on booking the single-bed executive suite. It clearly yielded phenomenal results."
"It was an efficiency error!" Ryland squeaked defensively, his ears turning bright red. "We were operating under extreme time constraints and severe physical fatigue! We slept on opposite sides of the mattress!"
"Ry, you were practically using my collarbone as a pillow when the alarm went off," Tom pointed out, leaning back in his chair. He poured himself a fresh glass of iced coffee, completely unbothered. "You were holding onto my undershirt like a toddler with a security blanket."
"I was not!" Ryland hissed, his voice cracking so hard David had to hide his laugh behind a napkin. "I was disoriented! I thought you were an oversized body pillow!"
"A six-foot-two body pillow that smells like cedar and cost you zero dollars," Marissa chimed in, taking a slow, deliberate sip of her mimosa. She tilted her head, her sharp eyes darting between the graphic tee hugging Tom’s broad chest and the oversized black crewneck draping over Ryland’s frame. "Honestly, Tom, the pun shirt really softens your whole 'brooding actor’ vibe. You look like a hot high school physics teacher who gets fired for being too popular."
"I think it’s a good look," Tom said, casually hooking a thumb into the neckline of Ryland's shirt. "Very academic. Makes me feel smarter already. I might keep it."
"You are not keeping my shirt," Ryland protested, grabbing a croissant off the table purely to have something to point at Tom accusingly. "You’re going to stretch out the shoulders!"
"You're wearing my shirt right now, Ry," Tom countered gently.
"Because someone threw all the laundry into a giant chaotic pile on the armchair!"
"Because someone was running late and probably thinking that I was going to murder him!" Marissa added brightly, winking across the table at David. "Which, for the record, I was considering until I saw you two walk in looking like a walking 'before and after' of a domestic couple's morning."
David finally chimed in, leaning forward with a polite smile. "I have to admit, Ryland, when Marissa told me about the whole Texas Roadhouse butter incident, I thought she was exaggerating."
Ryland nearly choked on his croissant. "She told you about the—Marissa!"
"I am a married woman now, Ryland, I have no secrets from my husband!" Marissa declared, raising her chin with absolute regal authority. She leaned across the table, tapping her manicured nails against her champagne flute. "And besides, Tom still hasn't seen the actual video. I’m holding that file hostage as leverage for when I need you to host us in the city."
Tom tilted his head toward Marissa, an excited look in his eyes. "How much leverage are we talking? Because I’m willing to trade three months of home-cooked meals if you drop the file in my iMessage right now."
"Don't you dare!" Ryland pleaded, grabbing Tom's forearm under the table. His fingers dug into Tom's jacket sleeve, his face burning hotter than a Bunsen burner. "Tom, do not negotiate with terrorists!"
"It’s not terrorism, Ry, it’s free-market trade," Tom stated. His hand slid down under the table, his fingers casually wrapping around Ryland’s wrist, warm and steady. "And I’m very interested in the market value of your drunk thoughts."
"I hate both of you," Ryland muttered, burying his face in his free hand while his pulse hammered wildly against the exact spot where Tom’s thumb was resting. "I am surrounded by unprincipled opportunists."
"You love us," Marissa laughed, clinking her glass against David’s. "And more importantly, you love the single-bed executive suite. Admit it, Grace."
Ryland shot her a desperate, flustered glare, but as Tom bumped his shoulder solidly against his, offering him a glass of orange juice with a quiet, affectionate grin, Ryland couldn't hold the scowl. A small, helpless smile broke through his defenses, and he leaned right back into Tom's arm for the rest of the morning.