22. Ryder
RYDER
By the time Alex’s family leaves, my kitchen looks like a crime scene staged by a bakery.
There are muffin crumbs on the counter, coffee rings on the island, a half-covered casserole dish on the stove, and a grocery bag full of things her mother insisted on leaving behind even after Alex told her three separate times that I had enough food to survive the apocalypse.
Her father checked the back door twice before he walked out, making me feel a little less crazy about my safety compulsions.
Josh checked it after him. Nia kissed Alex’s cheek, stole one more muffin, and told me not to do anything “broody and legally problematic” while Josh was within driving distance.
Then the house went quiet.
Not empty. Not anymore.
Alex is standing in front of the refrigerator, reading the list her mother taped there before she left.
Clothes. Toiletries. Chargers. Laptop cords.
Hairbrush. Snacks she actually likes. The last part is underlined twice.
Alex touches the paper with the back of one finger, then lets her hand fall before I can ask the question already sitting in my mouth.
Instead, I rinse coffee mugs and load the dishwasher because my hands need work.
The front door is locked. I know because I checked it after Josh left, then checked the camera feed, then watched his truck back down the driveway until it disappeared from sight.
The porch monitor shows empty steps now, three damp leaves stuck near the welcome mat, and it did show one bakery bag Nia forgot and then came back for because she has priorities.
Behind me, a magnet scrapes against the refrigerator.
Alex pulls the list down.
I glance over my shoulder.
She folds it once, carefully, and slips it into the pocket of my sweatshirt like she doesn’t want me to see her keeping it.
I turn back to the sink before she has to defend the choice.
Water runs hot over my hands. Coffee foam spins down the drain.
The peace of being here with her is almost too much to take.
A truck engine rumbles at the end of the driveway.
My hand closes around the mug hard enough to make the ceramic knock against the side of the sink.
Alex’s head lifts.
I’m already reaching for my phone by the time the monitor changes, but my heart rate sped up for nothing.
Alex doesn’t tell me I’m overreacting.
She comes to stand beside me, close enough that her sleeve brushes my wrist, and looks at the monitor instead of me. The driver carries the boxes to the porch, takes a photo, and leaves them against the wall without touching the doorbell.
“Security stuff?” she asks.
I nod, but I don’t move until the truck backs out of the driveway.
When I open the front door, she bends for the smallest box before I can stop her. Alex pauses with the box held against her stomach. Her eyes flick to my mouth, then back to the porch camera over my shoulder.
“You almost tried to keep me inside.”
“I know.”
She shifts the box under one arm and steps back into the house on her own. “Good job not saying it.” Then she kisses me on the cheek when I’m carrying the other boxes.
The dining room table becomes a workbench within minutes.
I cut through packing tape and line up the supplies I’m gonna need in rows.
Two exterior cameras, four window sensors, a router battery, a signal booster, cable clips, three backup lights, mounting brackets, weatherproof covers, anchors, screws, and everything else.
Alex comes back from the kitchen with a legal pad, a black marker, and the last of the coffee. She doesn’t ask where to sit. She pulls out the chair beside mine and drops into it with her knees tucked under her, marker cap already between her teeth.
I take it out of her mouth before she can chew through it.
She gives me a look.
I set the cap beside the map and slide the legal pad in front of her. “Don’t poison yourself while helping. The last thing I want is to lose you right after I finally got you.”
She writes across the top of the page in thick black letters.
Ryder’s Paranoia Palace.
I stare at it long enough for her mouth to twitch.
Then the marker moves again. A rough square for the house. A rectangle for the garage. A line for the fence. The pine in the back corner gets a jagged greenish-black scribble, even though she only has one marker and no green to work with. She labels it Murder Pine.
I tap the page with the handle of my screwdriver. “That’s the wrong corner.”
She draws an arrow without looking up. “Then your murder pine is poorly located.”
I lean over her shoulder and point to the actual blind spot near the side yard. “This is where the camera dropped him. Between the fence and the old maple. Pine is farther back.”
The marker stops.
Not for long, though. She scratches out Murder Pine, rewrites it by the maple, and adds Pine Was Innocent with a line to the tree. Her wrist brushes the edge of the table, and the sleeve slips back enough to show the bruise near her forearm. Finger marks, darker than they were this morning.
The screwdriver handle digs into my palm.
In my head, the masked man comes through her apartment door again. This time I’m there. This time Mrs. Vance doesn’t have to swing her cane because I reach him first. I picture the crack of bone under my hand with enough detail to make my breathing slow.
Alex slides the legal pad under the screwdriver until the map blocks my view of her arm.
“Show me where the sensors go,” she says.
Not stop. Not calm down. Not you’re scaring me.
So I do. Because I’ll do anything for her.
I release the screwdriver and pick up the first small box. The cardboard gives under my thumb, bent where I squeezed it too hard. Alex sees that too, but she only pulls the instruction sheet from the packaging and smooths it flat on the table.
The first sensor goes on the back door. Alex sits on the floor beside me with the instruction sheet across her knees, reading silently while I clean the frame with an alcohol wipe.
She hands me the adhesive strip before I ask, then the sensor, then the smaller magnet.
When I press it into place and count under my breath, she reaches up and puts one finger against the doorframe beside mine.
I stop at twenty-three.
She keeps her finger there until thirty.
The app chimes when I test it. Alex flinches. Not much, but enough for me to see. She reaches for the handle herself and opens the door again. The chime sounds a second time. Her shoulder tightens, but she shuts the door and does it again.
By the fourth chime, her jaw isn’t locked, and I’m beyond proud of her for taking the initiative to desensitize herself to it.
I lower the alert volume on both phones without making a point out of it.
Outside, the air is damp and cold against the back of my neck while I climb the ladder to mount the camera over the garage. Alex stands at the base holding the hardware tray with both hands. She could stay inside. She knows that. I know that. But neither of us says it.
A car passes on the road, slow enough that I stop turning the screw.
Alex follows my line of sight. The car keeps going. Gray sedan, older model, no front plate issue, one brake light dim.
When I look down, Alex is holding the tray higher.
“Here,” she says, because I need the next screw, and because she’s not going to let me drift too far from the task at hand.
The camera feed opens on my phone a minute later when I finish the installation.
Garage. Side yard, and shows a sliver of the road.
Better angle than before, though not perfect.
Nothing is perfect. A person could still stay low near the woodpile or they could come in from the drainage ditch if they didn’t care about mud.
A person desperate enough to risk daylight could risk a camera too.
Alex steps close enough to see the screen. Her hair brushes my arm. “That dark spot by the stacked wood.”
“I saw it.”
She nods once and writes something on the map balanced against the side of the ladder.
Woodpile of Bad Intentions.
I should argue but I don’t because Alex is taking my fear and anxiety about this, and she’s turning it into something we can fix together.
We work through the afternoon, and I’m not even ashamed to admit that it’s the best time I’ve ever spent with someone. And it reminds me that I need to take her on an actual date.
I mount the east camera while Alex labels the feed Bad Vibes Side Yard. I install the window sensors while she follows with the app open, testing each alert and renaming them in ways that would make a security professional question both of us.
Porch Witness. Garage Goblin. Murder Maple. Back Door Drama. I let her have her fun for a few minutes before taking the phone from her and changing Back Door Drama to Kitchen Entry.
She changes it back when I’m tightening the motion light under the eave.
By the time I notice, she’s at the kitchen table pretending to read the router backup instructions, her mouth tucked like she’s hiding a smile.
The normalness of it catches me worse than the anxiety of her being hurt did.
I want all of it, and I’m going to do what I have to keep these moments forever.
Alex in my kitchen, marker smudged on her thumb.
Her stealing a sip from my coffee even though hers is right there and definitely filled with her fancy creamer in a way mine isn’t.
Her phone charging beside mine near the outlet, with a much sparklier charging cord.
Those ridiculous labels filling my security app until my house looks less like a fortress and more like a place someone plans to live their best life in.
I stand in the doorway too long with the drill hanging from one hand.
She looks up from the instruction booklet. “What?”
I shake my head and cross to the table for the battery pack. Her eyes narrow, but she lets me have the silence because I’m not ready to tell her that I need her forever. Not yet.
That might be the most dangerous thing about her. She doesn’t always force the door open to a conversation. Sometimes she waits beside it until I walk through on my own.
The router backup takes longer than it should because the outlet behind the cabinet is blocked by a stack of old cookbooks I never use and a bag of zip ties I absolutely do.
Alex crouches beside me and passes me cords while I work.
Every few minutes, her knee bumps mine. Every time, I have to remind myself that touching her doesn’t have to mean checking for damage.
I can touch her just because I enjoy it, and I want to.
The power strip clicks on and the router light holds steady. I test the backup twice, cutting power and watching the feed stay live without even a momentary loss.
Alex sits back on her heels. “That makes me feel better.”
I look at her before I can stop myself. I know her words aren’t to be taken lightly. Her gaze is on the monitors, not me.
“I wish it was enough,” I tell her.
She picks up the marker from the floor and caps it with a firm click. “I’m not asking for more. This is enough. I like knowing what we have.”
We.
The word stays in the room after she moves away.
My phone buzzes on the table before I can answer her. Alex sees Remy’s name and hands it to me without reading the text over my shoulder.
Remy: No ID yet. Glove sent out. Patrol will loop by tonight. Tell Alex Mrs. Vance asked if you boys have found “the knock-kneed asshole” yet.
I read it twice. The second time, all I see is no ID yet.
The masked man is still a shape instead of a name.
Preston is still somewhere with enough reach to send someone after her in broad daylight.
My house has more cameras now, better lights, alerts on two phones, and I still know exactly how many ways a determined person could get close if he was patient.
Alex takes the phone from my hand.
I let her.
She reads the message, and her mouth pulls at one corner. “Mrs. Vance needs a medal.”
I shake my head, already thinking of how I can help the older woman. “She needs better locks.”
“She needs both.” Alex puts the phone facedown, then sets the marker on top of it like that can pin the bad news in place. “Woodpile.”
I blink.
“You said there was still a gap by the woodpile.” She stands and picks up the last motion light. “So let’s fix the gap.”
The last light goes up as the daylight starts to fade.
Alex holds the flashlight while I work, aiming it at the bracket without being told.
Rainwater drips from the gutter and hits the back of my neck, slipping down my spine until it dries somewhere along my waist. The motion light clicks on when I climb down, bright white spilling over wet grass, stacked wood, fence boards, and the narrow strip of shadow that bothered me.
Alex exhales beside me, and I feel the energy shift.
Inside, Alex washes marker off her hands at the sink while I sit at the table and adjust the monitor layout. The grid fills in cleaner now. Porch Witness. Driveway. Garage Goblin. Bad Vibes Side Yard. Murder Maple. Woodpile of Bad Intentions. Back Door Drama.
The final feed changes while I’m looking at it.
Home Base.
I glance toward the sink.
Alex is drying her hands on a towel, watching me without turning her head all the way.
Waiting to see if I’ll fix it or change it, or say anything.
Her bruises are still there. The fear is still in the house with us, tucked into locks and boxes and every dark corner I can’t see with my eyes closed.
But so is the coffee cup she stole from me, and everything she adds to my life.
I save the layout.
Alex comes to stand beside my chair and rests one hand on the back of it. Close, not leaning yet. Not asking for comfort. Not offering it either.
Just here.
I cover her hand with mine, craving the connection, and it hits me like a baseball bat to the head.
Alex is my home.