Page 20 of No Good Fight

He smiles, and it should be illegal for a man who looks that tired to still be that attractive. There’s a heaviness under his eyes, a rough edge to him today that makes the golden-boy thing feel dented. Not gone. Just shadowed.

It does not help my libido any.

Nothing about Ryder ever helps.

Before I can decide whether to be annoyed or flustered, the barista calls his name. Ryder gets up, and when he comes back, he sets one cup in front of me.

I stare at it.

Then at him.

Then back at the cup.

“What is this?”

“Coffee.”

“I know what coffee is, Ryder.”

“Could’ve fooled me by the way you’re looking at it.”

I peel back the lid and smell vanilla, espresso, and oat milk.

My exact order.

My stupid, slightly specific, not-quite-basic-but-basic-adjacent coffee order.

“You remember my coffee order?”

He sits slowly, like he knows he stepped into something but isn’t sure how sharp it is. “You order the same thing every time.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“How would you know that?”

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.