That Telling MomentChapter 20

David Ryland had considered exactly twenty-eight different ways to apologise to Stephen. The highest scoring option, a detailed PowerPoint presentation complete with citations and a flowchart of his catastrophic decision-making process, still only achieved a 32% probability of success. Approximately the same odds as talking your way out of a parking ticket with a Westminster traffic warden. Not impossible, but not something to bet one’s emotional future on.

He’d been running simulations since this morning. Every scenario ended with the same statistical probability of success: absolutely fucking none.

Now he paced his Kensington flat like a caged laboratory animal, doing what any self-respecting scientific genius would do in a crisis of this magnitude. He’d built a spreadsheet. “Catastrophic Sexual Encounters and Their Aftermath: A Quantitative Analysis of Complete and Utter Failure.”

The neat columns and orderly rows should have been comforting. A numerical sanctuary where messy human emotions could be translated into manageable variables. Instead, the satisfying click of his mechanical keyboard as he input statistical probabilities of “Stephen never speaking to him again” (97.3%) versus “Stephen agreeing to let Ryland grovel for forgiveness” (2.7%, margin of error ±1.2%) failed to provide its usual soothing effect.

He paced the length of his living room for the thirty-seventh time. His fingers tapped an anxious rhythm against his thigh. Thumb to index, thumb to middle, thumb to ring, thumb to pinky. Repeat. A self-soothing pattern that had served him well through sensory overloads and professional crises.

It did nothing for the acid churning through his stomach.

The five-thirty flight from Geneva had been its own special form of hell. Three hours and twenty-seven minutes wedged into a window seat, cataloguing his failures with the precision of a particularly vindictive auditor. Every gasp, every whimper, every moment Stephen’s body had tensed beneath his replayed in high definition behind his eyelids. The memory of Stephen’s face when Ryland had told him to leave was a serrated knife twisting between his ribs.

His laptop screen glowed from the coffee table, displaying the search results for “omega male virginity first experience,” which had yielded approximately 1.7 million results. The first result, helpfully highlighted in a featured box with a thumbnail that would haunt his nightmares for approximately 7.3 years, was titled “MY FIRST KNOTTING!!!” The omega in the preview image was unmistakably Lysander Huxley, Stephen’s identical twin.

“Christ,” Ryland muttered, clicking away. Of course the universe would ensure that his research into how badly he’d traumatised one Huxley twin would immediately confront him with evidence of the other’s similar experience.

“Useless.” He added another filter to his increasingly complex search algorithm. The program he’d coded that morning was designed to filter out explicit content and prioritise credible academic sources, but the internet seemed determined to show him exactly how many ways one could fetishise a male omega’s first time.

He couldn’t look the cab driver in the eye when he’d arrived at Heathrow. He’d kept his face turned to the window, his hands folded in his lap, his breathing deliberately measured. As if everyone who came near might detect what he’d done.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard before adding another parameter: “psychological impact negative first sexual experience.” The results made his jaw tighten.

Studies showing increased rates of attachment dysfunction. Research papers on trauma responses following botched first encounters. Clinical analyses of confidence impacts, sexual anxiety development, trust issues.

“You absolute fucking monster,” he told his reflection in the darkened window. The words felt foreign in his mouth. Ryland rarely swore, finding it an inefficient form of communication. But his usual precision of wording couldn’t capture the magnitude of his self-loathing.

His mobile phone sat on the kitchen counter, screen dark. He should call Stephen. Should explain. Should apologise. Should throw himself into the Thames with weighted pockets. All seemed equally viable at this point.

He moved to the counter, picking up the device as if it might detonate. His thumb hovered over Stephen’s contact information.

Draft 1: Stephen. I apologise for my abrupt departure. My behaviour was inexcusable.

Delete. Too formal. Too distant. Inadequate by approximately 7,000%.

Draft 2: I ran because I couldn’t face what I’d done to you. I took something precious and treated it carelessly. I don’t deserve your forgiveness but you deserve my explanation.

Delete. Too emotional. Too raw. Stephen didn’t need Ryland’s feelings vomited all over him after everything else he’d inflicted.

Draft 3: When I realised you were a virgin, I panicked. I’d hurt you through carelessness and selfishness, taking without proper preparation or consideration. I couldn’t bear to see the pain I’d caused reflected in your eyes, so I fled like the coward I am. I understand if you never wish to speak to me again. I wouldn’t speak to me either if the tables were turned.

His thumb hovered over the send button for 6.8 seconds before he deleted that one too.

Ryland pulled at his hair, tugging until the physical discomfort gave him something else to focus on. This wasn’t how his brain worked. He was methodical. Analytical. His thoughts followed logical patterns, neat and orderly as the periodic table. Stephen had bypassed all his careful systems, rearranged his neural pathways until Ryland couldn’t recognise his own thought processes.

“Systematic approach,” he muttered, returning to his laptop. “Define the problem. Analyse contributing factors. Develop potential solutions.”

He typed. He deleted. He typed again. Sorry I potentially ruined sex for you forever. Sorry I treated your first time with all the care of an industrial waste disposal man. Sorry I fucked you and then literally fled the country rather than face what I’d done.

A dark thought slithered through, tempting in its simplicity: he could always blame his neurodivergence. Apologies for the trauma, Stephen. My brain’s wired differently, you see. Social cues and all that. Bit rubbish at distinguishing between “please continue” and “I’m in excruciating pain.” Easy mistake. He let out a hollow laugh. Because nothing said “I respect you” quite like using his neurological differences as a get-out-of-jail-free card for being a selfish prick. He might as well complete the arsehole bingo card and suggest Stephen should feel honoured to have been deflowered by a scientific genius, regardless of the devastation he left behind.

His fingers moved across the keyboard again, a fresh search: “how to apologise for being terrible at sex.”

The results were not helpful. Advice columns suggested bringing flowers (statistically ineffective gesture with no functional value), buying chocolate (generic and impersonal), or “trying again with more attention to your partner’s needs,” which assumed one would ever be allowed within ten metres of said partner again.

Ryland’s research had yielded one inescapable conclusion: he had broken something that could not be repaired with equations or algorithms or carefully calculated gestures. He had broken Stephen’s trust. Had taken something precious and treated it with inexcusable carelessness.

His phone buzzed, sending a jolt through him. For one wild moment he thought it might be Stephen, but the notification showed his brother’s name.

Michael: You alive? Lab called. Said you weren’t answering emails.

Ryland stared at the message. The lab. Work. His research. The entire reason for his existence before Stephen Huxley had rearranged his mental architecture. It all felt distant now, like trying to recall key scenes from a book read in childhood.

Ryland: Alive. Taking personal day.

Michael: ??? Since when do you take personal days? Are you dying? Do I need to call an ambulance?

Ryland: Not dying. Just thinking.

Michael: About???

He didn’t respond. He set the phone face-down on the counter and returned to the sofa. His fingers moved across the phone screen one more time.

Draft 4: I need to apologise properly for what happened. I handled everything terribly, from the act itself to the aftermath. You deserved so much better than what I gave you. I understand if you never want to see me again, but I would like the opportunity to apologise face to face when you return.

His thumb hovered. This one was better. More direct. It acknowledged his failings without burdening Stephen with the full weight of his emotional collapse.

Delete.

Still too close to the raw nerve. Stephen didn’t need Ryland’s feelings. He needed facts. Distance. Clarity.

Draft 5: I apologise for leaving Geneva without informing you. Upon reflection, I believe our physical interaction was a mistake. The professional and personal complications created by such an association are suboptimal for both our careers and emotional well-being. I suggest we maintain professional distance upon your return to London.

He stared at the words, clinical and detached. They felt wrong, like equations with misplaced variables, but they were safer. Cleaner. They created boundaries instead of emotional chaos. They protected Stephen from any further damage Ryland might inflict.

Send.

The message left his phone, and the air left his lungs with it. He knew immediately. The text wasn’t an apology. It was a rejection. Cold and clinical, making it sound as though Stephen had been the problem, as though Ryland had found him wanting rather than the other way around.

“Fuck,” Ryland whispered. He should call. Should explain. Should fix this new mistake heaped upon the old ones.

His phone screen showed the message had been delivered. Then, moments later, read.

No response came. Of course it didn’t.

Ryland sank onto his sofa, head in his hands, and did something he hadn’t done since he was eight years old and his science fair project had caught fire.

He cried.