Chapter 16 Ryker #2
The neighbor, an older woman in a nightie, is running toward me, pan in hand, hair wild.
“I thought it was a criminal!” she shouts. Then she looks at the girl in my arms before saying. “You’re one of the construction guys.”
Ah, shit! I glance down at Norah, fast asleep in my arms. “It’s—uh, yes. That’s me. I’m Ryker, ma’am.”
She squints at me. “Is that Norah? She’s—”
“I misremembered the house number. I was just bringing her home and thought this was her house,” I admit quickly. “Sorry.”
She huffs, tucking the pan under one arm. “It’s two doors down, young man. Be careful next time. And what are you doing carrying her like that?”
“Thanks,” I mutter, ignoring the second part of her question.
Great. Just fucking great. Tomorrow, everyone will be talking about me carrying a drunk girl in my arms.
And how the hell was I supposed to carry her? Piggyback?
I stride to the correct door, jam the key in, twist it, and finally manage to get it open. The snow is already settling on my jacket, soaking through my gloves. I push the door fully, scanning the interior.
The first thing that hits me is the green couch in the living room, bright and soft, surrounded by flowers in every corner.
I carry her inside, careful to avoid bumping her head. I lay her on the couch, and she murmurs something I can’t make out.
Kneeling, I start removing her boots. Her legs shift slightly, thighs exposed in the dim light, and the heat of her skin makes me swallow hard.
She’s so damn beautiful.
“Ryker,” she grumbles, sitting up a little, hair falling across her face.
“Yeah,” I say, letting my hand rest near her elbow, steadying her as she adjusts.
“Where are we?” she asks, voice thick, still drunk.
“I brought you home,” I tell her. She blinks, taking in the room, the couch, the flowers, like it’s all suddenly confusing.
“How’re you feeling?” I ask, voice low.
“Okay,” she slurs, though I can tell she’s far from it. Her eyes are heavy and unfocused.
“Can I get you some water?” I offer, and she nods, shifting slightly to let me stand.
I move toward the fridge and just as I’m opening it, a sudden, awful sound cuts through the room. She retches. I spin, scanning for a trash can, heart hammering.
She leans over the couch arm, her body heaving, and I grab the nearest bin, but it’s not fast enough. She doubles over, and then over again, the sound raw and uncontrolled.
“Fuck,” I mutter, voice rough. “What the hell is this night?”
She groans, head dipping back against the couch, shivers running through her. I place the trash can as close as I can, but she keeps retching, splattering onto the floor.
The smell hits me, but I hold my ground, hands hovering near her back, guiding her as best I can.
“Almost done,” I mutter, more to myself than to her, fingers pressing lightly against her shoulder. She jerks slightly, groaning, hair clinging damply to her face. I wipe at her hair, trying to keep the mess contained.
Finally, after what feels like forever, the heaving slows. I grab her throw blanket and press it to the floor, cleaning what I can, then step back, trying to catch my own breath.
She’s curled slightly on the couch, jacket half-off, hair messy, face pale but slowly easing from panic to exhaustion.
“You okay?” I ask, voice softer, almost tender now.
“Mm… yeah,” she says, voice weak, still sounding drunk.
I pull her boots off fully, setting them aside, then kneel beside her again. She shifts slightly, thighs brushing the couch, and the sight makes a heat rise I try not to let show.
“Drink some water,” I say, offering the bottle.
She lifts it shakily and sips, almost spilling it down her front. I steady her hand. She hiccups, head leaning back against the couch cushions.
“Ryker,” she mutters again, voice thin.
“Yeah,” I answer. My eyes sweep the room. It’s quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge. The flowers, the green couch, the snow sliding down outside the window—it’s a strange, peaceful chaos.
“I hate this,” she murmurs, eyes fluttering closed again. “I hate feeling like this. I hate him.”
“I know, Norah.”
She mumbles, leaning slightly into my side, almost as if seeking support. I let her, careful, not wanting to push her, not wanting to say too much. The water bottle is in her lap now, her hand wrapped around it like a lifeline.
“Tomorrow will be better,” I murmur, voice low, almost to myself. “Or at least… easier. A little.”
Her eyes drift shut again, head tipping slightly. I tuck my jacket around her shoulders, smoothing the folds, and just sit there for a moment, watching her breathe. Even drunk, even messy, even vulnerable, she’s devastating.
I let the quiet stretch, letting her regain a sense of calm, letting her sleep if she wants.
I think about dinner, about how hungry I am, but mostly I just think about her—how fragile and alive she is in my arms, even when she doesn’t realize it.
I lean back slightly, eyes on her, and I can feel the tension in my chest, the pull between wanting to do everything and nothing at all. She’s asleep again, finally, and I let myself exhale, knowing that for tonight, she’s safe.
Her sigh drifts up, faint, and I tuck my hands under my legs, just watching her. She’s mine to watch over in this moment, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything, even a steak, even warmth, even peace.
For now, this is enough.
I watch her sleep for another twenty minutes, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the occasional twitch of a hand against the couch.
Her snore drifts up, light, imperfect, and it makes me smile despite myself.
My stomach growls again, loud enough that I wince. Damn it. There’s no way any place around here is still open, not with the snow piling up outside.
I glance around the living room, eyes scanning everything that was left behind by her drunken night.
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. I only have one option.
I find her mop and bucket tucked in a corner of the closet, along with a stack of old towels. I grab the throw blanket I used to help clean up her mess earlier, wring it out as best I can, and get to work.
The smell hits me again, but I grit my teeth and focus.
I scrub, rinse, repeat, and curse under my breath at how much she managed to spill.
Her snore makes me glance over, and I can’t help the soft laugh that escapes me. She’s completely at peace now, oblivious to all of this, and for some reason, it breaks me a little inside.
Who takes care of her? Who makes sure she’s alright when she’s like this? My stomach growls again, sharper this time, reminding me that I’m running on nothing but adrenaline.
Once the room is acceptable, I track down her washing machine. There’s bedding in there, half-soaked. I run a wash cycle, adding detergent, the rhythmic thrum of the machine a small comfort.
My mind ticks ahead—once I’ve made dinner, I’ll toss the rest and blankets in too.
I make my way back to the kitchen, opening the fridge to inspect what’s inside. There are a few cookies, a jug of juice, but nothing substantial except for some vegetables. The freezer, however, has pork chops.
I pull the pork chops out, defrost them quickly under cold water, and start seasoning. Salt, pepper, a little garlic powder, maybe some paprika to give it something extra.
I heat up a cast-iron skillet, letting it smoke faintly before placing the chops in, the sizzle filling the kitchen. I turn them carefully, letting the edges crisp while keeping the centers juicy.
I make extra, thinking she’ll need something when she wakes up, and mentally note to pick up more food for her tomorrow.
The scent fills the apartment, warm and inviting. I start rummaging through her cabinets for plates.
I almost yelp when she suddenly sits up, blinking sleepily. “Norah,” I call, heart skipping. “Where are you going?”
She sways slightly, voice thick. “Bed.”
“Ah, shit,” I mutter, rinsing my hands quickly and following her. She’s already shuffling forward, and I step around her to find the bedroom.
The bed’s stripped bare except for a comforter tossed across the mattress. She collapses onto it, letting out a soft, satisfied sigh.
“Norah,” I say again, voice softening. “Baby?” The word slips out before I can stop it.
“Mmh,” she hums in response, eyes half-closed.
I glance at bed. “Where are your clean sheets?”
No reply. Her hands are tucked under the comforter, pulling it closer to her face.
I kneel, sliding my hands under the mattress, lifting the frame, searching. Claire used to put her clean sheets in containers under her bed.
There’s nothing down there.
I turn to check her closet. I come across a few random things—her clothes, a stack of books—and then my hand brushes something unexpected: Jude’s leather jacket.
I pause, brow furrowing, before putting it aside and continuing.
Finally, I find the folded sheets tucked on the highest shelf in her closet. I pull them out and spread the clean sheets across the bed, pulling the corners tight on one side.
I gently lift her from the comforter, sliding her onto the other side so that I can finish, making sure the fitted sheet stays in place.
Her head rests on the pillow, hair spilling across the surface, the curve of her cheek catching the soft light.
I wet some tissue and use it to clean her face, lips, and the faint residue of vomit I missed earlier. She mumbles something incoherent and shifts slightly, thighs brushing the sheet.
I grab a small bucket from the bathroom, placing it next to the bed just in case, then stand, brushing my hands together.
“I’ll be downstairs,” I tell her softly. “Please don’t throw up on yourself, alright?”
She just grunts in reply, eyes closing again, and I can’t help but smile.
My chest eases in a way I didn’t expect. Taking care of her like this, even through the mess and the chaos, doesn’t feel like a chore. Not at all.
I make my way downstairs, the apartment suddenly calm, the only sound the faint hum of the washing machine.
I plate a few pork chops for myself, make a side of sautéed vegetables, and then place extras in a container for her, tucking them into the fridge for when she wakes.
The routine is simple, mechanical almost, but it feels good. Feels like I’m doing something right in a night that’s been anything but.
I glance at the living room, catching a glimpse of the green couch and the flowers still dusted with snowflakes from earlier. I imagine her waking up, groggy but hungry, and the thought makes a small, private smile creep across my face.
I’ll get her more food tomorrow, maybe even breakfast, and I’ll make sure she’s taken care of. She’s not my responsibility, technically, but she might as well be. And right now, I don’t mind that one bit.
I hear a soft snore from upstairs, a reminder that she’s still asleep despite the havoc she unleashed. The sound makes something in me ache, that soft vulnerability she’s letting me witness.
I bite the inside of my cheek, turning back to my own plate, chewing slowly. I’ll sit here, eat, and let the apartment’s quiet stretch.