Page 23 of No Good Fight

He’s not buying it, and the panic is so bad that I can feel my eyes starting to ache with the blood pumping. Why can I feel that?

“You took one sip.”

At this point, I’m pretty sure that I’m dying. “One sip that you saw. Maybe I’m very sensitive.”

He doesn’t smile.

Neither do I.

The space between us feels too full, and everyone else in the coffee shop is too close, and my skin feels tight in a way I know will only get worse if I sit here under Ryder’s steady, worried gaze for one more second.

I shove my notebook into my bag and stand.

Ryder stands too, but he doesn’t block me. He doesn’t reach for me in the middle of the shop. He just moves with me, close enough that I feel him without being trapped.

Which is worse.

Because I want to lean into it. Into him. I want him to touch me, and that’s the worst part of all of this.

I’m about to have a panic attack, and there’s nothing I can do except think about how much it would suck less if I could just walk into his arms and take the hug I very clearly need at this point.

Outside, the air is colder than it looks. Sunlight hits the pavement, bright and useless, while traffic moves along Main like nothing inside me just tried to crack open in public.

I make it three steps before Ryder catches my arm.

Gently.

Not restraining.

Grounding.

His fingers close around my sleeve near my elbow, and the warmth of his hand burns straight through the fabric. My whole body notices, which is rude considering we are having a crisis.

“Did something happen?” he asks.

His voice is low enough that no one passing us would hear.

I look at his hand on my arm because looking at his face feels dangerous.

“No.” The lie comes out automatically. Clean. Practiced. Easy. I hate that about myself.

Ryder doesn’t call me on it right away. He just studies me with those tired eyes, his thumb not moving, his grip loose enough that I could pull free without a fight.

That somehow makes me want to stay. Which makes me pull away.

“I’m fine,” I say.

His hand falls back to his side immediately, but I see the effort it costs him. His fingers curl once before he shoves them into his pocket.

“Okay.”

That’s all.

No argument.

No demand.

No Ryder-shaped wall between me and the rest of my day.