3. Alex #2
He reaches for his own cup, his gaze flicking briefly to the front window before returning to me. “Small town.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s an answer.”
“It’s a bad answer.”
“It’s the one I’m going with, so it’s the only one you’re going to get.”
I should be irritated.
Actually, I am irritated.
But underneath that, something warm and dangerous spreads through my chest because Ryder knowing my coffee order feels like a tiny detail that should not matter and at the same time matters so much that I’m about to burst into tears.
It feels intimate in the same way his hoodie felt intimate this morning.
Like he’s been paying attention to pieces of me I didn’t realize anyone noticed.
That should be sweet.
It is sweet.
It’s also unsettling as hell.
He leans back in his chair, but his body doesn’t relax. One arm rests on the table near his cup while his eyes keep moving. Windows. Door. Street. Me. Windows again.
He does it so naturally I don’t think he realizes.
“Does firefighter training make all of you this paranoid?” I ask.
His attention snaps back to me. “What?”
“You’re scanning the street like the muffins are about to stage an attack.”
His mouth lifts, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You never know with muffins. But mostly, I’m worried about the blondies. They’re the real enemy.”
“Ryder.”
He looks past me again, toward the front windows where sunlight flashes off passing cars. “Only when there’s something worth worrying about.”
The words are quiet.
Too quiet.
They land somewhere under my ribs and stay there.
I wrap both hands around my coffee because I need something to do that isn’t a reaction to him like a Victorian hero who just saw an ankle.
“I can handle myself,” I say.
“I know.”
That should be the end of it, except his expression says something else entirely.
I narrow my eyes. “You said that very wrong.”
“I said two words.”
“And somehow both of them were annoying.”
This time, his smile is real for half a second. “You want me to lie?”
“I want you to believe me.”
“I do believe you.”
“No, you believe I’m stubborn enough to try to handle myself before I fail spectacularly and need someone to rescue me..”
He studies me for a moment, and the attention makes me want to squirm. Ryder looking at me is not like other people looking at me. Other people glance. Ryder sees. He takes in details I haven’t given him permission to have and stores them somewhere I can feel.
“Those aren’t the same thing,” I add, softer than I mean to.
His hand flexes around his coffee cup. “No. They’re not.”
Before I can decide what to do with that, a male voice calls my name from across the shop.
“Alex?”
My body reacts before my brain has a chance to understand what is actually happening.
My pulse spikes so hard the room tilts at the edges. My fingers lock around the cup. Every muscle in me freezes, and for one horrible second I am not in a warm coffee shop with sunlight through the windows and Ryder sitting across from me.
I am somewhere else.
Waiting to see which version of the monster I’m going to get at home.
The charming one.
The pretend one.
Maybe the annoyed one.
Or the real one.
Ryder’s chair scrapes softly against the floor.
Not loud enough to draw attention.
Enough that I feel the shift.
His entire posture changes, becoming quieter, sharper, focused in a way that makes the air around us feel compressed.
I turn my head.
It’s not him. It’s Daniel Mercer, one of the city council aides I interviewed two months ago for a zoning story. Mid-thirties, kind smile, harmless face, holding a paper cup and looking politely embarrassed for interrupting.
“Sorry,” he says. “I thought that was you. Good piece on the school board last week.”
My lungs remember they work.
“Oh.” My voice sounds normal enough that I almost want to applaud myself. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
He gestures toward the door. “I’ll email you those redevelopment documents this afternoon.”
“Great. Thank you.”
He leaves with a small wave. The whole exchange lasts maybe fifteen seconds.
My body takes much longer to come back to normal.
When I look at Ryder, he isn’t looking at Daniel.
He’s looking at me.
Carefully.
Extremely carefully.
I hate it.
I hate that he saw. I hate that he noticed the exact second fear took over my body. I hate that he doesn’t ask immediately, because somehow his restraint makes it worse. It means he knows there really is something to ask. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
“I should go,” I say, gathering my notes too quickly.
“Alex.”
“I have another interview.” My pulse spikes and I need to get out of here because he can see me. See through the walls I took so long to build.
“You’re shaking.”
His voice doesn’t do anything to help the panic that’s becoming a living thing, closing in all around me. I need to go. I need him to stop seeing me.
“I’m caffeinated.”
He’s not buying it, and the panic is so bad that I can feel my eyes starting to ache with the blood pumping. Why can I feel that?
“You took one sip.”
At this point, I’m pretty sure that I’m dying. “One sip that you saw. Maybe I’m very sensitive.”
He doesn’t smile.
Neither do I.
The space between us feels too full, and everyone else in the coffee shop is too close, and my skin feels tight in a way I know will only get worse if I sit here under Ryder’s steady, worried gaze for one more second.
I shove my notebook into my bag and stand.
Ryder stands too, but he doesn’t block me. He doesn’t reach for me in the middle of the shop. He just moves with me, close enough that I feel him without being trapped.
Which is worse.
Because I want to lean into it. Into him. I want him to touch me, and that’s the worst part of all of this.
I’m about to have a panic attack, and there’s nothing I can do except think about how much it would suck less if I could just walk into his arms and take the hug I very clearly need at this point.
Outside, the air is colder than it looks. Sunlight hits the pavement, bright and useless, while traffic moves along Main like nothing inside me just tried to crack open in public.
I make it three steps before Ryder catches my arm.
Gently.
Not restraining.
Grounding.
His fingers close around my sleeve near my elbow, and the warmth of his hand burns straight through the fabric. My whole body notices, which is rude considering we are having a crisis.
“Did something happen?” he asks.
His voice is low enough that no one passing us would hear.
I look at his hand on my arm because looking at his face feels dangerous.
“No.” The lie comes out automatically. Clean. Practiced. Easy. I hate that about myself.
Ryder doesn’t call me on it right away. He just studies me with those tired eyes, his thumb not moving, his grip loose enough that I could pull free without a fight.
That somehow makes me want to stay. Which makes me pull away.
“I’m fine,” I say.
His hand falls back to his side immediately, but I see the effort it costs him. His fingers curl once before he shoves them into his pocket.
“Okay.”
That’s all.
No argument.
No demand.
No Ryder-shaped wall between me and the rest of my day.
I should be grateful.
Instead, it unsettles me more than if he’d pushed.
I turn and start toward my car, forcing my steps to stay even. My heart is still beating too fast, and my skin still remembers his touch, and I keep waiting for him to say my name again.
He doesn’t.
Which is also annoying.
I’m halfway down the block when I see the SUV.
It’s parked at the far end of the street, half-hidden behind a delivery truck, dark paint catching the sun.
The windshield is angled wrong for me to see inside.
For a moment, everything narrows to the shape of it, the shine of the hood, the impossible stillness of a vehicle that suddenly feels like it’s been waiting.
My keys bite into my palm.
I stop walking.
The brake lights come on.
“No,” I whisper, because apparently I have reached the stage of fear where I am negotiating with cars.
The SUV pulls away from the curb.
This time, I move faster, stepping toward the street to catch the plate, but a sedan passes between us and by the time it clears, the SUV is already slipping into traffic.
Gone.
Again.
My pulse climbs high enough to make me lightheaded.
For one second, I do exactly what I told myself I wouldn’t do.
I look back toward the coffee shop.
Toward Ryder.
He’s still there, standing outside with one hand braced against the doorframe, watching me instead of pretending not to.
Seeing him there makes it easier to breathe.
The SUV disappeared into traffic before I could catch the license plate.
But standing beside my car with my pulse climbing and Ryder’s touch still warm against my skin, I can’t stop thinking the same thing over and over.
How is my life so fucked up?