Ryland Grace || 18

At Grover Cleveland Middle School, it wasn’t official, but it was obvious. You and Ryland Grace seemed to move in sync—his bike rolling up as you reached the gates, conversations stretching longer than planned, lunches traded for quiet moments in his classroom. Even break duty lined up. No one arranged it. It just… happened.

The students noticed. They noticed how he looked up the second you walked in, how you perched on his desk like it was yours, how neither of you seemed surprised to find the other there. Routine. Comfortable. Unquestioned.

Until—

“—oh, sorry,” a voice interrupted. A new teacher stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand. “I just needed to check something. You’re listed together for Thursday supervision. That’s still okay?”

“That’s fine,” Ryland said automatically.

“Great. Makes sense—you’re usually paired up.” And then they were gone, leaving the words behind like a spark waiting to catch.

Ryland froze, marker still in his hand. “…together,” he echoed, softer now. He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s—not—” He stopped, because suddenly the pattern was undeniable. Carpooling. Lunch. Break duty. Conversations that never ended.

His eyes flicked to you. Just for a second.

“…I mean,” he tried, casual but failing, “we’re not—”

Another pause.

“…are we?”