In hindsight, moving just before a country-wide lockdown was not Ryan Walden's smartest decision. But her last two-bedroom flat was far too overcrowded with the presence of her best mate, Fiona, as well as her brand new boyfriend turned fiancé. And while Fiona was the best flatmate Ryan ever had, her new live-in-fiancé was not. Therefore, moving just before the city of London closed down completely was the only option Ryan was left with.
It's a known fact that Ryan isn't good with people. But, she somehow found common ground with Fiona Kitchen, a fiery girl with hair to match her exuberance, who decided Ryan's mellowness and overall quirkiness somehow counteracted her brashness and self-assuredness. And they were good together, for quite a while, at least. But when Fiona's sudden boyfriend-turned-fiancé took Ryan's place, resulting in Fiona kindly offering their shrinking flat to her until all of this pandemic situation was sorted out, she immediately declined, deciding once and for all to just live by herself.
She's moved enough times in her life to knock it down to a science. First, find a suitable flat within the appropriate square footage in a desirable location (something that screams "I'm twenty-seven and somewhat highly successful, even though my job is an oddity and finding a boyfriend that understands my social anxiety is a lot harder than it looks.") Next, order boxes that can be composted afterward, start packing in order of importance, leaving the necessities until the absolute end. Then, grab the keys from the realtor and rent a moving van, something mid-sized that wouldn't cause an impending heart attack while driving through the ridiculous streets of London. And if done correctly, the entire ordeal can be finished in a few hours (which Ryan has tested numerous times with positive results.)
Ryan Walden's quite prone to moving, if she's being honest. Starting with her parent's divorce when she was younger, and the overall conclusion of having two homes with two sets of parents, with two bedrooms she could style however she desired, made the concept of living out of a duffle bag for week-long trips highly achievable. Then, switching from one university to the next (because her first school didn't challenge her in the way she needed), adding on the disaster of her first serious boyfriend who ended up being the worst flatmate she could have possibly come up with, ended with her moving back in with her eccentric mother on the shores of Devon with too many books about astrology and not enough food that wasn't a substitute for meat or dairy.
Fiona saved her in that sense. But after she drags Ryan out of the confines of their warm flat one dreadful night and meets Roger in the claustrophobic club, coming to the absurd conclusion that it was love at first sight, Ryan starts to worry. Because while Ryan didn't understand people all that well, and spent most of her time in the background observing everything until she had the courage to speak up (a trait her mother attributed to her being a Pisces, but Ryan had her own reasons for being a wallflower), Fiona was the complete opposite. Vivacious and bright, bold and unrelenting—she took risks that Ryan would never even consider, and while they balanced each other out in that sense, Fiona was prone to making leaps that were incomprehensible to Ryan.
Which was why when Roger proposed after two months of dating Fiona (with one of those months filled with online communication through FaceTime and WhatsApp because he was traveling for rugby), Ryan had her concerns.
And when her friend asked her to stay in their already too-small flat, ensuring her that nothing will ever change, Ry! Ryan knew that everything, in fact, would change.
So when a Google search for a new living space turned into a phone call from a fancy realtor about a new complex near Hampstead Heath that was looking for occupancy, Ryan started labeling her moving boxes and was out the door before Fiona could even start to miss her.
With her things stacked neatly in the rented moving van, Ryan makes the hour-long trek from Clapham without any hiccups. And with the van parked somewhat correctly outside her new complex, Ryan has a feeling that the rest of her afternoon of moving would go by just as she imagined—easy, swift, and without problems.
But, things never seem to go Ryan Walden's way.
Tripping over one of Luna's cat toys holding a box filled with assorted kitchenware outside of the front door of her new flat was exactly not how Ryan imagined move-in day to transpire. But alas, she's ended up arse over tit on the horrendously carpeted flooring, scraping her knee along the way.
The pots rattle together in an obnoxious sound, bringing unwanted attention to the dark-haired woman currently observing her knee with a deep frown settled on her face. It's definitely rug burn, and it definitely stings in the worst sort of way.
Before Ryan can utter a string of expletives under her breath, she hears the distinct sound of shoes scuffling against the ugly carpet. Just as her dark eyes were about to fall towards the person heading her way, two tiny hands settle into her opened palms.
"Daddy always holds my hand when I gets a boo-boo. Says it helps to make it all better." It's a tiny voice, suitable enough to match the tiny hands, and Ryan's eyes widen when she sees two smaller green ones looking up at hers under a forehead of unruly chocolate curls. Ryan is sniffling because holy shit, did that fall fucking hurt, but she immediately strives to keep the tears at bay, trying her hardest not to cry in front of a toddler.
The small boy reorganizes his fingers so that he's clutching Ryan's thumb and forefinger, squeezing both with all of the strength he can muster, closing his eyes as if he was trying to will all of Ryan's pain away.
Ryan smiles, finding this little human to be unbearably adorable.
"Is it better yet?" He asks impatiently, looking at the cut on her knee with the utmost care, as if he could cause the bleeding to stop just by staring at the wound.
She chuckles, still sat on the floor. "Yeah, I reckon you fixed me all up, champ. Cheers. What's your name?"
His small hands finally leave hers. "Jackson. What's yours?" he asks, one coiled curl falling over his forehead and into his line of vision when he places his hands back to his side. Ryan thinks he's due for a trim.
"I'm Ryan."
"Ryan? But that's a boy name," Jackson says, confusion written all over his tiny scrunched up face. Ryan just shrugs.
"I didn't pick it, mate." Before the little boy can say anything else, Ryan hears the door a few feet to her left open, a frantic voice calling out, the sound echoing throughout the quiet hallway.
"Jackson!? Jack! How many times have I told you to wait—"
At the same time as Jackson, Ryan's head snaps up in the direction of a man with flushed cheeks heading their way. He's tall, wearing comfortable clothes and a light jacket appropriate for the spring weather outside. His hair is amok, messy waves piled together in a plastic claw clip atop his head, a blue medical mask hanging around his right wrist. His eyes dart from the small child to Ryan's, a matching look of puzzlement etched onto his face.
Ryan thinks he's probably Jackson's older brother, with the way his matching facial features add a youthful flair to his disheveled demeanor. His hair is wild, he probably hasn't shaved in a few weeks (not that Ryan finds it unattractive), and his eyes are wide and worrisome.
"Sorry daddy, the lady fell. I was holding her hand to make her boo-boo all better," Jackson replies, looking completely calm under this man's stern look.
This man. This attractive man. This man who is now standing directly in front of them, hands resting against his hips, head cocked to the side in an authoritative manner. This man, with matching features, who was just referred to as "daddy."
Ryan gulps harshly, wishing the floor would swallow her whole.
"Is that right, Bubs?" he asks in a deep, languid voice. Even though he's speaking to the small boy in front of Ryan, his eyes stay locked on hers, a small dimpled grin slowly working its way up his face at the sight of a grown woman sprawled on the floor.
"Uh, hi," is what Ryan decides to speak into the air. She begins to shuffle uncomfortably under this man's unwavering gaze, scolding herself for still sitting on the fucking ghastly hallway carpeting that she was beginning to despise with each passing minute.
"Hi," he responds, a full grin on his face now.
Ryan looks away, trying her hardest to keep the flush on her face from getting any redder. She can feel a bead of sweat trickle down her spine from the uncomfortableness of this entire situation, and she's suddenly wishing she wore something else besides a baggy jumper and athletic shorts. She starts to bend her knees, flinching a bit when the bloodied skin stretches as she tries to stand up fully. But before she can get too far, a big hand reaches out, long fingers wiggling with the intent of having her grasp onto them for support.
"Whoa, whoa. Slow down. Let me help." He's gravitated into her personal space now, and before she can really think about the clamminess of her palms, her much smaller hand falls into his as he steadies her. Once Ryan's at her full height, she's suddenly very aware of how close he is to her, with her face merely inches away from the base of his neck. When she tilts her head up a centimeter, she's close enough to admire the greenness of his eyes, the freckles that sprinkle around his iris, the hazel swirl that swooshes through the middle.
Suddenly she springs backward, dropping his hands and wiping them on her jumper, wishing she were anywhere else but here.
"Daddy, blood," Jackson says ominously, and when Ryan looks down at the small child, she watches the way his eyes widen at the sight of the cut on her knee, a shaky finger pointing out the thin trickle that works its way down her leg.
"I'm okay, really. I've got a first aid kit somewhere, don't worry about me," Ryan tells Jackson, her head tipping towards the heavy wood of her front door where she's almost positive a first aid kit is stowed away at the bottom of one of her ridiculously labeled boxes.
When she looks over at the man standing in front of her, she can tell that he doesn't believe her. And before she can slink away, he's already one step ahead of her, gesturing towards the door he flew out of a few moments prior.
"Come on, I've got plasters," he says, a soft smile on his face.
Ryan immediately shakes her head. "Honestly it's okay. I'll live." She's grateful for his kindness, but she's almost certain that if she's around his presence any longer, she'll do something else to embarrass herself and Ryan's not quite sure her cheeks can handle another blush.
"Ryan, you should really let daddy help you. Your boo-boo looks bad, and he's the best at fixing things," Jackson's quivering voice says. If Ryan wasn't seething with discomfort and embarrassment, she would find his concern extremely adorable. But all she wants to do is lock herself in her empty flat and never leave again, the fear of humiliation far too palpable for her to continue stewing in it in this stupid hallway.
Suddenly his small hand is back in hers, and when he tugs a bit, wide-eyed and nervous that the blood trail keeps falling faster and faster down her leg, Ryan's found that she can't say no to him. When she looks over at his father, she can see the twinkle of adoration in his eyes at the sight of his son so worried about a relatively harmless stranger. And before she can even comprehend what she's doing, she's following the pair to the door a few feet away from her own, her hand still wrapped around Jackson's snugly.
While she's sitting on the leather sofa, Jackson attached to her side as his father scrounges the cupboards for his first aid kit, she takes in her surroundings. The living room is quite masculine with dark leather and wooden furniture, a deep emerald rug underneath her trainer-clad feet, with a nice television on the farthest wall facing her. Along the adjacent wall, Ryan notices the vintage record player underneath an abstract art painting, with tall bookshelves filled with vinyls on either side. When Ryan squints, she notices that each row is alphabetized, the label underneath displaying the appropriate letter corresponding to the album title. She wasn't even sure that many songs existed, let alone completed works, and when her eyes scan the remainder of the wall, she observes the various guitars resting in their stands, a keyboard nestled in the corner near a dark leather stool.
Before she can snoop any further, Jackson's father is back, a few plasters in one hand along with gauze and antiseptic pads in the other. He smiles at her, noticing her unease, and finds that he thinks it's quite intriguing.
"So, Ryan, is it?" he asks once he's crouched down in front of her, practically eye level with her cut that really isn't as big of a deal as Jackson is making it out to be. But he's a child, and he's clearly concerned for her, so she tries her hardest to ignore the warmth she feels whenever his father's eyes hold her own for a beat longer than necessary.
"Yeah," she answers, flinching when he soaks up the blood with gauze, his trail starting at the middle of her shin and slowly working its way up, until he's sopped up all of the liquid from the very center of her kneecap.
"I'm Harry." He's working while he speaks, discarding the gauze on the rug to his left before gathering the antiseptic pad from the pile on the other side of her body where Jackson isn't currently sidled up to. He brings the packet to his mouth, his teeth peeking out from behind his cherry lips, ripping it open and removing the medicine from its confines. Ryan looks away before he can notice the shiver racking through her body from below.
"Nice to meet you," she practically squeaks, and it's quite pathetic how she doesn't even recognize her voice anymore. Her usual low timbre has been upped a few octaves, and she blames Jackson's attractive father, Harry, for her growing feeling of nervousness.
When she replays his name over and over again in her head, she's found that it suits him quite well. A strong name, a gentlemanly name, a name for a man who seems to have most of his life put together, considering she's taken in the state of his clean home, coupled with the gold plaques along the walls and awards of accomplishments littered throughout the bookshelves—he clearly has everything figured out.
"You picked quite the interesting time to move," Harry says while gently wiping the antiseptic pad over her scraped knee, whispering a gentle this may sting before Ryan can feel the coldness against her flushed skin.
"Yeah, well with everything going remote with my job, I sort of needed the extra space." Ryan shrugs as if it were the easiest explanation in the world.
"Where'd you live before?" Harry asks, disposing the dirty antiseptic wipe on top of the gauze and grabbing a plaster in one swift motion, as if it were something he did every day.
With one quick glance over at Jackson, who's watching his father intently by her side, Ryan can assume that he probably had his fair share of cuts and bruises along the way.
"Er. Brixton first, then Hackney. After that my boyfriend at the time begged me to move in with him, and then we broke up four months later and I was back to squatting at my mum's in Devon. Lived in Clapham for a year with my best mate, but she went off and got engaged and I made the decision of never having a flatmate again." Ryan's rambling but it's the only thing she can think to do in order to distract her from the searing pain of her rug burn.
Harry blows out a soft whistle through his front teeth, nodding absentmindedly as he opens the pesky packaging for the plasters. "Wow. That's a lot of moving around."
Ryan just nods, ignoring the feeling of his heavy hands against her kneecap. His touch is nothing short of gentle, and it sort of makes a tingling feeling shoot up her spine. She watches the wrinkle in between his eyebrows deepen as he tries his hardest to focus on the task at hand, ensuring the alignment of the plaster is placed perfectly along the ridges of her knee. Ryan comes to the conclusion that her neighbor is quite the perfectionist.
"Okay, all done," Harry announces, standing up straight from his crouched position in front of her. Before he can stand fully upright, Jackson interjects, grabbing his father's wrists tightly from his spot beside Ryan.
"No, daddy! You have to kiss it better. It doesn't work 'til you do that, it's what you always said!"
Ryan's eyes shoot up to Harry's face, a look of horror flashing over her features. She's hot all over, and the fact that her abnormally attractive neighbor is considering kissing her pathetic rug burn better, all because his adorable toddler decreed it, makes Ryan blush unforgivably.
Harry notices this, finding this clumsy woman quite comical. "I guess you're right, Bubs," Harry announces, crouching back down to his previous position in front of Ryan with the smallest hint of a smirk on his lips.
Ryan speaks, because that's what she tends to do in uncomfortable situations. "You seem to tell him a lot of absolutes."
Harry snorts, and somehow it's still attractive. "Kid remembers everything I say. Can't help it."
"Reckon you should have his IQ tested. Might have a boy-genius on your hands," Ryan says through bated breath.
Harry just shakes his head amusingly, before leaning down and pressing his lips over the plaster, making a loud smacking sound in order to appease Jackson, who starts giggling loudly.
"Did all the hurt go away?" Jackson asks, suddenly leaning over the brown leather couch with one hand on Ryan's thigh in order to reach her at eye level.
Ryan grins. "Sure did, champ. Don't know what I'd do without ya."
Jackson squeals from his seat, jumping up quickly while Harry gathers all of the used first aid equipment in one hand, heading towards the rubbish bin to dispose of it all. Ryan pivots to watch him, leaning a bit down so she can listen to Jackson tell her how every afternoon his dad takes him to the park if the weather allows it, and how they were on their way to do just that before he found her sprawled out on the carpet.
Ryan just smiles apologetically, telling the small boy that she's sorry for delaying his fun afternoon plans.
"It's ok, daddy helped you and now you're better. Wait, you should come! Daddy! Can Ryan come to the park with us?" Jackson's suddenly hobbling over towards Harry, who has quickly reentered the room with a questioning look on his face.
Before he can say no, Ryan speaks up.
"As fun as that sounds, champ, I've actually got to finish unpacking." Jackson frowns a bit, seemingly not used to hearing the word no, and when Ryan chances a look over at his father, she's a bit surprised to see that he looks the same as his son.
"Let's go, Bubs. Daddy's got work to finish up when we get back," Harry announces, clapping his hands together and looking down at Jackson's frame, ensuring that his shoes are tied correctly and his jacket is zipped up all the way. Before Ryan can ogle for too long, she starts heading over towards the front door, suddenly eager to escape the confines of Harry's flat.
"Thanks again for the, er, clean up," Ryan says awkwardly, lifting her knee up in Harry's direction as if he could have somehow forgotten about the plaster he just applied onto her skin. He's looking at her with a funny grin on his face, and before she can hear him laugh (something she's used to with boys who look like him), she gives a small wave to Jackson and begins walking back to the kitchenware box that's been tipped over in the hallway.
"Bye, Ryan. I'm sure we'll be seeing you," he calls out to her, and when Ryan allows his words to settle into the dreaded hallway, she's praying that she'll never run into him again.