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Blue eyes flicked to the clock. Twenty minutes past when this meeting was supposed to end. Of course it was.
Ryland nodded along, making the appropriate noises of agreement, while slowly accepting that he would in fact be living here now.
Mrs Holt was still talking. About budgets. Again. With the confidence of someone who had never once had to explain anything to a room full of thirteen-year-olds running on too much sugar and not enough sleep.
Ryland folded his hands on his desk and tried not to think about how much he missed the simpler days of listening to people confidently be wrong about things that didn’t directly affect his employment.
“I’m simply concerned,” she said again, in the tone of someone who very much wasn’t, “about where our funding priorities are.”
Ryland dragged his eyes back from the clock, his plastered-on smile faltering for the first time that evening. He blinked. That wasn’t even remotely what they were supposed to be discussing. “I’m sorry?”
Long acrylic nails clicked on his desk as Mrs Holt drummed them again, click-click-click-click-click, each one carefully calibrated to shave years off his life. She inclined her head pointedly towards his wrist.
Ryland looked down, brow furrowing, perplexed about what on earth she could be indicating.
Ah. The watch. The TAG Heuer watch. The very expensive, very conspicuous, very definitely not meant to still be on his wrist watch. The one he’d forgotten to take off that morning in his rush to pick up a spare set of clothes from his apartment.
Heat crept up the back of his neck. He shifted slightly in his chair, not quite hiding it, not quite not hiding it either. He resisted the urge to tug at his sleeves where the cuffs had started to fray again.
It wasn’t even about the watch, not really. It was the assumption behind it: that someone like him, on his salary, either shouldn’t have it, or must have to explain it.
He had explained enough things for one lifetime already.
“Teachers are always talking about budget cuts,” she continued, waving at his wrist with disdain. Ryland bit the inside of his cheek as her nails click-click-click-click-clicked again. “Lack of supplies. Larger class sizes. Oooh, can you donate to the fundraiser for a new school gym! Or send more money for the sponsored read-a-thon. And don’t get me started on endless bake-sales! Yet somehow, there’s money for that.”
Heat crept up the back of Ryland’s neck. He tried not to think about the bicycle he rode to school out of need rather than as an environmental choice as so many of his colleagues seemed determined to believe. Of the threadbare elbows on his favourite cardigans. Of his good pair of work shoes which has begun to slide from almost-worn-though to these-won’t-last-the-winter.
He slid a hand over his wrist, neatly hiding his watch from view.
“Mrs Holt,” Ryland said carefully. “My personal finances aren’t relevant to our discussion. If we could get back to talking about–”
His hand found the small earth beanbag on his desk and squeezed it once – firmly, automatically – before he quite registered he’d done it. He loosened his grip with some effort. The last thing he needed was to explain bean-related casualties on top of everything else.
“I just think parents deserve transparency,” she said, voice rising above his.
Ryland counted to ten. Slowly. With feeling. He was starting to think he should have listened to the universe earlier. Sleeping through not one, not two, but five alarms felt less like bad luck and more like an explicit instruction he had chosen to ignore.
“With all due respect, no, they don’t.” Ryland forced the polite smile to stay carefully plastered in place. “What parents do deserve is an honest conversation about their child’s progress, and, as I was saying, Nicholas is bright, but he’s currently three assignments behind and shows signs of struggling to engage during group activities. I really think–”
“Maybe if teachers were focused on teaching, rather than all of the perks–”
Ryland made a small, strangled sound that he very much hoped did not qualify as laughter. His smile tightened another degree.
“I can assure you,” he said, voice carefully controlled, “that middle school teachers do not get any perks. And we are certainly not overpaid.”
Barely paid, more like it.
Mrs Holt didn’t look convinced. Her handbag was the kind Ryland was fairly sure came with a waiting list and a personality requirement. “Then how do you explain the watch?”
“I don’t believe I need to,” Ryland said, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice. No wonder Gloria in reception had looked at him with that particular expression when he’d come to collect Mrs Holt from the front desk. The one that suggested she had, in fact, tried to warn him in the most professional way possible. Why did no one ever just say this one is a problem?
“Oh really? Then–”
The classroom door opened. Two sets of eyes flicked towards it. Ryland felt his stomach drop in a way that had absolutely no respect for his professional composure.
“What’s the hold up?”
The unmistakable figure of Tom Ryder stepped inside.
Ryland closed his eyes for half a second. Not in his classroom. Not during a parent-teacher meeting. Not like this.
Even with his yellow sunglasses covering half his face and a beanie pulled down to cover his distinctive curls, it was impossible to mistake the man for anyone else. He looked like he had walked straight out of a billboard Ryland couldn’t even afford to glance at, with his expensive coat and designer jeans and effortless confidence. Fuck. No. He was not thinking about that right now.
“Excuse me, this is a private meeting,” Mrs Holt snapped immediately, spine stiffening as she looked him up and down like he was an inconvenience someone had left in her classroom.
“And I think it’s inappropriate to–” she began again, sharper this time, already gathering momentum. Then she stopped.
Tom didn’t react beyond a polite smile, which somehow made it worse. It was the kind of smile that usually came with security guards stepping in or headlines the next morning. It was the kind of smile that Ryland secretly loved to see – but only when Tom was safely on the other side of the screen.
“Actually – wait.” Her eyes flicked again, recognition sharpening into something entirely different. “You’re… you’re Tom Ryder.”
The irritation drained out of her face in real time, replaced first by surprise, then calculation. Her gaze snapped back to Ryland, then to Tom again, as though the conversation had suddenly changed genre.
Ryland stared at her.
Oh. Of course. Silly him. What this parent-teacher conference had really been lacking was celebrity intervention.
They had spent the better part of an hour discussing budget transparency, teacher perks, and his personal finances. Tom had been standing in the room for approximately twelve seconds.
He was going to have an aneurysm.
"As you can see," Ryland said, with what he hoped was remarkable professionalism under the circumstances, "I'm in the middle of a work thing. So, if you wouldn't mind just waiting–"
"Right, right. Waiting." Tom nodded solemnly, as though this was a completely reasonable request and one he fully intended to honour.
He lasted approximately two seconds.
"Actually, while I'm here…" Tom reached behind his back and produced a gift bag; a distinctive Tiffany blue gift bag, to be precise.
Ryland closed his eyes. Not. At. Work. Tom had never been subtle about gifts. The watch had just been the first expensive gift he'd failed to talk Tom out of. It had also, somewhat unfortunately, become his favourite possession.
He could feel a tension headache building behind his eyes. Of course Tom hadn't picked up on his increasingly direct hints that, if he absolutely insisted on buying gifts, something practical would be appreciated. Ryland did not need another thousand-dollar necklace. He did not need another three-hundred-dollar keyring. He did, however, need to restock his emergency ramen supply and replace the winter coat that was currently one particularly strong gust of wind away from structural failure.
Tom flashed Mrs Holt his best press smile; not the sweet, bashful one that he reserved for actual fans who made it out to see him on the red carpet, but the total asshole one that always seemed to make headlines.
Ryland felt a brief, entirely inappropriate flicker of satisfaction. He tried not to examine it further.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Tom asked. It sounded like a question, but Ryland was fairly sure it functioned more as a statement. “He said six-thirty, traffic’s getting worse. We’ve got reservations.”
He trailed off anyway, leaving a space that suggested interruption was theoretically possible, if anyone felt brave enough to attempt it.
Ryland stared back at him. Mrs Holt stared at him. Tom glanced between them. Tom glanced between them, like he was assessing which of them was going to be the problem.
When Ryland made no move to take the gift bag, Tom carefully placed it on the edge of his desk, nudging it towards him with infuriating patience. Ryland’s jaw twitched.
“Am I interrupting?” Tom asked, sounding entirely unconcerned about the answer.
“You are,” Ryland said firmly, mentally weighing up if it would be worth neatly tipping the Tiffany’s bag into the trash can beneath his desk. Experience suggested Tom would interpret that as a challenge rather than a boundary. The likelihood of Tom doubling down with an even more expensive, ostentatious gift was almost a certainty. Ryland let out a long, weary breath through his nose, leaving the gift in place. “If you would please–”
“Could I get an autograph? Or a selfie?” Mrs Holt stood so quickly her chair legs scraped the floor. Her phone came out of her pocket mid-motion.
“Actually–” she began, already crossing the space between them, momentum overtaking sense. One arm looped around Tom’s waist like she had known him for years. Tom stiffened beneath her touch, discomfort tightening at the edges of his eyes before he could fully mask it.
A small, carefully timed adjustment of the Tiffany bag sent it bumping into his mug.
The reaction was immediate.
Cold, hours-old milky coffee tipped over the edge of the desk in a slow, horrifying arc – spilling across paperwork, the floor, and finally Mrs Holt’s designer handbag, phone still inside it.
For half a second, there was silence.
“What the hell?” she snapped, yanking her bag back as if it had personally betrayed her. Her voice climbed quickly into outrage, eyes darting between the ruined leather and her dripping phone. “Do you have any idea how much this cost?”
Ryland blinked once at the mess. “Oops,” he said, with the emotional range of a man who had just watched physics happen and chosen not to intervene.
“I’m so sorry,” Ryland said, already standing. He half-turned toward his desk drawer on instinct, hands moving faster than his brain as he fumbled for tissues he wasn’t entirely sure were still there. Behind him, he was dimly aware of Tom making a sound that was either a cough or an attempt not to laugh. “I’m going to get–”
“You’re paying for a replacement if this is broken!” Mrs Holt snapped, lifting her phone out of the ruined bag as if it might still be salvageable through sheer force of will.
Ryland’s stomach dropped. There was absolutely no way he was paying for that. More importantly, there was absolutely no way he could pay for that.
He glanced up, then immediately locked eyes with Tom. A brief, silent exchange passed between them – on Ryland’s side: panic, resignation, and a very clear help me. On Tom’s: mild curiosity and the calm of a man who had never once been personally threatened by a damaged smartphone bill.
“Why don’t I have my publicist send over a replacement? It’s the least I could do,” he said, his wide, easy smile immediately shifting the energy in the room.
Mrs Holt hesitated. “Well–” she said slowly, still clutching her ruined bag, eyes flicking between him and her phone. “That would be… very helpful, actually.”
She stepped forward a little, voice softening just enough to become conversational rather than confrontational. “I mean, if you’re offering, I could just give you my details directly. It would probably be quicker. Or– ” her gaze sharpened with renewed intent “– we could sort it now. Maybe over dinner? I’m actually free most evenings.”
Tom shifted smoothly sideways before she could close the distance properly. “I’ll have it sent to Ryland so he can pass it along,” he said, already moving past her with practised ease. “Busy schedule and all.”
He paused just long enough to snap a quick selfie anyway. “I’ll send that to him, too.”
His eyes slid back towards Ryland. “You nearly done here? Or do I need to change our reservations?”
“Actually–” she began again, still hovering on the edge of something between indignation and opportunity. Ryland stood before he could think better of it, which – judging by experience – was usually when things went wrong. He was absolutely not letting her redirect back to Tom again.
Tom glanced at her handbag, taking in the dripping mess. “Oh,” he said lightly, as if noticing it properly for the first time. “That’s a nice piece. A little out of season, though.”
It was enough to make Mrs Holt pause. “It’s… designer,” she said defensively.
“Right,” Tom said, nodding with polite seriousness. “I mean, it’s great, if you like that almost vintage look. A bit difficult to replace – but I’m sure my PA can work some magic.”
Ryland stared at him. Tom hadn’t said anything overtly rude. Which, in Ryland’s experience, was usually when things got worse.
“Of course…” Mrs Holt started again, still bristling slightly as she adjusted her stance. “Of course, Tom. I mean – yes. That would be… good.”
She hesitated, then seemed to lose the thread entirely. “I’m a big fan. We loved you in–”
“It’s always a pleasure to meet fans,” Tom said smoothly, already turning his attention away from her as though the conversation had naturally concluded. No pause. No opening for follow-up. Just done. “Baby?”
Ryland pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel the beginnings of a headache forming with alarming speed, like his nervous system had decided to start closing applications one by one.
“I am not paid enough for this,” he said under his breath, then louder, forcing professionalism back into place with visible effort “Mrs Holt. If we could please get back to discussing Nicholas?”
“Oh. Right. Nicholas.” Mrs Holt glanced down at her dripping bag clutched in one hand, her wrecked phone in the other. He could see the moment her mind was made up. She looked up, a tight smile in place. “You know what? I think you’ve given me a lot to think about. Thank you again, Mr Grace.”
Ryland blinked, still trying to reconcile the timeline. Sixty minutes of discussion had achieved nothing. Two minutes of Tom had apparently resolved the situation. He was not going to think too hard about what that implied.
“Please remind Nicholas that his missing assignments still need completing,” he said, voice losing momentum as she gathered her things and brushed past Tom on her way out.
A shape appeared in the small glass panel of the classroom door–then another. Someone clearly said something in the corridor; the silhouettes multiplied. Ryland pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nope. Absolutely not.”
He crossed the room and pulled the blinds down in one sharp motion, then opened the door just enough to poke his head out into the corridor.
“I’m fine,” he said tightly. “Everything is under control. Please go back to the staffroom, or literally anywhere that is not here.”
Two colleagues lingered too long in the corridor outside neighbouring classrooms. A glance passed between them.
“…is that Tom Ryder in your classroom?” one of them asked, half-whispered, like they weren’t entirely sure they wanted confirmation.
“No,” he said immediately, too quickly to be casual. He shifted in the doorway before that question could develop further, neatly blocking his classroom from view. “No, it’s just my brother. Colt. He gets mistaken for him all the time. They… work together.”
He paused. That was probably already too much information.
“They, uh – work in the same industry,” he tried, which was technically true and also hopefully vague enough to stop further questions. Ryland watched their expressions carefully shift from curiosity to polite acceptance, and immediately regretted the entire interaction.
“Actually–” he added, because apparently he hated himself, “if you do want an autograph, I can probably ask him to pass it along. I can’t promise anything immediate, but–”
He stopped himself. This was how rumours started. He rubbed between his eyes again, head hanging forward. Could things get any worse? “Sorry. Ignore that. Please.”
His colleague hesitated, then smiled – slightly amused, but no longer pushing. “Oh. That’s actually really kind.”
“We’re fine,” the other added quickly, already backing away like they’d been gently dismissed from a situation they hadn’t fully intended to enter.
He shut the door with more care than he strictly needed to, then just stood there for a moment, staring at it as if it might offer some kind of explanation. It did not.
This is why I separate my work and personal life, he thought grimly. Except apparently not today.
He turned, and nearly jumped straight out of his skin. He had forgotten: Mrs Holt was still there. Tom, slightly behind her, caught his eye over her shoulder and gave him an amused little grin, as if this were all unfolding exactly as expected. Of course it was. Ryland exhaled through his nose.
“Right,” he said, forcing his brain back into something resembling order. “Where were we? Oh – group work.”
“I know, I know. Thank you, Mr Grace.” She hesitated just long enough to pivot her attention back into professionalism, though it was slightly less stable than before. “Just – before I go.”
Then, as if she couldn’t quite resist, she reached out and squeezed Tom’s arm again, briefly, like confirmation that he was in fact real. Ryland’s attention sharpened immediately. He shifted half a step forward – already opening his mouth to intervene – but she was already moving away.
“It was lovely meeting you, Tom!”
The classroom door finally closed behind her.
Silence settled again – cleaner this time, but no less complicated. Ryland watched the empty doorway, already mentally drafting the email he was going to have to send, and the second email apologising for the first email. Ryland looked back at the empty door. Then down at the Tiffany bag on his desk. Then up at Tom.
“...we didn’t actually solve anything,” Ryland said, with the tone of someone who felt they had been extremely patient for no measurable return.
Tom shrugged. He came up behind Ryland and slid his arms around his waist, pulling him back just slightly into his chest like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“It looked pretty solved to me,” he said, smiling into Ryland’s shoulder. “You wanted her to stop interrogating you about your watch. We did that. Great teamwork.”
“I mean, yes I did, but I wanted to discuss her son’s academic pro– wait how did you know about the watch?” Ryland asked, eyes narrowed.
Tom slipped his sunglasses down just enough to peer over the top of them. “Baby. Do you want to stand here talking about PTA moms, or do you want to get out of here?”
Ryland opened his mouth, then closed it again. He held back another sigh.
“…that’s not the point,” Ryland said, which unfortunately did not change the fact that it was becoming the point.
Tom’s grin widened. “I believe the words you are looking for are, ‘Thank you, Tom. Let me show you just how grateful I am by–’”
A hand pressed firmly across Tom’s mouth. Blue eyes sparkled behind yellow lenses. Ryland let out a small, immediate sound of disgust.
“…Did you just lick me?” he asked, already regretting that this was now a question he had to ask out loud. “You cannot keep trying to solve all of my problems by just showing up and causing a scene, Tom. We’ve been over this. This is not how normal people fix problems”
“Yeah, yeah. But that was about individual problems. This was two in one.” Tom ticked them off his fingers as he spoke. “She stopped accusing you about misusing school funds, and you got out of an overrunning meeting that really could have been an email in the first place. Plus, y’know. Normal people are terrible at fixing problems.”
A long, low groan sounded as Ryland tugged on his hair.
“She left here covered in coffee,” he said, voice hollow with realisation, “and somehow that has escalated to me buying her an iPhone.”
“And a designer bag,” Tom added helpfully. Arms tightened around Ryland, a long, low chuckle sounding behind him. “Baby, seriously. She left here thinking I’m going to get her a new phone. I’ll have Gail sort something. Or my PA. Becky.”
“Betty,” Ryland corrected automatically. The poor woman worked hard enough. She had earned Tom remembering her actual name many times over.
“No, that’s not it. Betsy?” Tom shook his head. “That’s beside the point. You don’t even have to think about it. I’ve got it.”
“Tom. I cannot set a precedent of buying new phones for parents.” Ryland let out a slow breath through his teeth and rolled his shoulders once, like he could physically reset the situation. “I cannot believe this is my life. How is this even a conversation I am having right now?”
Tom gently turned Ryland around in his arms, expression softening around the edges. Broad hands reached up to straighten Ryland’s tie, before hauling him in close for a fleeting kiss.
“You wouldn’t change it, though,” Tom said, voice low and soothing and certain. “You love your life.”
Ryland let out a long, slow breath. He tried to cling on to the last dredges of irritation. He should have been annoyed. He was – technically. But underneath it sat something warmer and more complicated that he didn’t have the energy to name properly right now. And that, more than anything, was what annoyed him. Because it meant Tom was right.
“...most of it.”
“There we go.” Tom’s eyes lingered on Ryland’s lips. Before he could get any more bright ideas, Ryland pressed a hand firmly against his chest, encouraging the other man to take a step back. Pouting, Tom obeyed. “Can we go now? Please?”
Ryland’s eyes flicked to the clock, then towards the Tiffany’s bag. He had already exceeded the amount of time he was prepared to pretend this was still a normal working day. Follow-up emails could wait until morning.
Grabbing his messenger bag, Ryland met Tom by the door. His gaze lingered on the gift bag a second longer than he meant it to. “What did you buy me this time?” he asked, curiosity slipping through despite himself.
Tom looked suspiciously pleased with himself. He stepped aside and opened the door, gesturing for Ryland to go first. “That’s for later. C’mon, or we really will get stuck in traffic. Even I can’t fix that.”
Ryland hesitated a beat too long, then gave a small, resigned exhale. He moved automatically – switching off the lights, checking the windows, gathering the last stray bits of paper into a neat stack that absolutely did not need to be dealt with right now. The routine gave him something to do with his hands.
Behind him, Tom waited without pushing, which somehow made it worse.
“Tom,” Ryland said eventually, still not looking at him. “You really don’t need to keep getting me expensive things. I just want to spend time with you. You do know that, right?”
The words landed a little heavier than he meant them to. He paused, keys in hand, staring at the lock as if it might offer input. There was a pause that spoke louder than words. Ryland’s face crumpled. “…Oh.”
A moment later, a hand came gently to his cheek, turning him just enough that he couldn’t keep avoiding eye contact. Tom’s thumb brushed lightly at the corner of his eye, wiping away tears that Ryland hadn’t even realised had began to gather.
“I’m getting there,” Tom said quietly. “You know it’s not personal, right, baby?”
Ryland nodded wordlessly, and Tom’s smile softened around the edges. Lips brushed against Ryland’s forehead before Tom murmured, “You really are something special.”
As Tom pulled back, chapped lips pressed against the corner of his lips, there and gone before the movement could even register. The first traces of a blush stained Tom’s cheeks as Ryland took a step away, buying himself time by fiddling with the buttons of his jacket.
By the time Ryland was ready to follow him out through the empty corridors, Tom’s usual public mask was firmly back in place, all traces of softness neatly tucked away.
“You know the real reason we need to leave isn’t just reservations, right?” Tom said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I had something installed in the car for us to try out.”
Ryland immediately looked wary. That sentence alone had a track record of problems. He still hadn’t forgotten the last time one of Tom’s “surprises” had ended with Colt walking in on them in Tom’s dressing room. Neither brother had been able to look the other in the eyes for weeks. “What kind of something?”
Tom’s answering smile was utterly shameless. “The privacy screen finally came in.”
Ryland stopped walking, running Tom’s words over again, then once more, and still not understanding. “…the what?”
Tom followed easily, unbothered. “The divider between the front and back seats. Soundproofed. And I had them fit tinted windows.”
Ryland stared at him for a beat too long, then resumed walking as if that might restore order to the conversation. “Tom,” he said carefully, the tone of someone trying not to escalate something that absolutely warranted escalation.
“We should test them,” Tom added, entirely unhelpful, bumping Ryland lightly with his shoulder as they walked. Ryland went off course immediately. Tom didn’t even pause – just reached out, caught him by the arm, and steered him back into the centre of the corridor like it was muscle memory.
“We are in the middle of my workplace,” Ryland said, sharper now as they reached the corridor junction. “Which happens to be a school.”
“So?” Tom said, like this was a scheduling issue rather than a moral one. Ryland’s eyebrows rose. Tom shrugged. “Who said anything about testing them out here? We’re leaving.”
“Tom.”
“I made sure I don’t have any scenes until tomorrow afternoon,” Tom continued. “We’ve got time.”
Ryland stopped again, this time fully turning to look at him. Silence stretched between them. Then, against his will, something in his expression gave way at the edges.
“You,” he said, very deliberately, “are impossible.”
Tom beamed immediately, like that had been a compliment he was expecting. He wrapped an arm around Ryland without asking, resting a hand at his hip like it was the most natural thing in the world. “But I’m impossible with excellent taste in partners,” he said brightly. “And watches.”
Ryland glanced down at the hand, then up at Tom. There was a beat where he considered, not for the first time, that this was how these situations always escalated. With calm precision, he removed Tom’s hand from his hip. Then, as if correcting the imbalance, he threaded their fingers together instead.
“Fine,” Ryland said. “But tomorrow, you’re buying Nicholas a planner.”
“…and why am I doing that?” Tom blinked. “Who the fuck is Nicholas?”
“Because,” Ryland said, already steering them toward the main doors, “apparently I’m the only person in this entire school who remembers why Mrs Holt came here in the first place.”