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It was still dark when Ryan made his way up the long, winding drive to Oliver’s house. Not even a hint of sun had started to brighten the dry, dusty peaks and valleys. No one would ever call Ryan a morning person. He wasn’t before kids and he wasn’t after. He liked a sunrise as much as the next person, but he’d take a glorious purple sunset over a soft orange morning any day. Except when he was called.
Oliver was waiting for him just inside the front door, soft and rumpled in a hoodie, easy to remove sweatpants, and a grumpy expression. The right leg of his pants was shoved up over the heavy boot his doctor had put him in until the swelling had gone down enough for surgery. Today was the day.
“Why aren’t you sitting down?” Ryan asked, closing the door behind him. The house was very quiet. He was used to one of Oliver’s records spinning in the background.
“Heard your car,” Oliver responded. “Tired of sitting.” He grabbed a bag off the floor and slung it over his shoulder. Ryan assumed it had a change of clothes, his wallet, and his phone charger. Maybe a camera if Oliver couldn’t bear to be parted from one for a day.
“The dogs already boarded?” Ryan asked.
“Yeah.”
Ryan nodded. “All right, let’s get going. Give me the bag.”
Oliver tilted his head. “What?”
“Give me the bag,” Ryan repeated, trying to keep the tone he used with his kids out of his voice.
“I can carry my bag,” Oliver protested, trying to give him a withering look. He just ended up looking adorably annoyed.
Ryan took the small duffle off Oliver’s shoulder for him, ignoring his grasping hand. “You have a broken ankle and crutches, and I’m taking you to the hospital at five in the morning. I’m carrying the bag.”
Oliver looked like he wanted to say something else, but Ryan didn’t let him. He gave Oliver a little nudge, not enough to throw him off balance — he wouldn’t do that — just to get him moving.
Even though Ryan was parked as close as he could to the front door, it was slow going getting in to the car. It was tempting to test his strength and try to carry Oliver bridal-style, but he imagined the thrashing Oliver would do would send them both to the ground with a few more broken bones to show for it.
Ryan tossed Oliver’s bag in the backseat and opened the front door for him.
“Your ride, sir,” Ryan said, offering a half-bow to see if he could get something of a smile out of Oliver.
It was a bit of a dance getting Oliver into the passenger seat of the SUV, even though Ryan had already moved the seat back as far as it’d go before he’d arrived. He kept a hand on Oliver’s elbow and steadied the door while Oliver sat down sideways and then swung his legs into the car.
“You prepared,” Oliver noted, stretching his legs out in front of him.
“I know how much room your legs take up.”
“Been thinking about getting me into your back seat?” Oliver dropped his voice, grinning a little despite the tiredness in his eyes.
“Put your fucking seat belt on,” Ryan grumbled but smiled all the same.
Traffic was lighter at this hour, though still heavier than it had any right to be. Ryan longed for coffee, but he knew Oliver hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since the night before and Ryan wasn’t about to tempt him with the scent of fresh coffee in the confined cab of a car. He had water though, in the back, for later when it’s time to take Oliver home.
“So, am I your Emergency Contact now?” Ryan asked, winding down out of the hills.
“I asked Aisha first,” Oliver responded. “and she laughed at me and told me to fuck off.” Streetlights washed rhythmically over his face. He looked tired.
Ryan nodded to himself. “Got it.”
“Solid back-up choice though,” Oliver added. There was a quirk on his lips, a little extra brightness in his eyes.
Ryan used to be the name someone wrote down on forms like this. He hadn’t been for a few years. He missed it, in a way, knowing he was needed. Knowing he was someone’s first choice in their worst moments. Knowing he was trusted to come when called.
“You still telling everyone you shattered it doing some Tom Cruise bullshit instead of tripping over your own feet?”
Oliver snorted and tapped his knee with his fingers. “It was heroic. At least I’ve never gotten a black eye after stepping on Legos.”
Ryan shook his head, grinning. “Legos should be part of the Geneva Convention. Wait until you have kids. You’ll see.”
Oliver was silent, face turned towards the window. Ryan pressed his lips together against the next thing he wanted to say.
The last time Ryan was at Cedars-Sinai was for the birth of his daughter. It was in a different tower on the massive campus and he wasn’t sure he could find his way back there at this point.
He knew where he was supposed to take Oliver. He was surprised when Oliver asked him to take him to surgery, although it’s not like Oliver had any family in town to accompany him. Ryan was pretty sure Oliver would drive himself if the surgical center would let him, anesthesia and cast be damned.
It was quiet in this section of the hospital, although sirens sounded off in the distance — an ambulance bringing another patient into the busy emergency department.
Oliver sat in a chair not quite big enough for him at the admittance desk, his booted leg stretched out to the side. Ryan sat next to him, Oliver’s bag on his lap, listening to a staff member run through final waiver, billing, and insurance information. Ryan always thought it was a little late to be going through this sort of thing now, but what did he know about the hospital system?
“And this is the person taking you home?”
Ryan’s head snapped up. Clara, the nurse, was looking between him and Oliver.
“Uh, yeah,” Oliver said. He was signing yet another form.
Clara handed Ryan a clipboard with paperwork. “Please write down your name and a number we can reach you. Will you be staying in the hospital during the surgery or going home?”
Ryan glanced at Oliver, but Oliver was looking down at the nearly endless scroll of paperwork.
“How long is it scheduled for?”
Clara glanced at her computer. “Surgery should be 1-2 hours. Dr. Greene can give you more specifics in pre-op. Post-op recovery is generally a few hours and then he’ll be ready to be discharged.”
“You can go home—” Oliver said just as Ryan said, “I’ll stay here.”
Oliver looked at him then. He was chewing his lip but didn’t argue the point.
Ryan glanced down at his own paperwork, at the one question he still needed to answer:
Relationship to patient?
Friend felt somehow both completely accurate and wildly insufficient. What else could he put? He was Oliver’s friend. He was also the guy sitting in a surgical waiting room holding Oliver's keys and wallet at six in the morning.
Ryan scratched FRIEND on the line. It wasn’t wrong. It still annoyed him.
Clara took the completed paperwork from them both. “A member of your surgical team will come get you to take you back to pre-op when it’s time. Shouldn’t be long. You’re first on the schedule.”
“Great, thank you,” Oliver said.
Ryan helped him stand, handing him his crutches and pushing the chairs out of the way to give Oliver room to better maneuver.
“This fucking sucks,” Oliver grumbled when they were once again seated in the waiting area. Oliver now had a medical bracelet with his information on it around his wrist. The sight of it made Ryan’s stomach twist.
“Yeah,” Ryan agreed. Oliver’s bag was between his feet on the floor.
“They’re not going to let me do stunts anymore.”
Ryan nodded. “I think there are going to be a lot more conversations about it.”
He didn’t want to tell Oliver that it had been fucking scary, watching the jump and the stumble and the fall. Realizing that Oliver wasn’t popping back up right away. Seeing how many crew members rushed the set. Ryan had wanted to go to him, too, but there wasn’t a world where he could dash across the set yelling Oliver’s name while his heart pounded out of his fucking chest.
“Thanks for bringing me,” Oliver said.
Ryan watched another pair enter the waiting room — a young girl with her arm in a sling holding the hand of a taller woman who had to be her mother.
“Yeah, of course,” Ryan responded.
“Probably not your preferred use of a day off.” Oliver picked at the hospital bracelet.
“No, I love the smell of the hospital in the morning and paying $20 an hour for parking.”
“It should be free to park at the hospital, right?”
Ryan nodded. “Yes, it should. Let’s start a riot.”
Oliver snorted, finally smiling a little.
Ryan wanted to tell him it was going to be all right, that it was just a little ankle surgery, but a short woman in blue scrubs with her hair pulled back into a braid appeared in front of them. She had a wheelchair in front of her.
“Oliver Jones? You ready to go back?”
Pre-op was a large, white, cold room with a series of little rooms separated by long curtains. Ryan hadn’t expected to be allowed this far back with Oliver, but the nurse, Lanie, had gestured for him to follow.
Oliver had been stripped of most of the things that made him look Oliver. The hoodie and sweatpants he’d worn to the hospital were now folded into an official green plastic belongings bag on the floor next to the comfortable-looking recliner he was resting in. He hadn’t worn a watch and his hair was messy.
He was now wearing a pale blue hospital gown, a robe, one ugly gray sock with rubber grips, and the same mildly annoyed expression he’d had when Ryan arrived at his house. Ryan had tried to politely step outside of the curtains while Oliver changed his clothes, but Oliver had grabbed his wrist and stopped him.
“It’ll be easier,” Oliver had said, “if you help.”
Who was Ryan to ever refuse him?
Oliver’s broken ankle lay uncovered on top of the blanket, freed of the boot he’d been wearing the last few days. Ryan didn’t like looking at it. The swelling had gone down considerably since the accident happened — the ankle finally looked like an ankle and less like a sausage — but there was still deep bruising under the skin, purple fading into ugly yellow-green along the outside of Oliver’s naked foot. Ryan wondered how big the scar was going to be, how many plates and screws were going to become a part of Oliver’s skeleton.
Oliver’s initials were already scribbled in purple marker on his right shin.
“I feel like all the bruising and weird shape would make it pretty obvious which ankle needs the surgery,” Ryan said.
Oliver rolled his eyes. “I think I’ve been asked six times already which ankle it is. I'm beginning to think they don't trust me.”
“I've met you.”
Oliver gave him a tired little smile.
Ryan knew this version of him. He'd seen it before difficult stunts. Before live appearances Oliver secretly hated but was strangely good at. Before conversations he had spent three days pretending he wasn't worried about. The ability to turn his nerves into charm. To make everyone around him feel more comfortable despite his own unease.
Ryan wanted to tell him he didn’t have to do that right now. He didn’t have to make the nurses laugh or keep Ryan from worrying. He could put Oliver Stark down for a few hours and just be Oliver — nervous about going into surgery, pissed off about his ankle, maybe even a little scared.
He could just be Ryan’s friend. Or whatever it was they’d become after all this time.
The anesthesiologist came to introduce himself, breaking through Ryan’s wandering thoughts. He walked through the procedure, confirmed they’d be operating on the right ankle yet again, signed his own initials on Oliver’s leg in a different color marker, and disappeared around the curtains.
Oliver picked at the edge of his hospital bracelet.
“You good?” Ryan asked.
“‘Course.”
Ryan looked at him, narrowed his eyes slightly. Almost ten years of knowing this man — he knew better.
Oliver sighed. “It's surgery, Ryan.” He emphasized Ryan’s name like it meant something. “I'm not going to say I'm fucking thrilled about it.”
“There he is.” Ryan smiled, teasing. Just a little. Enough to let Oliver know Ryan wasn’t worried. That there was nothing to be worried about.
Even if the tension sitting cold beneath Ryan’s ribs said otherwise.
“Fuck off.” Oliver lifted two fingers but there was no heat behind it.
Better.
Lanie reappeared briefly, poking her head around the curtain. “We're almost ready for you. Won’t be long. If you need to use the restroom, now’s the time.”
Oliver nodded, and something in his face changed. Only slightly. Ryan probably wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't spent years looking at him. He wanted to take Oliver’s hand, press a comforting kiss to his knuckles.
Oliver reached toward the bedside table and picked up his phone.
“Here.”
Ryan took it. It was heavier than his.
“Don't go through my phone,” Oliver commanded.
“I'd rather throw myself down the stairs and break an ankle.”
“Camera roll's worth it.”
“I've seen your Instagram.”
“Instagram gets the tasteful nudes,” Oliver replied with a little wink.
Ryan barked out a laugh before he could stop himself.
The nurse pulled the curtain aside.
“All right, Mr. Jones. Time to go.”
Ryan shoved Oliver's phone carefully into the front pocket of the duffel while a little spike a worry wormed inside his belly.
Oliver looked at him once more. Not nervous, exactly. Just looking. Cautious, perhaps.
“I'll be here,” Ryan said.
Oliver's shoulders loosened.
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
The Starbucks inside the hospital was already open and already busy. Ryan had been awake for hours, and now that Oliver wasn’t next to him he could get some coffee and a shitty breakfast sandwich (plus a pastry, sue him) without getting glared at.
Ryan picked a spot in the waiting room in the corner with his back to the wall. He wore a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He didn’t think he was likely to be recognized in a surgical ward of a hospital on a random Thursday, but he didn’t want to deal with it.
Oliver’s bag was secure between his feet and Ryan felt the vibration of a text message come through. He thought about looking, seeing who it was, what they were saying. Who was important enough to Oliver to know about his surgery date. Ryan refrained.
It occurred to him suddenly that he had so many of Oliver’s most important things in his possession: his phone, his keys, his wallet with his ID carrying his real name. A change of his clothes. Something warm and confusing filled his chest, tightened his ribs, made it hard to breathe for a moment. He’d lived in Oliver’s house, slept in his bed, kissed his mouth, and yet these were the things that now gave him pause.and
If he were a smarter man, he would have brought something to do. Something productive. His iPad, a book, a script. At least he remembered to bring headphones so he could listen to some podcasts instead of eavesdropping on everyone else.
There was little for him to do but wait. That was the worst part. He could sit and wait and catastrophize about all the things that could go wrong during a simple surgery. Blood clots. Bad reactions to anesthesia. A random fucking heart attack no one ever saw coming. Ryan was better when there was something to do, something to keep his body busy and his mind quiet. Get the kids up and dressed and fed. Learn his lines. Hit a punching bag. Sitting still in a waiting room full of strangers while someone cut his — cut Oliver open? Not ideal.
Ryan checked the time again. Seven minutes had passed.
He put his phone facedown on his thigh. This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. Oliver had a world-class surgeon who Ryan had Googled the shit out of the night before, despite promising himself he wasn't going to do that. It was an ankle. People had ankle surgery every day. Oliver would come out of the OR with some screws, a brand new cast, and an insufferable story about the time he looked really cool getting hurt on set.
Oliver's bag remained wedged securely between his shoes. Ryan squeezed it between his feet just to make sure it was still there, just to feel the weight of it.
Ryan waited an hour before texting Aisha.
Ryan: He’s in surgery.
Aisha: 🙏
Ryan: He told me I was his second choice
He didn’t know why he sent the text, except people tended to tell Aisha things they hadn’t meant to say out loud.
Aisha: lol absolutely not
Aisha: he asked me if I could do it and then spent ten minutes explaining your shooting schedule so I told him to stop being an idiot and ask you
Ryan stared at his phone, trying to decipher if it meant what it meant or only what he thought it meant.
Why the hell had Oliver spent ten minutes telling Aisha about Ryan's schedule? He could have just called.
Oliver didn’t need to overthink asking Ryan to drive him to the hospital. Ryan would have said yes immediately. He did say yes. He would have moved things around if he’d had to; gotten coverage for his kids, whatever it was. He would have figured it out. He would have slept on Oliver’s couch overnight to be there even earlier if he’d needed to. It wasn’t even a question.
At some point it had stopped being a question.
Because Oliver did call him when something happened. Ryan knew the specific brand of espresso beans Oliver kept stocked for his idiotic 3 a.m. wake up calls. Ryan knew where Oliver kept the spare dog food and Oliver had Ryan's door code. Ryan had been inside Oliver's house when Oliver wasn't there, waiting for Oliver to come home.
Ryan: he doesn’t have to be weird about it
Aisha: yes he does
The waiting room filled with more patients and family members as the hours ticked by. A wife knitted calmly while she waited for her husband. The mother read quietly while waiting for her daughter, checking the time on her phone every 15 minutes. An elderly couple sat close together, knees pressed together.
“Mr. Guzman?”
Ryan looked up. Dr. Greene stood near his chair, a calm expression on her face. Ryan stood.
“Hi, yes, that’s me.”
“Oliver’s doing great,” she said.
Relief flooded through Ryan — a stupid, disproportionate rush from scalp to toes even though Ryan knew Oliver would be just fine. That it was just a little ankle surgery. Nothing serious. Nothing that needing worrying over. Nevertheless, he was relieved.
“Great, that’s great,” Ryan answered inanely.
Dr. Greene smiled at him. She must have heard any number of mindless responses from relieved patients. “He’s in recovery. The surgery went perfectly. I’m very happy with the outcome. You’ll be able to come back and see him soon.”
Ryan nodded. “Okay, thank you. I appreciate it.”
Dr. Greene nodded at him and left, likely off to her next case, her next patient. Ryan sank back down into his chair with a deep sigh.
The post-op recovery room was full of beeping machines, groggy patients, and family members getting instructions from the nursing staff.
Oliver was sitting up in a hospital bed, head back against a pillow with his eyes still closed. For a moment Ryan had a flashback to filming on their stupid little show, hours repeating the same lines in a hospital set that never looked quite realistic. Maybe because it was missing the smell of latex gloves, plastic machines, and chloroxylenol. Or maybe because the set was missing a ceiling.
Oliver opened his eyes slowly as Ryan came around his bedside, revealing a familiar shade of blue. A slow, sleepy smile curved his mouth.
“Hey, you stayed.”
Heat twisted Ryan’s stomach. “Where else would I go?”
Oliver regarded him for a long moment, anesthesia-soft and unguarded, and then slowly lifted his arm from the bed and reached for Ryan. His fingers closed around Ryan’s wrist, loose and cool. Ryan took a slow breath and resisted the urge to twine their fingers together.
Discharge happened slowly. The nursing staff was eager to help, coming by with fresh water, juice options, and extra warm blankets. Ryan wasn’t surprised. Oliver’s particular brand of charm was obnoxiously effective. Ryan had been falling for it for years.
He got the impression that Oliver had been ridiculously charming throughout the entire process — smiling at everyone, cracking little jokes, thanking every nurse like they’d personally done him a favor — right up until the anesthesia got him and pulled him under on the operating table.
Ryan crouched down while Oliver sat on the side of the bed and he helped Oliver put his one sock and shoe on. His other leg was back in a cast, his bare toes oddly vulnerable where they poked out. He thought about tweaking Oliver’s big toe but remembered they weren’t alone.
A different nurse — Gemma — was with them now, and she had more information than Ryan could possibly absorb. He briefly thought about recording her until he saw the packet of paperwork she had. Pain medication. Follow-up visits. Reminders to schedule physical therapy. The dos and absolute do nots of ankle surgery. Ryan took the packet and stuffed it into Oliver’s bag.
“Shower?” Oliver asked.
Gemma shook her head. “You don’t want to get that cast wet. I suggest getting a waterproof cast cover and a shower chair. And maybe start with a sponge bath the first couple of days. Our patient here might need some help getting situated the first few times.”
Heat flooded Ryan’s cheeks. An image of Oliver naked and wet beneath the hot spray flashed through Ryan's mind with such aggressive clarity that he almost choked on spit.
Oliver looked over at Ryan. Ryan desperately tried not to look at him and found Gemma smirking at them both. Oliver's drugged little smile got wider.
“Ryan’s good with his hands,” he mumbled.
Ryan nearly did choke. Gemma’s mouth twitched, though it probably wasn’t the worst thing she’d ever heard.
“Okaaay,” Ryan said, much too quickly. A little sharp. “You’re done talking.”
Ryan helped Oliver stand from the bed, hands on Oliver’s waist because he could, feeling the tensing and shifting of Oliver’s muscles beneath his palms. He wanted to hug Oliver fully.
“I can walk,” Oliver protested as Ryan guided him down to the waiting wheelchair. He looked absurdly oversized in the chair, broken ankle stretched out in front of him on the footplate.
“Hospital policy,” Gemma said. “You wouldn’t believe the things patients try to get away with.”
Ryan could absolutely believe it.
“Come on, big guy. Think of it as a carnival ride.” Ryan shouldered Oliver’s bag and gathered up the crutches Oliver had entered the hospital on that morning. It felt like ten minutes and a lifetime ago.
“Weee,” Oliver said, rolling his eyes.
Gemma smiled at them both. “Discharge patients can be a delight, you know?”
Oliver fell asleep on the ride home, his head tipped back against the seat rest and mouth open a little. It was only annoying because Ryan wanted to ask him how he was feeling, how he was doing. If he was hungry, if he needed anything. If he was in pain. Instead, he kept the radio down low and got them home as quickly evening LA traffic allowed.
Oliver grumbled when Ryan nudged him awake to get out of the car but shook himself into action.
“I can do it,” Oliver said, grabbing for the car doorframe like he was going to haul himself out of the car by himself.
“Knock it off,” Ryan countered. He got the crutches out of the backseat and together they got Oliver inside the house without incident.
“Bed or couch?” Ryan asked.
“Couch.”
It was an oversized sofa, with lots of room for a big man who was mostly legs. Ryan grabbed extra pillows off the bed and a blanket out of the closet and made sure Oliver and his leg were properly supported. Ryan grabbed cold water out of the fridge and put it on the coffee table with Oliver’s phone and the TV remote control within reach.
He could feel Oliver’s eyes tracking his every movement.
“What?” He finally asked, flushed under the scrutiny.
“Nothing,” Oliver responded, a little undercurrent of mirth in his voice.
“You're staring at me.”
Oliver’s lips quirked. “You're very competent.”
“Shut up and drink some water.”
“I want coffee.”
Ryan sighed, put his hands on his hips. “Get you anything else, good sir?”
Oliver shrugged, a little coy. “I could eat.”
Ryan shook his head, but little frissons of happiness were running under his skin. “Fine. But only because you’re injured.”
Later, after a thrown together dinner of the leftover rice, sweet potatoes, and tofu that Ryan found in Oliver’s fridge, Ryan relaxed back against the couch cushions. Oliver was once again stretched out, his feet near Ryan’s thigh. The cast around his ankle created a strange lump underneath the blanket that covered him. He looked comfortable, finally relaxed,
“You don’t have to stay,” Oliver said quietly.
The TV was on, playing an episode of a TV show Ryan had never seen before. Oliver wasn’t looking at him; he was worrying the edge of the blanket between two fingers, his gaze fixed vacantly on the TV screen.
“Someone should stay with you tonight,” Ryan said. He wanted to rest his hand on Oliver’s ankle, over the cast, over the stitched together bone.
“I know.”
“So.”
“I could call—”
“Oliver.”
Oliver stopped, took a deep breath, rubbed his palm along his stubbled jaw.
Ryan thought he might understand it, understand Oliver as much as anyone could. Asking Aisha first. Comments about being the backup choice. Telling Ryan he could leave. Vulnerability sometimes came with a price.
“I'm staying,” Ryan said. Decisively.
Oliver finally looked at him. He was pale and there were dark circles under his eyes. He’d been taking the whole thing in stride — with jokes and smiles and trying to keep everyone from worrying — but Ryan knew he was still hurt, still shaken from having taken the fall in the first place.
“Ryan—”
“I'm already here,” Ryan cut him off. “I've eaten your weird fucking tofu. I have your pain med schedule. I apparently have strong opinions about whether you should attempt to shower tomorrow.”
Oliver's mouth twitched.
“And,” Ryan continued, “they specifically told me a responsible adult has to stay with you for twenty-four hours.” He was pretty sure it was to keep Oliver from falling over and injuring himself further.
Oliver quirked an eyebrow up. “That you?”
“Fuck you,” Ryan said, a gentle laugh catching around the words.
“Questionable definition of responsible here.”
Ryan shook his head, but he couldn’t quite get rid of his smile. He didn’t want to. “Go ahead. Call the hospital. Lodge a complaint.”
Oliver laughed softly and tipped his head back into the mound of pillows.
A minute passed. Then Oliver shifted beneath the blanket until his good foot pressed lightly against Ryan's thigh.
Ryan looked down at it. Oliver didn't move.
“You know,” Ryan said eventually, “you could've just asked me.”
Oliver's eyes flicked toward him. Something in his face reminded Ryan of guilt.
“For today,” Ryan clarified.
“I did ask you.”
“You asked Aisha first,” Ryan said. “Why?”
Oliver looked back at the television. A few lamps were on in the living room, casting a warm glow across his face.
For a second Ryan thought he wasn't going to answer.
Then, quietly, “Didn't want to assume.”
Something inside Ryan's chest pulled tight and painful. “Assume.”
“That you'd want to spend your day off sitting around a hospital. Take care of me all night.” Oliver shrugged one shoulder. “It's a lot.”
Ryan stared at him, at his lovely, familiar profile. It didn't feel like a lot. Maybe that was the problem.
He’d driven across Los Angeles before sunrise and carried Oliver's bag and waited all day under bright fluorescent lights and listened carefully while a nurse explained how many pills Oliver could take every six hours.
He'd made dinner out of whatever he found in Oliver's refrigerator and refilled Oliver’s water. He was going to sleep on this couch or move them both to Oliver’s bed if that was going to be more comfortable for Oliver, and he would wake up every single time Oliver moved in case he needed something.
And he would do it all over if Oliver asked again.
“Oli,” Ryan murmured, low and soft.
Oliver turned his head. His eyes were dark in the dim lighting.
“You're allowed to assume some things.”
Oliver went very still. Ryan wasn't entirely sure what he'd just said. The TV was too loud, too bright. He kind of wished the dogs were home as a distraction.
After a moment Oliver's mouth curved, small and warm. Private.
“Definitely a solid backup choice.”
Ryan narrowed his eyes, but warmth flooded through him.
“Keep talking and I'm calling Kenny to come sponge-bathe you.”
Oliver's laugh was soft and sincere. He dug his toes into Ryan’s thigh and Ryan settled his hand on top of Oliver’s foot.