Page 11 of No Good Fight

Instead of saying that, I glance past her. The apartment is dim except for the kitchen light spilling across the floor, and the air coming from inside carries cold, smoke, coffee, and the soft scent of lilacs and peaches that I’ve spent years pretending I don’t associate with her.

“Can I come in?”

She hesitates.

I hate the hesitation more than I should. Not because she owes me trust. She doesn’t. But because I remember when Alex didn’t have to think about whether I was safe to let into her space.

She used to curl up on Josh’s couch during cookouts and shove her cold feet under my thigh like I was furniture. She used to call me when her car made a weird noise because she trusted me to tell her whether it was dangerous or just expensive. She used to laugh without checking who was watching first.

Then she met and started dating him.

After that, she changed so slowly I was able to lie to myself about missing it until it was too fucking late.

“Yeah,” she says, stepping back. “Okay.”

I move inside before she changes her mind.

The apartment feels wrong immediately.

Nothing is shattered or dumped or torn apart. Her camera bag is on the kitchen island beside her sleeping laptop, and the couch looks untouched with a throw blanket folded over one arm. Unopened boxes sit against the wall like she never fully decided this place was worth settling into.

But the cold coming from her bedroom tells me enough.

Alex shuts the door and trails after me, staying just far enough behind that I know she’s watching everything I do. I don’t blame her. I would too.

The bedroom window is open three inches.

I crouch beside it and check the frame without touching the lock first. The curtain is twisted near the rod, pulled wrong and left wrong by someone who didn’t know or didn’t care how Alex keeps it. There’s a faint smear of mud on the outside sill where someone braced their hand.

My jaw tightens hard enough to hurt.

Someone put their hands on her window.

They stood close enough to look inside her bedroom, and then they opened it.

Someone entered the place where she sleeps.

“Ryder?” she asks from behind me, and her voice is too quiet.

I stand slowly and turn just enough to put myself between her and the window. She notices. Of course she does. Alex notices everything when she’s scared.

“No,” I say.

Her brows pinch together. “No what?”

“No, you’re not being paranoid.”

The color drains from her face so fast I have to fight the urge to reach for her.

I don’t.

I keep my hands at my sides, curled loose enough that she won’t see the fists they want to become.

“You don’t know that.” She whispers the rebuttal, but I know she believes me.

“Yes, I do.”

For a second, something in her expression cracks. It isn’t relief exactly, because there’s nothing relieving about finding out someone has been inside your home. But it’s close enough to relief that it makes me want to find whoever taught her she needs permission to trust her own fear and break every one of his fingers.