Chapter 32 Love Reloaded
(Ryder)
I'd been home six weeks, and I'd never been on the receiving end of so much love and care in my life. Margot, Billy, and my Dec had been fussing over me like I was some precious artifact instead of a man with stitches and a scar. Especially Dec.
Every time I woke up, she was there, hovering close and brushing the hair from my forehead like it was instinct.
The moment my eyes opened, she’d whisper, “You okay? Need water?” She’d moved in with me, into the apartment next to Billy and Margot’s, said it was temporary, but we both knew better.
She couldn’t stand the thought of something happening when she wasn’t there.
I’d catch her on the phone with doctors, a notebook open in her lap, scribbles everywhere as she researched every single thing I ate or drank like it was a mission.
When it came time for my checkups, she insisted on coming along.
Even behind the wheel, her hands gripped it so tightly her knuckles went white, her jaw locked.
I knew she still hated driving, but she’d never admit it out loud—she didn’t want to burden Billy or me, and besides, driving was clearly out of the question for me.
We started taking short walks whenever I felt strong enough, her arm always linked with mine, a steady weight anchoring me to the present.
The air was crisp with early evening or softened by morning haze.
Sometimes we didn’t speak at all, letting the quiet stretch between us, punctuated only by the rhythm of our steps.
Other times, she told me about small things, the way the sunlight hit the park bench, a joke a neighbor had made, or a thought that made her laugh, and I’d listen, grateful for every word, every soft sound of her voice.
Even so, there was intimacy in those walks, a language without words, a trust slowly rebuilt in the gentle cadence of shared steps.
Each time we returned home, my chest felt a little lighter, as if the simple act of moving forward together was stitching something fragile and essential back into both of us.
The second she sensed me faltering, my knees wobbling or my breath catching, she’d pivot us without a word.
Yet, for all that closeness, the comforting weight of her arm around mine, the brush of her fingers against my hand, she refused to kiss me.
Her lips stayed ghostly distant, a tender barrier I could see but not cross.
She still pressed soft kisses to my forehead, my hands, sometimes the top of my head when she thought I was asleep, but never near my mouth, never near my chest, never anywhere close to the wound. I know she was afraid of making it worse.
One afternoon, the light through the window hit her face just right—soft, golden, untouchable. I slipped my arms around her from behind, needing that closeness, that warmth I’d missed. She tensed immediately and pulled away.
“Your wound,” she said quietly, not meeting my eyes.
“Come on, Dec,” I said, my voice rougher than I meant it to be. “I just… I want to hold you. Kiss you. Help, somehow. I’m tired of feeling like your patient.”
She froze mid-step. For a second, I thought maybe she hadn’t heard me. Then she turned, slow and hesitant, eyes wide like she couldn’t believe what I’d said.
“Help?” she repeated, her voice breaking on the words. “Ryder, you took a bullet that was meant for me.”
I swallowed, throat tight. “That’s not—”
Her hand came up, hovering near my chest but not quite touching. “You almost died because of me,” she whispered.
I shook my head. “Because of her.”
But she already had quiet tears spilling down as she pressed her palms against her face. “Maybe,” she said. “But you didn’t think. You just stepped in front of me. And every time I look at you, I remember that moment.”
I took a step closer, careful. “Dec—”
She looked up then, her voice barely above a breath, “You don’t get it. I’m not afraid of touching you. I’m afraid of losing you.”
The next morning, I was getting restless, so I tried my luck with Margot. I went to their kitchen, “Let me help. I can cook something.” I said.
“Nope.” She brandished a wooden spoon like a sword. “Doctor’s orders. You’re officially on house arrest.” She pointed at the chair like a drill sergeant. “Sit. Look pretty. Breathe if you must. December will have my head if you so much as peel a carrot.”
I laughed, holding up my hands. “You sound just like her.”
Margot snorted. “Yeah, but my insurance doesn’t cover angry December. Last time she glared at me, the plants wilted.”
“Oh, come on,” I said. “I’m fine. Look! no limp, no dizziness. I can at least chop onions.”
“Absolutely not. The last time you held a knife, you got shot.”
“That’s not how that happened.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Correlation, causation—whatever. I’m not risking a sequel.”
I leaned back in the chair, grinning. “You realize you’re being dramatic, right?”
“Oh, I learned from the best,” she said, waving the spoon in my direction. “You and December could win Oscars for overreacting. You take a bullet, she bans you from standing too fast.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Fine. But if I’m gonna sit here useless, at least give me a taste test.”
Margot pointed the spoon at me again. “Not a chance. December said no salt, no spice, no stress. Basically, your diet is sadness.”
I groaned. “You two are tyrants.”
She grinned. “We prefer the term caretakers with style.”
I chuckled and sat down, but before I could say anything, Margot suddenly pulled me into a soft hug and she whispered, her voice shaky, “I’m sorry I couldn’t get over my fear of hospitals and be there.”
I pressed my chin against her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Margot. I know.”
She sniffled, pulling back just enough to look at me. “I love you so much, son.”
“I love you too,” I said, smiling. “Does this mean—”
“No,” she cut in quickly, wiping at her eyes and stepping back like nothing happened. “Don’t get sentimental. Dec has already called me three times to make sure you’re breathing.”
“She called me four times,” I muttered.
“Oh, poor you,” Margot teased, her voice soft. “So tragically loved.”
I tried to smile but it faltered. “She never says it, you know? Not out loud. She says it in every look and every act, even sometimes when she thinks I am asleep.”
Margot’s teasing faded, her eyes warm with something gentler. “Give her time, sweetheart. She’s been seeing her therapist more lately. She’s trying harder than you know. You scared the life out of her. That kind of fear doesn’t go away overnight.”
Her words settled in my chest, heavy but steadying. That night I called Jan.
"What's up, Ryder?" she answered, sounding distracted.
"She's still affected by what happened," I said quietly. "What do I do to help?"
Silence.
"Jan? Did you hear me?"
"I'm sorry," she said finally. "Are you calling me for relationship advice? I mean..."
"Yeah, sorry about that piece of—" She snorted. "I promise Jan, I didn't watch it."
"I know. Still, I don't think I'm the right person for this type of advice," she added. "I don't know why you'd come to me."
"Because you’re my friend," I said simply.
There was another pause — longer this time — followed by the faintest sigh, "Ryder, six weeks ago, Dec She saw you take a bullet for her. You don’t just walk away from that kind of fear. It lingers. It rewires how you breathe around the person you almost lost."
She hesitated, and for a heartbeat her composure cracked.
"Maybe she’s just scared," she said, softer now. "She almost lost the love of her life. So… give her a minute, okay? Let her see you’re still here."
I swallowed. "Yeah," I said quietly. "Thanks, Jan. And for what it’s worth—you’re a wonderful, tough, kind human being. His loss."
There was a silence that stretched, filled with something unsaid. Then she exhaled through her nose, a small, tired sound.
"Thanks," she murmured, before the line went dead.
I sat on the couch, and our rabbit immediately hopped into my lap like it was his throne. We still haven’t agreed on a name, but in my mind he’s already Bobby. Margot just doesn’t know she lost the naming battle yet.
The next day, I stopped by Billy’s workshop.
The air shimmered faintly with dust and light, part metal, part magic.
The rhythmic hum of polishing wheels filled the space, mingling with the sharp, clean scent of silver and solder.
He was bent over his bench, a magnifying visor on, a tiny flame dancing at his fingertips.
When he noticed me standing there, he lifted the visor and grinned.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said, pointing his pliers in my direction. “She’ll be furious if she finds out I let you do any work.”
I laughed. “I know, I know.”
“Too late anyway,” he said, smirking. “She already called me this morning. Gave me the whole speech about keeping you away from the torch.”
“Of course she did.” I leaned against the doorframe, smiling. “Can I at least watch?”
“That, I can allow,” he said, gesturing to the stool beside his bench. “Just don’t touch anything that sparkles.”
I sat, watching the way he moved — precise, unhurried, like time bent differently in this room.
The soft tap of his hammer against gold was almost musical, each strike deliberate, patient.
After a moment, he glanced at me over the edge of his glasses.
“Have you shown her what you’ve been working on yet? ”
I hesitated. “No. Not yet.”
He gave a low whistle. “What are you waiting for? I think we’ve already learned life’s pretty damn short, haven’t we?”
“Yeah,” I said quietly.
He nodded, eyes back on the tiny pendant in his hand. “Then don’t wait for the right moment, kid. You make it. The right moments don’t come knocking. You carve them out, like gold from ore.”