He whistles low. “Shit.”
“Luke walked out. She says it’s temporary. I don’t buy it.”
“She always finds the edge of disaster,” he mutters. “You okay?”
I nod, though it’s a lie. “She’s fine for now. Just… quiet.”
He looks at Maisie for a long moment. “She looks older.”
“She acts it, too.”
Ryker leans against the doorframe. “You taking time off?”
I shrug. “Just a day or two. The hall project’s ahead of schedule. Dorian can manage without me for forty-eight hours.”
He crosses the room and sits on the edge of the armchair opposite me. “You should’ve called me. I’d have come.”
“Didn’t want to drag you back into her mess.”
“Doesn’t matter. She’s family.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “That’s the problem.”
We sit in silence for a while, listening to the snow tap against the windows. Outside, the wind’s picking up, low and steady, like it’s humming some forgotten tune.
Finally, Ryker says, “You remember the time she stole my dad’s truck?”
I groan. “She was sixteen. I was thirteen. He made me ride with him to find her.”
“Found her at the lake,” Ryker says, smiling faintly. “Drunk off peach schnapps, blasting Zeppelin.”
“She threw up on his boots.”
“She threw up on you,” he corrects, laughing quietly. “You covered for her anyway.”
“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head. “Guess I never learned.”
He sobers then, watching me closely. “You’re a good man, Jude. Don’t let her make you think otherwise.”
I look away. Compliments from Ryker hit different. They come rare, carved from honesty.
“I just don’t want Maisie to end up like her,” I say. “Or worse—like me.”
He frowns. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Always cleaning up after someone else. Never fixing yourself.”
He exhales. “We all clean up after someone, man. It’s what we do.”
He’s not wrong.
We fall quiet again, the kind of silence that feels shared, not empty.
Eventually, he stands, glancing once more at Maisie. “I’ll check in tomorrow. Bring coffee.”
“Thanks.”
He pauses at the door. “And Jude? You’re doing the right thing.”
