𑣲 Ryland Grace .ᐟ.ᐟ

The afternoon sun filtered through the stained glass panels framing the front door, casting a mosaic of warm amber and soft rose across the polished hardwood of the entryway. The house smelled exactly as it always had, a nostalgic blend of sandalwood and toasted chestnuts drifting down from the upper hall.

Ryland stood just inside the threshold, setting his bag down against his scuffed boots. He shifted his weight, running a broad hand through his slightly messy blonde hair and tugging at the collar of his jacket. He looked like he always had, yet entirely refined by time: that easy charisma, the faintly crooked lopsided smirk, those intense, boyish blue eyes that crinkled so easily at the corners whenever he was about to laugh… When he heard the floorboards creak above and the soft rhythm of your footsteps coming down the stairs, he turned. For a second, his breath seemed to catch right in his throat. His shoulders relaxed, his chest dropping in a long quiet exhale as a slow, helplessly fond smile spread across his lips.

”Look at you...” Ryland murmured, his voice low, raspy and honey-warm as he closed the distance between you. He stopped just inches away, radiating a comfortable heat that filled the quiet foyer. He reached out, his warm palm settling over your shoulder with tenderness, his thumb brushing light circles over your sweater.

”Long time no see, sweetheart. You... wow. You’ve grown into such a lady.”

He bit his lower lip, a faint flush creeping up his throat, a classic Ryland habit whenever he was overwhelmed. He chuckled, his thumb lingering against your shoulder just a second longer than was necessary before he forced himself to drop his hand.

”Your dad said you were living back here for a bit, but man... I wasn't ready. You look amazing,” he added softly, his blue eyes searching yours with affection.

By the following morning, the house was bathed in early white sunlight. You were downstairs before anyone else, brewing a fresh pot of coffee that filled the kitchen with the rich aromas of dark roasted beans, sweet vanilla and salted caramel. The soft padding of socks on wood announced Ryland’s arrival. He stumbled into the doorway rubbing the back of his neck, his blonde hair rumpled into bedhead, wearing a loose gray henley that clung to his broad chest. He looked thoroughly adorable, sleepy-eyed, slightly disheveled and blinking like a golden retriever waking up from a long nap.

”Morning,” he mumbled, a sleepy grin crooking his mouth as he leaned heavily against the kitchen island, tracking you as you moved around the counter. When you carefully handed him a steaming ceramic mug, his hands cupped around yours to take it. He didn't let go right away. His thumbs stroked gently over the backs of your hands, his skin rough and warm against yours, holding the mug as a shared anchor between you.

”Thank you for bringing me coffee, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice deep and gravelly with sleep. He squeezed your fingers gently, his eyes softening into something so sweet it almost hurt to look at. ”Always taking such good care of me... you really are the absolute sweetest girl, you know that?”

He took a slow sip, keeping his gaze locked on yours over the rim of the mug, his cheeks tinged with a delicate, cute flush as he realized how long he was staring. He cleared his throat, chuckling nervously, but his eyes never left your face.

By dusk, the kitchen and dining room had transformed into a candlelit sanctuary. You had spent hours preparing a lavish dinner, roast chicken infused with fresh basil and lemon, warm brioche bread straight from the oven, sweet grapes, and savory pastries. Ryland walked into the dining room after washing up, stopping dead in his tracks at the threshold. His eyes widened, scanning the table spread before him, and a low, disbelieving whistle escaped his lips. He didn't stay on his side of the table. Instead, he walked straight up behind your chair while you were setting down the salad bowl. He hovered right over you, his broad chest almost flush against your back, bathing you in a wave of heat that smelled of grapefruit and fresh soap. He bent down slightly, his jaw brushing against your hair as he leaned in to inspect the food. His breath was hot against the shell of your ear.

”Wow... you cooked all of this?” Ryland whispered, a prideful laugh vibrating deep in his chest. His hand came down to rest on the back of your chair, his knuckles brushing lightly against the curve of your waist.

”Look at how clever and capable you are, darling. So proud of you.” He leaned in just an inch closer, his lips practically grazing your cheek as he breathed in your scent. ”You really outdid yourself, didn't you? Such a hardworking girl...”

An hour after dinner, the heavy crunch of truck tires against the gravel driveway signaled your father’s temporary departure. He had offered to run down to the local market to grab a couple of cases of cold beer and extra ice for the rest of his stay. The oak front door clicked shut, leaving the house in an abrupt silence.

Ryland stood leaning against the archway connecting the kitchen to the living room. He had tossed his button-up aside, now wearing just a thin white t-shirt that stretched tightly across his broad shoulders and chest. He crossed his arms, his biceps flexing beneath the cotton, but there was a distinctly flustered energy to him. He was chewing on his lower lip, his blue eyes fixed entirely on you as you folded a kitchen towel over your arm.

”Your dad left to get some beer for tonight,” Ryland said softly, his voice dropping into a lower register that made the hair on your arms stand up. He pushed off the doorframe, taking a slow, unhurried step toward you. The charm was there, but beneath it was that endearing and slightly pathetic eagerness, the way his pulse hammered in his throat, the way he looked at you like he was completely at your mercy and terrified of his own desire.

”Leaves just the two of us... doesn't it?” he murmured, a faint, nervous smirk tugging at his mouth as he closed the space between you, stopping just close enough that your toes brushed his boots.

”I-I should get these dishes done before he gets back,” you said, your voice a little breathier than intended as you turned back towards the sink.

”Hey, no— no, let me,” Ryland insisted quickly, stepping right up behind you at the counter.

You turned on the faucet, filling the basin with warm, sudsy water that smelled of clean soap, fresh lemon, mint and lavender. Before you could pick up the sponge, Ryland closed the gap entirely. His chest pressed flush against your back, his thighs framing yours, trapping you comfortably against the rim of the counter. He reached around your waist, his thick, heavy arms encompassing you. His large, hands slid right over yours in the soapy water, his longer fingers tangling between yours to gently take the sponge from your grip.

”Let me help you wash the dishes,” he whispered right into the crook of your neck, his cheek resting lightly against your hair. His chest expanded heavily against your shoulder blades as he took a deep, steadying breath. ”You've been running around all day, sweetheart. Cooking, taking care of the place... you've been so, so good. Let me take care of you now, okay?”

His touch was agonizingly gentle. He washed a plate with slow, deliberate movements, his chin resting on your shoulder, his breath warm against your collarbone every time he exhaled. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the firm press of his body, the faint and rapid thrum of his heartbeat against your spine.

Flustered by the overwhelming intimacy and focused on the way his body felt behind yours, your hands trembled as you reached for a glass to rinse. The slippery glass caught the edge of the faucet, slipping out of your fingers and splashing dark soapy water right across the front of your shirt, soaking through the thin fabric and dripping onto your jeans.

”Ahh… gosh, I'm sorry…” you gasped, stepping back in a scramble of clumsy embarrassment. ”I didn't mean to—“

”Shh, hey, hey... Calm down, sweetheart, it's okay,” Ryland cut in immediately, his voice dropping into a soothing, desperately soft coo.

He didn't care about the mess at all. He didn't even look at the water on the counter. Instead, his hands moved with instinct, drying them with a little dish towel and catching you firmly by the hips. With surprising effortless strength, he lifted you straight up and sat you down on the edge of the dry granite counter, stepping right between your parted knees so you were locked against him.

”Still clumsy, huh?” he whispered, a soft, immensely fond smile breaking through his flustered exterior. His calloused hand came up to gently cup the side of your neck, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw with infinite care. ”It's alright, dear. Don't stress your pretty little head over a spill. Look at you, all shaken up over a little water...”

He grabbed a dry, clean dish towel from the rack, his blue eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. He leaned in, his broad frame crowding you on the counter.

”Let me clean you, dear... just stay still for me. Be a good girl and let me fix it.” He began to dab gently at the soaked fabric of your shirt. His knuckles dragged softly over your stomach through the wet cloth, making your core tighten. Every time he pressed the towel against your skin, his eyes flicked up to your face, checking your expression. His hands were trembling slightly.