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The morning sun hit Ryland Grace like a physical blow.
Usually, the early light streaming through the blinds of his apartment was a signal to jump out of bed, make some coffee, and tackle whatever pile of organic chemistry or physics p-sets was waiting on his desk. Today, however, the light felt like a laser beam burning directly into his optic nerve.
Ryland groaned, a scratchy, miserable sound that barely escaped his throat, and tried to pull his duvet over his head. Every single joint in his body felt as though it had been packed with crushed gravel. His brain was suspended in a thick, warm porridge, and his sinus cavities felt entirely filled with cement.
Symptoms, his internal academic voice chimed in weakly, trying to process the data. Severe rhinorrhea, pharyngitis, systemic fatigue, probable febrile state.
Translation: he was sick as a dog.
He laid frozen under the heavy blankets for several minutes, waiting for the room to stop spinning. That was when his groggy mind slowly registered a deeply unpleasant realization: today was Saturday.
More importantly, it was the Saturday he had promised to spend with Tom.
They were supposed to go try that new ramen place downtown that had just opened up. Tom had been talking about it all week, raving about the reviews and promising Ryland that a hot bowl of pork bone broth was going to redefine his entire understanding of culinary physics.
Ryland forced a trembling hand out from under the blanket and fumbled along his nightstand until his fingers brushed the cool glass of his phone. Squinting through bleary, watery eyes, he looked at the lock screen. It was 8:45 AM. Tom was scheduled to pick him up at nine.
With awkward, stiff fingers, Ryland unlocked the screen and opened their text thread.
[Ryland 08:45 AM]: Tom. I'm so sorry. Woke up feeling terrible. Fever, throat on fire, body aches. I don't think I can make it to downtown today. Really sorry man.
He pressed send, squeezed his eyes shut, and dropped the phone face-down onto his chest. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of guilt. Tom worked so hard between rehearsals and auditions, and he rarely had a full Saturday morning off to just grab food and hang out.
A minute passed. Then the phone buzzed against his sternum.
Ryland blinked his eyes open and held the screen four inches from his nose to read the response.
[Tom 08:46 AM]: alright
Ryland winced. Alright. One word, no punctuation, all lower case. Tom was usually a prolific user of exclamations, emojis, and voice memos. The sparse reply practically radiated disappointment.
"Great," Ryland muttered to his empty bedroom, his voice cracking horribly. "Now he's annoyed."
Exhausted by the monumental effort of typing thirty words, Ryland dragged the duvet back over his shoulder, curled into a tight, shivering ball, and let his eyes drift shut. The fever hummed loudly in his ears, pulling him back down into a strange, unsettled sleep filled with feverish dreams of burning textbooks and endless staircases.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed when a sharp, rhythmic sound jolted him toward consciousness.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Ryland stirred, groaning in protest as the movement set off a throbbing ache behind his temples. The knocking came again, louder this time, followed by the metallic click of a key turning in the lock.
The front door swung open and slammed shut with a heavy thud. Heavy, confident footsteps marched down the short linoleum hallway toward the bedroom.
"Ry?" a loud, booming voice called out, entirely unbothered by the concept of indoor volume. "You alive in there, or do I need to call the botany department to identify the mold growing on your corpse?"
Ryland squinted toward the bedroom doorway as Tom filled the frame.
Tom looked entirely too healthy, wearing an oversized gray vintage denim jacket over a navy hoodie, dark jeans, and beaten-up sneakers. He had a duffel bag slung over one broad shoulder and a plastic grocery bag clutched in his right hand. He smelled faintly of the autumn air outside, mixed with his usual scent of cedarwood and laundry detergent.
"Tom?" Ryland croaked, trying to sit up, only for his core muscles to immediately strike. He gave up, flopping back down onto his pillow. "What are you doing here?"
"You sent me a text message that sounded like the final words of a dying man in the Victorian era," Tom joked, dropping his duffel bag to the floor with a heavy thud. He casually shrugged off his denim jacket, tossing it over Ryland's desk chair like he’d done a hundred times before.
"I said I was sick," Ryland mumbled, shielding his eyes from the hallway light. "You said 'alright'."
"Yeah, 'alright, I'm heading to the pharmacy'," Tom corrected, stepping closer. Before Ryland could react, Tom leaned down and pressed the back of his large, calloused hand firmly against Ryland's forehead.
The contact was shockingly cool against Ryland’s burning skin. Ryland leaned into the touch entirely by accident, letting out a small, pathetic hum of relief before catching himself and pulling back an inch.
Tom frowned, his heavy brows knitting together. "Jesus, Ry. You're practically glowing in the dark. You're burning up bad.”
"I calculated my metabolic rate based on my shivers," Ryland rasped, trying to sound intellectual and failing miserably. "I'm guessing a solid 101.5."
"You're an idiot," Tom said softly, though there was no real bite to it. He pulled his hand back and rustled through the plastic grocery bag, pulling out a box of multi-symptom cold medicine, a bottle of cherry-flavored electrolyte juice, and a digital thermometer. "Sit up."
"Tom, you don't have to stay," Ryland protested weakly, even as he painstakingly dragged himself up until his back was propped against the headboard. "You had plans. That new spot downtown—"
“The ramen place isn't going anywhere," Tom cut him off, popping the plastic cap off the thermometer. "Open up."
Ryland opened his mouth, letting Tom slide the probe under his tongue. Tom stood over him, hands on his hips, watching the tiny digital screen with an expression of intense focus.
BEEP. BEEP.
Tom pulled it out and squinted at the display. "101.8. Look at that, Mr. Science, you underestimated."
"Margin of error," Ryland muttered, his throat raw.
"Right. Liquid gels or liquid syrup?" Tom asked, holding up two different boxes of medicine.
"Gels. The syrup tastes like synthetic cherry suffering."
Tom snorted, popping two red gel capsules out of the blister pack and handing them over along with the bottle of juice, which he had already unsealed. Ryland swallowed the pills with a long gulp of the sweet juice, feeling the cool liquid soothe his ragged throat on the way down.
"Okay," Tom announced, grabbing the duffel bag off the floor. "Phase two. You smell like fever sweat, and these sheets are probably toxic. Out of bed."
Ryland blinked at him. "What?"
"I brought a change of sweatpants and a hoodie from my place because you literally only own clothes with grease stains or puns on them," Tom said, pulling out a pair of plush, grey fleece pants and a worn, oversized dark green hoodie. "Go to the bathroom, brush your teeth, splash some water on your face. I’m changing your bedding."
"Tom, you don't need to do my laundry—"
"Ry, if you don't move your scrawny ass out of this bed in five seconds, I will lift you up and carry you to the bathroom myself. And I won't be gentle about it." Tom grinned, a flash of white teeth that made Ryland’s chest do a strange, fluttery jump that had nothing to do with his fever.
Recognizing the stubborn determination in his eyes, Ryland surrendered. He swung his legs out from under the covers, stood up—instantly swaying as a wave of dizziness hit him—and felt Tom’s steady hand instantly anchor him by the elbow.
"Gotcha," Tom murmured, holding him steady until Ryland regained his balance. "Take your time."
Ryland walked slowly to the bathroom, leaning heavily against the doorframe. By the time he had brushed his teeth, washed his face, and swapped his damp t-shirt for Tom’s dark green hoodie—which swallowed him whole and smelled entirely like Tom—he felt exhausted all over again.
When he shuffled back into the bedroom, Tom was already finishing up. The damp sheets were stripped, tossed into a hamper in the corner, and fresh, clean linens were pulled tight over the mattress.
"Better?" Tom asked, looking up as Ryland lingered in the doorway. Tom’s eyes lingered on Ryland for a second, taking in how the oversized hoodie hung off his frame. A faint, unreadable look crossed Tom’s face before he wiped it away with a quick smile.
"Much," Ryland admitted quietly. "Thank you, Tom. Really."
"Don't get emotional on me yet. I brought soup."
The rest of the day blurred together in a soft haze of comfort that Ryland hadn't experienced since he was a kid staying home from middle school.
Tom took over the apartment with practiced, casual efficiency. He went into the cramped little kitchen and heated up a container of chicken noodle soup he’d bought from the deli down the block instead of the ramen spot. He forced Ryland to sit on the living room couch, wrapped in a heavy fleece blanket, and set a tray in front of him with the soup, saltine crackers, and a fresh glass of water.
"Eat all of it," Tom commanded, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch with his own bowl. "I spoke to the lady at the counter. She swore on her grandmother’s grave this stuff cures the flu."
"That’s a scientifically dubious claim," Ryland said, but he took a spoonful anyway. It was hot, salty, and shockingly good. He swallowed it greedily, realizing he hadn't eaten anything in nearly eighteen hours.
"How is it?"
"It’s... actually incredible," Ryland admitted.
"Told you." Tom smirked, leaning back against the cushions. "Never doubt my ability to locate quality catering."
After lunch, Tom commandeered the TV. He refused to let Ryland watch anything that required actual brainpower. When Ryland suggested a documentary about deep-sea hydrothermal vents, Tom flatly vetoed it, pulling up a marathon of terrible, low-budget action movies from the early 2000s instead.
"This is cinematic art," Tom argued when Ryland scoffed at a wildly dramatic monologue right before a giant, cheesy explosion. "Listen to that delivery! The dramatic pause before he says the one-liner? Absolute peak theatrical commitment."
"He just delivered a monologue while hanging off a moving garbage truck, Tom," Ryland pointed out, his voice still thick and raspy, though significantly better than it had been that morning. "I don't think Shakespeare would approve of his projection."
"Shakespeare would love garbage-truck drama, Ry!" Tom laughed, his rich, booming voice filling the small living room.
Ryland found himself smiling, the dull ache in his head receding into the background. He leaned his head back against the couch, watching Tom from the side.
It was a strange feeling, having someone take care of him like this. Ryland was used to being the responsible one, the guy who organized study groups, remembered lab schedules, and kept his life neatly compartmentalized. He wasn't good at letting people in, and he certainly wasn't used to being fussed over. But Tom moved into his space effortlessly, breaking down Ryland’s defenses without even trying.
As the afternoon dragged on, the light outside began to fade into a cool, blue dusk. The cold medicine made Ryland’s eyelids impossibly heavy, a pleasant, floating sensation settling over his limbs.
They were halfway through the third movie—something involving jet skis and a stolen diamond—when Tom reached over, grabbed the empty soup bowls off the coffee table, and carried them into the kitchen. The sound of running water echoed soft and rhythmic from the sink.
When Tom returned, he didn't sit back down on his end of the couch. Instead, he reclaimed his spot right beside Ryland, stretching his long legs out over the ottoman.
"How are you feeling?" Tom asked softly, his voice dropping an octave as he noticed Ryland’s drooping eyes.
"Warm," Ryland mumbled, shifting under his blanket. "Fever feels down. Brain feels like cotton candy."
"Good. Cotton candy is an improvement over whatever you had going on this morning." Tom reached out, naturally hooking his arm over the back of the sofa behind Ryland’s head.
Ryland hesitated for only a fraction of a second before succumbing to gravity. He let his body tilt sideways, sinking against Tom’s side. He rested his head directly against Tom’s chest, right over the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat.
Tom didn't pull away. In fact, he shifted slightly to accommodate him, wrapping his arm securely around Ryland’s shoulders and pulling him closer. Tom’s thumb began to move in small, absentminded circles against the fleece of Ryland’s sleeve.
The heat radiating off Tom was solid and grounding. Ryland let out a long, shuddering sigh of pure content, his fingers curling into the fabric of Tom’s hoodie.
"You really didn't have to do all this, you know," Ryland whispered into the dark, his eyes drifting shut. The movie played softly in front of them, blue light flickering across the darkened living room. "You missed that new food spot downtown."
"I didn't care about the food spot, Ry," Tom said quietly. His voice sounded deep, vibrating through his chest right where Ryland’s ear was resting. "When you texted me this morning, I didn't give a damn about going downtown. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
Ryland’s heart gave a sudden, heavy thud.
The medicine, the lingering fever, and the sheer, overwhelming safety of being held like this broke down the final, carefully constructed filter in Ryland's mind. He felt warm—so warm—and entirely consumed by a profound, terrifying fondness that he had been trying to ignore for over two years.
He moved his head slightly, nuzzling his nose against the curve of Tom’s neck, inhaling the crisp, familiar scent of cedar and soap.
"You're so good to me..." Ryland slurred softly, his consciousness fraying around the edges as sleep finally pulled him under. He squeezed Tom’s hoodie a little tighter. "...I love you so much..."
The sentence hung in the quiet air of the apartment, simple, honest, and completely devoid of defense.
Above him, Tom froze.
The steady, rhythmic motion of Tom’s thumb on Ryland’s arm came to a dead halt. The rise and fall of Tom's chest hitched sharply.
For three long, agonizing seconds, the room was completely silent except for the low dialogue of the TV. Tom stared straight ahead, his eyes wide, his jaw slightly slack, as his brain desperately tried to process the words that had just tumbled out of his best friend's mouth.
I love you so much.
A sudden, intense wave of heat rushed up Tom’s neck, making his own heart hammer furiously against his ribs. He turned his head down, looking at Ryland.
Ryland’s face was completely relaxed, his breathing already deep, slow, and rhythmic against Tom’s collarbone. His glasses were slightly crooked on his nose, his dark eyelashes resting still against his pale, flushed cheeks.
He was completely, utterly asleep.
Tom let out a shaky breath that sounded half like a laugh and half like a choke.
"Jesus, Ryland," Tom whispered into the dark, his throat suddenly feeling tight. A soft, breathless smile slowly broke across his face, warmth blooming in his chest so violently it almost hurt. He reached up with his free hand, gently adjusting Ryland’s glasses and sliding them off his face to set them safely on the side table.
Tom leaned his head down, resting his cheek lightly against the top of Ryland’s soft, messy hair.
"I love you too, man," Tom said softly, his voice thick with an emotion he was no longer capable of hiding.
He tightened his grip around Ryland, pulling the sleeping boy a little closer into his chest, and settled back against the cushions to watch the rest of the movie in the dark.